Where Durbin had been crowded, dirty, and miserable, Farafra was exotic. And crowded, dirty, and miserable. By the time they were halfway to the centre of the city, Borric understood exactly what the Captain had meant by his remark. For within twenty yards of the sea gate, next to the docks where they entered the city, a dead body lay rotting in the sun. Flies crawled over it and from the mangled appearance of the torso dogs had feasted sometime before dawn. People passing the corpse ignored it, the only noticeable reaction being an occasional averting of the eyes.
Borric looked around and said, ‘Doesn’t the city watch or someone do something?’
Suli was peering in every direction, constantly on the lookout for any opportunity to make a coin or two. Absently he said, ‘If some merchant nearby decides the stink is bad for business, he’ll pay some boys to drag it to the harbour and toss it in. Otherwise it will lie there until it’s no longer there.’ Suli seemed to take for granted that eventually some magic agency would dispose of the corpse.
A few feet away, a man in a robe squatted over the gutter, ignoring those who passed by. As Borric watched, the man stood, and moved into the flow of traffic, leaving behind fresh proof he hadn’t been squatting to say devotions to some god, but rather to answer the call of nature. ‘Gods above,’ said Borric. ‘Aren’t there public jakes in this city?’
Suli looked at him with a curious expression. ‘Public? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Who would build them and clean them? Why would anyone bother?’
Borric said, ‘Never mind. Some things are just hard to get used to.’
As they entered the flow of traffic from the docks into the city, Borric was astounded by the impossible variety of people. All manner of speech could be heard, and all fashions of dress could be observed. It was unlike anything he had seen before or expected to behold. Women passed by dressed in desert garb, covered from head to foot in plain blue or brown robes, nothing shown but their eyes, while a few feet away, hunters from the grassy plains stood inspecting goods, their dark, oiled bodies naked save for a simple thong breechclout, but their vanity showed in the copper bracelets, necklaces, and earrings they wore and in their choice of weapons. Clan tattoos marked faces here, and odd temple robes marked beliefs there. Women with skin as dark as morning’s coffee passed wearing brightly coloured cloth wrapped round from under-arm to knee, with high conical hats of the same cloth. Babies with serious eyes seemed to guard the rear from slings hung over their mothers’ backs. Children of every possible description raced through the street, chasing a dog who dodged through the forest of human legs before him. Borric laughed. ‘That dog runs as if his life depended upon it.’
Suli shrugged. ‘He does. Those street boys are hungry.’
Borric could hardly take it all in. There was just too much that was too new to comprehend. Everywhere he looked, hundreds of people moved by, going one way or another, some strolling, others hurrying, but all oblivious to the throng surrounding them. And more than the press of bodies and the constant babble of voices, there was the smell. Unwashed bodies, expensive perfumes, human excrement, cooking, exotic spices, animal odours, all filled his nose with the reek of this alien land. The street was packed, with little room to move without coming in contact with strangers. Borric was aware of the weight of his two purses in his tunic, as safe a place for them as he could manage. Any pickpocket was going to have to stick his arm down the front of Borric’s shirt, which seemed unlikely. Borric felt his senses assaulted, and he needed a respite.
They came to an open-front alehouse and the Prince motioned the boy to turn in. In the relative dark, they saw a pair of men speaking softly at a corner table, but otherwise the room was empty. Borric ordered a bitter ale for himself and a light ale for the boy, paying from the meagre purse the Captain had given him, preferring to keep his more ample purse hidden in his shirt front. The brew was average in quality, but welcome for the long interval since Borric had tasted such.
‘Clear the way!’ A woman’s shriek was followed by the clatter of hooves and more shouts, punctuated by the crack of a whip. Borric and Suli both turned to see what the fuss was. Before the open front of the alehouse, a strange scene was unfolding. A pair of splendid bay horses pulling an ornate chariot were rearing and whinnying as they were halted by their driver.
The cause of the sudden stop was a large man, who stood fore square in the centre of the street. Behind the driver, the charioteer shouted, ‘Fool! Idiot! Get out of the way!’
The man in the street walked toward the two horses and grabbed the bridle of each. He clucked with the side of his tongue and pushed, and the horses moved backwards. The driver cracked his whip behind the ear of one of the horses, shouting loudly. But the horses obeyed the constant pressure from the front, rather than the noise from the back. The chariot was being backed up despite the driver’s curses and protestation, while the charioteer behind him looked on in stunned disbelief. The driver drew back to crack a whip again and the man pushing the horses said, ‘Crack that thing once more, and it will be the last stupid act of your life!’
‘Fascinating,’ Borric remarked. ‘I wonder why our large friend is doing that?’
The ‘large friend’ was a mercenary soldier by his look, wearing leather armour over his green tunic and trousers. Upon his head rested an old metal helm, much dented and in desperate need of a wire brush and polish, and across his back was a leather sheath, containing what appeared to be a half-and-a-half, or bastard-sword. Upon his sides, two long dirk handles showed weapons at his belt.
The man behind the chariot driver looked upon the man blocking his way in outrage. He was undressed, save for a white kilt and an odd weapon harness, crossed leather straps over his shoulders, forming an X across his chest. Spears were within easy reach of him, tied to the side of the chariot, looking like a boat’s mast as they pointed straight up. A bow was also slung to the side of the vehicle. With his face turning crimson, the charioteer shouted, ‘Make way, you idiot!’
Suli whispered to Borric, ‘The man in the chariot is of true Keshian blood. He is also a member of the Order of Imperial Charioteers. He is therefore upon the business of the Empire. The man who has halted them is a very brave man or a fool.’
The man who held the horses merely shook his head and spit. He forced the horses to retreat until the chariot began to turn to the right, backing into a pot dealer’s small shop. The pot merchant shouted in alarm and jumped to get out of harm’s way, but the man with the large sword ceased pushing the horses just short of wreaking havoc on the man’s livelihood. The mercenary released the bridle and bent down to pick something up, then sauntered aside. ‘You can go now,’ he said.
The chariot driver was about to start the horses on their way again, when the charioteer pulled the whip out of his hand. As if anticipating the move, the warrior wheeled about as the leather lash sang through the air and let it catch upon a leather bracer he wore on his left arm. Quickly grabbing the whip, he yanked hard and almost pulled the charioteer over the side of his chariot. Then just as the man was regaining his balance, the mercenary drew one of his two long dirks and cut the lash. The charioteer fell backwards and almost went over the other side. As the angry charioteer started to right himself again, the mercenary struck the nearest horse on the flank, shouting ‘Ya!’ at the top of his lungs. Caught unawares, the driver was barely able to pull them around and head them down the street without driving through a packed mob of merchants and shoppers.
Laughter filled the boulevard as the enraged