Cosca leaped forwards, nearly took the man’s eye out on the end of his cane. “Once someone dies!” The drum had joined in now, whack, whack, whack. Folk pressed round the circle by flickering torchlight. A ring of masks—birds and beasts, soldiers and clowns, leering skulls and grinning devils. Men’s faces underneath—drunk, bored, angry, curious. At the back, Barti and Kummel teetered on each other’s shoulders, whichever was on top clapping along with the drumbeats.

“For your education, edification and enjoyment…” Shivers hadn’t a clue what that meant. “Cardotti’s House of Leisure presents to you…” He took a rough breath, hefting sword and shield, and pushed through into the circle. “The infamous duel between Fenris the Feared…” Cosca flicked his cane out towards Greylock as he lumbered into the circle from the other side. “And Logen Ninefingers!”

“He’s got ten fingers!” someone called, making a ripple of drunken laughter.

Shivers didn’t join ’em. Greylock might’ve been a long way less frightening than the real Feared had been, but he was a long way clear of a comforting sight still, big as a house with that mask of black iron over his face, left side of his shaved head and his great left arm painted blue. His club looked awful heavy and very dangerous, right then, clutched in those big fists. Shivers had to keep telling himself they were on the same side. Just pretending was all. Just pretending.

“You gentlemen would be well advised to make room!” shouted Cosca, and the three Gurkish dancers pranced round the edge of the circle, black-cat masks over their black faces, herding the guests towards the walls. “There may be blood!”

“There’d better be!” Another wave of laughter. “I didn’t come here to watch a pair of idiots dance with each other!”

The onlookers whooped, whistled, booed. Mostly booed. Shivers somehow doubted his plan—hop around the circle for a few minutes flailing at the air, then stab Greylock between his arm and his side while the big man burst a bladder of pig blood—was going to get these fuckers clapping. He remembered the real duel, outside the walls of Carleon with the fate of all the North hanging on the outcome. The cold morning, the breath smoking on the air, the blood in the circle. The Carls gathered round the edge, shaking their shields, screaming and roaring. He wondered what those men would’ve made of this nonsense. Life took you down some strange paths, alright.

“Begin!” shouted Cosca, springing back into the crowd.

Greylock gave a mighty roar and came charging forwards, swinging the club and swinging it hard. Gave Shivers the bastard of a shock. He got his shield up in time, but the weight of the blow knocked him clean over, sliding across the ground on his arse, left arm struck numb. He sprawled out, all tangled up with his sword, nicked his eyebrow on the edge. Lucky not to get the point in his eye. He rolled, the club crashing down where he’d lain a moment before and sending stone chips flying. Even as he was clambering up, Greylock was at him again, looking like he meant deadly business, and Shivers had to scramble away with all the dignity of a cat in a wolf-pen. He didn’t remember this being what they discussed. Seemed the big man meant to give these bastards a show to remember after all.