“How would he fare against Lord Gren’s man, Norras, do you think?” Maeres asked.

Norras was a skilled pugilist, but I thought Snorri would pound the man flat. I could see Gren’s fighter now, standing behind the barred gate opposite the one that Snorri had come through.

“Shouldn’t we call the fight? Get the odds set?” I shot Barras Jon a look and called out to him, “Norras against my fresh meat? What numbers there?”

Maeres set a soft hand to my arm. “Time enough for wagering when the man’s been tested, no?”

“B-but he might come to harm,” I flustered. “I plan to make good coin here, Maeres, pay you back with interest.” My finger ached. The one Maeres had broken when I came up short two months back.

“Indulge me,” he said. “That will be my interest. I’ll cover any losses. A man like that . . . he might be worth three hundred crowns.”

I saw his game then. Three hundred was just half what I owed him. The bastard meant to see Snorri die and keep a royal prince on his leash. There didn’t seem to be a way past it, though. You don’t argue with Maeres Allus, certainly not in his cousins’ fight hall and owing him the best part of a thousand in gold. Maeres knew how far he could push me, minor princeling or not. He’d seen past my bluster to what lies beneath. You don’t get to head an organization like Maeres’s without being a good judge of men.

“Three hundred if he’s not fit to fight wagered bouts tonight?” I could slip back after Father’s ridiculous opera and buy into the serious fights. This afternoon’s exercise had only ever been intended to whet appetites and stir up interest.

Maeres didn’t answer, only clapped his soft hands and had the pit guards raise the opposite gate. At the sound of iron grating on stone and chains ratcheting through their housings, the crowds came to the rail, drawn by the pull of the pit.

“He’s huge!”

“Handsome fella!”

“Norras will ugly him up.”

“Knows his stuff, does Norras.”

The beefy Teuton came out of the archway, rolling his bald head on a thick neck.

“Fists only, Norseman,” Maeres called down. “The only way out of that pit for you is to follow the rules.”

Norras raised both hands and balled them into fists as if to instruct the heathen. He closed the distance between them, swift on his feet, jerking his head in sharp stutters designed to fool the eye and tempt an ill-advised swing. He looked rather like a chicken to me, bobbing his head like that, fists at his face, elbows out like little wings. A big muscular hen.

Snorri clearly had the reach, so Norras came in fast. He ducks his head, does Norras—takes punches on his skull. That’s what I was going to say. I’d seen men hurt their hands on the Teuton’s thick and bony head before. I didn’t have time to get the words out. Norras jabbed and Snorri caught the man’s fist in the flat of his palm, closing his fingers to trap it. He yanked Norras forwards, punching with his other arm, brushing aside the wild swing of the Teuton’s left with his elbow. The Norseman’s huge fist hammered into Norras’s face, knuckles impacting from chin to nose. The man flew back a yard or more, hitting the floor with a boneless thump, blood spattered on his upturned face, mixed with teeth and muck from his flattened snout.