Passing through the city gates, the Scarlet slowed his pace — for a somewhat ridiculous and rather humiliating reason. He had no idea how he ended up on the damned hill, where the damned port was and where to find the damned tavern.

The city, which he knew less than poorly, resembled a labyrinth, albeit a plain one: chaotically arranged streets made of steps of different heights of varying widths converged on squares. Even though it was almost dark, the city was filled with a motley crowd. Merchants darted about. Pilgrims, with solemn expressions, moved in procession—some arriving from the East, others departing toward it. Arrogant, debauched templars, trailed by their Saracen slaves, received almost as much scorn from the locals as the Knights of the Bull and Chalice. A group of vagabonds, arms slung around each other, bellowed a bawdy song like drunken sailors (and perhaps were drunken sailors). And he - he made his way through the crowd with extraordinary ease and not only because he had not donned armour or taken up weapons.

No one cared about him. No one looked at him with hatred or averted their eyes in fear. No one spat in his wake. He was even jostled! He could not remember the last time he was brushed against like this, with someone just cursing or apologising in passing - and that was it.

He would have felt like a ghost - invisible, free - if not for the beastly hunger. Calling over a pretty girl selling greens and fruits, he bought a bunch of water lettuce and some plums d’Agen, those that had caused so much trouble during the last campaign (they seemed quite ripe on the branches). The girl looked at him without any fear, flirtatiously biting her plump lower lip and he remembered how the brothers had chatted that flower girls and greengrocers provide services of a different kind. But this could not even be called a seduction. He tossed her a coin and moved on with a light step, biting into a plum (this time truly ripe) and looking around with joy, like a schoolboy skipping classes.

He did not ask for directions - at first, he did not want to draw attention to himself and later, the need disappeared. Through the arch of one of the houses, he suddenly saw the sea, the masts of ships and the coastal fortress and realised that finding the port would not be much trouble.

Descending, or rather, squeezing through a street no wider than three cubits, he came to the port and after wandering among the warehouses for a short time, stopped at the Wind Petal, listening out of an ingrained soldier's habit.

This time, he heard no eerie singing. From the tavern came a steady, muffled hum - like the sound of waves from a large seashell held to the ear.

‘Well, of course. They sit, they drink, they talk. They’ve been doing this for centuries,’ the Scarlet thought with a smirk and pushed the heavy door.

Novella by Gloria Mu, translated by YB

Published with the author permission