To Marry a Dragon

9. ...and into the Fire

The chaos in the Ragtag Court, the confluence of five crooked alleys, was absolute. 

The fire blazed down the Scriveners' Rowe, and out of it poured crying women with children, pots, pigs and bundles, men with more of the same and also things completely useless like a commode. In poured the level-headed, grim-faced folks passing buckets of water from a public fountain. And, inevitably, the less altruistic ones who might as well had looter scribbled on their foreheads.

An entirely separate level of chaos brought together the armed men and women without insignias of city militia or any lord. But they had no problems detecting who was on which side, despite the apocalyptic lighting of dancing fire and the new moon. Shadows danced on the bruised faces, turning them grotesque. Rapiers and knives, handy in the street fighting, clashed and clinked in a deadly rhythm, quickening Elvira's pulse.

In the middle of the swirling mayhem, Elvira spotted a lanky fencer, so vividly blond, his ponytail seemed to emit its own light, like the moon above his head. His cloak was brazenly draped over his off-hand, but there was nothing cocky about his fighting. The rapier flickered back and forth, dove in to find the exposed limbs, necks and groins with persistence of a stinging wasp. Whenever it darted out darkened with blood, a satisfied smile spread across his features.

Looking at his effortless movements, Elvira regretted the cuirass, greaves and vambraces she wore, but that's what she knew.

The blond man's fighting style dated to the zenith of the Ordovi, when strange weapons started to replace the swords and axes. With the Empire's disintegration, they were nearly forgotten. Elvira had to admit that the style suited the street fighting well, with lightly armored thugs being a prime target for the fast attacks. But how would a guttersnipe acquire the elegant martial art that took years to master and an antique blade?

"Sigvart!" she shouted over the crashing, screaming and a myriad of indescribable sounds.

The blond man jerked his head in her direction, reacting to his name, then gave it a quick shake and chased his immediate opponent. Even if he had picked her face from the crowd, the chances of his recognizing her after all these years were slim.

Last time she had seen him, on the fateful day of their engagement, she didn't get a good look at him, because her duenna upbraided her for squirming. Yet this single glimpse of the three-quarter turned profile, in the middle of the fray, in uneven light, imprinted itself in her memory forever.

It was devoid of imperfections, unless you counted lips that were slightly on the full side as an imperfection. Wide brows, straight nose and the bright blue eyes in that shape with upturned corners that made him look like he was smiling.

So, that's Sigvart.

Sigvart kicked in a door to the Twisted Cockerel, and the two men rolled inside, away from the street. By the shapes flashing in the doorway, the fighting had already begun in earnest in the common room, so Sigvart just sped up the inevitable, by providing a gateway for both battles to connect into one big brawl.

Afraid of losing her quarry, Elvira shoved the brawlers, the firefighters, the looters and the refugees out of her way, barreling for the most notorious establishment of its kind in Antikapey. She shouted at all of them to stay in the light, an excellent advice, but her eyes remained fastened to the door now hanging askew on its hinges.

"Do not waylay those who mean you no harm," she muttered one last time, skidding inside the common room, dodging an airborne man. His flight was brief—he hit the wall and fell to the floor in a heap. The plaster cracked, showering Elvira with dust. A beer mug sailed the same way, broke on the stained wall and exploded into stinking clay shards.