performing for the masses. As an impatient Isen dragged Corl away from the delicious dancing-girl, who was still pouting prettily at him, a chill went down his spine. Their prey was singing bawdy songs, accompanied by a choir of hundreds. Corl’s ardour was immediately dampened; the dancing-girl vanished from his mind, replaced by the images of Kassalain in her temple.
Once again he wondered about the strange nature of his commission: to kill a person who had no identity, who bore no allegiance and took no sides. Isen and Orolay had both been incredulous when he’d told them. The younger man had been outraged, while Isen had been mostly mystified. The three of them had debated the matter for hours, but when they reached no conclusion, Corl had decided to do what he always did: take the money and try not to think too hard about the victim. After all, there was always a reason, good or otherwise, even if Corl himself did not understand it and that was not much different to serving in the army.
All the same, Corl could not help wondering: why a Harlequin? Who could possibly have a grudge against the blessed tellers of stories? What madman could imagine a Harlequin harming him, or posing a threat? It was foolish . . . but as he stood there, the swell of bodies pressing from all sides, Corl still found himself checking the weapons secreted around his body.
‘Coin all spends the same,’ he muttered, too quietly for Isen to hear properly. He waved Isen to silence as the song ended and the Harlequin started its last tale: one Corl had heard years back: the Goat and the God. They laughed as hard as anyone as the Harlequin acted out Vrest’s amorous mishaps as he took the form of a Billy-goat, booed with gusto at the theft of the prized doe and cheered at the hoofprints adorning the God’s buttocks afterwards . . . although Corl felt a vague sense of puzzlement as the story unfolded, the course of events differing to how he remembered them - but it was all too long ago to recall accurately, and Harlequins never forgot a single word, everyone knew that.
The swell of laughter and cheering swept him up and Corl tried to ignore his qualms. The Harlequin took its bows and as the drummers started striking the first bars of the salute to the night, the brisk, heavy thump of the drums reminded Corl of a heartbeat and his thoughts returned to the night’s task. At his gesture, Isen and Orolay began to make their way around the pit to where the Harlequin was gathering its meagre possessions.
As they crossed the open ground, a pair of fiddlers took up the mournful salute and the Harlequin was slipping away with only a few words of thanks and blessing from the grateful crowd, who were mostly listening, rapt, to the final song, an ancient tradition. It was Farlan custom for all who could afford it to offer a Harlequin food and lodging whenever it arrived in a town or city. Neighbours would bring gifts, to honour their presence; on Midsummer that was doubly important. Corl reckoned the Harlequin would have accepted an offer of bed and breakfast closer to the city gate, and as asking would be a bit obvious, he’d decided following the Harlequin was their best option. With luck the revelry would have died down before he reached his destination and they wouldn’t have to slaughter the whole household.
Corl slung his arm around Isen’s neck, raised the jug of wine to the man’s lips and poured some down his front, roaring with laughter. He lurched into the middle of the street, keeping one eye on the Harlequin’s back even as he hugged Isen to him.
‘Easy now,’ he said in Isen’s ear, ‘you’re wound tight as a ratter - chase this one too hard and he’ll turn on us.’
With that he lunged towards Orolay, shoving the jar into the young man’s hands, then falling to the ground and dragging Isen down on top of him. As the bigger man’s weight thumped down on him, Corl roared with drunken laughter and Orolay, catching on, quickly joined in.
‘You ain’t payin’ me ta play fool,’ Isen hissed, ‘use the boy fer that.’
‘Piss you on,’ Corl replied under his breath, theatrically struggling to his feet. ‘Pride’s easiest to lose, it’s everythin’ else as hurts.’
Isen scowled and grabbed the wine off Orolay. ‘Lose yer own then,’ he said,