You can find anything on Cheap Street. I've seen dwarf pimps with orc whores on leashes, a grass dragon that could read and count, tiny fur-covered homonculi with tails from across the Southern Sea. Merchants sell everything from nightsoil to rare artifacts - and some of the last are, occasionally, genuine.

The duellists and prize fighters collect in the park near where Oldgate crosses Cheap Street. It's an eclectic mix, and has only become more so in recent years. There have always been humans, of course - swordsmen, boxers, wrestlers, archers and crossbowmen. Lately, some humans have trained with the wild elfs up north, so there's a lot of the more acrobatic stuff, too. A couple years ago, a couple of dwarfs came and set up a stall selling throwing weapons, as well as an enclosed target area for practice and to settle the occasional bet. Orcs are still mostly locked out of the decent work, so prize fighting is seen as the only alternative to running with a gang or becoming a bodyguard or bravo for some merchant or noble.

There's a wide variety of transactions going on - the dwarfs I mentioned have expanded, and now they sell or take orders for just about any kind of weapon or armor, plus they've got a tiny forge and repair shop and make money hand over fist. An enterprising tavern owner started selling ale and meat pies from a small cart and now he's got a dozen imitators. You can pay to watch one of the prize fights, bet on an archer's accuracy or take lessons in almost any style of combat imaginable.

I was at the park one winter day, trying to decide between another cup of mulled wine or a meat pie, when I saw him. A tall man, wearing plain, warm clothes, two sword hilts over his shoulders. His face was scarred and weathered by years of exposure to the elements. I estimated his age at somewhere over 60, though he moved with lithe economy.

He stood watching a man and an orc fight on a raised platform. The orc was using the buckler and khopesh of his people, while the human fought with a thinner blade and a heavy basket-hilted dagger. Something about the way he watched them told me he was more interesting than the fight, though. His eyes followed the blades, drinking in every move and apparently sizing up the combatants, filing away every bit of information in case he fought them at some future date.

I walked over to the platform. "My money's on the human. He's more agile."

The old man didn't take his eyes off the fight. "It's staged. The blades look to be blunted, and the tips never get closer than a finger's length to their bodies. They're too flashy, too - he might look good fighting in an arena, but he wouldn't last a hundred breaths in a tavern brawl. Someone'd slide a shiv in his ribs from behind while he posed and strutted." He inclined his head slightly, pointing out the women watching from a separate section of seats. "He's more interested in practicing some other swordplay. I wager he'll get it, and get paid handsomely, too."

"What about the orc?"

"He's good, damn good. I'd hate to have to fight him - he's got a killer's instinct to him and a long reach. Notice the tension there in his arms? He's fighting the temptation to take some of the chances he has to kill his opponent. I'd say the orc's after other work." The old man nodded this time at the cluster of stable owners. "The tall one there works for Jerubel Weyland. I know Weyland's looking for someone to replace his lead pit fighter."

"You seem to know your way around this."

"I did my time in the pits."

"Not recently, though, or I'd know you."

"Gods, no. That was forty years ago, give or take. Spent some time in the militia before that, then got some work guarding caravans. Knocked around, a little bit of this and a little bit of that."

I motioned to a wineseller, bought two mugs of wine. "Let's say I'm looking to hire a swordsman, what should I look for?"

He took a mug, looked me over. "Depends. What do you want? A bodyguard, debt collected, revenge?"

"I want to learn how to fight."

He chuckled. "Go back to your papers, clerk. The ink on your fingers tells me you've never held anything deadlier than a butter knife. I don't do charity work."

"I can pay for it, and I need to learn."

"Why? Who could possibly want you dead?"

"It's more a matter of who I want dead."

"Then go see them." He pointed at a collection of men and orcs clustered around the base of a tree. They took turns flipping knives at a target scratched in the bark and exchanging money. "If you're willing to pay enough, they'll cut their mothers' throats and not think twice about it."

"No, I need to fight a duel."

He looked at me again. "You? Why? You're a clerk. What happened, someone take your inkwell? Tear your copy of some report?"

"It's my sister. She fell in with a noble, and he's left her with child and ruined her name."

"Let it go, boy. Find her a man that doesn't mind used goods and put the whelp up for fostering."

"I can't do that. My family doesn't have much, but we have our pride. Our mother worked herself to death to get us educated enough that we could move up in The City. My sister worked as a seamstress for a dressmaker, I got educated and passed the exams to work for the Customs Office. She's been dismissed now, the dressmaker's accused her of whoring, and I'm supporting her. I intend to get her a settlement." My knuckles were white on the mug. "It's the least he can do, after ruining her. Name your price."

He sighed. "Fifty taler, that gets you a month of lessons."

"Fifty? I could hire a killer for that."

A snort. "You could hire a thug. One that would turn around and sell you out in a heartbeat, and then you'd find yourself dead in an alley with a knife in your eye. I'm the best you can get, boy. It's only my generous nature that lets me set my price so low."

"Thirty, and I'll provide you room and board."

"Thirty up front, room and board and another ten if you survive."

"Done." We shook hands. "What's your name?"

"Detlif Schenker."

"Nicolas Paragyrous. Detlif, I appreciate this."

"Save it, boy. Tell me that if you live."

I handed him a purse. "Here's ten up front. When should I meet you with the rest?"

"Give me an hour to settle with my landlord, I'll meet you over by the Grass Dragon. You can start by buying me lunch."

Detlif arrived at The Grass Dragon with a sack slung over his shoulder. He dropped the bag and reached out to grasp my hand. Instead of a handshake, I found my wrist imprisoned by his fingers and his other hand pressing a knife I hadn't seen against my belly. "Lesson one, boy. Your enemies will always prefer to kill you when you don't expect it. Now let's eat."

Over a roast capon, Detlif didn't talk much, but dropped hints here and there about his past. He had been, at various times, a pit fighter, bodyguard, mercenary, bandit, pirate and tax collector. He was from The City, that was obvious. There's a tone of voice natives of The City get when they talk about other, lesser cities. He had it, in spades.

When I tried to explain more about my situation, he stopped me. "Not here, boy. Not now. All you need is to say the wrong name where the wrong person can hear it and you'll wake up tonight with your guts spread across your bed."

"Gods above, boy! How does a clerk afford a place this big?"

"I never said I was a clerk - you did. I'm the secretary to the Assistant Customs Master."

"I suppose you earned all this by the honest sweat of your brow, then?" His voice dripped sarcasm.

I smiled. "Sometimes, a merchant needs to get his goods moved through Customs quickly. I make sure they don't get held up for a lack of paperwork. Occasionally, a merchant will decide to, with no expectation of material gain on his part, present me with a small honorarium for my service to The City."

Detlif chuckled. "Ah, yes. The life of a public servant." As he spoke, he unclasped his cloak and threw it over my head. I struggled, until I felt a sword's tip at my throat. "Lesson two, boy. Always expect an attack."

He pulled the cloak off me. "No more tricks like that for a while - now that I've got my point across. Tell me about your sister."

"It's a fairly common story - young noble thinks he's the gods' gift to women, struts and futters his way through the servants and local serving wenches, then finds a woman of his station to marry and drop another generation of spoiled, weak-chinned, inbred fools, while he continues to futter the servants. Usually, his family has the decency to set some money aside for the education of any byblows, but this boy insists that he never touched my sister. When she went to his house to see him, his servants threatened to set the dogs on her."

"And the name of this young paragon of virtue?"

"Stark. Erdis Stark."

Detlif whistled. "And you want to fight him? Boy, you're not just mad, you're stupid."

"I have to."

"Of course you do, lad. Nothing will tell your sister you care about her honor like being dead and unable to help her."

"Are you going to teach me or not?"

"Oh, I'll teach you. With any luck, I'll teach you to use your sodding brain and you'll give up this idea."