Festival time had come to Tekum. Sparkling shards of glass and tiny bells swung from the branches of trees that lined the main street. The sweet high ringing kept time with the light that flashed from the glass whenever the wind stirred their branches. Bright booths had mushroomed in the shade of the trees, selling everything from toys to tonics. The Human population of the town seemed to have increased fourfold, with here and there a T’cheria or a Dene to mark the contrast. The Brurjans, of course, were everywhere. They were not near as numerous as the Humans, but their hulking size and the near-visible violence that shivered around them made them the dominant element of the crowd. There was no uniformity to their battle harness or weapons, but they needed no badges to mark them as the Duke’s. Vandien watched them moving effortlessly as the Human crowd parted to give them way, and wondered if the Duke knew what he was doing to give his safety into their hands. But instead he asked Lacey, ‘What’s the occasion for this festival?’
Lacey snorted. ‘The Duke ordained it, twelve years back. It’s to commemorate his coming to power.’
‘Why hold it in Tekum?’
Lacey’s eyes squeezed shut briefly. ‘We had a militia, then. Stationed here, along the caravan route, to keep down robbers and such. Young fool in charge rallied to the Duchess’s cause. Duke brought his Brurjans in. Didn’t take long.’ Lacey nodded to the long line of trees. ‘Wasn’t a tree here that wasn’t swinging a body, and a hell of a lot of them had two.’
The high singing of the bells became suddenly a mocking carillon to Vandien’s ears. ‘So this is how he reminds you, every year, that you depend on his largesse to survive. And that even the best of you will never better him at swords.’
Lacey looked at him in bewilderment. ‘I never thought of it that way before,’ he muttered disgruntledly. ‘It’s just a thing the Duke does. Very typical of him. Doesn’t matter why he does it, anyway. It’s our only chance at him, that’s all that counts. Come on, now. The others will already be gathering. Duke always holds it on the threshing floor in Merp’s barn.’
Vandien nodded curtly and followed him through the press of folk. He walked behind Lacey, letting the heavier man forge a pathway for them. As he passed through the crowd, eyes swung to him, held an instant, then darted away. Damn fools. Was there anyone in this town who wasn’t in on the plot?
A manic grin settled on his face, and he took to meeting all eyes for the fun of watching them widen and then jerk aside. He felt good. The realization of that startled him for a moment, and then he felt the full impact of it. Damn, he felt great. These bastards had plundered his soul, had taken from him all that he had ever valued. He had nothing left to save. Not even his own life. Ki had gone, and her passing had left less than nothing within him. The gentler parts of his nature had died with her, leaving him only the hard and sharp to do with. The impulsiveness that had always characterized his decisions was now in complete control. It was a heady feeling.
He was totally aware of his body, his skin tingling and tightening at the slightest brush of a stranger’s cloak. His heart was pumping steadily in his chest and he was cognizant of each surging beat, counting out the moments of his life’s passing. He wondered if it were the poison affecting him so, or the stimulation of the Thwartspite. Perhaps it was only his knowledge that he could die today, that this blue sky might be the last he would walk under, that these smells of dust and sweat and food cooking might be the last ones he would breathe. How slow was the slow poison from Kellich’s blade? Another handful of days? A few hours? He looked out over the crowd and wondered how many of these folk were also squandering their last day, blissfully unaware of it. For some, he’d make it certain.
He had not been paying attention to where they were going. The threshing barn loomed up before them. The structure was little more than a roof supported by massive timbers and a smoothly bricked floor. A gathering place as much as a threshing ground, for dancing and village celebrations. Today it had been swept clear. At one end of the barn, a raised dais of new wood held a single massive chair. Nothing would block the Duke’s view. Common spectators had spread their cloaks or mats on the ground and sat on them, eating and drinking and talking loudly to one another. Contestants were scattered over the smooth floor, some standing nervously or idly, others limbering muscles or showily practicing for the onlookers. Vandien ran practiced eyes over them. Only four struck him as competent, and two others as possibly dangerous. The others looked to be tavern louts and barnyard boasters, their weapons cheap bazaar blades or Grandfather’s ancient shoulder-wrencher. He frowned slightly, knowing that going against them would be more like fighting with staves than true fencing. He turned to Lacey, speaking low.
‘The man in green there; tell me about him.’
Lacey glanced away. ‘Kurtis. One of ours. He’ll make you look good. You needn’t fear him. He’s under orders not to be much of a challenge to you.’
‘He wouldn’t be in any case. Look how he drags his feet. Those two, warming up together … are they yours also?’
‘Yes. Students of Kellich’s. Blume and Trask. Blume’s the one with the lace. Again, you’ve nothing to worry about. They’ve both been instructed to lose in such a way as to make you look very good.’ Lacey spoke reassuringly.
‘I wasn’t worrying, Lacey. But the one in the boots should, if he always locks his elbow like that. The woman there, in the red silk blouse?’
‘Another of ours. She’s good, but she won’t hurt you.’
‘She moves well, but without inspiration. Kellich taught her?’
‘I believe so. Vandien, stop fretting. Everything has been arranged; you cannot lose.’
A grin split Vandien’s face, tugged at his scar. ‘Unless I win. Two more, Lacey, and then leave me alone. There’s a man, standing quiet now, beside the third timber. Black beard, grey at his temples … see him?’
‘Damn!’ Lacey swore fervently. ‘He was warned away, several times. We told him there was bigger game afoot. But his wife is with child, again, and all his sheep went down this spring with the wobblies. Farrick’s after a purse of gold, to get him through the winter; but he’s more likely to go home to a smoking barn for not listening to us.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Vandien warned him, and his voice was flat and ugly. His dark eyes burned into Lacey and the man flinched from their depth.
‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘But be careful of him. He’s good.’
‘I know.’ This was one of the ones he had mentally marked as dangerous. Farrick moved with quiet control and beautiful balance. He was older than Vandien, and bigger. He’d have a longer reach, and a damn good reason to fence his best. One to be careful of. ‘And her?’ Vandien asked, nodding toward the other contestant he had marked as dangerous. ‘What do you know about her?’
Lacey glared at the woman who was tucking her long pale braids up under a red cap. ‘She’s as crazy as a rabid vixen. There’s no reasoning with that girl. You may have to kill her to get past her. She’s another one was warned away, but didn’t choose to listen.’
‘I’ll decide that,’ Vandien said quietly. He was watching her face. She was nervous, but a fervent hate burned in her blue eyes. ‘Who is she?’
‘Darnell. She used to fence with her brother.’
‘And?’
‘Last year was a hard one for their family. Just before harvest, their grainfield took the crust and had to be burned. Her brother came here to try his luck with the sword, to see if he could win gold from the Duke.’
‘And?’ Vandien prodded again.
‘And he won the medallion instead. She’s gone mad, Vandien. Darnell will do anything to get her own chance at the Duke.’
He nodded to Lacey, watching her. Darnell was small and whip-quick. Her face was too strong to be called pretty, and her eyes burned with an intensity that cleared the area around her. She glanced at him suddenly and their eyes locked. Nothing left to lose, they agreed, and she sent him a quick smile. Dangerous.
He left Lacey then, striding out onto the threshing floor. It was as if the main actor had just stepped onto the stage for the play. The crowd’s noises hushed briefly, and then rose in intensity. Vandien ignored them. He cleared his mind of them, and the world became an empty place. He might have been on a hillside beside Ki’s old wagon as he saluted his shadow and began stretching out his muscles. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he smelled woodsmoke and tea and horses, felt the clean breeze on his face, and heard Ki exclaim, half in annoyance, half in admiration, as the bound point of his practice foil found her. For an instant the painloss jolted through him, and he wished he were wearing something of hers, some token … but no. He did not fight today as a man fought in honor of his lady, but as a man fights who has nothing left to defend, least of all honor. The only purpose of his blade today was to take as many with him as he could.
Then the silence in his heart was suddenly silence in his ears as well. He drew himself up, turned to see where all heads were turning.
Six Brurjans afoot, in black and silver battle harness, flanking a great black stallion whose mane and tail had been plaited with silver wire. Silver weighted the bridle on the horse’s small savage head and silver winked on the light saddle. Black and silver was the man astride him. Of black silk were his garments, and the armor he wore was black leather and silver, styled after the Brurjan fashion but scaled down to a Human. His hair was black, and black his beard, but his eyes were silver grey in his weathered face.
The Duke stepped from his horse’s back onto the dais. He stood a moment, looking out over the assembled folk. His eyes raked them over, discarding the spectators quickly before sorting the contestants before him. They lingered a moment on Darnell, sneered briefly at one posturing braggart, and then swept past Vandien. Too swiftly. Vandien felt the marking of their passage, knew then that the Duke already knew all, but would play out the charade for whatever reason. And so he drew his rapier, clasped the hawk’s talons in his, and saluted the Duke formally with his blade. Others around him noticed, and copied his gesture, but did not realize the depth of its meaning. Vandien knew that his personal bout with this man had already begun.
They drew lots for their first matches. Vandien listened with only half an ear as someone shouted out the rules for the contest. Lacey had already told him. The Duke liked his blood-sports. A touch was a touch that drew blood. The Duke decided when a bout was complete, although a man could acknowledge himself beaten and completely retire from the contest. Other than that, the bout continued until the Duke said it could stop.
A man in a red sash examined the cube of wood in Vandien’s palm, then gestured him toward a loutish youth with a skim of child’s beard on his face. His first opponent. Other pairs were forming up, saluting the Duke, receiving his nod of consent, and saluting one another. Already two bouts were in progress.
Vandien moved to face his opponent on the strip allotted to them. The boy had a decent sword that he held as if it were a poker. He’d tire quickly, Vandien decided, and turned to face the Duke. He made the formal salute to him, tip of weapon toward the floor, then up with the guard almost touching his chin, then weapon extended at shoulder level. Vandien held the final stance until the Duke had acknowledged him with a nod, then turned and gave the same salute to his opponent. The boy, baffled, mimicked him awkwardly, grinning in an embarrassed way. ‘Begin,’ commanded the red-sashed man, and the boy leaped at Vandien, swinging his weapon as if it were a cudgel. Vandien caught the heavier blade on his own, diverted it, stepped in to dab the point of his rapier into the boy’s chest and stepped out again. The boy looked startled. His weapon sagged to point at Vandien’s knees as he clapped his free hand to his chest. He looked at his bloodied palm in amazement, then glanced up at Vandien as if for confirmation. Vandien shrugged lightly, the point of his rapier never wavering as it menaced the boy at eye level.
‘I’m done,’ said the boy, and turned aside abruptly to push past the red-sashed man and out through the crowd that ringed the threshing-barn now. Vandien turned to find the Duke’s eyes already on him. He could not read them at this distance. Pushing down a chill of foreboding, he shot the man an insolent grin. The Duke startled slightly, then leaned forward, spoke a word to a red-sashed man standing before the dais. He in turn hurried forward to whisper to the red-sashed man who had supervised Vandien’s first bout, then darted past him to signal to two fencers that their bout was over. One contestant he tapped on the shoulder, and then jerked his head toward Vandien.
As the man came toward him, Vandien recognized him as one of Lacey’s men. He had cast aside the green cloak that had earlier distinguished him, but Kurtis was still dragging his feet when he moved. He tipped Vandien a wink, then mouthed the words, ‘Don’t worry.’ Vandien felt something within him grow harder and colder. Salute the Duke, receive his nod, and turn. His lips smiled at Kurtis as he made him a careful salute. ‘Begin,’ said Red-sash, and the two blades met. The man was heavy with his blade as well as his feet, and the condescending expression on his face told all that he was holding back his skill to allow Vandien an easy win. His weapon replied conservatively to Vandien’s testing, as if he were an instructor trying to encourage a sluggish student. For a few movements Vandien pushed him, trying to win something more than a token response to his attacks. The man was scarcely fencing at all, more like he was standing with a broom, waiting to be stuck so he could concede. With a snort of disgust, Vandien disengaged his blade, let the tip droop to point at Kurtis’s ankle, and hover there. Kurtis’s eyes darted to meet his in amazement and dismay. ‘So make me look good,’ Vandien challenged him softly, and waited.
The blood drained from Kurtis’s face, and Vandien suddenly understood. Kurtis was perfectly willing to be stuck, to take an injury to make Vandien look good. He was not willing to put forth any effort that might make himself look good to the Duke. The last thing he wanted was to be a contender for the Duke’s medallion. He made a halfhearted stab at Vandien, an attack that bragged more of nervousness than skill. There wasn’t going to be any real challenge from this man, Vandien decided, and moved in with an effortless parry and a riposte that removed the lobe of his left ear. Before Kurtis could react, he was back in guard position. He smiled at him.
Kurtis’s free hand shot up to his ear. He winced at his own touch, looked at his blood, and then glanced up at Vandien with outrage in his eyes. Kurtis let out a bellow like a struck bullock, thrust, and charged. His obvious intent was a flèche. His objective was to move past Vandien, and as he passed in front of him, to take him with a chest thrust. He was not prepared for Vandien’s blade to parry his neatly out of line and drop in to allow Kurtis to skewer himself on Vandien’s blade. Arterial blood was drenching his shirt when Kurtis looked down. ‘I wasn’t supposed to die,’ he said with surprised dismay. He fell, slipping free of Vandien’s point. Vandien dropped to one knee beside him. ‘Neither was Ki,’ Vandien whispered coldly. He rose easily, paced away from the man and stood once more in readiness at the end of his strip.
He stood, watching the people who rushed forward to cluster about Kurtis, to lift him and carry him awkwardly away. He felt nothing. Not even satisfaction. So one of them was dead for Ki. It wasn’t enough. He caught Lacey staring at him with burning eyes; he returned the look flatly, letting no sign of recognition cross his face. He glanced up at the Duke.
The Duke leaned forward in his chair; his chin was in his hand, and he was staring at Vandien. Perplexity rivaled amazement on his features. He gestured to a Human in a dark cloak, who drew near to hear the Duke’s whisper. The man replied vigorously, shaking his head and insisting on something. The Duke waved him off with impatience. He was, Vandien decided, beginning to distrust his spies’ reports. If Vandien was the rebellion’s man, why had he killed his ally? The Duke looked back at him and for an instant their eyes locked. Vandien smiled, and cleaned the sharpened tip and edge of his rapier on his sleeve. When he glanced up again, Darnell stood at the opposite end of his strip.
He studied her, trying to be cold, but knowing he didn’t want to fight her. Small, quick, and so full of anger. He saw the truth of Lacey’s assessment. He might have to kill her to get past her. The sudden knowledge that he didn’t want to kill her filled him, and even as they were making their salutes he racked his mind for alternatives. A meat wound wasn’t going to stop this one, nor even a slash across the face. She’d fight as long as she could hold her blade …
Red-sash nodded and she was on him, inside the reach of Vandien’s blade and coming after him. Damn, she was quick! He found himself retreating, standing more upright and fighting her from the outside, reaching over and around as he tried to attain a more threatening position. With a clash of steel she beat his blade aside, was once more inside his range. As he brought his guard back down, he could almost see her decision cross her face. A coupe. Stupid. A harsh answer to his dilemma came to mind, and before he had time to weigh it, she was moving. Her blade lifted in an attempt to go over his and dart in. He closed his mind on the decision, let his own blade shoot in. His found flesh first, entering the back of her arm just above the wrist. He felt his point slip between the two bones of her arm, then emerge. He heard the clatter of her weapon on the bricks, hoped it was over. But no – with her free hand she groped after her weapon, her eyes full only of her fury. She hissed at him in her pain and hatred, making it seem he had spitted some small, savage animal on his rapier. Neither blood nor pain was going to stop this one. Disabling her was his only alternative to killing her, for the Duke was making no move to put an end to the match. So he would have to do it himself. The decision was made. It seemed to Vandien that it was someone else who levered his blade between the bones of her arm, bringing pressure down until he felt the clean snap of the smaller bone.
She screamed, pain driving the intensity of her hate from her face. She fell, jerking her arm free of his blade, forgetting her weapon as she clutched at her arm. She’d fence no more today. Perhaps never again. His stomach lurched within him as he turned, moved to the end of the strip. She never saw the grave salute he accorded her as someone helped her stand and guided her from the strip. But Lacey did. Vandien glanced away from the man’s sickened face. He had set these wheels in motion, not Vandien. Let him live with what they crushed; at least the girl was alive.
He glanced to the Duke, who was again in consultation with a red-sashed official. Three other bouts were still in progress, one involving two young men who seemed bent on seeing how much noise they could make with their weapons. The Duke didn’t spare them a glance, not even when one finally managed a shoulder-smashing hit on his fellow. Plainly he was content to let them battle it out until one conceded. Vandien watched them idly until Red-sash spoke behind him.
‘This way, please,’ he said politely, and something in the way he avoided touching Vandien put him in mind of the crowd parting before the Brurjans. He wondered if he shimmered with violence and disdain as they did. Within, he felt only the thundering of his own heart, and wondered if it was the work of the poison or the antidote that held the poison at bay. The rapidity of its beating pushed him on, hurrying him to work as much destruction upon his destroyers as he could before their poison stopped him. He followed Red-sash across the threshing floor, felt the eyes of the Duke following him. He didn’t condescend to notice the Duke.
Red-sash gestured, and Vandien took his place opposite his new opponent. He had a few moments to observe him; it was another of Lacey’s foils, the one in lace. He had noticed him earlier, a dandyish, prancing man who obviously loved playing to the crowd. He had reminded Vandien of a brightly feathered cockerel strutting through the barnyard.
He didn’t look so jaunty now. He was not watching Vandien, but staring across the floor to where someone was only now retrieving Darnell’s blade. He scratched his nose with the back of one belaced wrist; not an elegant gesture. And when Blume turned to face Vandien, he could almost see the sweat pop out on the man’s upper lip. He looked at Vandien as he might look at a rabid street cur – something ordinarily despised had suddenly become dangerous. Vandien ignored him as he saluted the Duke, marked the snide challenge on the Duke’s face; he kept his own expressionless. Blume’s salute to Vandien was sloppy, as if the man could not quite make his blade stop where it should. Fear was spoiling his posturing. The tip of his weapon trembled as their blades met.
‘Begin,’ said Red-sash, and Blume lunged, then jumped back as if he had surprised himself. Vandien replied to his attack, and the man parried wildly, his wagging blade reminding Vandien of an ecstatic hound’s tail. He leaped back as he did so, taking himself out of Vandien’s reach. Vandien paused where he was, brought his blade up to challenge and stayed there. Obviously waiting for Blume to regain his nerve and resume the bout. Blume stared at him, and a flush rose over his face. Vanity warred with fear; he took a moment to straighten his cuffs, shot a falsely bright smile to someone among the spectators, and then brought his own blade up and stepped back into the match. But Vandien’s first feint was met with another of his wild parries, and then a beat that knocked his blade aside.
Blume charged in, meeting Vandien chest to chest. ‘Have you gone mad, man? I’m one of Lacey’s men! You don’t have to …’
Vandien’s free hand pushed him off, and as he went back he brought his rapier down to cut swiftly, opening a slash beside Blume’s nose and down his upper lip. He saw a flash of teeth before the blood covered them. ‘Keep your distance,’ he said coldly, and fell back on guard.
He watched the realizations follow one another swiftly as they crossed Blume’s face: he was bleeding, it hurt, his face was ruined, this man wants to kill me. And Vandien was ready when Blume suddenly decided he had better end this quickly, even if it meant being noticed by the Duke. And the Duke was paying attention, leaning forward on his chair, his face both alarmed and puzzled. Every one of Vandien’s acts had been done with intent to cause great injury. The reports he had received on this man had obviously left something out. The Duke did not like unknown factors. He scowled as Blume plunged back into the bout.
Blume was fighting energetically now, but without finesse. Blood had drenched the front of his shirt, soaking the lace but leaving the face above it more pale than the linen had been. Pain and dizzying fear were making him careless. He dashed in with a sloppy attempt at a doublé, attacking toward the back of Vandien’s body. He dropped under Vandien’s guard so that his blade could move in as Vandien parried. He got in under Vandien’s blade and knew brief satisfaction as his weapon gouged a ragged cut over the top of Vandien’s hip. But the satisfaction was cut short by the tip of Vandien’s rapier slipping quietly into the soft spot at the base of his throat.
For an instant they stood frozen in tableau, Blume’s terrified eyes meeting Vandien’s cold ones over their blades. Then Vandien withdrew his tip as smoothly as he had entered it, and Blume fell backward, clutching at his throat as he screamed a fine spray of blood.
Vandien stood still for an instant, waiting to feel satisfaction. The moment passed and he still stood, waiting to feel anything. But there was nothing. Only the thundering of his heart in his ears, and now the pain, hot and sickening, flooding up from his hip. He felt himself sway. It took an effort to sheathe his rapier; the tip wavered and circled the opening of the sheath, and went in with a smear of Blume’s blood on the leather. The hammering of his heart in his ears had become a constant sound like the rushing of wind. Darkness edged in on him, narrowing his vision of the world. He felt something bump against his thigh. He glanced down, watched his sword arm hanging by his side. With his good hand he lifted it to his chest, held it against himself. It was like holding a stick of kindling. No feeling left in it at all. Damn.
He forced his eyes to stay open, lifted his head. A cluster of people stood before him. They were lifting Blume to carry him away. He couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead. Suddenly Lacey broke free of the group, stood before him. ‘Bastard’s whelp by a she-cur!’ he grated.
Vandien forced a smile. ‘Do you really think you should be talking to me? The Duke’s watching.’
Lacey spun about, looked up. The Duke nodded congenially to them both. Lacey whitened, began to walk away.
‘Not so fast.’ Vandien spoke softly, but he knew his voice carried. Lacey halted. ‘I need more thwartspite. It’s wearing off. Without it, I’ll never get as far as the Duke. It will all have been for nothing.’
‘Die in your tracks,’ said Lacey, and walked away.
So. He had gambled and lost. He had thought Lacey would be so attached to his cause that he would give him the thwartspite to keep him going, in spite of what he had done. He wouldn’t. So. Vandien felt himself sway again. So get off the floor, or die here. Someone took his arm. It was hard to see in the darkness, and he didn’t recognize her until he heard her speak to Red-sash. ‘No. He’s not withdrawing. We’re just going to staunch the bleeding on his hip, and then he’ll be back … with the Duke’s permission.’
It must have been given by a nod or some other sign, for Willow knelt by him and pressed a flat pad of bandages to his hip. It sent a wave of red pain coursing through him, and the darkness became two shades blacker. ‘Take what I give you. Chew it, but don’t swallow it. Hold it in your cheek.’ She fumbled at his good hand, and he had to let go of his sword arm to take what she gave him. He felt his own arm fall and thud against him lifelessly. He received what felt like a rolled cylinder of leaves, tucked them into his mouth, bit down on them. Acridity flooded his mouth and his body responded with a wave of saliva. He swallowed with difficulty, tongued the package of herbs down between his cheek and gums. His eyes suddenly watered, and his vision cleared. He looked down to find Willow still kneeling beside him. The cloth she held to his hip was heavy with blood.
‘Stabbed in the ass. How humiliating.’ The herbs in his cheek made him mumble.
‘Worse for Blume, I imagine,’ she replied coldly.
‘If he’d fought decently, I wouldn’t have had to do it. Nor the other one. They were making a bloody farce of your plot.’
‘But you would have, anyway.’
‘Probably. For Ki.’
She looked up at him curiously. ‘How did you know?’
‘I just knew.’
She refolded the pad, held a fresh spot to the gash on his hip. The bleeding was slowing. ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ she said slowly. ‘I really meant to let her go, alive. But when I went out there with food, she was … gone. One of the others did it, Vandien. I swear. They were the only ones who knew where she was. I’m … I’m sorry. I know what she meant to you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He stepped clear of her, no longer able to abide her touch. Her lie rang too clearly in his ears. He remembered her curse when Kellich died: ‘May you know loss such as mine.’ He felt the now familiar tingling in his arm, flexed his fingers, rotated the wrist. A wave of euphoria and incredible energy washed through him, and he felt the tempo of his heart pick up. He took a deep breath, felt his head clear even more. He rolled his shoulders, felt no more than the heaviness of having fenced all afternoon. His spirits lifted, and he felt strong, skilled and arrogant. A tiny voice within him suddenly wondered if this were his true feelings, or only an effect of the thwartspite. He pushed the question aside, and instead asked Willow, ‘How much longer do I have?’
She got slowly to her feet. She didn’t ask what he meant. ‘I don’t know. It depends on too many things. And you’ve taken so much thwartspite, it changes everything …’
‘What do you guess, then?’
She looked aside from him. ‘Late tonight. Early tomorrow.’
‘Before noon tomorrow, though?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘I’m sorry. If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn’t.’
He shrugged, winced at the pull against his hip. Damn, that was going to hurt. But not for long.
‘You’ll still kill the Duke for us?’ He couldn’t tell if she was begging him to do it, or begging to know why he’d do it. He shrugged carefully. ‘Why not? I don’t have anything else planned for the rest of my life. May as well keep busy.’
He turned away from her before she could say anything more. As she left the threshing floor, he was surprised to notice that the red-sashes were ending all the bouts, were clearing all the contestants from the floor. Had the Duke already reached his decision? He glanced up to find the man watching him. For a few moments they regarded one another in silence. Vandien felt himself being measured, and held himself steady under the Duke’s scrutiny. Then, with the slightest nod of his head, the Duke indicated another man standing quietly at the other end of the threshing floor. As they began the long walk toward one another, Vandien measured him.
Farrick. Mature. Good reason for wanting this fight, but not filled with anger or ideological passion. A cool man, a conservative man. Beautiful balance. A dangerous man. For a moment, Vandien tried to become his opponent. What did he want? Not to win, not to face the Duke’s sword. Would he fence sloppily in this bout, deliberately lose to Vandien? Not likely, after he had seen Vandien killing and maiming today. No, Farrick must still fight his best if he wished to emerge from this bout unscathed. He’d have to fight his best, and still not try to win. For a moment Vandien pondered the man’s dilemma, visualized what he would do in Farrick’s place. And what does he think of me? Vandien speculated. Probably judges from what he’s seen so far. I’ve been fighting like a tavern brawler, up against these culls from the hack-and-slash school of fencing. So Farrick would be expecting wild aggression and crude attacks. Vandien permitted himself a small smile. But Farrick did not know Vandien was already a dying man. Farrick would not be expecting Vandien to fight to win. So. Farrick might be in for a small surprise.
They saluted the Duke and then one another. Silence lowered itself over the throng. No one doubted that this match would decide; for one a purse, for one a medallion of death. They assumed the stance, and a red-sash said softly, ‘Begin.’
They moved with the grace of dancers as they tested one another, and Vandien saw Farrick’s eyes widen briefly as he reappraised him. And Vandien, too, was having to do some reevaluating of his man. Improbably, almost impossibly, this man fought in the classic Harperian style, and somewhere, sometime, he had been instructed by a master. For an instant the room wavered around Vandien, and he was a skinny youth again, this same blade in his hand, and Fol was propelling him backward, his training foil making clean tick, tick, ticks against Vandien’s defending rapier. No screaming of sawing metal, no wild parries, not a degree of motion more than was necessary in wrist or elbow. Vandien found himself smiling and responding to that memory, saw an answering twitch at the corner of Farrick’s mouth.
So let them see, these stick-swingers and scythe-fencers, how a gentleman did it. Let them see the root from which the other schools of fencing had sprung. The rhythm was set, point control was absolute, and they moved through their opening challenges like two dancers in perfect grace and counterpoint. Vandien felt he was getting the man’s measure; he would rely on finesse and maturity, would wait for Vandien to become overeager and make some childish error. Fol. How many times had he tried the youthful Vandien that way? Yes, and won that way, too, he reminded himself. He leashed his eagerness.
The Duke was watching. He could not spare a glance, but did not need to. He could feel the man on the edge of his seat, almost hear him muttering to himself. He had never seen the like of this before, and never will again. The old Harperian masters are dead and their students scattered to the winds. Yet here, in this most unlikely of places, two have come together, and blades move as they were meant to, in rhythm and timing, passing by no more than a whisper, the clean tick, tick, tick of their metal as they touch in conservative parries, the honest thrusts that are swiftly turned and pass their targets by no more than the wingspan of a fly. It is beauty, and his heart sings with it, living only in this now to perpetuate this pattern.
But it cannot last forever. Vandien’s shoulder is burning, his arm is leaden, his blade has the weight of a pitchfork, and he feels the tiny twitching trembles of muscles forced to work too long. He sets his teeth, firming up his arm, and begins to continually press Farrick. The man is older, he must tire soon. But Farrick smiles a small smile and lies back, accepting everything that Vandien offers, forcing Vandien to initiate all attacks. Just like Fol, damn him, and for a moment he knows the same outraged frustration of his childhood. His hip hurts suddenly, almost blindingly, and he knows he has little time left, that he must force something. He begins to increase the tempo of his attacks, and Farrick’s small smile widens as he reads Vandien. But Vandien can also see the sweat beading on Farrick’s face, the strain that drags at his mouth, and his ripostes are wider of the mark. There is something … it itches in Vandien’s mind. Something Fol showed him once, a long time ago, something he has not tried in ages, has never had to try …
Vandien lunges full out, continues to fence. The new posture briefly confuses Farrick, but he adapts to it, and the exchanges continue. And every moment Vandien is testing, feeling, waiting – and there it is, a slight weakening of his opponent’s wrist.
Vandien lunges to his full extent, and Farrick replies, thinking he has him, but Vandien is no longer there. His free hand drops to the floor and braces him, carrying his body off to the side, and at the same time he lifts his weapon and his blade rises up, the tip to Farrick’s throat, not entering the skin but dimpling it, and there is plenty of thrust left in Vandien’s arm to put it through if he desires. If he wants to kill.
There is a silence. They are frozen at the center of the universe, in this moment, in this place. Their eyes are locked. Farrick stands still, the tip of Vandien’s rapier pressing his throat, and Vandien is motionless, his body suspended just off the floor, supported by one hand, one knee bent and the other leg straight as he looks up at him. Then Farrick speaks. ‘Fol’s Thrust. My old master spoke of it, but I’ve never seen it done before.’ A slow smile splits his beard. ‘Damn me, I’m dead!’ He puts his head back and laughs aloud.
And time began to have meaning once more. The tip of Farrick’s blade slowly drooped to touch the floor. He stamped once, then drew himself erect. He stepped back, and gave Vandien time to stand, to step back. And then he accorded him the salute one gives to the victor, the meticulous lifting of the sword and the grave smile of acknowledgement. Farrick sheathed his blade, turned and began to walk away.
‘Wait!’ The Duke’s voice rang out over the assemblage, breaking the silence that had held so many so long. He was on his feet, standing at the edge of the dais. His face was flushed, his eyes wide in his face. His mouth was slightly ajar still. He looked, Vandien thought, for all the world like a child who had been delighted by the seemingly impossible antics of a hedge-wizard.
Farrick halted, turned to the Duke. ‘I concede the match.’
‘As is right.’ The Duke looked down at a red-sashed man who waited before the dais. ‘To that one, the purse.’ He lifted his eyes then, and they pierced Vandien with their anticipation and dread. ‘To the other, the medallion. And bring him to my chambers this evening. We dine together.’
Vandien lifted his rapier in a slow salute that marked the second phase of their bout.