The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  ‘Bess! Dive!’

  In my panic, my mind barely registered the order, but somehow I obeyed.

  I threw myself forward, onto the carpet of the aisle, just in time to glimpse my teacher whip up his bow—arrow perfectly notched—and, with the most intense expression on his face, release the arrow.

  This arrow flew down the length of the aisle and struck the fiend directly between the eyes, right through the bridge of his nose, the iron-tipped arrow driving deep into the man’s head, stopping him in mid-stride, causing him to snap upright, his yellow eyes wide with shock, his right fist still dumbly gripping the cutlass, before he collapsed to the floor.

  I lay on the aisle a bare yard from him, not daring to move lest he wasn’t dead.

  But then my teacher appeared above me and he loosed a final arrow into the fiend’s head from a range of one foot, and I knew the animal was dead.

  Then I was in my teacher’s arms, crying deep heaving sobs into his shoulder, saying, ‘Thank you, Mr Ascham! Thank you! Thank you!’

  He held me out from him and looked into my eyes. ‘What are you thanking me for? If you hadn’t come here, I would have become another victim of this madman, dead, flayed and mutilated. But because of you, he didn’t get the chance and I awoke to see him chasing you into this chapel. Bess, don’t thank me. You came here, heedless of any danger to yourself, to save me. Honestly, God help the world if you ever become Queen of England!’

  I didn’t care.

  I just hugged him tightly and cried my eyes out, honestly believing that I would never let him go.

  Of course, shortly after, we let the dungeon guards in and they secured the embassy. Latif awoke with a painful headache, and after a long while, the Sultan himself appeared, accompanied by the sadrazam and his personal guards.

  The Sultan gazed without emotion at the grisly scene: Cardinal Cardoza’s barely alive body lying in a pool of blood; the dead fiend sprawled in the central aisle of the adjoining chapel, two arrows protruding from his skull at awkward angles; and the wounded Latif, sitting on the floor rubbing his head.

  ‘Mr Roger Ascham,’ the Sultan said at last. ‘Am I to assume that your investigation is concluded?’

  My teacher stood before the Sultan, bloodied and cut, his clothes sodden, his hair wet. Yet he returned the Sultan’s gaze with perfect English dignity. ‘It is, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Enlighten me. Please.’

  ‘You may wish to have your men leave the room,’ my teacher said.

  With a nod from their ruler, the guards left us. The sadrazam stayed.

  ‘Him, too,’ Mr Ascham said.

  The Sultan paused, no doubt unused to being ordered to do anything, but he nodded again and the sadrazam also departed, so that only Mr Ascham, the Sultan and I remained in the atrium.

  ‘There have been six murders and one attempted murder—that of Cardinal Cardoza here—within your palace walls, but there have been four different killers,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘The visiting Cardinal Farnese was killed by mistake. He was poisoned by the chef’s elder son, Pietro. But the poison had been intended for Cardinal Cardoza, a sodomite who had taken to molesting Pietro’s feeble-minded little brother, Benicio, when he delivered the cardinal his supper.’

  ‘Benicio? That was the boy who took his own life a few weeks ago?’ the Sultan asked.

  ‘Yes. Pietro blamed his brother’s suicide on Cardinal Cardoza and sought to poison him. Upon discovering that his poison had killed the wrong man, however, Pietro skinned Cardinal Farnese’s body in the manner of the insane murderer in an attempt to lead any investigators astray. But he did not know that you, Your Majesty, had already captured the fiend. If you hadn’t, we all may have been none the wiser and his plan would probably have succeeded.

  ‘The second and third murders, those of the chef Brunello and his wife, were carried out by Cardinal Cardoza’s manservant, Sinon, on the cardinal’s orders. The cardinal, having surmised correctly that the poison that had killed Cardinal Farnese had actually been intended for him, assumed incorrectly that it had been the chef Brunello who had tried to poison him. I suspect the cardinal believed that Brunello had discovered his violation of the younger boy, the same boy the cardinal himself had denied holy burial. Angered that Brunello had tried to poison him, Cardinal Cardoza sent Sinon to kill Brunello and his wife out of retribution. His manservant, however, left his footprint—a most distinctive footprint—at the scene of Brunello and his wife’s murders.’

  ‘And he made it look as if they had hanged themselves?’ the Sultan said.

  ‘Yes. But Sinon bound their hands too tightly when he hanged them, leaving marks on their wrists that I was able to see. Fearing that I was on a path that would lead to his exposure, the cardinal then sought to eliminate me—so he sent me an anonymous note, inviting me to your menagerie late last night. It was a trap which Bess and I only just managed to survive, but it was there, again, that we saw the footprint of his manservant, Sinon. Then we come to the deaths of Maximilian of Vienna and the young Austrian virgin, and also the death of Darius.’

  The Sultan said nothing. He did not blink as he waited for Mr Ascham to continue.

  ‘As you intimated to me, you had Maximilian and the girl killed, because Maximilian was a spy for your great European rival, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria. Maximilian’s conversations with Brunello had nothing to do with any of the other murders; he was merely doing the work of a spy: assessing your moods and opinions as expressed to visiting dignitaries so as to report them back to his master in Vienna. I imagine it was Maximilian’s other communications, about the size and strength of your fleet, that required he be killed.’

  The Sultan’s face gave away nothing. ‘And Darius?’

  ‘At one stage, I thought that Cardinal Cardoza had had Darius killed,’ my teacher said. ‘For the same reason that he killed the chef Brunello: the cardinal knew of Darius’s affair with the queen and had been using that knowledge to extract favours from the wrestler. Thinking, however, that perhaps he had been mistaken in killing the chef and that it had actually been Darius who had poisoned his meal, Cardinal Cardoza had the wrestler drowned.’

  ‘How appalling . . .’ the Sultan said.

  ‘As I say, that was what I thought. But I don’t think that way anymore because that is not what happened. You had Darius killed.’

  Again, the Sultan said nothing. Silence hovered.

  I dared not even breathe. I couldn’t believe my teacher was speaking so bluntly right to the Sultan’s face. Perhaps after all we had been through, he was beyond caring for royal flatteries.

  Mr Ascham went on. ‘Until the other night, you did not know of Darius’s affair with your wife, the queen. But you discovered it from the men you had stationed within the walls or ceiling of my quarters. For the day after Bess here informed me of Darius’s liaison with your wife, the wrestler went missing. We found him today, weighted down in a cistern and drowned, a method I am told you use.’

  The Sultan blinked once and slowly, but said nothing.

  ‘And so we come to the final attempted murder,’ Mr Ascham said, ‘the one here before us, that of Cardinal Cardoza himself, the cause of this chain of human destruction. This attempted killing was performed at the order of our fourth would-be murderer: your wife, Queen Roxelana. It was purely an act of vengeance. For it was only yesterday, when I spoke with her, that your wife discovered Cardinal Cardoza was extracting carnal favours from her lover in exchange for keeping her affair with Darius a secret from you.

  ‘As I am sure you know, the queen commands the loyalty of a select group of guards, notably those in your dungeons. At her orders, they called the cardinal from the chess match, asking him to return to his embassy, presumably to meet with the queen, but they had released the insane fiend into the embassy. And here the cardinal met with the fiend and the sharp end of his blade. All the while, the queen’s dungeon guards formed a circle around the embassy. They intended to catch the fiend afterward and re-imprison him
after the cardinal had been flayed and killed. Then they could make up any story they wanted about his escaping for a short while.’

  Still the Sultan said nothing.

  ‘The boy Pietro still lives and I know his whereabouts,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘However, it is my advice to you not to go in search of him. He alone acted nobly in all this, attempting to avenge his brother. Yes, he killed Cardinal Farnese, but the visiting cardinal also indulged in the abuse of boys so his passing will not be mourned by right-minded folk. Besides, the boy is now burdened with the terrible knowledge that his reckless act brought about the deaths of his parents.’

  ‘What of the cardinal’s manservant?’ the Sultan asked. ‘The one who killed the chef and his wife at the cardinal’s command? Where is he?’

  ‘He is dead. I killed him,’ Mr Ascham said evenly. ‘His body is in a cistern underneath your palace.’

  The Sultan raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. ‘You killed him? The humble schoolmaster from Cambridge? You may be more formidable than I gave you credit for. So there were seven murders, then?’

  ‘It was not murder. He must have seen Elizabeth and me enter the cisterns and he waited at the entrance to kill us. I killed him in defence of myself and the young princess.’

  ‘I see.’

  The Sultan fell silent for a time, deep in thought.

  Then he spoke in a very icy tone. ‘You are a very clever man, Mr Roger Ascham. And a bold one, too, to level an accusation of murder against a sultan.’

  Now it was my teacher who said nothing.

  He waited for the Sultan to continue.

  The Sultan said, ‘For your information, sultans do not commit murder. Sultans do whatever they desire. If someone’s continued existence causes me unhappiness then it is my prerogative to end that person’s life. I am beholden to no-one but Allah himself.’

  ‘You asked me to investigate a murder and I did,’ my teacher replied firmly. ‘The answers are the answers, however unpleasant they may be. I am merely the one who brought them to light.’

  ‘This is true. This is true,’ the Sultan said.

  But Mr Ascham was not finished. ‘I also know a few other things, Your Majesty, about your tournament.’

  I froze. What in God’s name was my teacher doing?

  The Sultan tilted his head calmly. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘You doctored the draw. You sent one of your men to poison my player, Mr Giles, on the way here and I suspect you sent someone to poison the Wallachian player, Dragan, too. You threatened players so that they would deliberately lose matches and you have a team of men giving assistance to your cousin, Zaman, to help him win. The world may not see it, Your Majesty, but I know that your tournament is a dirty ruse and a disgrace.’

  I almost fainted at my teacher’s shocking words. This was impudence of the highest order. No-one spoke like that to a king. No-one, that is, except Roger Ascham.

  The Sultan stared at the floor in silence, digesting the accusations that had just been levelled at him. A thin smile appeared on his lips.

  ‘Mr Ascham,’ he said softly and menacingly. ‘Observe the cardinal over there.’ The Sultan cocked his chin at the body of the still alive but mutilated Cardoza. The cardinal wheezed, a blood-bubble forming over his fleshy mouth. ‘For causing all this trouble, the cardinal here will spend the rest of his days in my dungeons. Those days will be spent in excruciating pain as he is tortured every morning and every night. As for you, Roger Ascham’—the Sultan levelled his gaze at my teacher—‘not only do you know far too much about the intrigues within my palace and the workings of my tournament, you dare to insult a king. I have had men’s tongues cut out for less than that. Your rudeness pains me more than the acts of the cardinal do, and look at the punishment that awaits him. What, pray then, do I do with you?’

  My eyes widened. I did not like where this was going.

  My teacher, however, simply stood his ground.

  ‘But . . .’ the Sultan paused. ‘Through your investigations and at some danger to yourself, you have brought to light matters I would otherwise never have known about, and for that, I do owe you a debt. Consider that debt repaid, Mr Ascham, by my sparing your life now.’

  The Sultan abruptly turned on his heel and headed for the door. He did not look back as he spoke. ‘You will tell no-one of this investigation or the secrets of my tournament. I suggest to you that it is in your interest to leave Constantinople by noon tomorrow, for by that time I may have decided that your continued existence causes me unhappiness. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Roger Ascham, and you, too, Princess Elizabeth. I thank you for your efforts. Peace be upon you.’

  And with those words, he was gone.

  THE LAST NIGHT IN CONSTANTINOPLE

  IT WAS EARLY EVENING when we left the cardinal’s embassy, shaken, wet, bloodied and bruised.

  ‘Mr Ascham,’ I said as we crossed the lawn, ‘what madness prompted you to upbraid the Sultan about his tournament? One does not scold kings like that. You could have got yourself killed.’

  My teacher seemed to ponder this for a moment. ‘Why did I do it? Because no matter how this tournament ends—and I imagine it will probably end with the result the Sultan desires—in my humble opinion the Sultan needed to be made aware that someone knew of his cheating. I suppose, more than anything, he offended my British sense of fairness.’

  ‘Your British sense of fairness?’ I said, astonished.

  ‘Bess, I have always felt that there is something very special about Britain and the men and women who inhabit it. We stand shoulder to shoulder in battle, we gird ourselves against the coldest winds and rain, and we only ask—we only ask—that any fight be fair.’

  I just shook my head and smiled.

  Apparently, the match between Zaman and Brother Raul was still going, having entered a seventh and final game. Since the sun had set, it was reputedly being finished under the glow of a thousand candles.

  After the terror of the confrontation with the fiend and our rather chilling conversation with the Sultan, neither Mr Ascham nor I felt like returning to watch the chess match.

  ‘We already know who will win,’ my teacher said as we headed back to our quarters. ‘Zaman will emerge victorious.’

  And, of course, Zaman did emerge victorious, in almost exactly the same way as he had done against the Muscovite: after losing two early games, he miraculously figured out Brother Raul’s attacking patterns and started to counter them almost before Brother Raul enacted them. Zaman soon led by three games to two.

  Raul, however, was a strong and canny player and he adapted his tactics and managed to tie the match at three games apiece. But in that final, tense, candlelit game, Zaman would triumph, ultimately beating the Church’s man four games to three. At the end of it, Brother Raul slumped against the table, completely exhausted. He later said it felt like he had been playing five men instead of one.

  And so Zaman progressed to the final round, to the utter delight of the crowd. As far as they knew, the two local champions had conquered the best players in the world to make the final.

  And as the people of Constantinople left the Hagia Sophia that evening, they murmured excitedly about the deciding match to be played the following day. They praised their god and their sultan, and all was right with their world.

  But as evening became night and the moon and the stars rose over that ancient city, all was not right in my world.

  For while my teacher had solved his riddle and we packed our trunks in anticipation of departing Constantinople the next morning, one thing was amiss.

  Elsie had not returned from her lunch with the Crown Prince.

  Elsie had disappeared.

  KING

  THE OBJECT OF CHESS is to checkmate the king. But curiously, while the king is the crux of the game, he is the most impotent piece on the board. Even pawns can become queens and every other piece can move more than one square.

  And so the king in chess is like a king in life: his contin
ued reign depends upon his keeping his castles intact and his subjects onside. He is hostage to his people’s continued happiness.

  But a warning: ignore the king at your peril. He can most certainly still take other pieces and in a tense endgame, he is to be watched carefully, for when threatened he is prone to attack.

  From: Chess in the Middle Ages,

  Tel Jackson (W.M. Lawry & Co., London, 1992)

  I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England, too.

  – QUEEN ELIZABETH I

  THE LAST DAY

  DAWN WOKE ME ON my last day in Constantinople and no sooner were my eyes open than they darted to Elsie’s bed, expecting to see her lying there, having returned from another long night of debauchery.

  But her bed lay empty, untouched.

  I found Mr Ascham and Mr Giles in their rooms, closing their trunks.

  ‘Elsie is missing,’ I said.

  ‘Missing?’ my teacher said.

  ‘I have not seen her since lunch yesterday, when she went off to dine with the Crown Prince and his friends in the city.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Crown Prince . . .’ Mr Ascham said. ‘This is where she has been sneaking off to in the evenings. To gatherings hosted by Crown Prince Selim.’

  ‘Yes. But she has always been back by morning.’

  My teacher swapped a glance with Mr Giles.

  Mr Giles said, ‘The Crown Prince is a notorious carouser.’

  ‘But why would she not return?’ Mr Ascham said.

  ‘Perhaps he has asked Elsie to marry him,’ I suggested helpfully. ‘It is what she wanted more than anything else. Elsie told me they, well, consummated their relationship just the other night, so maybe he asked her to marry him and she went back to the Harem to see her future home.’