Terence gave his mother a brittle smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. Perversely, he meant it.
She stared at his face, then shook her head and looked away. “If you say so.”
They were silent during the ride to the Viceroy’s palace. Terence sat in the coach with a small smile on his face. His parents exchanged worried glances. None spoke. They arrived as the sun was beginning to set, and moved into the ballroom, filled with small tables and chairs and an enormous buffet. Carving stations covered one entire wall. The Viceroy and three of his wives held court on a small, raised dais in one corner. As was customary, the Allen family took their place in line, to give and receive greetings from their hosts. The Viceroy, tall, handsome, a bit of distinguished gray at his temples, shook Terence’s hand. “Welcome,” he said. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”
Terence had been in the Viceroy’s presence several times. Always, on these occasions, the Viceroy had been smiling and generous with praise, plus a piece of candy and a pat on the head for the children of the city. His benign attendance graced civic events of all sorts. The Viceroy was loved, a tolerant and wise father to them all.
If the Viceroy had any knowledge of Terence’s changed circumstances, or even knew Terence’s name, it was not apparent in his demeanor. “Thank you, sir,” Terence said.
They exited the receiving line, gathered plates and food and found a table. Terence picked at his dinner. His mother cast him apprehensive glances but said nothing, for which Terence was grateful. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Archers arrive. Irina was not with her parents.
Following close behind Malachi Archer, his wife and two sons, came Alejandro and Florensia Garcia and immediately behind them, walked Thierry Jorge Garcia, with Irina Archer on his arm. They were all smiling.
It would have been too much to say that a hush fell over the crowd, but it did seem to Terence that the level of conversation grew suddenly more restrained, that many of the eyes fell upon Thierry and Irina, and that more than a few then glanced at Terence, some with pity, some with concern.
“Ignore them,” Terence’s father said, under his breath.
Stolidly, Terence speared a piece of meat from his plate and began to chew it. His father nodded. “Good.”
Terence, smiling wolfishly to himself, extended his awareness. A moment later, as Thierry and Irina walked toward the receiving line, an orange translucent object floated down from the ceiling. It hovered over the assembled guests. It was small, barely large enough to fit in a hand. Few noticed it at first but within seconds, the crowd was staring and had grown silent. The object floated down in front of Irina, and then turned toward Thierry Garcia, who looked at it uncertainly, and then the lever pulled back and a stream of yellow liquid emerged from a small hole in its center and splashed Thierry in the face. He blinked his eyes and grimaced. His lips thinned back. His face turned red. More liquid splashed him.
Something else floated down, a small cage with a small animal inside, then another. Both cages spun slowly in a circle around Thierry and Irina. The cages opened, and two small rats, chittering in distress, floated out. Both rats landed at Thierry’s feet.
Irina suppressed a gasp. Some of the women screamed. The rats, released from their cages, their feet solidly on the ground, scattered through the crowd. Men jumped back. A few drew their swords. The rats charged toward the stairs, ran up and out through the doors.
Silence fell.
Thierry, wiping his face with a piece of cloth, turned toward Terence. Terence ignored him and continued to eat his dinner. Thierry walked toward Terence, Irina trailing uncertainly behind. As Thierry approached, Terence raised an eyebrow and smiled at him. “Yes?” he said.
Thierry slapped him with the back of his hand. Terence fell off his chair, his face numb, his ears ringing. It occurred to him, as from a great distance, that Thierry’s reaction seemed a bit…excessive.
“Get up,” Thierry said.
Terence raised a hand to his face, moved his jaw back and forth. It did not appear to be broken. He frowned at Thierry. “That seems unwise,” he said. “I think I’ll stay down here.”
“No,” a voice said.
Terence squinted up at the Viceroy. The Viceroy was smiling. Terence found his smile to be disturbing. He winced.
“Sir Thierry,” the Viceroy said. “You would appear to be the injured party in this matter. What say you?”
Thierry looked down upon Terence, then at the Viceroy. He gave a small laugh. “Tomorrow,” he said, “before the closing ceremonies, I would like to give the crowd some additional entertainment. With your permission, I will fight this…boy in the Colliseo.”
“Ouch,” Terence said.
The Viceroy chuckled. “That seems fair.” He smiled down at Terence. “First blood?”
Thierry’s lips thinned back. “I would prefer death.”
The Viceroy frowned. “No,” he said. “I think not. You have been insulted and treated with disrespect. Your grievance is legitimate, but death would be disproportionate to the injury. I will not allow a duel to the death.”
“First blood is for children,” Thierry said. “If you will not allow death, then let us say…three strikes?”
The Viceroy considered for a moment. Then he looked down upon Terence and gave a dismissive shrug. “Very well. Three strikes.”
Thierry drew a deep breath and smiled widely. “You’re strong with the phrygium,” he said to Terence, “but you’re not the only one who is strong. I’m going to enjoy this.”
On the way back to their tent, Lady Emily sat with her lips in a thin line, a thunderous expression on her face. Terence’s father stared out the window, unseeing. Finally, he sighed and turned to Terence. “That was not gracious.”
“You might recall that gracious was your word. I did not agree to be gracious.”
“And so, you will be petulant and childish instead.”
Terence shrugged.
“The Viceroy was remarkably forbearing. He could have had you whipped until the blood poured down your back. He could have had your throat slit.”
Terence gave his father a scathing look. “The Viceroy has never been a tyrant.”
“The current incarnation of the Viceroy has never been a tyrant, and we are lucky for that. The Viceroy is generous because he can afford to be generous. He is the only power on this world that has access to any of the old knowledge, the old technology. Therefore, none can challenge him. Despite this, previous incarnations of the Viceroy have not always been so even-tempered. You ruined his party. Be grateful that he chose not to punish you much more severely.”
Terence raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ruin his party. In fact, I provided the principal entertainment.”
“True. In a way.” Terence’s father sighed. “Tell me, do you know anything about Thierry Garcia or the Garcia family? Anything at all?”
Terence shrugged. “What’s to know?”
Terence’s father stared at him. “They are ambitious. Their entire nation is ambitious. Five years ago, at the direction of their Primate, Alejandro Garcia led a military campaign against Bretagne, Fomaut’s closest neighbor. They have annexed the province of Ardonne, which contains extensive copper and silver mines. The King of Fomaut employs a mercenary army at considerable expense. Nobody knows his exact intentions but he would not be spending that money without a reason.”
“It’s no business of ours,” Terence said.
Lord Marcus stared at him. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”
Terence shrugged again.
“Of more immediate interest, Thierry Garcia is a noted swordsman. Did you know that?”
Terence looked at him. “Yes. I’ve been informed.”
“The aristocracy of Fomaut play dangerous games. Thierry has killed two men in duels, and permanently crippled a third.”
Terence stared at him.
“Do I have your attention now? Are you listening to me?”
“The Viceroy
specified three strikes,” Terence said. He forced himself to smile. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll win.”
Terence, like all the young men of the Viceroy’s city, had been instructed in the use of weapons. He was strong and fast. He had a good eye and excellent reflexes, but had never been considered an expert, and he rarely practiced.
“No,” his father said. “You won’t.”
It was the last night of the Fair. All the booths and concession stands were open, hoping to wring every possible credit from the time remaining. “Let me out,” Terence said.
“Why?” his father said.
“Just stop the coach and let me out. I’ll walk back.”
His father sighed. “Fine.”
The coach ground to a halt. Terence climbed down to the ground. “I won’t be long,” he said.
The coach moved away. Terence turned, getting his bearings. He smiled. The antiquarian’s booth was around a corner and then straight ahead. He was relieved to find the booth still open and the antiquarian sitting behind his counter. The antiquarian smiled at him. “Welcome back,” he said. “Here for another purchase?”
“Perhaps,” Terence said. “What else have you got?”
The crowd was certainly buzzing. For Terence, it was a new experience. Grimly, he hoped that it would not be his last. He sat with Damien Hurst, who had agreed to be his second, in a small chamber that opened onto a ramp leading up to the Colliseo floor.
Damien had checked Terence’s armor twice and now fidgeted in his seat. He looked at Terence, his face grim, then looked away. “I never saw you do that before,” Damien said.
Terence grinned. “You mean with the rats and the squirt gun?”
“Gun?”
“A ‘gun’ is a device which propels things. There are many types, throwing many sorts of projectiles. Some of them can be dangerous.”
Damien gave him a brooding look. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been told.”
“Then, yes,” Damien said. “The rats and the gun. You’re strong. You’ve let me know this, but you’ve kept it hidden from anybody else. Why have you kept it hidden? And why have you revealed it now?”
Terence shrugged. The ability to weave soul-stuff was a highly prized attribute, for reasons that made little sense. Phrygium, like all manifestations of energy, obeyed the laws of the physical universe. It was said that the ancients had possessed devices that could direct coherent beams of light and balls of glowing plasma, that could strike a target over many kilometers. Phrygium, like sunlight or the power of an ocean wave, was strongest at its source but weakened rapidly with distance from its user’s mind.
He hadn’t kept it hidden, not exactly, but had never seen the point in showing off. Frankly, he didn’t understand all the fuss. “Why do people care so much?” he asked. “Why is the ability to manipulate a kilogram or two with one’s mind regarded so highly? It’s stupid.”
Damien stared at him.
“It’s a useless talent,” Terence insisted. “I would rather be appreciated for my own, unique self.”
“It’s not useless at all,” Damien said. “How else am I going to lift a bottle of wine from a shelf that I can’t reach?”
“Call a servant? Stand on a stool and grab it with your hand?”
“But it’s so much more convenient to grab it with my mind.”
Terence sneered at his friend. “The ancients had machines that could lift tons of metal and rock. They could fly through space from world to world. Phrygium is nothing next to that.”
Damien cocked his head to the side, considering. “We are not the ancients,” he finally said. Then he grinned. “And you’re not so unique.”
“Not true. I am young, strong, reasonably handsome and moderately rich.”
“These are attributes, not talents, and I notice that you don’t include ‘intelligent’ in your list.”
“Whatever.” Terence moved his shoulders uncomfortably, trying to settle the armor. The armor was made of toughened leather. It covered his chest and a portion of his throat. It fit well and did not restrict his movements, but aside from practice sessions, he had never worn it before. It felt…strange.
“And what was in it? This ‘gun?’” Damien’s lips twitched upward. “That yellow liquid.”
Terence smiled back at his friend. “Water, with a little yellow food coloring.”
“Oh. I thought it might be something else.”
“An unpleasant idea. You should keep such ideas to yourself.”
A male head poked into the chamber and grinned. “You’re on.”
Terence rose to his feet. “We’re on,” he said.
Preceded by Damien, Terence walked out into the arena.
The stands were full. Unusual, but then, most years, the closing ceremonies were merely ceremonies. The actual contests were over. Not this time. Irina sat with her family, a bored look on her face. Irina, Terence bitterly reflected, most likely had no doubt regarding the outcome. Terence’s parents, tense and miserable, sat on the opposite side of the arena from the Archers.
Thierry Garcia, preceded by his father, who was acting as his second, sauntered onto the cork and nitrile floor. The referee, a grizzled Captain of the Viceroy’s guard, met both parties in the arena’s center.
Damien and Alejandro stepped forward. “Are both contestants prepared to settle their grievances?”
Normally, the referee would first ask if both contestants were still resolved to fight. In this case, Terence had not been given a choice.
“Yes,” Alejandro said. Damien nodded.
The referee turned to Thierry, then Terence. “Present your weapons.”
The swords were rapiers, designed for single combat on foot, light and fast, with a sharp point and sharpened edges. The knives were narrow, with needle like tips, and like the rapiers, sharpened on both edges, with cross guard hilts. Each man handed his blades to his second, who presented them to the referee. The referee examined each blade, nodded, then gave them back to the seconds, who handed them to Terence and Thierry.
The referee nodded to the seconds, who each stepped back thirty paces. The referee grinned. “Take your positions,” he said.
Terence and Thierry faced one another, both holding a weapon in each hand. The referee stepped to the side. “Engage,” he said.
Thierry was fast. Terence barely had time to take his stance before Thierry was on him. Terence realized in the first few seconds that Thierry was better, not that Terence was surprised by this. He was not exactly a novice, but Thierry was a master. His balance was perfect, his thrusts precise, his slashes controlled. Terence parried the first few strikes, barely, but had no time to launch an attack of his own.
Thierry took a step back and grinned, then he moved forward, his eyes focused, his lips thinned, his rapier casting a web of steel. Terence felt something strike against his leg, beneath the armor. Thierry stopped and smiled, the tip of his blade red. Suddenly, Terence’s thigh was burning.
“Strike,” the referee said.
Thierry looked at Terence, smirking.
“Are you able to continue?” the referee asked.
The wound was painful but not too deep. The blood covered no more than an inch of Thierry’s blade. “Yes,” Terence said.
The referee raised his arm, lowered it. Thierry charged. Terence threw his dagger at Thierry’s chest. Thierry knocked the dagger aside with the flat of his rapier. Terence reached into a pocket and grabbed a small, black orb. He threw the orb at Thierry’s feet. Terence closed his eyes. A flash of light and a loud crack sounded throughout the arena.
Thierry shook his head, blinking.
Terence charged forward. His sword flicked out, toward Thierry’s head. Barely able to see, Thierry nevertheless swept his blade upward and managed to deflect Terence’s sword, which scored a shallow cut along Thierry’s cheek.
Terence reached out with his mind, exactly as he had planned. If Terence could have scored the inside of Thierry’s brain o
r stopped the beating of his heart, he would have, but Thierry would have been instantly aware of any such attempt and would have easily countered it. It would have been futile.
Inanimate objects, however, had no ability to detect or resist the weaving of soul-stuff. Terence’s knife, lying on the arena floor, suddenly rose, hovered in midair and then flew toward Thierry. The knife stabbed into the back of Thierry’s leg, then stabbed again. Thierry cried out and fell to the ground.
Terence stepped back. The crowd, he dimly noticed, had gone silent. Thierry lay at his feet, his leg pumping blood, still holding his rapier. The referee said, “Three strikes. This fight is over.” He glanced at Terence and grimaced.
“That’s a lot of blood,” Terence said. “I may have nicked an artery. Better get it seen to.” He smiled. He couldn’t help it.
Alejandro Garcia ran to his son, glared at Terence, then wrapped a leather strap around Thierry’s upper leg and pulled it tight. Two men trotted into the arena, loaded Thierry onto a stretcher, and carried him out.
Terence could see Irina in the stands. She was staring at Terence, her eyes narrowed. Damien, noticing, said, “You’ve upended Irina’s preconceptions.” Damien pondered for a moment. “This is not necessarily a bad thing.”
Terence looked at his friend, grinning. “I won.”
Damien sighed. “In a manner of speaking. A charge of cheating could perhaps be laid at your feet.”
“Fuck that,” Terence said. “I won.”
Damien shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 7
Terence sat in a soft, comfortable chair in Briony’s main lounge, sipping a glass of sweet, golden wine. He felt uncommonly satisfied, considering that the love of his life was now engaged to another and his own status in the Viceroy’s city was suddenly in question.
He would cherish for the rest of his days the vision of Thierry Jorge Garcia lying at his feet. Phrygium, he thought with satisfaction, did have its uses.
The Towering Flame Page 4
