Knight Or Knave

by Andre Norton

  "Hits on both sides!" Sedern cried.

  "Agreed," Lathrom said. "But the King's came late."

  Their voices echoed distorted and hollow in Florian's ears. "Not too late," he said, with a laugh. "No foul. Shall we rest a moment and let the physicians bind our cuts?"

  Slowly, slowly, Obern glanced down at the place where blood was staining the spotless purity of his sleeve. "I've had worse hurts going through underbrush," he said. "I'll rest when you will." It seemed to take him forever to say the words.

  "Brother, I like you well," Florian said, and meant it. He was almost sorry that this man of whom he was so fond was going to die. Now he could afford to feel affection for him. "Let us continue, pray."

  He floated, weightless, in this strange, timeless world. Without waiting for

  Lathrom to give the formal signal, he attacked once more, ignoring the spot of royal blood that seeped onto his own shirt. He scarcely felt the hit. It was nothing, and less than nothing, and Florian knew himself to be brave and manly to endure it without flinching.

  Full of confidence now, invincible, he pressed forward and, as the watching crowd gasped, inflicted a second hit on slow, awkward Obem, a finger's width from the first.

  A woman gasped and another cried aloud, from where they were standing in the doorway, and involuntarily Florian glanced back in that direction. Royance stood there with two women. Impossibly, one of them was Ashen, who should be dying, and with her, Rannore, the heavily pregnant Queen—

  Abruptly the bubble of time in which he had been wrapped shattered, and everything snapped back to its proper course.

  Obern looked in the direction of the doorway, startled as well. He turned his foot and stumbled on a wrinkle in the mat, his sword still raised. Florian was in the way and the point went through his body.

  "No!" Obern cried, his face and voice registering horror at the realization of what he had done. "It was an accident] Forgive me!"

  Florian stumbled in turn, with Obern still holding fast to the hilt, and the sword pulled out again.

  How strange, Florian thought. Obern's sword pierced my vest as easily as a knife goes through cheese. The blade must be better than I thought. Then his knees gave way and he sagged to the floor.

  Eleven

  As swiftly as she could, Ashen raced across the polished floor toward the tableau that had transfixed all others in the room. "Obern," she cried breathlessly. "Florian—"

  By that time both physicians and the seconds had reached the wounded King. The doctors ignored Obern, to tend to Florian. Florian coughed, and a bloody foam stained his mouth.

  "Your Majesty, I fear this is a mortal wound," Master Lorgan said. He sounded profoundly shocked.

  Awkwardly, Rannore knelt beside her husband. He sprawled on the mat, writhing in pain. "Ashen came to get me when she learned of the duel," she said. "We wanted to stop it. We never thought—"

  "That Obem would be so clumsy he'd trip over his own feet and run me through?"

  Florian groaned. "Give me something for the pain, Master Lorgan. Quick!"

  "If I can, Your Majesty." The physician's hands shook as he fumbled a vial open and shook its contents into the cup that the other physician offered him.

  "Neat wine, none of that watery stuff." Florian coughed again.

  "Oh, sir, Your Majesty, it truly was an accident—" Ashen was close to fainting.

  "Please! You must believe it!"

  "Believe it?" Florian said, his voice a hoarse croak. "Does it matter?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty, it does," Royance said. "I saw it all. He turned his foot and—Pardon Obern or he will surely die for today's misadventure."

  Rannore propped Florian's head on her lap, heedless of the blood soaking his shirt and her dress, and began to weep. She took the fresh cup of undiluted wine in which Master Lorgan had mixed the medicine and offered it to the King who drank it down eagerly. Almost at once he seemed easier; it must have been a powerful dose. "It doesn't matter. Obern will die anyway," Florian said. He managed to smile, if a little lopsidedly. "Look you at the hits. If I had given him only one, still he would have died." He glanced over at his shoulder at his sword where it had fallen from his hand.

  Obern's eyes grew wide. He dropped the bloodstained Rinbell sword and clutched at his left arm. "I am poisoned!" he said. "I am killed."

  "Surely not," Lathrom said. Nevertheless, he went and picked up Florian's sword and examined the blade. "There does seem to be something on it besides blood—"

  "Touch it not," Obern said. His face was very pale and a grimace of pain crossed his features. Ashen, still weak from her own illness, nevertheless slipped under his arm to support him. "I know what it is."

  Members of the Court had now clustered around and someone slid a chair against

  Obern's knees. He collapsed into it gratefully and Ashen, strength gone and unable to stand any longer, sank down at his feet. Lathrom began tearing the linen of Obern's shirt so he could look at the wounds.

  "What are you saying?" Royance demanded. "Are you accusing the King-—"

  "Yes, I accuse the King. He spoke truly. I am dying. He has poisoned me with the same mixture he caused to be given Ashen.

  Except when it is swallowed, in small doses, it kills more slowly. And with less pain."

  Another woman pushed through the crowd. "Sir, sir, Lord Roy-ance, it is true!"

  She was deathly pale. She stared down at the King, the dawning realization plain on her face.

  "And you are—who?" Royance said.

  "Lady Jacyne," she said, and a buzz of whispers went through the watching crowd.

  "Florian—I mean, the King—gave me a potion to add to Lady Ashen's daily medicine. He swore it was to heal her—Oh, forgive me! I didn't know!"

  "You were used," Obern said, "as were we all, in our own ways." He bared his teeth in what was intended to be a grin.

  Ashen, beside him, only stared, horrified. Events were progressing too rapidly for her, in her weakened condition, to take in all at once. "Husband—" she said.

  He pushed himself to his feet and managed to bow to Royance, though the movement brought beads of sweat to his forehead. "I used the King's pride to tempt him into crossing swords with me. I plotted all along to pretend to stumble and thus kill him for what he had tried to do to his sister, my wife. I had thought to do it more cleverly, though. This was truly an accident and my clumsiness was real." He looked around at the shocked courtiers. "I planned beforehand to beg the King's pardon, even as Lord Royance did for me, and I would have accepted it, too."

  Ashen struggled to her feet. He turned to look at her.

  "I had not reckoned on your being here. I wanted to spare you."

  "If only I had come sooner. If only we—"

  "I was to blame," Rannore said, her voice faint. "I was ill and had to be persuaded to leave my chamber."

  "You are all to blame!" Florian said angrily. "And you deserve what you got.

  Death for Obem, and if not for his meddling, death for Ashen, too—"

  "Say it not, Your Majesty!" Royance cried.

  "Am I supposed to make a good ending?" Florian coughed again. "At least, thanks to the physician, I am spared a lot of pain—which is more mercy than you will have, Obern. You will die in agony. Lorgan, I command you. Give him none of what you administered to me."

  "Give the medicine to him," Royance said. "If he desires it."

  Obem straightened, and Ashen recognized the pride she had seen before, when he was hurt and trying not to show it. "I will not need your medicine," he said.

  "Nor will I have it said that Obern of the Sea-Rovers fell to treachery by anybody, even the King of Ren-del." He looked at Ashen, reached out and touched her cheek. "Give the Rinbell sword to Rohan, when he is a man. Tell my father that I died well."

  Then, before she could stop him, he drew the dagger that hung at his side and plunged it into his heart. Even as she reached out for him, he crumpled and fell at her feet, dead before he reached
the floor.

  A wheezing noise made her turn around, even at such a moment. It was Florian, trying to laugh.

  "It's all too funny. Don't you see? If I had not had the poison to use, I would have been the one pretending to trip and run Obern through before he got me. But he is dead anyway. I won the contest," he said, twisting his face into a sneer.

  "I won—"

  And then his face relaxed. He took a breath, let it out, and did not take another.

  Royance gave orders that both Ashen and Rannore be taken at once to their bedchambers and that Master Lorgan and his assistant give them draughts to make them sleep. "Neither of these unfortunate ladies should have been called upon to witness what we have seen this day," he said. "Now, send for the Dowager—the older Dowager, that is. Do not let her into the Hall until this carnage is cleared away, and the bodies laid out decently. Just tell her what has happened and that it is by my orders and for concern of her that she not come beforetimes."

  By the time the Dowager was allowed in, the room had been set to rights and the blood wiped off the floor. Both Florian and Obem had been washed and dressed in fresh garments, and placed on twin biers before the dais on which the throne sat. Their features were composed, and their hands clasped over their chests, holding the swords with which they had slain each other.

  "That it should come to this," Ysa murmured, for once shocked to the core of her being. Forewarned, she had changed into black from her accustomed green or dark red. Her necklace, earrings, and bracelets were made of glittering jet.

  "Indeed, Madame," Royance said. "It is a dark day for Rendel."

  "Rannore. How does she? And the child?"

  "Well enough, Master Lorgan tells me. She does not seem in any immediate danger of losing it."

  The Dowager nodded. "And Ashen?"

  "She, like Rannore, is prostrate with grief. She has taken the guilt for not stopping the contest before it began."

  "I doubt that she could have done anything. Not when even I was not aware—" Ysa fixed Royance with a penetrating look. "You know more than you are telling me.

  Let us go somewhere private, and there you will inform me of what has happened when my attention was elsewhere."

  Royance bowed and followed the Dowager to her apartment, where he had conferred with her so often. As they moved through the corridors, past clusters of sympathetic courtiers, he could not help but wonder what would become of a realm with two Dowager Queens and no King. If only Ashen's child had lived. And if only Rannore's would live, and be a boy…

  When they were safely behind closed doors, Ysa sent for wine and drank two cups for each one that Royance consumed. Not that he blamed her; it was not every day that one lost a son who was also a King. She did not stop questioning him until she had every scrap of information Royance had to offer.

  "You said that Obern had sought your counsel before," she said.

  "Why, if he suspected my son of—of what he thought Florian was doing, did he not seek your advice again? Surely you could have turned him from this folly."

  "And, indeed, I would have, Madame. But he did not ask."

  The Dowager stared at nothing, rubbing the Rings as if unaware of what she was doing.

  "Ashen cannot succeed, any more than can Rannore." Ysa's voice was flat. "I have looked at the records. It is against all law and custom. There is no precedent that a woman has ever ruled in her own right and surely not one related by marriage, or by illegitimate connection. There was no need to consider the possibility, until now."

  Royance forbore to mention that Ysa herself had as good as ruled for many years, first by will alone, later by virtue of having the Four Great Rings on her hands, and hers was only a connection by marriage. As if she read his thoughts, she held up her hands.

  "These," she said, "chose me, as you well know. And so, I have acted as Regent when necessary. But I never claimed sole power. This you know well."

  "Indeed, this is so," Royance said.

  "Thus, with Florian dead"—Royance could almost swear he heard the unspoken thought at last in the Dowager's words—"and his child yet unborn, Rendel will once again be ruled by the Council, as it was during my son's minority. This is the only reasonable course we can take. Do you not agree?"

  "Yes, Your Highness," Royance said. "And let us offer prayers that the new

  Dowager's child be a boy, and that he will be strong, and thrive, and with the help of all of us—you most of all—become a good King in the times to come. With the peril from the North ever threatening us, this is no time for Rendel to show weakness."

  "Aye, pray that it be so." The Dowager arose from her chair, cool and calm. "We have a royal funeral to arrange—two of them, I suppose, for we must not offer insult to our allies the Sea-Rovers by slighting Obern, for all that he murdered the King."

  "Your Highness—"

  "We are alone. We can speak frankly to each other. Obern murdered Florian, and

  Florian murdered Obern. Let the funeral therefore be equal for them both. We must send messengers to New Void." She began to pace, clasping and unclasping her hands—not in agitation, but as someone who is thinking rapidly. "Ashen must not return there. She cannot. Her place is—where? I know. I will give her the old Oakenkeep that presently lies nearly vacant with just a token force to keep it from falling into ruin. That should be close enough for me to keep an eye on her, and yet far away enough to content us both."

  Royance dared ask a question. "To what end do you give the Oakenkeep to Ashen?"

  Ysa stopped, and looked at Royance. She smiled, and Royance knew she had begun to plot and plan once more. In her current mood, and with the wine she had drunk, she might be coaxed into telling him more than she intended. He waited, trying not to show the curiosity he felt.

  "Gaurin will be returning soon, with some of his people. You do remember him?"

  "Yes. Count Gaurin of the Nordors. I was impressed with him when he was here before."

  "Well," the Dowager said, still smiling, "it seems that he was more than impressed with our Bog-Princess, and she with him. And on her wedding day, too!"

  "I had heard of no impropriety."

  "There was none. And yet there was an attraction that fair made the air crackle around them. At the time, I wondered if I should dissolve that marriage and arrange for another, with a Nordom bridegroom with more than a little royal blood in his veins."

  Royance tried to hide a measure of shocked surprise.

  "Oh, don't look so disapproving," Ysa said. She picked up the wine-flask, poured the last measure into her cup, and drank. Then she rang for more. "I just may get tipsy this night."

  "Surely Your Highness may do as she pleases."

  "And it may please me to marry Ashen to Count Gaurin, to seal a pact between the

  Nordors and our people. What d'you think of that?"

  "I feel it may be premature, with Ashen such a recent widow, to be considering another marriage."

  "Well, I don't. Think, Royance, think. Our alliance with the Sea-Rovers is firm.

  We need the Nordors, perhaps more than they need us. They are the ones who are most likely to know what kind of danger this is that is coming at us from their lands, and even more important, how best to fight it. Even if Ashen and Gaurin had hated each other on sight—which I assure you they did not—I would be working toward this alliance now that Obern is out of the way."

  The fresh flask arrived, and Ysa poured a cup for herself, offering some to

  Royance as well. He declined, and sat staring into the fire. He could not bring himself to admit that the death of the King, Ysa's own son, and that of the son of the Chieftain of the Sea-Rovers had had no more effect on the Dowager than to galvanize her into the middle of another round of schemes and plots. And yet this was the truth that he must face. Suddenly he saw, in place of the black-clad woman in front of him, a glittering spider in the center of a web, plucking now this string and now another, making all around her dance at her will.

&
nbsp; "As Your Highness desires," he said. "Now, I beg your leave to go. Surely you will want to mourn in private."

  "You mean, to get tipsy in private," Ysa said. "The way my late husband did. And my son." She laughed. She was beginning to slur her words. "Well, go. Go. Nobody is stopping you. Tomorrow we will begin anew."

  Royance bowed deeply, and left the Dowager's apartment, closing the door behind him. He beckoned to one of the Dowager's women, Lady Grisella. "You and the other ladies, look to your mistress," he said. "I fear she will be at the wine-flask this night, and she will need your help."