by Giles Carwyn
Brezelle cut in, determined to make Shara understand. “We do not duel to the death. We do not duel to first blood. We duel until the truth becomes undeniable, until the crowd is overwhelmed by the grace of a duelist’s words and the eloquence of her sword.”
Reignholtz held out a hand, asking his daughter to calm herself. Reluctantly, she sat back in her chair. “This matter must be decided by the blade. Otherwise, we destroy all we are fighting for. There is no other way.”
“My lord,” Mikal interjected. “If you accuse Vinghelt of these crimes, you shall have to put forth someone who can defeat Natshea. Who will stand for your cause?”
“It should not matter who stands. The sound of the truth will make a blade sing, the weight of a lie makes the sword impossible to swing. Any duelist with truth in his heart will prevail. The sun of the Summer Seas will shine on the just.”
Shara raised an eyebrow.
“But,” Reignholtz finished, “it will not hurt that I have enlisted Avon Leftblade as my champion.”
Lawdon sat up, jostling the table. She looked at Reignholtz and his secret smile.
Mikal’s eyes widened. “But I thought he retired after his injury.”
“Who is Avon Leftblade?” Shara asked.
“The greatest duelist of his day,” Mikal said. “Some ten years ago, every young man wanted to be him—I wanted to be him—much like every young woman wants to be Natshea today. Leftblade only dueled two years, and during that time he was never matched in verse or steel. He was very young during his run, and some said that given a little more time, he would be the greatest ever. Somehow he seemed to get better with each duel.”
“How was he injured?” Shara asked.
“A jilted lover took a fish knife to his famous left hand while he slept,” Lawdon said.
“Ah.”
“But can he still fence?” Mikal asked, his gaze intense.
“With his left hand? No,” Reignholtz said. “But he has spent the last eight years training with his right.”
“Why has no one heard of this? A comeback from Leftblade would be the talk of the Floating Palace.”
“Leftblade was always flamboyant,” Reignholtz said. “He wanted his debut to be a particularly grand event.”
“The man’s verses are legendary,” Mikal said, eyes glowing. “But…”
“But can a left-handed man ever be as good with his right?” Reignholtz finished for him.
Mikal nodded.
“I don’t know,” Reignholtz said. “I asked him to be my champion last year. He came to the Floating Palace in disguise to watch Natshea duel. He said he could not defeat her, not yet. Last month he sent word saying he was ready and that he was at my disposal when the time came.”
Mikal was grinning now. He shook his head in wonderment. “The great Avon Leftblade.” He gave Shara a sidelong glance, smacked his fist into his palm. “The look on Natshea’s face will be worth a hundred gold stars when the greatest blade of our generation tosses his sword at her feet.”
“Why don’t you toss your sword at her feet?” Shara asked. She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them the other way.
Mikal’s face darkened briefly, but his smile returned in moments. “I would dearly love to cross blades with the great Natshea,” he said, patting the hilt at his waist. “But alas, I am very fond of this sword, and I would hate to drop it when she cut off my hand.” He shrugged helplessly. “Perhaps I should go away and train with my left for eight years, in the hopes that it will become better than my right.”
Shara rose and smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you should,” she said, bowing to Reignholtz and Lawdon, then looked Mikal in the eye. “Or perhaps you should just believe in yourself.” She turned and left the circle of lantern light.
“Ah…” Mikal said softly. “Perhaps…” He stood, and also bowed to each of them. “If you will excuse me, my lord, my lady Captain. I must think on a few things.”
Reignholtz nodded, and Lawdon watched Mikal’s back as he followed Shara into the darkness.
“I think I shall turn in also, Father. It will be a busy day tomorrow,” Brezelle said.
“As you say, my dear. I will see you in the morning.”
Brezelle leaned over and kissed Lawdon on the cheek. “It’s good to have you home, sister.”
“Good night,” Lawdon said, as Brezelle moved off toward the girls’ cabin.
Reignholtz sat puffing his pipe for a long while, and Lawdon relaxed, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
“That is a very unusual pair, those two,” Reignholtz murmured. “Your Zelani mistress and young Lord Heidvell. He seems as lacking in conviction as ever before, and yet different somehow. And she is certainly not what I expected.”
Lawdon opened her eyes, looked over at Reignholtz. He stared thoughtfully at the bowl of his pipe.
“Shara has not been herself lately,” she said, wondering if she should elaborate. There really wasn’t a need. Reignholtz would draw his own conclusions. “I would say she’s using him if I could think of a single thing that she needs him for.”
“Perhaps she needs him and doesn’t know why.”
Lawdon shrugged, relieved that any decisions about Shara were now up to her lord.
“So,” he said after a moment of quietly puffing his pipe. “The mistress of the Zelani has come south from her walled city. The Child of Efften has left the Opal Palace for the first time, and our Eternal Summer teeters on the brink of winter. Some would call this coincidence, but I am old enough to know better. Tell me, my child, what have you seen since I saw you last?”
Lawdon drew a long breath. “Much, my lord. So very much.”
“Begin at the beginning.”
CHAPTER 12
Shara leapt over the ship’s rail into the rowboat, landing in a crouch that barely rocked the little vessel. The Floani form thrummed through her, and she felt as if she could row to the moon and back. The Reignholtz family was obviously battening down the hatches for the night, but Shara couldn’t sleep even if they tied her head to the pillow. The assembly of the Floating Palace was under way, and she wasn’t going to let it pass her by.
As she untied the line, she felt Mikal’s presence coming closer. A moment later, she heard the soft thump of his boots on the deck, and his head appeared over the rail.
“Going somewhere?” he asked with a grin. “I must warn you, the Summer Cities are a dangerous place these days for impressionable young ladies.”
She looked over her shoulder. The music and laughter carried easily across the dark water. “So I have been told.”
“Would you go into the belly of the beast without a proper escort?”
“I was hoping to meet a tall, dark stranger of impeccable virtue to defend my honor.”
“I can see we think alike,” he said, throwing a leg over the railing and sliding over the edge.
The little craft lurched with his heavy landing. Feigning a loss of balance, he waved his arms dramatically for a moment, then sat down next to her.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked, pulling two bottles out of his pockets.
“Among other things,” she murmured, looking into his eyes. His heartbeat surged, and she savored his sudden blaze of desire. He touched her knee, slid his hand slowly to the inside of her bare thigh. She let her legs drift slightly apart, and his fingers moved under her skirt.
Magic hovered like a thick cloud about her, and his lips touched the side of her neck.
“Perhaps we should wait,” she murmured.
“Why is that?”
“Because the night is young,” she whispered. “And so is our guest.”
He stopped kissing her, turned to look up. Brezelle had just reached the rail. She peered down at them like a deer suddenly spotting a hunter.
“Good evening, young Lady Reignholtz,” Mikal said. His hand retreated from under Shara’s skirt, and he leaned against the side of the boat.
She cleared her throat. “Not so much
younger than you, Lord Heidvell.”
He laughed. “I certainly hope you don’t mind our borrowing your skiff,” he asked. “Did you need to go somewhere?”
“Yes,” she said, effortlessly leaping over the rail. She landed next to them, rocking the small rowboat less than Mikal had. “With you,” she finished.
Shara’s smile widened. She had been impressed with Brezelle from the moment they met. The young woman’s life light burned brightly. She was beautiful of body, with a strong mind and powerful will. Victeris would have drooled over her, once upon a time.
“As you say,” Mikal replied, leaping to take the oars.
Brezelle settled herself next to Shara, taking the tiller in hand. It was a close fit on the small seat, and Brezelle’s leg pressed against Shara’s, her tight breeches soft against Shara’s bare skin.
Shara took a deep breath as Mikal faced the two of them and began to row. The sky was full of stars, and the countless torches on the assembling ships cast broken orange streaks across the dark waters.
Brezelle steered the rowboat toward the assembly, deftly maneuvering between much larger boats jockeying for position. Each of the ships was packed with revelers in brightly colored clothing. Some wore elaborate masks or feathered costumes. Every boat seemed to have its own band, frantically trying to outplay their rivals. The separate tunes all mingled together in an energetic jumble.
At first, rowing amid so many large ships in such a small place seemed like suicide, but the Waveborn maneuvered their hulking pleasure barges as if they were a troupe of acrobats forming a pyramid. They all floated perfectly into place, missing each other by inches.
Brezelle headed between two ships that were closing together. Shara glanced at her as the boats on either side of them came closer and closer, wondering if she had made a mistake. Just before they were crushed, the towering ships on either side of them met with a soft scrape, leaving the little rowboat tucked perfectly between their curving hulls.
The crews overhead shouted to one another, and ropes flew in both directions. Planks slammed down at each of the openings in the rails, and partygoers flowed from one ship to the other.
“My lord, my lady,” Brezelle said. “We are now in the heart of the Floating Palace.”
“But not yet kissing her beautiful lips,” Mikal said, standing up. “I’ll fetch a ladder.” He placed his back against one ship’s hull and his hands and feet against the other. Pressing himself between the two, he began shinnying up the sides like a crab. In moments he climbed over the edge and was lost from view.
Brezelle cleared her throat. Tumultuous emotions fluttered inside her chest, belying her unruffled façade. The girl’s hands rested on her knees, and Shara reached over and took one.
Brezelle looked at her, her green eyes barely visible in the deep shadows. “Can you read my mind?” she said, barely louder than a whisper.
Shara shook her head. “No. But I can feel your emotions like crashing waves. If you have a question for me, just ask.”
“What if I wanted to become a Zelani?”
Shara laughed softly. Ah, such innocence. Such strength and conviction.
“That is a daring wish,” she said.
“I am a daring woman.”
“Are you?”
Brezelle swallowed, lifted her chin a little. The heat where the outsides of their legs touched was like a living thing, growing hotter. “I think I would be good at it.”
“Perhaps you would, but not everyone can become a Zelani. You must show a certain aptitude.” Shara began to match her breath to Brezelle’s. The young woman felt it almost immediately, and her breathing came faster. She flipped her hand over in Shara’s grip. Their fingers entwined.
“What kind of aptitude?” she breathed.
“This kind.” Shara leaned over, and kissed Brezelle’s neck. The young woman gasped softly, drawing away. Her eyes were wide, but her hand practically crushed Shara’s. The small moment of surprise hovered between them, and Shara waited. Brezelle’s dark eyebrows came together. She leaned forward and wrapped her strong, slender arms around Shara’s neck, kissing her fiercely on the lips. Brezelle’s fear beat frantically inside her chest but she threw herself into the kiss.
When she drew back, Shara murmured, “You are daring, but you don’t need to kiss me like a man just because I am a woman. Try again…Try slowly.”
Hesitantly, Brezelle leaned forward, touching her lips to Shara’s once more. There was no rush, no urgency. Their mouths brushed lightly once, twice. Shara’s tongue found Brezelle’s, and a jolt of lightning coursed through them. Reignholtz’s daughter gasped again, turning her head upward. Shara continued down her delicate chin, down her neck as she pressed her hand to Brezelle’s breast.
When Shara’s fingers brushed the cloth over Brezelle’s nipple, her back arched, and Shara let the magic flood into her. With a moan, Brezelle began to tremble.
“That is a taste,” Shara breathed. “Just a taste.”
Brezelle’s hand shook, clutching the edge of the boat. She looked at Shara with wide, wondrous eyes.
There was a slight thump next to them, as a rope dropped into the little boat. Shara looked up just as Mikal slid down, rocking the boat again as he landed.
“Couldn’t find a ladder,” he said. “But I’m sure such ladies as you can climb—” He paused, looking at them. “Did I miss something?”
Brezelle flushed to the roots of her hair. Shara stood up and smiled.
“Just a brief Zelani lesson.”
“Ah,” Mikal said. “I see. Lucky girl.”
“But the night is just starting, my loves,” Shara said, taking hold of the rope. “We can’t spend it all at once.”
Shara, Mikal, and Brezelle climbed up from the shadows into the most dazzling party Shara had ever seen. The ships were ablaze with light and color. Festive pennants rained down from the rigging, fluttering among the hundreds of lanterns.
The decks were packed with endless streams of people coming and going, wearing glittering masks and costumes that showed far more flesh than cloth. But even amid that riotous crowd of color and pageantry, Shara knew that the three of them stood out.
Mikal wore tight black breeches, tall boots, and a blousy blue shirt lined with silver trim. It had open laces at the front, sleeves like billowing clouds. In Ohndarien, it would have been the blouse of an expensive prostitute. In the Summer Cities, it was the garb of a prince. The Waveborn men seemed to strut like peacocks across their floating city; the more outrageous a man’s attire the better.
Shara’s own blue skirt was a perfect match. Very few women wore skirts. Slender knee-high or thigh-high boots over tight breeches, like Brezelle wore, seemed to be the current fashion for women, but Shara was happy to see the boldest women seemed to be bare-legged and barefoot, just like she was.
Mikal suggested that they find something to drink, and he led them through the swirling chaos, enjoying the number of heads that turned as they passed.
They moved through the Floating Palace, ship after ship. Each one offered its own musicians and banquet tables, overflowing with everything from raw fish to roasted pig stuffed with caramelized vegetables in ginger sauce. Four colors of wine, endless spirits, and foamy ales flowed from servants’ pitchers. Almost every barge had its own fool in motley spouting jaunty poems or juggling rainbow spheres. The Floating Palace was a bazaar, a circus, and a court all tied together with ropes and planks.
Shara listened to Mikal and Brezelle as they passionately debated the strengths and weaknesses of their favorite duelists. They wanted each other already, she could tell. But they wanted her more.
In Ohndarien, she’d gone to great trouble to shield herself from the thoughts and emotions of others. She’d done it out of a desire to respect others’ privacy, but here she soaked it all in. She listened to the flighty emotions of a group of ladies looking forward to the masquerade this evening. She smiled as a timid young shipwright almost introduced himself to her, but s
werved away at the last second. Shara even paused as if sniffing the breeze while spying on the chaotic musings of a fool who composed new poetry in his head while reciting old poetry with his mouth. The little man was either mad or brilliant, she couldn’t tell which. Perhaps, in the end, there was no difference between the two.
There seemed no rhyme or reason to the frenzied movement of people around the party, and Shara was delighted to join the storm of humanity.
Mikal refilled their cups with a fruity amber wine, passing one to Brezelle and one to Shara. He drank from the bottle himself. “Hear that, over there,” Mikal pointed. “The violins?”
Shara listened, trying to separate the individual sounds from the prevailing roar.
“They are the Master Strings,” he said. “One of the finest troupes on the Summer Seas.”
“And also decent duelists,” Brezelle interjected.
Shara raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true. The leader of the troupe is ranked.”
Mikal winked. “A good duelist knows his opponents. Thinking of entering our little perforated brotherhood, Lady Reignholtz?”
“Only if you lead the way, Lord Heidvell,” she said. Shara laughed, enjoying Brezelle’s company more and more.
Mikal shrugged. “It is true that I’ve only fought two duels.” He sketched an elaborate bow. “But I did lose them both.”
“Care to come out of retirement?” she asked, half drawing her blade. “It’s nearly midnight, and we’ve yet to see a duel. We’re in danger of going down as the worst assembly in history. It is bad enough that Vinghelt has stolen the hub, but if—”
“What did you say?”
The voice rang out from the throng of people surrounding them. Brezelle turned, looking for the one who had shouted. A young man with a thick face and broad shoulders stepped out of the crowd. He wore a black and gold vest and a sword at his hip. The drunken sot had the nerve to call out again.
