Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  Despite his quips, Mikal knew his part. He was supposed to make the duel as compelling as possible, then bungle his lines and throw the match. When the crowd rushed forward to carry Vinghelt on their shoulders, Lawdon would be right there to plant her dagger in his spine. The chaos of the celebration would be the only time she could get close enough to him to assure a killing blow.

  She might even be able to escape into the crowd before order could be restored.

  Her only worry was Mikal. He was a reluctant ally at best. If he lost his nerve and failed to give Natshea good sport, the spectators would quickly turn on him and hardly be inspired into a victory parade.

  The crowd was just as large that morning as it had been the afternoon that Brezelle Reignholtz died. The sun shone hot over the Summer Seas, and the Waveborn wore their skimpiest summer attire. The mood, however, was unusually quiet and subdued. News of Brezelle’s death had spread across the Floating Palace, and last night’s festivities had been the most lackluster Lawdon had ever seen. History was turning on this moment, and everyone knew it.

  She couldn’t help scanning the crowd, hoping that Shara would reappear. But the Zelani was nowhere to be found. As much as Lawdon distrusted what she and Mikal did together, the man could certainly use a healthy dose of whatever magic she had been feeding him.

  As they drew close to the Glory of Summer, someone from the crowd spat at their feet.

  Mikal smiled and waved at the man as if he’d just cheered. A few unconnected boos rose from the throng.

  “They seem a bit hostile,” Lawdon said.

  “Oh some, I suppose,” Mikal replied, his steps heavy, his movements slow. “But look at the many pitying gazes among the lethal stares. Not all bear me ill will.”

  “Pity makes you happy?”

  “I am merely pointing out that some feel sad as they think of me losing.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you lose,” she whispered.

  “Still, it’s nice to see that my reputation precedes me.” Mikal smiled as he spoke the words, but his breath shook with nervousness. “Nothing stiffens a man’s resolve like the unwavering support of those he loves.”

  “You get us through the next hour, and I’ll stiffen more than your resolve,” Lawdon said, desperate for something to snap him out of his funk.

  “How charitable of you,” he said, feigning a rakish smile. “Nothing is quite so romantic as pillow talk from a beautiful young woman determined to get herself killed.”

  Lawdon looked up into his bloodshot eyes. She wasn’t sure if she should slap him or start crying.

  Glory of Summer was packed to overflowing just as before. Spectators filled the main deck, the viewing deck and both half-decks fore and aft. Children clung from the rigging and the masts like barnacles.

  The teeming throng backed away, forming a narrow tunnel of bright clothing and somber faces leading to the empty dueling space in the center of the main deck. At the far side stood a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman leaning on his blade as if he were posing for a portrait. His right hand rested on his sword as if it were a walking stick, his other hand hung at his waist, turned aside to hide his curling fingers. Flamboyant white ruffles peeked out of the breast and cuffs of his purple surcoat. An overly large mustache curled down the sides of his mouth, trailing into waxed points on either side of his chin, and a wide-brimmed purple hat was cocked at a rakish angle on his head. An enormous white feather billowed out of his hatband. The plumage was so large Lawdon imagined a stiff breeze could carry it all the way across the Great Ocean.

  “I know that hat,” Mikal said, as they walked toward the man. “I never liked it.”

  Lawdon stopped, her rage fighting with her fear. It was Avon Leftblade. The traitor had switched sides in every way.

  “Where is Natshea?” Lawdon murmured, as they entered the dueling space.

  “It appears she wasn’t able to make it,” Mikal said.

  Lawdon felt a surge of hope, but it was quickly replaced by her growing sense of dread. If Natshea wasn’t here, there must be a reason. It must be to Vinghelt’s advantage somehow.

  Avon Leftblade pulled his sword from the deck and strode to the center of the circle, waving the blade as casually as a child with a cattail. “Thank you all for coming,” he said in a rough, commanding voice. A subdued murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Lawdon scowled at Vinghelt and his entourage sitting underneath the sunshade, perfectly positioned at the edge of the dueling ring. The upstart lord didn’t even deign to look at her. He should be speaking in his own defense, but it would debase him to debate with the dustborn.

  Leftblade continued. “Yet again, we are here to face slanders against one of our great princes. The servant of a disgraced master has brought forth vengeful accusations, but once again the truth will prevail. We shall raise a wave from the heart of the Summer Seas and wash away all of the enemies of our way of life. This man”—he pointed to Vinghelt, who did his best to look dignified and aloof—“strives to bring glory and peace to all Summermen. He does not shrink from our enemies, be they from ship or shore. He has bled with your sons on foreign sands and will pay any price to protect the very foundation of our Eternal Summer.” He paused. Some cheered, and a few people stomped their feet, but this was not the same crowd that had surrounded Natshea and Brezelle’s duel. They were grim and quiet, waiting for the outcome.

  “Is there anyone who denies the truth of my words?” Leftblade asked, cocking his head as if he would need to hear the answer from a great distance.

  Lawdon glanced at Mikal. His eyes narrowed at the purple-clad duelist. With his smirk firmly in place, Mikal drew his blade and plunked it point down, putting one hand on his waist in mimicry of Leftblade’s first pose.

  “Salt and spray

  Sea and sky

  Water, wave, and Waveborn

  The very bones of the earth deny your words.”

  The grand master scoffed in the resounding silence. He plucked his sword from the deck and spun it round his head, just missing his hat. With a sneer, he said:

  “Your words are pretty, their sentiment amusing,

  From a brat best known for whoring and boozing

  Your jest was meant my ire to provoke

  But your life, my lord, is the true joke.”

  A few boots stomped the deck, and a drunken cheer burst raucously from the back of the crowd.

  Mikal cocked his head to the side, as if hearing something from far away, then looked at Leftblade. “I prefer pretty words to petty ones, especially from a man whose boots spent last night under Vinghelt’s bed.”

  A swell of murmurs ran through the crowd, and a few people cheered. “Enough words,” a redheaded man shouted from the front row. “Let’s see your steel!”

  “Well said,” Leftblade agreed, hurling his blade into the air. He feigned disinterest in his throw, looking the other way. It thunked into the deck a foot from Lawdon, who never looked at it. She kept her eyes on Mikal.

  Leftblade slowly brought his gaze around to Lawdon, his eyes mere slits and his voice heavy with contempt. He pointed a stiff finger at her. “In the name of Lord Vinghelt, I name thee an enemy of the Waveborn and a Physendrian spy. Have you a champion ready to pit your truth against mine?”

  Mikal turned his back on Leftblade and retreated from the circle, walking right past Lawdon. A rumble went through the crowd, but he spun just as he passed her, knocking her off-balance and dipping her backward into a long and lingering kiss. Several cheers went up at the flamboyant gesture, and the deck shook with stomping feet.

  “What are you doing?” Lawdon whispered, as his lips pressed against hers.

  Mikal broke the kiss, but he did not pull her up. “Stealing a kiss before I die,” he whispered back, then spun her back to her feet.

  “Treasonous lips could never taste so sweet,” he said to the crowd.

  “Save it for the bedroom,” the same redhead in the front row yelled. “Show us your steel!”

&n
bsp; Mikal swung his blade underhanded toward the heckler. The redhead’s eyes went wide, but Mikal flicked his wrist at the last moment, sending the sword hurling toward Leftblade. It stuck so close to the grand master’s feet that he shuffled backward. Lawdon couldn’t tell whether or not the man’s foot would have been skewered if he hadn’t moved. A dark flush crept into Leftblade’s face. The sword was supposed to have been thrown at Vinghelt, not the duelist. Lawdon had no idea what Mikal was doing, or why.

  “I call that man an upstart prince,” Mikal began, pointing at Vinghelt. “And cowardly murderer of his betters. He speaks of peace in a call to war. He seeks to destroy all we sail for. His lies, his greed, his hate, and his prancing hat of a champion shall not pass my blade.”

  Many cheers arose for Mikal’s speech.

  Leftblade stood calmly behind the wobbling sword. “If you dislike my hat so much, you are welcome to take it from me.”

  “Even a dusteater wouldn’t touch that hat,” Mikal called. Laughter flitted through the crowd. “But I like the feather. Perhaps I’ll take that.”

  Leftblade removed his hat with a flourish and held it forth. “Take it then…if you have the courage.”

  Mikal smiled, but he did not approach.

  “I didn’t think so,” Leftblade said, curling the hat up his arm in a deft flip, setting it back on his head. He tugged the brim, fixing it at the same rakish angle.

  Lawdon leaned close to Mikal and whispered, “What are you doing? Don’t cock this up. Not now.”

  Mikal held up a finger to Leftblade. “One moment, please, I feel a sudden urge.”

  In the blink of an eye, he spun around and dipped her again, pretending to kiss her. “All is well in hand,” he whispered, his lips brushing against hers. “I say we ruin Vinghelt first. Then kill him.”

  “No!” she hissed back. The crowd catcalled and cheered once again.

  “Leftblade, doesn’t Vinghelt get a kiss?” yelled a woman’s voice in the crowd, and their cheers turned to laughter.

  “We can’t have you risking your neck,” Mikal said under the cover of the crowd noise.

  “I don’t care about my neck.”

  “But I do.”

  He lifted her back onto her feet. “I have a weakness for freckles.”

  For the first time since he met Shara, Lawdon saw the old fear in Mikal’s face. But it wasn’t cowardice this time. It wasn’t the fear of a man about to run away, but of a man about to stand still and take a hit.

  “Did you come here to fight or dance?” shouted a burly man from the observation deck above.

  “Dance, of course,” Mikal said with a flourish, closing his eyes and sketching a few steps with a mock partner.

  Lawdon was ready to kill him. The man was insane if he thought this farce would save her life. This duel was the only real chance she had at vengeance.

  Mikal suddenly opened his eyes and looked surprised to be standing in the middle of a thousand people. “Oh, you’re still here,” he said to Leftblade. “Shall we do this then?”

  “Indeed,” Leftblade growled.

  “Then let it begin.”

  “Let it begin!” Vinghelt shouted, trying to seem as if he had spoken first. His brow was furrowed in confusion.

  Each man sprinted for his sword. They snatched up their weapons at exactly the same moment, turned, and lunged for one another. Steel clashed in the center of the circle. Mikal parried, riposted, and was blocked by Leftblade. The two circled, and Leftblade spoke:

  “You fight for the servant of a disgraced lord

  With an idiotic kiss and a misthrown sword

  Your pathetic lies shall never convince

  True hearts to turn from their lord and prince.”

  A torrent of claps arose from the crowd. Boots pounded the deck. Mikal slashed his blade at the air twice, spun the hilt around his hand, and caught it.

  “I admire your logic, your ethics, your hat

  Your purple coat, your tailored frills, your love of a rat

  Your voluminous plume, your dedication to doom, and your sweet-smelling scat

  Honestly, my friends…Who would not follow that?”

  The crowd exploded into raucous noise, half-cheering and half-booing Mikal’s doggerel presented with an exaggerated cadence.

  Lawdon gritted her teeth, torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to kick him in the jewels. At least he was fighting, and she couldn’t waste the time he’d given her. She backed slowly into the unruly crowd and squirmed her way toward Vinghelt’s entourage.

  Leftblade charged in for another exchange, and Mikal fell back under the assault, fencing with exaggerated moves, acting clumsier than he truly was. The former legend pushed him back into the crowd. Feigning complete exhaustion, Mikal stumbled into the arms of a particularly large and ugly man. The thug tossed him back into the dueling circle, and Mikal made an elaborate show of not falling down.

  Leftblade stalked to the center of the dueling space before spinning and pointing an imperious finger at Mikal.

  “You mock those who fight for our proud shores

  You shame those who’ve died in our just wars

  These fine people will never bend the knee.

  To your dustborn trollop’s shrill whimsy.”

  Mikal snatched a gaudy pink hat from a middle-aged woman in the crowd. He plopped it on his head backward and stood opposite his opponent, mocking his serious pose. With overblown indignation, he spouted:

  “I do so love your words of peace

  That ask for war and not its cease

  Why not rush to this foul war?

  If it brings more gold to our sweet shores?”

  Again the crowd was torn between booing and cheering for Mikal’s clownish poetry.

  Leftblade attacked, but Mikal refused to engage him. He backed up, spun away, skipped around the open deck. Leftblade refused to chase him and stood his ground, furiously saying:

  “This pup was well-known in his time.

  A whining mongrel without a spine

  And he’s still the same useless and cowardly fool

  Who was once paddled and kicked out of school

  He has always been a wastrel, stuck in his youth

  Who would rather make a joke than fence for the truth

  The pathetic wretch considers it the height of flair

  To run away while mocking another man’s headwear.”

  A genuine cheer rose from the crowd. Mikal stumbled backward, pretending to be stabbed through the heart.

  “I was a very poor student, I have to admit

  Distracted and lazy, an insufferable git

  I’d a greater eye for your wife than my blade

  And rumpled your bed, when together we played.

  The poor girl shed light on your primary fault

  Your limp little secret that makes ladies halt

  After raising a fish knife in her frustration

  She fled back to me to be her salvation

  All this explains your tall hat, I surmise

  Each man should have one thing of great, swelling size

  I apologize if your grand plume I did mock

  It’s surely as stiff and strong as your…”

  Laughter erupted from the crowd as a few drunken voices shouted the missing word.

  Red-faced, Leftblade chased Mikal, clashing swords in place of a rhyme. Mikal was driven back under the flurry of blows, completely on the defensive.

  Lawdon hissed, wondering if Mikal’s stings were enough to goad the seasoned duelist into a mistake. She continued around the crowd until she found a spot against the rail only ten feet from where Vinghelt sat.

  Mikal broke from the combat and ran from Leftblade, stooping and hiding behind children in the crowd. The children shrieked in delight, making them a very difficult shield to stay behind.

  Leftblade stopped his pursuit, waving his blade.

  “Is this the duelist I must face

  Lacking honor, wit, and grace?


  A scuttling rabbit with a chicken’s beak

  His rhymes a sham, his sword arm weak?”

  Leftblade lunged with blurring speed, slashing at Mikal and nearly hitting a child. A mother screamed, and a wave of boos rose from the crowd.

  Mikal picked up the closest boy and tossed him up on his shoulders. With a laugh, the child wrapped his arms around Mikal’s forehead.

  Deterred by the booing crowd, Leftblade did not come after Mikal this time. He stood, seething, as Mikal’s latest jest played out. Passing his sword up to the boy, Mikal said:

  “The purple man’s disapproval hurts me so

  And now he says he wants a new foe

  Perhaps this bold swordsman will give him fair game

  He’s a riotous fighter of most renowned name

  His words are pure pain, his strikes are most cruel

  He’ll take this fine blade and win this foul duel

  I hope lonely Leftblade will find his lost joy

  But first I must ask…what do they call you, boy?”

  The crowd erupted into laughter as the boy ate up all the attention and swung the sword for all he was worth as Mikal staggered about. Leftblade watched with a frown, and said:

  “How long must this farce go on?

  The conclusion is long since foregone

  How can you cheer for a man who throws scorn

  Into the traditions that make us Waveborn?”

  The boy waved the sword at Leftblade, and shouted, “You’re supposed to let blood and steel decide, not blood and squeal decide.”

  The crowd roared in approval. Their laughter was ever-present now as Mikal won them over. He skipped around the circle, and the boy swung his sword, giggling in delight. Mikal pulled out two daggers hidden under his shirt and began juggling them.