Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  Lyrelle reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool and strong as they squeezed his gently. “I’ll be there. I’ll be watching your back, Artus—that I promise. Eat more. You’re still hungry, I can tell.”

  Artus helped himself to some bacon. He was beginning to feel a bit better. With Lyrelle there for him, he felt less worried about that skunk Valen pulling some kind of underhanded trick. He ate the bacon quickly. “So, what do you want?”

  Lyrelle leaned over the table and, when she spoke, it was as though she were whispering in his ear. “I want you to lose the first duel.”

  Artus jumped. “What? No! No way!”

  Lyrelle still had his hand. She held on to it—with a much stronger grip than he would have thought. “Artus, Artus—I need you to listen to me: Valen Hesswyn is a spoiled bully. He’s the same kind of nasty young man my son spent his teenage years vanquishing in Saldorian alleys, and I’m certain you would love nothing more than to stab him in the eye.”

  Artus grunted a laugh. “I’ll say.”

  “But you can’t, Artus. You can’t. Valen is the grandson of the Countess of House Davram. Tyvian needs her as an ally if he is going to succeed as heir, and right now she is only technically backing Tyvian’s claim. Stabbing her grandson will not improve matters.”

  Artus blinked. “But . . . but getting stabbed don’t seem like it would work out well for me.”

  She pointed at the dish of grapes. “Eat some fruit.” As Artus ate, she went on. “You have to trust me, Artus. I know Tyvian doesn’t, and I know he’s said some terrible things about me to you over the years, but believe me when I say this: I want nothing more than the safety and happiness of my son and his friends.”

  Artus looked her in the eyes—those bright, hard blue eyes, so much like Tyvian’s—and, dammit, he believed her. What had she ever really done to Tyvian, anyway, except tell him what to do? That’s what mothers were supposed to do anyway, right? “So . . . like, if you want me to lose and all, do I need to make it look good or something? I don’t know if I can do that. And then what about the second duel?”

  Lyrelle smiled at him—that incredibly bright, warm smile—and patted his hand. “Don’t you worry about that—you are sending a message to House Davram. You will willingly offer yourself to injury by Valen, and then you will play to win against Sir Arving. If you win, honor will be satisfied between House Davram and Tyvian’s household. You will have helped everyone a great deal.”

  Artus frowned—letting himself get stabbed by Valen didn’t sound appealing at all. “Helped everyone do what, exactly?”

  “Avoid civil war,” Lyrelle said gravely. “That’s right, Artus. I’m asking you to risk your life to save the lives of countless others. Can you do that for me?”

  Artus drank some apple juice. “So, I’ll come off looking good here? Not like some coward or idiot?”

  Lyrelle chuckled lightly. “Oh Artus—everyone will love it.”

  Artus remembered Michelle telling him he was like a knight from the stories, and the press of her lips against his. His stomach fluttered. He grinned. “Okay, sure—let’s do it.”

  Lyrelle motioned to the exit. “Your coach awaits. Bring a croissant with you—they’re fresh.”

  The Floating Gardens were filled with spectators, both noble and common. Somehow word had gotten out about the Young Prince (as Artus seemed to be known) and his two duels. It was a damp morning after a late night rain and the sky was speckled with gray clouds through which the sun would sometimes blast with great strength, lighting up the wet grass of the gardens and sparkling on the pure blue of the lake.

  Artus and Lyrelle were announced by a herald, and the crowds parted as they emerged from the coach. On either side, ladies with parasols and lords in broad feathered hats watched him pass, some of them favoring him with a bright smile and a warm hello. Lyrelle whispered that he ought to go and meet them, and so Artus did, shaking hands and nodding politely to a few dozen people whose names he forgot as promptly as he learned them.

  There were also the commoners—peasants in ragged clothing and simple woolen cloaks, smoking pipes and carrying children on their shoulders. These cheered as he passed by, the men bellowing as loud as they could, the children shrieking, and the women blowing kisses. Lyrelle told him to go and meet them, too. And so he did. Daisy chains were looped over his head. Babies were thrust into his arms to be kissed. Men took off their crumpled hats and knelt to him. “I knew your grandfather,” the older ones often said. “You look just like him, milord.”

  Artus knew of nothing to say to this—to any of this. So he just nodded and smiled at everyone and said “thank you.” He did his best not to blush. The whole thing seemed surreal. As he ascended the mageglass walkways from floating garden to floating garden, it seemed that he, too, was rising out of himself. He was watching himself as though from a distance, wondering who it was they all thought they were talking to. Surely not him. There must be some mistake.

  Lyrelle steered him by his elbow, whispering in his ear from time to time. “These are lesser peers from House Ayventry—they aren’t your friends in this. Those four are cousins to Sir Arving—don’t shake their hands. These people are shepherds from the nearby countryside, probably Camis vassals. Smile. Good job. Don’t walk too fast. You are doing so very well, Artus.”

  Then, at last, they found themselves at the highest floating island of the gardens—Falcon’s Perch. It was only about thirty paces across, connected by a single mageglass arch to the next lowest island, which rested thirty feet below. The island itself was two hundred and fifty feet above the surface of Lake Elren, and beneath it could be seen the entire elaborate chain of Floating Gardens going down, down, down to the great gardens that encircled the lake. The view was dizzying.

  At the center of the island was a life-size statue of a king in a throne, a falcon perched on one arm, his long beard reaching to his toes—Perwyn the Noble, founder of Eretheria, and Tyvian’s alleged ancestor. About twenty people were here as spectators—most of them House Davram vassals. Countess Velia was there, perched on her sedan chair, holding a truthlens to her eye and looking Artus up and down.

  Valen was dressed in a tight doublet fitted for dueling, a vibrant hunter green with gold piping, a boar device embroidered into the breast. He stood in the ready position, side pointed to Artus. Behind him had been set up a canopy beneath which was a small table and some chairs—the site of the day’s second duel. It had all been arranged. Everyone stared at Artus as he arrived, their faces grave. Artus was wrenched back to earth. Gods, he thought, this is really happening.

  Artus looked at Lyrelle, who was still on his arm. “How do I know they won’t cheat?”

  “It’s about time, Reldamar!” Valen yelled. It took Artus a moment before he realized that Valen was talking to him. “We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

  Lyrelle extricated her hand from his elbow and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Before she pulled away, though, she whispered one last thing. “Artus, they are certainly going to cheat.”

  Artus felt his stomach sink at that. What in hell have I gotten myself into?

  “No second, scrub?” Valen growled.

  Artus squared his shoulders. He’d be damned if he let that dandy priss intimidate him, cheating or no cheating. “Well, I was gonna ask your mom, but she had to leave early.”

  Whispers spread across the little garden. Out of the corner of his eye, Artus spotted a kid run down the bridge to the next garden. They’re spreading what I say. Everybody is going to know what happens here. He knew that was important. He knew that, somehow, Lyrelle had counted on this event being so public.

  And he was just realizing that he had absolutely no idea why that really was.

  Chapter 33

  The Many Advantages of Being Stabbed

  Artus faced Valen across ten paces of marble flagstones beside the old statue of Perwyn the Noble. Valen had a rapier and a parrying dagger, which he was whirling around
in a display of athletic prowess. Artus tested the balance of his own blade—it was very good, as Tyvian insisted on only the best, but it still felt strange in his hands. Artus had always preferred a knife to a sword. He preferred a machete to both of them.

  But it didn’t matter anyway since he was about to get himself stabbed on purpose. Right? That still was the plan, right? He wanted to look at Lyrelle, to perhaps glean some sign from her, but the witness was stepping forward and calling them both over.

  He was a tall, thin man with ears that stuck out far beyond his wig. Between that and his long nose, he looked a bit like a ferret, but his manners were genteel as he bowed to both Valen and himself. “Please, sirs, if I may be allowed to inspect the weapons.”

  Artus surrendered his first, keeping his eyes on Valen. The young nobleman had a vein sticking out from the side of his temple that was visibly pulsing with rage. “You are going to pay, you common-born brat. I’m going to make you weep for your mother.”

  Artus glared at him, thinking of a dozen hurtful things he might say, but found himself holding his tongue. He clenched and unclenched his sword hand—oh how he ached to prick this miserable jerk. To paint his blood across the flagstones in front of his whole damned family—oh, the embarrassment would be just perfect. Then, finally, that sneering jackass would shut the hell up forever.

  The witness returned his sword. “This is a fine blade, young man.” The witness gave him a tight smile. Artus noted his colors—House Vora. Neutral, then. Theoretically.

  Valen surrendered his weapons and began to pace back and forth like a mad dog in a cage. “Will you hurry it up?” he snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Artus cocked his head. It was more than just anger here. It was fear. When Valen’s hands weren’t wrapped around the hilt of a blade, they were shaking. He was breathing hard already. A sheen of perspiration coated his forehead. He’s scared of me!

  And why wouldn’t he be? Artus had beaten him senseless the other day, and without any trouble whatsoever. Valen had no idea how good Artus was with a sword—he might be assuming that Artus was just as deadly with a blade as with his fists, but he was here to fight anyway, as a point of honor. Perhaps his family wouldn’t let him back out. Come to think of it, backing out of a duel was just not done by noble types. He had to go through with this every bit much as Artus had to.

  Valen was returned his weapons and the two young men took their positions, ten paces apart. The witness stood between them, holding up his hands for silence. “In accordance with the ancient laws of Eretheria, Artus of Eddon did declare a duel upon Sir Valen Hesswyn of Davram when he laid his hands unlawfully upon him four days ago in Davram Heights. Sir Valen has chosen swords as the weapon of honor. The duel is to be fought until one of the combatants draws blood from the other, and not a stroke or thrust more. Then honor shall be satisfied, and the two men shall live in peace with one another with Hann as their guide.”

  With Hann as my guide, Artus thought, bowing his head. A priest stepped forward and blessed them both—it was almost time.

  Artus knew he ought to be focusing on what he was going to do when someone shouted “Allez.” He couldn’t shake the revelation of Valen’s terror, though. He thought back to that first night, at the brewery. Ethick and Valen had been deliberately trying to egg him on, he felt, but Artus hadn’t risen to the bait. And then at the stocks, when he’d beaten them both up—that had been a setup, too. They wanted him to get into a duel. It was a trap, right from the beginning. Now Valen was here, terrified he was going to get another whooping, this time in front of his family and peers.

  The witness waved a handkerchief. “Quarter is to be given if asked. If a man is disarmed, the other will withdraw to give his opponent opportunity to retrieve. Understood?”

  “Let’s just get on with it!” Valen barked.

  Artus nodded. “I’m ready.”

  “En garde, messieurs!”

  Artus fell into the en garde position, his mind still racing. It didn’t matter who had put Valen up to it and why. The fact was this entire thing was a farce, disgusting and pointless. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right.

  “Allez!”

  Valen advanced carefully, weapons out. Artus threw down his weapon. “Valen . . .” He took a deep breath. “Valen, I’m sorry.”

  Valen snorted. “You’re what?”

  Artus put up his hands. “I shouldn’t have hit you, okay? You were being a jackass and I was angry, so I smacked you around, and that wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”

  Valen jabbered through a few half-baked responses before he hit on something intelligible. “You think this is going to save you or something? Pick up that sword, you gutter-born commoner!”

  Artus took another deep breath. This was going to be harder than it looked. “I was mad, okay? I’m sorry, like I said.”

  Whispers from the audience were so loud they were like the wind in the trees. People were trotting up and down the bridge, carrying news to the spectators below.

  “You’re sorry?” Valen’s mouth hung open. “Do you think that undoes your dishonorable behavior? Do you think you can just apologize and get away with that? You . . . you handled me like . . . like . . .”

  Artus shrugged. “Yeah. Sorry, like I said.”

  “I’m going to stab you anyway!” Valen shouted, advancing close enough to lunge.

  Artus kept his right shoulder toward Valen. “I get that. So . . . just . . . just go ahead. Stab me.”

  “I want a proper duel!” Valen shouted. “Pick up that sword! This isn’t fair!”

  Artus looked up at the sky and sighed. “Look, Valen, I’ve got two duels today, all right? I don’t really feel like wearing myself out, and, besides, you’re right—I shouldn’t have messed you up. Just give me a stab, okay, and we can put this behind us.”

  Valen glanced at the crowd. They were all watching, whispering among themselves behind fans or cups of wine. Most people were looking at Artus. When Valen looked back, his face was screwed up into a vicious leer. “Fine.”

  He lunged, putting his rapier into Artus’s stomach and straight through the other side just above Artus’s pelvis. Artus felt suddenly cold and, when the blade withdrew, the pain hit him all at once. He crumpled to the ground, clutching the wound. “Kroth,” he swore, “you . . . you nasty little shit . . . ohhhh . . .”

  Valen tried to summon up phlegm, but apparently his mouth was too dry. He spat at Artus anyway. “Apology accepted.”

  Then Artus was crowded with people. Faces, most of them strangers, clustered over him. Something soft was put under his head. A girl grabbed him by the cheeks—Michelle! “Oh, Artus! Don’t die! Don’t die! I won’t be able to stand it! Oh!”

  The witness’s face replaced hers. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Artus groaned. “Of course I can Krothing hear you—you’re right in my goddamned face!”

  The witness looked up at people he couldn’t see. “You there! Help me get him to my tent!” Artus tried to sit up, but he felt blood bubble from his stomach and a tearing pain that made him fall back down again. The witness put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be a hero, son—I’ll take care of you.”

  But there was Ironsides Arving, dressed in black with a green and gold cape, standing over both of them. He looked down at Artus over his hooked nose. “He seems quite fit to me.”

  The witness scowled up at him. “Sir Arving, this young man may be in grave danger. I have not yet had the opportunity to diagnose his wounds. There could be serious bleeding. The intestinal humors may have escaped. His kidneys may have been scratched. If I might—”

  “This man and I have a matter of true honor to settle—not that foolishness we were just made to watch. He must answer for his mother’s crimes against me, and I will not have this duel forestalled, Sir Michial.” Arving fixed the witness with a hard look.

  Sir Michial, the witness, looked down at Artus. “How do you feel, sir?”

  Artus blink
ed. “Like I been stabbed in the guts!”

  Sir Arving grinned, but it wasn’t the happy kind of grin. “There, see? If it had been the kidneys he’d be unconscious by now—much more blood. Surely he’s well enough to play a silly tavern game.”

  Sir Michial, the witness, stood up. “I am bound by duty to protest! This young man is gravely injured—your duel must be delayed to allow him to recover!”

  Sir Arving put out his hand and somebody slapped a scroll into it. Unfurling it, he began to read. Even from the ground, Artus could see the fat seal of the Congress of Peers at the bottom. “In matters of duels to the death that are not to be settled in a physical contest, defined as . . . etcetera, etcetera, the health of the participants shall not be sufficient reason to forestall the restoration of honor by the wronged party.” Sir Arving grunted and extended the scroll to Sir Michial. “Voted through Congress just this morning. There was quorum, as you can see.”

  Artus grunted, which hurt rather a lot. “You sneaky bastard. You’re awful eager to kill me, aren’t you?”

  Arving looked down on him as though Artus were a bug that had just invaded his picnic. “I kill quite a lot of people, boy. Don’t imagine you are significant.”

  So this was what Lyrelle meant—they’d set him up to duel while injured, and legally, too. Cheating, essentially, but somehow cheating while using the rules. It was a new level of underhandedness Artus was only just becoming aware of.

  He pushed himself up on his elbows. It hurt like hell and the world spun a bit. “Just patch me up, okay. I’ve played t’suul drunk plenty of times—this can’t be much worse.”

  Sir Michial looked from Artus to Arving and back. All around him, the grim faces of House Davram vassals looked on—not a terribly friendly crowd. Nearby, three little girls—Arving’s granddaughters, Lyrelle had said—held each other’s hands, their eyes shining with worry. Michial sighed. “Very well. But I wash my hands of it, understand? I’m not responsible.”