by Garon Whited
“Fair. I assume killing what’s-his-name of Sarcana, up in the stands—”
Palan, Firebrand supplied.
“—Palan, that was it. Killing him was what started it all?”
“I doubt it. They would be angry, but he foolishly tried to use force against warriors,” Hazir pointed out. “What pushed them to vendetta? I do not know. They do have some cause. The death of Palan should not be enough in these circumstances, but the humiliation of their warriors was a humiliation to the House. A very public humiliation. The two, taken together, are sufficient.”
“Renata—Palan’s guardswoman—was also his kushimir, or so I’m told. I don’t know if he wanted her for a wife or not, but she’s carrying his child.”
“Interesting,” Hazir mused. “He has—or rather, had—a galvanais. They had not conceived a child until the days immediately before his death. You say Renata is also with child?”
“Yes, and several weeks along.”
“I find it convenient that Nironda, unable to conceive for four years, announces such an event within a week of Palan’s death.”
“Convenient?”
“Her station would devolve once again into the harem of the House without such a mark of favor from the former manzhani.”
“I find this interesting, myself,” I admitted. “How do she and Naskarl get along? Or am I asking improper questions of the internal House politics of someone who’s decided to declare vendetta against me?”
“Funny you should mention the vendetta.”
“How so?”
“Has it occurred to you Nironda may be lying with Naskarl’s help? If she and Renata go into seclusion, she can claim the child is hers—a legitimate, strongly-favored heir to the House.”
“Doesn’t Naskarl have the House already…?”
“Yes and no. It partly depends on any alliances of marriage he may make and the status of the mother of his heirs. Palan had the strongest claim, I believe, even over his sister, so his child by Nironda—if there is one—would take precedence. If Nironda has a child by Naskarl, the child’s claim will be no stronger than his. While if the sister—I forget her name, just at the moment—marries well, she could produce an heir of even higher station and so claim Sarcana for the babe.” Hazir quirked a smile. “Forgive me. Too much time thinking of plots and subterfuges while dealing with the Hall of Ruling.”
“Oh, I like it when people think these things up,” I countered. “It saves me the headache of trying.”
“It occurs to me,” he continued, thoughtfully, “if you have the future heir of Palan, and therefore of House Sarcana, under your care, the entirety of House Sarcana could be yours.”
“Oh really?” I asked, perking up. I already suspected the local laws on inheritance and such were complicated. “Do tell!”
The horn sounded, however, and we put our discussion on hold. The usual process followed. The council of nine entered the main box—a startled-looking Tobar included. I don’t think he expected to see me. The rest of us formed a circle for the reading of the last meeting’s minutes. A number of places were looking for warriors, with House Sarcana offering a premium. I was pretty sure I knew why.
One of the announcements caught my attention. An older warrior was seeking final employment. Anyone with an interest, please attend him on the Street of Six Coppers, at the Blue Raven Inn. I resolved to ask what it meant.
They don’t always have orphans to offer at the warmeet. I’ve been to only a few and seen it only once. Today, they had three up for grabs. Much to my surprise, they were snapped up instantly by three of my guards. I tried to keep my expression neutral, mostly because Tobar gave me an unpleasant look.
We fell back to the wall and the usual tests followed. I noticed one of the First, sitting on a bench down in the arena, kept giving me covert looks. Since I wasn’t required to pay attention to the contests, I asked Hazir about him and about the “final employment” thing.
“The man to whom you refer is Ivellar, twenty-first of the warriors of Sarashda. He is the one you will challenge to rise in rank.”
“Ah. Now I see why he’s eyeballing me. He thinks I’m going after his position.”
“After watching you defeat Osric, he would be a fool not to worry.”
“He’s safe. I don’t care.”
“No?”
“As I understand it, the higher the rank among the warriors, the more I can charge for my services and the more I can make from having a school to teach other warriors, right?”
“Yes, although you forget it also determines your rank in any army which may hire you. Seldom is any but a member of the council of nine taken on as a general.”
“And if I have all the money I want, as well as no desire to general an army, why would I want to be higher rank?”
Hazir thought about that one for a while.
“By the way, I’m not familiar with the custom of ‘final employment.’ At least, not by that name.”
“Oh? On occasion, a warrior may live to an age where death comes not in battle. If a warrior finds himself afflicted with age or disease, or some other infirmity incurable by the wizards, he may wish to find his final employment, if you follow. Preferably, it is employment in a worthy task, but certainly a dangerous one.”
“Better to die in a blaze of glory?”
“Exactly.”
“If that’s how he wants to go, I don’t see why he shouldn’t.”
“What do they call it where you come from?”
“There are many names for it. Some call it ‘the last run,’ as though one makes a final, all-out charge toward the enemy. Others refer to it by a famous—although, perhaps, somewhat foolish—warrior named ‘Leeroy Jenkins.’ It’s customary to scream his name while doing something likely to get you killed.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s not from around here, of course. His warcraft skills are well-known among certain communities.”
“Ah.”
We watched a few more of the tests and a couple of challenges. One of the armored First stood up, moved to the center of the arena, and issued a challenge for rank.
“I, Malath of House N’thon, twenty-third of the warriors of Sarashda, challenge Al of House Lucard for the rank of twenty-second!”
Hazir leaned close and whispered, “One of Tobar’s men.”
I sighed and stood up. Since my opponent was holding a wooden weapon, I selected a short staff, suitable as a substitute for Firebrand. We squared off and he came at me. I swept his stick aside, toward his shield, stepped forward, shoved, and took a leg from under him in one of the finest osoto gari I’ve ever done. I’m quite proud of it, actually.
He went down on his back with a rattle and clank and I kicked him in the head. This let me grab his weapon hand, turn around it, and plop to the sands, myself. With my legs locked around his arm and a foot in his throat, I could break his elbow or forearm without much trouble. I sat there, patiently, while he squirmed in his armor. He didn’t yield.
I looked up at the council of nine. Eight of them were leaning forward, watching intently. Tobar was still leaning back, watching over steepled fingers. I met his eyes and smiled up at him. Shifting my grip to a one-handed wrist lock, I picked up a stick and started bouncing one end of it on Malath’s helmet, tap-tap-tap-tap, still sitting and waiting for someone to say something.
Malath still didn’t yield. He did hit my legs a few times with the edge of his shield, though.
I pulled and turned, dislocating his shoulder. He yelled, as one does, but kept a grip on the weapon. I shifted position, grabbed his shield, and stood up. He was still attached to it, but I kept kicking his legs out from under him and dragged him toward a wall.
He really struggled, then. I’m guessing he was present when I fought Osric. He wormed his arm out of his shield straps and I took it away from him. While he regained his feet, I slammed his shield down over my knee, twice, trying to bend the steel into uselessness, but th
e enchantment was too strong for me during the day. I settled for sending it spinning across the arena. If he wanted it, he could spend the time to go chase after it.
He chose to settle himself and prepare to do without. He switched his wooden sword from his right to left hand. We looked at each other across raised wooden weapons.
“You work for Tobar, right?”
“Shut up and fight.”
“You asked for it,” I said, and went for him like a linebacker after a quarterback. He had time for a single stroke, which I blocked with my forearm before ramming into him at nearly a dead run. My shoulder didn’t enjoy it, but he took it worse, losing his weapon as he tumbled backward and plowed into the sand. While he picked himself up, I recovered his weapon and started playing his armor like one of those steel drums, only with no sense of melody. Anything he moved, I hit. He put out a hand to push himself up, I hit it. He bent a leg to get a knee under himself, I hit it. He raised his head, I hit it.
I’ll give him due credit. He was neither a weakling nor a wuss. I couldn’t persuade him to give up. He kept trying, even in these circumstances, until the battering was simply too much for him. He finally fell, unconscious.
Which pissed me off.
I wasn’t upset about Malath’s courage and determination. I admired him. It was the fact he was sent against me by Tobar. This Malath guy was a dedicated, honorable, worthy individual. He never gave up. He wouldn’t give in. After the incident with Osric, he had to know he was outclassed even before he went into the fight. It never stopped him from trying. Tobar had to know it too, and it didn’t stop Tobar from sending him after me, pointlessly, like a petty, vindictive little twerp.
“We have witnessed the challenge,” declared the head of the council, “and it has failed.”
I removed my helmet and a gauntlet to wipe my brow, not because I needed to, but because I wanted a minute to think about what I wanted to say. There would be repercussions, possibly lots of them, and I had no idea how to gauge them. Which was fine, because I was at the point of not giving a damn. What I thought about was how to phrase my reply.
“I thank the council,” I called up to them. “Now I have a challenge of my own.”
“Oh? Very well. Ivellar, come—”
“If it please the council,” I interrupted, “my challenge is not for rank.”
“No? A personal challenge?”
“Yes.”
“Name it.”
“Tobar of the First.”
I had everyone’s attention.
“Those of the council of nine are not to be challenged,” said the leader.
“A good point. All right, I don’t challenge Tobar—not in his capacity as a council member. Upon consideration, I shouldn’t challenge him at all, because he is unworthy to face me in a challenge. Tobar is a coward who has no honor, only a misplaced sense of pride bordering on vanity. He is dishonest and stupid, unworthy of the dignity of the council or even of the First among warriors.” I went on at length, trying to channel Linnaeus. I insulted him continuously and referenced his morals, ethics, hygiene, skills, and both his sexual preferences and shortcomings. I even accused him of spying, paying assassins and thieves, and a rusty codpiece from poor toilet training.
The silence from the arena was louder than shouting. People were gaping and staring. I suspect no one has ever violated the unwritten rule about challenging members of the council. Sometimes custom is stronger than law. On the other hand, I was not in the best of moods from having to beat a loyal and determined man into the sand, and Tobar was the legitimate target for my irritation.
“I say this,” I concluded, “and it cannot be unsaid. Everyone here now knows the truth of Tobar, of the Ak’anthai. If he disagrees with me—if he wishes to prove me wrong—he may face me like an honorable warrior. I believe he will hide in the council’s box because he fears me, and by his cowardice will prove the truth of all my words. I have spoken.”
Every eye in the arena shifted to look at Tobar. Even the council members turned to regard him. He wore the expression of a man skewered through and through. I know, because I’ve seen the expression on a man literally skewered.
Tobar came to his feet like a bubbling mass of lava swelling out of a crater. His fists hit the rail of the box as he glared down, leaning out toward me.
“The House of Lucard will be stripped from the Empire,” he roared. “I will have it so!”
“If you’re declaring a vendetta,” I shouted back, “you’re even more of a coward than I thought! You would start a war and see others die for your pride? No! For your vanity! You can settle this right here, right now! Oh! But I forgot,” I added, dripping with mockery and disdain, “you’ll do anything to keep your own precious skin from being touched! I insulted you, and I admit it. I would apologize if I thought you’d accept. But you’ve sent men to punish me and they’ve come back humiliated every time. Now you are the one humiliated, you coward, and you are willing to start a war between Houses rather than face an honorable challenge!”
Tobar’s fists were white-knuckled. His fingernails had to be biting into his palms. His eyes flicked around the arena, gauging the feel of the warriors. I don’t think he liked what he saw.
I bent down and got a couple of good holds on Malath. I swung him back and forth a few times. He wasn’t a big man, so this might be doable, even during the day.
“If you’re such a coward,” I shouted at Tobar, “that you’ll send men to die for your vanity, you’ll want this one back. Here!”
I approached, planted feet, spun in place a couple of times to build momentum, and hurled Malath as high as I could. He cleared the edge of the box, or mostly. An arm and a leg clipped the edge as he passed over and he tumbled to the floor beyond. Tobar had to scramble when he saw Malath coming or they both would have sprawled on the floor.
“Well, coward? Are you going to hide behind your House like a child behind a mother’s skirts? What’s the truth of your soul, Tobar? Are you really a warrior?”
That caused a massive indraw of breath from all around, followed by babble. Obviously, my last insult was more severe than I realized. Something to do with how they regard the castes? Maybe the idea of being something is more central to their cultural identity than I thought.
Whatever the reason, questioning his courage wasn’t quite enough to move him. Accusing him of being without honor didn’t add enough to provoke him. But questioning whether he was truly a warrior or not—that goaded him into action. He snatched up his helmet and shouted for his retainers as he disappeared from the VIP box. I made sure my helmet was settled and my gauntlets tugged tight. Velina came out with Firebrand and my saber—Firebrand raised no objection, of course. I unlatched my saber from its sheath and drew it, then took Firebrand in my right hand.
A moment later, Tobar entered the arena, helmet on head, gauntlets on hands, still strapping a round shield on his arm. He completed buckling it, drew his sword from the scabbard held by a flunky, and came straight at me. I expected more of a formal duel, but apparently it’s allowed to try and outright murder someone as long as they see it coming.
Fine by me.
I met his first cut with a saber parry, trying to cut his weapon in two. The enchantment held, though, keeping his sword mostly intact. The magic sparked like magnesium on the grinding wheel and his blade was scored, but it held. I didn’t like that, but he didn’t either. At the same time, I brought Firebrand around in a side-cut, testing his shield. It was an expensive shield, clearly at the high end of the local state of the art. It was steel, polished smooth as glass, and sharp along the leading edge and lower rim, for punching or slashing. The enchantments strengthened it, of course, but the tricky one acted much like a deflection spell. It kept Firebrand from touching the metal. It was like trying to bring two repelling magnets together. Firebrand never quite hit, but slid along the field as Tobar blocked.
We fought on, cutting, thrusting, parrying, blocking. He was good, too. Not only was
he a man of talent, but someone had to have drilled him mercilessly from an early age. He suffered from the same weakness as the other First I’d fought, though. He seldom had to fight. He had matches. He had bouts. He had a formal duel. But it’s a long walk from the fencing strip to the battlefield. I’m sure he’s had a couple of desperate, life-or-death struggles, but a duel or two doesn’t make you a veteran. Surviving them just makes you overconfident.
Still, he was surprisingly good. I had no trouble believing he earned a place on the council of nine. A battle in the arena would be to his liking. One opponent at a time, clear and obvious weapons, level footing, no obstacles, no surprises.
I, on the other hand, have both extensive training—some of it supernaturally digested—and far too much practical experience. I wouldn’t want to risk my life against one of the dama of Zirafel, for example. If we’re not talking about professional fighters, bred for the purpose, and trained practically from birth, I think I can deal with it. Come to think of it, I digested all the dama of Zirafel. I might hold my own.
We kicked and stamped along the sand. I let him carry the fight while I watched for an opening. He didn’t give me one, but it’s hardly a surprise. I wasn’t doing anything unusual, so all his practiced, normal moves were picture-perfect. I did take some cuts at his sword and shield, though, watching their enchantments work. The shield was going to be a problem. If I couldn’t actually hit the metal, I wasn’t going to damage it. If I could get the right angle on it, I could hit it along the edge and bite inward, but, clearly, Tobar knew the limitations of his equipment.
His sword, on the other hand, was a lovely piece of bright steel. The enchantment on it kept it sharp, but also acted like a sort of force field. It strengthened the metal all through, binding it tightly in a web of forces. This helped it retain an edge, but it also reinforced it. If you want to snap a sword, you don’t hit it on the edge. You attack it on the side, striking for the flat. The magic covered the weapon everywhere, making it impractical to snap. The sparks from our first crossing of swords was the spell trying to stop something so sharp as to be almost two-dimensional. It didn’t completely succeed, since I scratched his weapon, but it was enough to keep me from simply slicing it like a banana.
