Temar saw splintered paling fencing off a sizeable patch of land. Men in D’Olbriot colours stood either side of a sturdy gate with pails in their hands where Temar saw bills of challenge pasted up, just like the one Ryshad had shown him.
Mistal was rummaging in a pocket. “Something for the widows and orphans.” He dropped a silver Mark into a proffered bucket.
“Good to see you, Mistal,” grinned the man-at-arms. “So what’s Rysh think he’s playing at?”
“Can’t say,” shrugged Mistal.
“Can’t say or won’t, Master Advocate?” The man shook his pail meaningfully at Temar. “Something for charity, Esquire?”
So much for going unrecognised, Temar thought, digging in his purse. At least he had some small coin today, thanks to Allin.
Inside the compound women in modest gowns were selling bread, meat and miscellaneous trinkets from baskets and barrows. Two long trestle tables displayed swords and daggers guarded by muscular men whose forbidding frowns turned quickly to smiles of welcome if anyone approached with a purse. Runes were being cast over to one side and wagers made, to the considerable interest of onlookers, while a silent ring watched two men sitting deep in contemplation on either side of a White Raven board. Beyond, long, squat buildings flanked a lofty circular structure. A roar went up inside it, followed by enthusiastic feet stamping approval.
“Have many challenges have been met?” Mistal caught a passing man-at-arms by the sleeve.
“They’re just rounding off the sworn.” The man lifted a jug of dark red wine, smiling broadly. “My brother won his day, so I’m off to get the little shit so drunk he can’t stand!”
Mistal laughed, nodding towards an open door. “We’ve a few moments yet, Temar. Do you want a drink?” A girl wearing a scarf in D’Olbriot colours round her waist came out to stack empty bottles in a discarded wine barrel.
“Mist! Temar!”
Temar turned round to see Ryshad, loose shirt over faded breeches and soft shoes laced tight on bare feet.
“It’s good to see you both.” Ryshad looked keenly at Mistal. “So you introduced yourself. Turn it to any advantage?”
Mistal grinned. “Master Burquest has retained me to research D’Alsennin’s claim to be Sieur.”
Temar looked at his boots, all dusty now, and wondered if anyone in this age ever did anything without some ulterior motive.
“Then no one’s going to wonder at you being with Temar.” Ryshad sounded relieved. “How’s the Sieur faring at court?”
“They’ve a fight on their hands, but Burquest’s equal to it,” Mistal said with judicious confidence. “As long as Camarl doesn’t lose his temper if he’s goaded and provided your Sieur doesn’t get too cocky after an easy victory. A bit like you here today.”
“I don’t need advice on fighting from some soft-handed bookworm,” said Ryshad with faint derision.
“You get yourself killed and I’ll argue Saedrin into letting me cross to the Otherworld, just so I can tan your arse,” warned Mistal.
“You and what Cohort?” challenged Ryshad with a grin. “You haven’t been a match for me since your seventeenth summer.”
Temar felt a pang of envy at this easy camaraderie. Turning away he saw a youth being led out of the sword school, one arm swathed in bandages stained with bright scarlet. That put an immediate end to feeling sorry for himself. “I thought these contests were a matter of form.”
The wounded boy was screwing up his face in a futile effort to stem tears of pain and humiliation.
“They’re to prove a man’s fitness to serve his Name,” Ryshad said soberly. “A few fall short of the mark.”
“Oh, there’s always blood to get the crowds emptying their purses,” said Mistal with obvious disapproval. “Otherwise they’d be spending their coin watching mercenaries slice lumps off each other up in the Lescari quarter.”
Ryshad rounded on him. “There’s no comparison, and you know it. Any blood shed here is down to bad luck in a fair fight. Lescari fights are little better than masquerades.”
“At least the Lescari use blunt blades,” challenged Mistal.
“Which is why they end up with broken bones and blood all over the floor,” Ryshad retorted. “A fool thinks a blunted blade can’t hurt him and goes in hard. A swordsman worth his oath treats a real weapon with due respect!”
Temar felt uncomfortably excluded from what was plainly a long-standing argument, never mind by the deepening southern accents both men were slipping into. He watched the lad slump by a barracks door, arms around his drawn-up knees, face hidden and shoulders shaking. Temar felt a pang of sympathy; he knew that bitter taste of defeat, though at least a sword fight was more straightforward than all these legal and social battles besetting him.
“What is the form of the contest?” he asked when Mistal took a breath.
Ryshad spared Mistal a glare. “Each challenge is a formal bout, best of three touches.”
“Do you know who’ll be answering the challenge?” asked Mistal.
Ryshad grimaced. “I’ve seen Jord from Den Murivance around, and Fyle says Lovis from D’Istrac and Eradan from Den Janaquel are definitely up for it. But I know them, have done for years. They’ll try and raise a bruise or two, just to keep me humble, but I can’t think there’s any malice there.”
Mistal mouthed the names silently to fix them in his memory. “It won’t hurt to ask a few questions, find out who’s been buying their wine.”
“You advocates suspect everyone, don’t you?” laughed Ryshad, but Temar found his air of unconcern a trifle unconvincing. “It’s the ones I don’t know about that could be the problem.” There was no doubting the sincerity of those words.
Five chimes rang out from some heavy brazen bell.
Ryshad grimaced. “If they’ve got all the boys off the sand, I’d better go and see who turns up. Keep an eye for the crowd, will you? If this is some scheme to leave me dead or injured, someone might give themselves away if I take a bad touch or their man goes down hard.” He grinned at Temar. “It won’t be the first time you’ve watched my back.”
Mistal guided Temar inside the echoing training ground. “What did Rysh mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing,” Temar shrugged. He wasn’t about to try to explain how he’d broken through the enchantment binding him, finding himself in what felt like some insane, waking dream, facing an Elietimm enchanter trying to bash out his brains with a mace. With aetheric malice unravelling Ryshad’s wits, Temar had been the one guiding his limbs in that frantic fight far away in the Archipelago.
The memory still made him shudder, so Temar looked around the practice ground with determined interest. Old battles had no place here. He watched as men much his own age and dripping with sweat came walking off the sand, elation brightening their exhausted faces. Older men congratulated them, some struggling to moderate their pride in their protégés. Temar found the palpable air of common purpose and good fellowship more than a little familiar. This wasn’t so far removed from his own training for service in the Imperial Cohorts, he decided. A few seasons spent fighting for the lands and privilege they assumed as their due might improve those pampered nobles who sneered at him so.
“Mistal!” A heavy-set man in D’Olbriot colours came over, arms wide in expansive welcome.
“Stolley,” Mistal nodded politely, and Temar belatedly recognised D’Olbriot’s Sergeant. “How’s the morning gone?”
“All our lads acquitted themselves worthy of their oath,” said Stolley with pride buoyed by wine on an empty stomach. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” His bow was studied. “An honour to see you here. Are you looking to recruit for your Name?”
That remark and Stolley’s carrying voice turned plenty of interested heads.
“The Esquire’s just here to support my brother,” Mistal answered smoothly.
Temar’s smile was guarded, but the idea intrigued him. Kel Ar’Ayen needed fighting men, didn’t it? They’d given the Elietimm a bloody nose
the second time round but they’d needed wizards and mercenaries to do it. Wouldn’t Tormalin men, sworn to him be better? He’d see what Ryshad thought.
“I’ll have silence or I’ll clear the place!” A grey-headed man muscled like a wrestler strode out on to the sandy floor.
“That’s Fyle, sword school provost,” Mistal whispered hastily.
Temar nodded; that explained the unmistakable air of authority.
“All challenges posted by recognised men have been duly met, as you all bear witness. Now we have a final challenge.” Fyle paused for some latecomers hurrying in. “A challenge posted without the knowledge or consent of the man named, which is an abuse of all our practice. When I find out who’s responsible, they’ll answer for it at the point of my sword.” He scowled at the assembled onlookers standing in tense silence. Clapping his hands together with a crack that made everyone jump, Fyle turned to the far door of the practice ground. “Ryshad Tathel, sworn man to D’Olbriot and newly chosen, stands ready to defend his right to that honour!” The belligerent shout echoed back from the empty rafters and even silenced the hum of noise outside.
Temar watched as Ryshad walked slowly forward, naked blade in hand, light catching the engraving on the metal. Looking at his calm face, Temar wondered if he’d ever have the experience to justify such iron self-control.
“Grisa Lovis, chosen for D’Istrac.” Robust cheers followed a man stepping forward from the far side of the crowd. Somewhat older than Ryshad, his sparse black hair was cropped so short as to be almost shaven.
“You’re going bald,” observed Ryshad, mocking. “Getting old?”
“Getting stupid?” Lovis countered, drawing his own sword. He unbuckled the scabbard and threw it to some supporter, an orange and red sash belted gaudily round his waist. “What possessed you to call a challenge?”
“Not me.” Ryshad shook his head. “Must have been a man with something to prove. Sure it wasn’t you?”
Lovis was circling round now, sword held low in front of him. Ryshad moved on light feet to keep his opponent always in front, a handspan’s distance between the hovering points of their swords.
“I’ve got nothing to prove.” Lovis looked as if he were about to say something more but stepped forward instead, blade coming in hard and level at Ryshad’s belly. Temar’s breath caught in his throat, but Ryshad angled his sword in a blocking move. In the same movement he was stepping sideways, sweeping his blade up and around as soon as he was out of danger. Lovis met the scything stroke with a counter strike that sent a clash of steel shivering through the intent crowd. Ryshad yielded to the downward pressure, but only by sliding his own blade round and out, drawing Lovis forward. The other man was too experienced to be tempted into compromising his balance, Temar noted with regret. He brought his blade up to counter Ryshad’s turning stroke and the guards of the two swords locked, holding the men almost nose to nose.
As they broke apart, Temar remembered to take a gulp of air and realised everyone else had been holding their breath. All eyes stayed on the two men circling warily again.
Ryshad made the first move this time, raising his sword for a downward strike that tempted Lovis into a direct thrust. Ryshad moved off the line, sweeping his cut down at an angle, but Lovis was already moving sideways, bringing his own sword up in a parry. He slid from counter to strike, steel whipping round to bite into Ryshad’s shoulder. But Ryshad had his blade there to block, and as Lovis stepped back to try a second cut in from the other side Ryshad swept his own sword across to leave a smudge of scarlet spreading through the sweat-soaked sleeve of his opponent’s forearm.
Stolley’s shout of triumph nearly deafened Temar and every man in D’Olbriot colours joined his exultant yells. Less partisan onlookers shouted their approval too as Mistal nudged Temar. “D’Istrac’s men are ready enough to applaud a good move.”
Temar saw men in the same orange and crimson as Lovis nodding their approval of Ryshad’s skill.
Steel smacked on steel as the contest resumed. The two traded blows, each strike parried, each parry sliding smoothly into attack, swords flickering from side to side, gleaming metal always turning biting edges away from vulnerable flesh. Then, in a move that escaped Temar, Lovis curled the point of his sword over and round Ryshad’s blade, darting forward to leave Ryshad recoiling back with an oath, clapping a hand to his upper arm.
“Is it bleeding?” asked Mistal anxiously.
“I cannot see.” Temar shook his head.
This time it was D’Istrac’s men cheering while Stolley and the others yelled consolation and advice to Ryshad. Temar folded his arms, hugging anxiety to himself as Ryshad rubbed at his arm, Lovis waiting patiently, the tip of his sword lowered. Mistal groaned softly as Ryshad wiped his hand on his shirt front, leaving an obvious smear of red.
“He does not look overly concerned.” Temar tried to reassure Mistal and himself.
Mistal shook his head. “He’d have that stone face on him if he was bleeding to death.”
Temar watched anxiously as Ryshad took up a ready stance and nodded to Lovis. D’Istrac’s man came in hard and fast with a sweeping sideways cut but Ryshad smacked it away with a ringing strike. Lovis didn’t miss a step, drawing Ryshad round as he turned the parry with a vicious downward blow. Ryshad deflected the slice but Lovis followed up hard, sliding his guard down Ryshad’s blade until the hilts locked. Ryshad was the first to move and Lovis slammed his pommel on to Ryshad’s hands as they broke apart. One of Ryshad’s hands came away from his sword and Temar’s heart skipped a beat. In the next breath, as Lovis tried to follow up his advantage with a hasty downward stroke, Ryshad moved, half turning his back in a seemingly fatal error. Mistal gasped, but Temar saw Ryshad reaching between Lovis’s hands to take hold of his opponent’s weapon. Lovis struggled to pull free, but Ryshad was already moving, driving his shoulder into the older man. Once he had Lovis unbalanced Ryshad brought all his weight to bear, sending D’Istrac’s man stumbling headlong across the sand. As Lovis scrambled hastily to his feet Ryshad levelled the man’s own blade at his face, grinning.
“Yield?”
Lovis spread submissive hands, smiling as broadly as Ryshad. “I yield, Chosen Tathel, and with good reason.” The warriors around the practice ground yelled their approval, stamping on the hard-packed earth.
“Rysh, here!” Stolley’s yell left Temar’s ears ringing.
Ryshad walked slowly over, taking a leather jug of water from Stolley and drinking with careful restraint. “What moron calls a challenge at noon on Summer Solstice?” he said with disgust.
“One who wants you exhausted and wrung out before he steps on to the sand,” said Mistal, looking suspiciously round the crowd. Temar followed his gaze but could only see keen-eyed swordsmen in animated discussion, empty hands rehearsing moves.
“How is your cut?” asked Temar urgently.
“That’s all ready clotted, as good as.” Ryshad grimaced, spreading his fingers and flexing them. “But I feel like Lovis slammed a door on my knuckles. This hand’ll be swollen like a pudding cloth tomorrow.” He accepted a towel and wiped at sweat dripping down his face.
“Eradan Pradas, chosen by Den Janaquel.” A second challenger strode on to the sand. A wiry man with sandy brown hair and a distinctly Lescari cast to his eyes, he was the tallest man Temar had seen in Toremal.
“Who is this?” he asked Ryshad anxiously. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, long since.” Ryshad was unconcerned, raking a hand through curls sticking to his temples. “He’s always thought he’s better than me, and I don’t suppose he could resist trying to prove it. It shouldn’t take long to send him about his business.”
Temar watched him go before turning to Mistal. “Where can we find bandages hereabouts? To strap his hand?”
If that were the only support he could give Ryshad, it would have to suffice.
The D’Olbriot Sword School,
Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Afternoon
/>
Yield?” I twisted the edge of my blade into Jord’s neck, scraping thick black bristles with an audible rasp. We were face to face, my sword resting point up and over his shoulder, the guard digging into his chest and my arm braced to keep him off me. I had his sword arm in my off hand, twisted away and useless. He struggled, tendons taut, face and neck darkening with effort. I leaned in hard to make best use of my hand’s width more height, but he was easily as broad in the shoulder as me and barrel-chested with it. He’d better yield because getting out of this without letting him mark me was going to be cursed difficult. He shifted his feet, and so did I. This wasn’t a move you’d find in any manual of sword art and I’d face Fyle’s derision for getting myself tied up like this.
“I yield,” said Jord with disgust. “But you’ve got the luck of Poldrion’s own demons, Ryshad.” He had the sense not to move until I’d carefully taken my blade away from his neck.
“I’ve some salve for that, if you want.” I didn’t want to find myself in that position again, I decided. Drawing blood was one thing, but cutting a man’s throat by accident wouldn’t do much for my standing.
“I’ve had worse when the wife’s been feeling passionate.” Jord rubbed the raw scrape on his neck. “But you’ve the skills to ride your luck, so I suppose you’re worthy of being chosen.”
I held out a hand. “My thanks for helping me prove that, to myself as much as everyone here.”
The avid crowd were hanging on our words, just as they’d hung on every move of the gruelling fight. Cheers for us sounded above stamping feet, making the ground tremble beneath my boots. Jord turned for the applause of D’Istrac’s men and I headed wearily for Fyle, who was standing with Temar and my brother. Fyle had the water jug.
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