The Lords Of The Crimson River rb-35

by Джеффри Лорд

  Blade found that the prospect of trying his plan under the eyes of three hostile Dukes didn't make him feel bolder. Failure would now be twice as public, twice as embarrassing, and twice as likely to ruin Cyron's hopes. There was no turning back, either, when the duel was going to be tomorrow!

  He mentally gritted his teeth, determined to let no doubts show on his face. He'd laid his plans as carefully as he could and worked out all the details with Cheeky. It wasn't his fault or the Feathered One's that the stakes were suddenly so much higher. Blade still wondered if he really might be losing the proper balance between caution and-boldness? Even worse, was he losing it where other people besides himself might be the victims? He'd have to talk to J about this when he returned to Home Dimension.

  Blade might have slept better that night if his window hadn't given him a view of the camps of all three visiting Dukes. He could see the torches of the sentries, the cooking fires, the lanterns hanging from the tent doors. He could also see more torches lighting the work of the men smoothing down the game field for the monkey duel tomorrow.

  Miera knew that something was bothering her husband, and did her best to make him forget it. Unfortunately she wasn't yet quite experienced enough in bed to succeed. Blade was able to give her all she wanted, but he himself lay awake for quite a while afterward.

  He was still out of bed before dawn, walking through the camps of the three Dukes to get a firsthand picture of the enemy. He didn't quite trust Duke Cyron and Marshal Alsin enough to take their word on anything he could check for himself. Even if he'd trusted them more, he'd have made the tour of the camps. The most accurate information from someone else still wasn't quite the same as what you saw and heard yourself.

  Duke Padro of Gualdar was in his early twenties, slim, dark, mustached, and good-looking in a rather effeminate fashion. Blade wasn't surprised to see a number of painted and perfumed young men drifting around his camp. Most of them wore swords, but they also wore such extravagant outfits of lace and ruffles, embroidery and gilded buttons, that Blade doubted that they'd be much good in a fight. They'd be too worried about getting spots on their clothing.

  Padro's fops shared their luxurious tent with a dozen gigantic men in steel and leather. They roamed the Duke's camp, hard eyes searching every passing face, and scarred brown hands never far from the hilts of swords or throwing spears. Duke Padro's Master of the Feathers had a similarly efficient staff, and the tent which housed his Feathered Ones was the largest in his camp. It was also the best guarded.

  Duke Garon of Ney was supposed to be the best jouster of any Duke for the last three generations. He certainly looked it-chunky, hard-muscled, bowlegged, and obviously hard as iron in spite of the gray in his hair. His men were nothing remarkable, but his horses were the finest Blade had seen in this Dimension. Finest of all was his chestnut war charger, Kanglo. Unlike Cyron or Padro, Duke Garon had plenty of heirs-four sons, as a matter of fact. None of the four was on good terms with any of the others, and much of Garon's time was spent keeping the peace among them. Wisely enough, he hadn't brought any of them with him.

  Duke Raskod of Issos also had heirs, two sons and a daughter. One of the sons was feeble-witted, and neither of them was with him at Castle Ranit. Instead he'd brought his famous harem, or at least part of it. Blade counted six good-looking young women taking the air outside a closely guarded tent. Duke Raskod himself was nowhere in sight, but this didn't surprise Blade. The Duke was known all over the Crimson River lands for his laziness. He wouldn't be up much before breakfast unless his camp caught fire.

  The thought of breakfast made Blade aware that he'd worked up an appetite touring the camps. He mounted his horse and rode back to the castle. On the way he saw a man walking alone beside the road. From a distance he looked so much like Chenosh that he drew rein.

  «Lord Chenosh! May I offer you-oh, sorry.» The man wore a merchant's garb, covered with dust and patches. He also stooped slightly, and his mustached face was much darker than Chenosh's. Blade rode on.

  Blade ate an immense breakfast, alone except for Chenosh, who came in as he was nearly finished. Chenosh was freshly bathed, impressively dressed, and generally looking more like a Duke's heir than Blade had ever seen him. At least he would have looked this role if he hadn't been so obviously nervous. He ate little, drank less, kept looking everywhere except at Blade, and nearly jumped out of his seat at every unexpected noise. Blade was glad to see that someone else in Castle Ranit was also on edge!

  As Chenosh finished eating, the trumpets and drums sounded to summon everyone to the dueling field.

  Duke Padro's numerous enemies all admitted that he had at least one skill. He was an expert with the Feathered Ones, so much so that he hardly needed a Master of the Feathers. It was Duke Padro of Gualdar himself who strode forward onto the dueling field, carrying Gualdar's chosen champion. His Master of the Feathers followed at a respectful distance.

  Padro set down the silk-covered cage, removed the cover, and let out Gualdar's champion, Posass. Posass was smaller than Cheeky, but beautifully groomed, with a silk vest and a belt of gold links. He was sleek and almost fat compared to Cheeky, but he moved well. Blade could also pick out the scars under the elegant feathers. Posass hadn't become the champion of a demanding master by sitting in his cage.

  Now Blade strode forward, Cheeky riding casually on his shoulder. When they reached the center of the field, the monkey jumped down.

  Duke Padro pulled at his mustache and stared at him.

  «That is your champion?»

  «Do you doubt the word of Duke Cyron of Nainan?» said Blade.

  «No, I-«Padro's olive skin turned darker. «This isn't a joke?»

  «No, it's a Feathered One,» said Blade. Padro's confusion was understandable. Cheeky's feathers looked even worse than they had when Blade found him, and skilled makeup by Chenosh made him look not only half-starved but diseased. He sat quietly at his master's feet, listlessly picking at a bald spot just above one knee.

  «As you wish,» said Padro. «But if there is any joke today, it will not be one the men of Nainan will find amusing. I want to double the Duke's wager, and give odds of three to one.»

  Blade did quick mental arithmetic. The Duke's wager on a duel of champion Feathered Ones was two thousand gold marks. That was a respectable sum for even Duke Cyron to find, and it would cripple Padro. Four thousand marks would nearly cripple Cyron if Cheeky lost. To be sure, Padro could never pay twelve thousand if he lost. Cyron would own him body and soul. Still, the duel had suddenly become more dangerous for Nainan than Blade liked.

  He was turning to look at Cyron when a harsh voice shouted from the other side of the field. «Three to one, with that to fight? What's wrong with Posass, Padro? Or is it something wrong with your heart?»

  Blade recognized the voice, and wanted to cheer. It was Duke Garon of Ney, who openly despised Padro as unworthy of his rank. He couldn't have picked better words to drive his young rival into doing something stupid, or a better time to say them.

  Padro's smooth, carefully manicured fingers writhed like snakes. They were itching for a sword, or perhaps Garon's throat. Then Padro took a deep breath. «Well, Lord Blade. Have you the power to agree? Eight to one it will be, if you'll raise the stake to six thousand marks.»

  Losing six thousand marks would hardly leave Duke Cyron with two brass coins to rub together. On the other hand, forty-eight thousand marks was more money than any three Duchies in the Crimson River could pay. If Cheeky won, Duke Cyron would own not just Gualdar but everything in it, down to the Lords' underclothing and the newest-born lamb on the poorest peasant's holding.

  Blade didn't want to agree to something like this without consulting Cyron. But he felt Padro's eyes on him, and from across the field Duke Garon's as well. Delay might look suspicious, at a time when the smallest suspicion could spoil everything. There was nothing to do but agree. «I speak for my Duke,» he said. «He will pay six thousand marks if your champion lives up to h
is name. You, of course, will pay eight times that if our Cheeky is better than he looks.»

  Padro's only reply was a snort of laughter which told Blade clearly what he thought of that possibility.

  The necessary oaths were taken quickly, with Cyron, Blade, and Breeder Romiss swearing for Nainan. Padro, his Master of the Feathers, and Duke Garon swore for Gualdar. Blade couldn't understand why Garon would join in an oath taking on the side of an enemy, until Alsin explained.

  «Garon has no love for Padro, but he also has little gold of his own. As an oath sharer, he will profit by Padro's victory.»

  «And lose by his defeat?»

  «Yes.» Alsin grinned unpleasantly.

  By now it was another of the Crimson River's hot summer days. Blade stepped aside and held a final «talk» with Cheeky. Don't take too many risks, was the message he tried to send.

  Thank you, but I have my pride, too, was how Blade understood the reply. He caught an image of Cheeky standing in front of all the other Feathered Ones at the Breeder's castle. They were all making gestures of submission. Maybe Cheeky didn't understand everything that was at stake for the humans in this fight, but he knew what he wanted to get out of it. He wanted the respect of the other Feathered Ones who had scorned and despised him.

  For the first half-hour of the fight, Cheeky played the fool. It was hard for anyone except his master to be sure he was trying to fight at all. Posass started the duel by turning his buttocks and waving his tail in contempt for such a wretched opponent. Cheeky didn't quite make the gestures of submission. That would have been conceding the fight on the spot. He did continue to sit quietly, however, picking at his bald spot and looking everywhere but at his opponent.

  Then Posass charged, holding his jeweled dagger high so as to end the fight with a single quick downward stab. At this sight Cheeky seemed to panic. He squealed like a frightened piglet, jumped completely over his opponent, and landed behind him. A shout rose as everyone saw he now had a clear stroke at his opponent's back. He didn't even draw his dagger, but instead ran to the far side of the field.

  He stopped only a few yards from Duke Garon, who laughed savagely. «Send someone back to your castle to start counting out the marks, Cyron!» he shouted. Then he spat into the field, narrowly missing Cheeky. Blade grinned. Garon couldn't have done anything more calculated to provoke Cheeky to fight even harder.

  Cheeky now drew his dagger and ran back out onto the field, but kept well away from Posass. It was Posass's turn to sit quietly. He seemed to be having trouble figuring out what was going on.

  «Is your champion slow-witted?» Blade shouted at Padro. «Doesn't he know there's a fight on?»

  Padro's mouth drew into a tight, thin line, and he clenched his fists. If he had any sort of telepathic contact with Posass, he should now be sending a message of rage. Even if Gualdar's champion had the sense to be cautious, his master's message should drive him into action.

  It did. He exploded into movement, so fast his dagger point drew blood from Cheeky's back. Everyone shouted or gasped, and Blade heard a number of side bets on Posass at odds of ten to one. Duke Padro might not be the only man to find this day expensive.

  After losing the blood, Cheeky was more careful to keep his distance. This kept him on the run, so that after a few minutes the duel began to look more like a chase. Around and around went the two champions, Posass stabbing at Cheeky whenever he thought he might be close enough, though he never was. Soon Posass began to scream and jump up and down, frustrated at being unable to hurt his opponent.

  Blade looked around the field. Duke Padro and Duke Garon were looking at the field, grinning broadly. The third Duke, Raskod, had finally made his appearance, accompanied by a bevy of beauties from his harem, who were standing on the sidelines, eagerly watching the fight. The men of Nainan who knew Blade's plan-Cyron, Alsin, and Chenosh-were keeping masklike faces.

  Everybody else from Nainan was looking grimmer and grimmer as the minutes went by, and Cheeky went on disgracing the Duchy. They also started shooting black looks at Blade, who made sure his sword and dagger moved freely in their scabbards. If by some chance Cheeky should lose, he was going to face an embarrassing choice. He could do what was honorable, by his own standards as well as by those of the Crimson River, and stay to die for his mistake. Or he could think of the future of Project Dimension X, take to his heels, and carve a path through anyone who got in his way.

  He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to make this particular decision.

  Certainly no one from the other three Duchies seemed to doubt how the fight would end. They screamed and shouted obscene taunts at Cheeky, making such a din that finally Duke Padro himself had to call for silence. After that they were content with making more side bets. They still talked loudly enough to let Blade hear some bets being made at odds of twelve and fifteen to one. A lot of purses might be empty by the end of the day. Blade hoped there would not also be a lot of desperate men, ready to attack Duke Cyron and Nainan. There could be such a thing as too big a victory!

  The duel went on, still more of a chase than a real fight. Blade began to wish he could reach Cheeky mind to mind, but knew that would be impossible in this fight. Posass would catch up with his opponent in a moment if he slowed down to talk to Blade. Then Cheeky would be too busy defending himself to concentrate on a mental message. Besides, Posass or his master might «hear» the message. Then the important advantage their secret gave Blade and Cheeky would be gone for good.

  Around and around the Feathered Ones went. The fancy clothing of Duke Padro's courtiers was beginning to look the worse for the heat and the dust. The ladies of Duke Raskod's harem even took off some of their clothes. They hadn't been wearing that much to begin with, so the results were interesting. Duke Cyron sent Castle Ranit's servants among his guests with pitchers of cooled wine and beer, but took nothing himself. As far as Blade could tell, the old man was hardly even sweating.

  Blade didn't hear any more side bets now. Everybody was either out of money or becoming cautious. «Come on, Cheeky,» Blade muttered under his breath. «You've put on a good show. Now don't ham it up!» He suspected the advice would do no good even if it somehow reached Cheeky. If any living creature was ever a born show-off, it was Cheeky.

  The sun rose higher, sweat flowed faster, and the plume on Duke Padro's hat began to droop. So did Posass's feathers. Cheeky's feathers, on the other hand, were hardly long enough to droop, and Blade wondered if his shorter feathers weren't giving him the unexpected advantage of keeping cooler and more comfortable. He'd have to ask after the fight, if there was an «after the fight.»

  Blade was just about ready to call for some beer, when Cheeky stopped running. He caught everyone by surprise, including his opponent. A wild roar of excitement went up all around the field as his dagger flashed in the sun. Posass of Gualdar jumped back, but not far enough or fast enough. His feathers were limp and dark with sweat. Cheeky really had worn him down! His dagger raked across Posass's belly, blood oozed, and the roar from the crowd swelled. Posass struck back, but Cheeky drew his attention with a punch at his face, and the dagger thrust went wide.

  The return stroke did not. It came up under Posass's ribs and into his vitals so fast that even Blade barely saw it. But everyone heard the champion of Gualdar let out a wild death scream, spraying blood all over his opponent, then topple over in his last wild thrashings. His agony soon came to an end. Cheeky pulled out his dagger, wiped it off on the body's feathers, then stepped back and began fastidiously trying to clean the blood off himself.

  Blade wouldn't have believed that the crowd could make more noise than before, but it did. If a battery of artillery had gone into action in the field, it would have been lost in the din. Blade saw a hard-faced Duke Padro stepping forward to pick up the body of his champion. He was clearly determined to preserve his dignity at least, now that he'd lost everything else.

  Slowly the roar died down. Cheeky ran back to Blade and jumped up on his shoulder, squeak
ing excitedly. Blade imagined a mental picture of Cheeky living the rest of his life in luxury and hoped the Feathered One heard it. Duke Padro knelt and carefully wrapped the body of his dead champion in a silk cloth.

  He was just handing the body to his Master of the Feathers, when Duke Garon of Ney strode forward. Ignoring his ally, he stamped up to Blade. The Englishman quickly looked to right and left, to make sure his Guardsmen were there and alert. Garon's eyes had a malign look to them. He resisted the temptation to draw his sword. Let the enemy make the first move.

  «That fight wasn't lordly,» said Garon, in a voice that sounded like a blacksmith's file putting an edge on a sword. «Your Feathered One was drugged.»

  Cheeky yipped angrily. He might not understand the words, but he seemed to understand that he was being insulted. Blade scratched his back to calm him, without taking his attention off the angry Duke. «I should like to know where you heard that,» he said politely. «Someone has been spreading tales.»

  «Tales!» Duke Garon spat in the dust at Blade's feet. Out of the corner of his eye Blade saw Alsin about to signal the Guardsmen forward. He caught the Marshal's attention and shook his head sharply. Using the Guards would mean a general riot and much unnecessary bloodshed.

  «Yes, tales,» said Blade. «And whoever spread them is as much your enemy as he is mine.»

  «You-!» Garon gobbled like a turkey, unable to get out words for a moment. «You're calling me a liar, aren't you?» he said finally.

  Taking up this challenge would mean giving Garon his choice of weapons, but Blade couldn't see that there would ever be a better chance to push him into a duel. «Yes,» he shouted, raising his voice so that as many people as possible could hear. «Duke Garon says the champion of Nainan was drugged. I say he lies!»

  «And I say that you, Blade of Nainan, have spoken words against the honor of a Lord.» Garon started to take off a glove before he realized he wasn't wearing any, fumbled for something to throw at Blade's feet, and finally wound up spitting again.