Green, Sharon - Lady Blade, Lord Fighter.htm

by Lady Blade, Lord Fighter

  "The choice wasn't mine aione," his father said with a smile, traces of pride coming through again. "Rilfe saw you fight in the masked competition last year at the King's birthday celebration, and was very impressed when 1 told him you were my son. That was when the decision was made as to which of my sons would marry his daughter, and 1 can't say I blame him. I've been given reason to be very proud of all of your brothers, but you, more than any of them, remind me of me when I was young. Are you willing to accept the choosing?" "After a buildup like that, how can I refuse?" the young Fighter asked with a laugh, causing his father to join him, then he shook his head. "All joking aside, I find myself very flattered, Father. I won't say I'll try to be woilhy of your confidence and Duke Rilfe's, but only because I think you

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  know I will. I hadn't been thinking in terms of settling down, but if I'm willing to give my life for the kingdom, how can 1 refuse to give the service of body parts? I know it doesn't matter, but what does the girl look like?"

  "That 1 can tell you from personal observation," the Duke said, grinning as he chuckled to himself- "1 met the young lady about five years ago, having come visiting myself when she paid a visit home. She was about sixteen then, taller than you would expect and pretty, with bright gray eyes. She hardly said a word during the visit, almost as though she were afraid of saying the wrong thing, so you don't have to worry about endless chatter. 1 can also remember how uncomfortable she seemed in her gowns, as though she was used to wearing less finery in her aunt's house, which was also a good sign. She won't be forever pestering you for additions to her wardrobe."

  "Quiet, shy, and hardly a spectacular beauty," Kylin said with a sigh, twirling his wine thoughtfully in its cup. "I was hoping for a different sort of woman, but I suppose that's why night houses are in business. If she cries on our wedding night, remembering the houses should keep me from crying with her."

  "As long as you're discreet," his father said with a laugh, pleased with how his son had so far taken the plans. "A man owes his wife consideration if nothing else, and rubbing her nose in his affairs is stupid as well as boorish. But there's one other thing you have to know before you take the road to Gensea."

  Kylin raised his brows in confusion, wondering why his father was suddenly looking both uncomfortable and covertly amused. If it was true that he was that much like his father, the sight of amusement worried him more than the sight of sobriety would.

  "Kylin, you have to understand it's a virtual certainty that Rilfe and I, at the very least, are being watched," the Duke said, rubbing at his face with two of his fingers. "That's one of the reasons I arranged to meet you here, where it isn't likely I'll be known, and at a time when no one knows I've slipped away. Being seen talking with my son would hardly appear suspicious to a watcher, but Kylin—most people don't know you as my son. I'm told you use the Band name of Kylin Difres when you fight, for our home city of Difresent,

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  and when you fight at a celebration where you might be recognized, you fight masked."

  "Being a Duke's son among King's Fighters can be more than awkward. Father," the young man said quietly, making no more than a statement, nothing of an excuse. "I had no reason to believe I'd ever be more than an unimportant fourth son, and I wasn't about to trade the chance of true, close friendships for the privilege of being called 'my lord.' "

  "As I said, you continualry remind me of me," the older man remarked with something of a smile. "The point I was trying to make was a point, not a criticism. People know I have a son Kylin and also what he looks like, but they don't know that he and Kylin Difres are one and the same person. Duke Rilfe and I think it would be best if they didn't find it out until after the wedding."

  "I'm beginning to think this wine is more potent than I was expecting," the Fighter said, glancing in confusion at the cup he held. "What's the difference between before and after, and why would anyone care?"

  "You don't think Nimram would care if he learned mat Rilfe's girl was about to be married to a well known King's Fighter?" Duke Trame asked with a snort. "Are you under the impression he's forgotten what happened when he tried his tricks against your brothers? Setting up an accident against watchfulness and skill doesn't work well, and he won't be eager to face the necessity again. If he thinks you're likely to be troublesome to him, I doubt if he'll hesitate over killing the girl, and then waiting until her next younger sister reaches marrying age."

  "That spawn of diseased privates!" the Fighter fumed, his light eyes blazing even in the dim firelight. "The craven are always eager to take on the helpless! But Father, won't he do mat anyway as soon as he learns the girl is about to be married to someone who isn't his? He can't afford to let that happen."

  "He can afford to let it happen if he believes he can change the situation any time he cares to," his father countered with satisfied secretiveness, that covert amusement sneaking back again. "If he comes to the conclusion that the lady's new husband wil! be easy prey as soon as he has an acceptable substitute available, the High Priest will allow the mar-

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  riage to take place. And don't forget—his favorite way of handling that sort of situation is the way he did it with the King. First he let everyone think Lillint was heir^ then he arranged for the King to fall ill—which we're convinced he did do—and then he did away with Lillint, leaving his pawn in a position to take over when the King died. He'll do the same in Gensea, with someone all ready to marry your widow once Riife is too ill to object—but only if he believes it won't be hard to do."

  "So my best bet will be to pretend I don't know one end of a sword from the other," Kylin pounced, suddenly seeing the point. "Being quiet and overly mannerly also ought to help, in fact I'm sure it will. That's what you were trying to tell me, isn't it, Father?"

  "Not exactly," the Duke murmured, once again aware of the width of his son's shoulders, the Fighter's stride he used when he walked, the easy challenge usually to be seen in his eyes. "Your simply pretending to be unskilled with a sword isn't likely to work, I'm afraid. Nimram isn't stupid, so we have to assume his agents aren't either. How quickly would you believe that a man of your proportions wasn't blade-skilled simply because he claimed not to be?"

  "About as quickly as that unattached fighter down in the court believed it," Kylin said sourly, leaning back in his chair again. "I went out with the intention of simply warming up, but I had barely worked up a sweat before he- challenged me. At first I tried hinting I wasn't very good and so preferred passing on the challenge, but that made him even more eager to face me. It was something about those girls, I think, and his wanting to look like a true Blade. Too bad for him it didn't work out that way. So what do we do, sneak me m robed and cowled, or do I have to be delivered in a box?"

  "What you have to do is arrive openly, meet everyone, and still arouse no suspicion," his father said, and this time there was no doubt whatsoever about the amusement he felt. "There is a way of accomplishing that, which will, at the same time, explain why you've spent more time away from home over the past years than any of your brothers. Without your saying a word, people will know it was because 1 couldn't bear the sight of you."

  "This time I don't think 1 want to know what you're

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  talking about," Kylin said, very suddenly wary and cautiously unmoving in his chair. "You could be saying you intend passing me off as a worthless drifter, but somehow 1 have the feeling that isn't it."

  "It always pleases a father to see signs of intelligence in his son," the Duke replied, completely unable to keep himself from chuckling. "Kylin, consider how manly and able your brothers are, and how painful it would be for a man like myself to accept the fact that I had sired a son who wasn't. I would certainly do everything in my power to keep him out of my sight and away from the people whose opinions I valued, just as a
ny man with sense would. Now consider as well what I would do if I had once been very close to someone but now considered him a blood enemy, and he attempted to hold me to a word given while we were still friends. If I had pledged one of my sons in marriage to his eldest daughter, and now he demanded I uphold that pledge because he has no other recourse, which of my sons do you think I'd send? Considering my well-known vindictiveness, which one would it be?"

  Kylin Difres, high ranking King's Fighter and fourth son of Trame, Duke of Arthil, sat in his chair with his eyes closed, one hand attempting to shield those eyes from a very painful but inescapable sight. Objectively he knew the joke would be riotously funny, but somehow he couldn't get into the objective spirit of the thing.

  "It seems safe to assume Duke Rilfe already knows what will be riding into his courtyard to claim his daughter," Kylin said after a moment, well beyond sighing. "I hadn't known you two were pretending to feud."

  "There are more than enough who do know," his father answered, now with only faintly amused compassion in his voice. "Everything fell into place very neatly at the coronation, so we began the feud then. He'll be furiously outraged when you show up, but he's already registered the betrothal at the King's court, so he'll have no choice but to allow the wedding to proceed as scheduled. After the marriage is consummated you'll be publicly declared Rilfe's heir, and then you'll be free to show your true colors. The girl will be safe then—after all, even if she died you would still be left as heir—and any attempts should be against you. It may well

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  prove more dangerous than fighting two wars at once, so you'll need your wits about you at all times."

  "From then on until Nimram falls," Kylin said with a grimace, dropping his hand so that he might look at his father again. "You've spoken of the investigations you and Duke Rilfe have carried out, but you haven't said anything about what you're doing to counter the influence of the Servants among the people. You certainly can't just leave them where they are and expect to be able to defeat their High Priest."

  "Would you like to tell me how we're supposed to do anything at all to priests of Grail without having the peasantry rise up against us?" the Duke demanded, all amusement and compassion gone, his eyes blazing in a familiar way. "No one who isn't blade-skilled follows Evon, and even his priests swing steel; how quickly do you think those followers of Evon would give up ones of their own to followers of Grail? It works exactly the same in reverse, Kylin, and we can't see striking down half a village or more in order to take one priest—who isn't irreplaceable. We want to save our people from Nimram, not feed him their blood."

  "Then we need to spend some thought on how to discredit him and his teachings in the villages," Kylin said, putting his cup aside before rising to his feet. "From what you've told me, I'd be surprised if His Holiness wasn't planning a general uprising—scheduled for the proper time, of course."

  "That goes without saying," his father agreed as he, too, rose to his feet. "It happens to be one of the major reasons for this charade we're about to enter into. Acting openly against Nimram now will likely force his hand, and we can't afford to do that. If the people rise up we may be able to put them down again, but if so, what will we have left? And what will we have to feed our armies while they fight Traffis and the Zeranese?"

  "I can feel the net closing from all around, but simply standing there with swords sheathed won't get us anything but taken," Kyiin said with an annoyed headshake. "There has to be a way out of the trap."

  "You can turn your attention to the problem once you've been declared Rilfe's heir," his father said, clapping him briskly on the shoulder. "Right now we'll be leaving this inn, me to return to the' war awaiting me, you to find your new

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  escort which is encamped off the highway south of here. They'll be watching for you, and will help you change into your new personality. Two of the three are fighters, and will therefore pretend to be your bodyguard; the third is Jestrion, who will supposedly be your body servant, but who will actually be a role model for your new character.''

  "Jestrion!" Kylin said with a groan, clearly remembering the son of an old house servant who had begged his lord not to put said son out into the world alone. Jestrion was usually given enough tasks to occupy him out of sight any time the Duke had guests, but everyone who lived in or had grown up in the Duke's castle knew him well enough. . . .

  "Try to bear in mind how short a time you'll need to keep up the pretense," his father urged, trying, himself, to keep down amusement. "The wedding ceremony will be held as soon after your arrival as possible, and that should give you just enough time to have some fun. And think of the surprise your bride will have on your wedding night. And after you've been declared heir, you'll know which of Rilfe's advisors and commanders can be trusted and which can't. And also . . ."

  His father continued on with the list of benefits his masquerade would bring to him, but Kylin allowed himself to be . conducted to his tunic and swordbelt and then to the door without finding the enthusiasm his father was trying to generate. He knew well enough that he had to go through with it, but he knew something else as well: he would not be spending that night with his new "escort." As soon as darkness fell he would return to the inn, to collect the winnings promised him by the adoring inn girls for his victory. Without doubt he'd need at least that to see him through the next weeks; as things were about to stand, it wasn't likely he'd find another opportunity.

  Chapter 3

  It was getting on toward dusk when we came in sight of the inn, and that, predictably, set Timper off. He'd been doing his usual silent groaning during that day's ride, having learned how much good complaining aloud to me did him, but getting a look at that inn was more than he could stand.

  "Please, my lady, I beg you to let us stop there for the night!" he jumped in at once, trying not to give me a chance to say we were going on as usual until full dark. "There's no doubt that we'll reach the city tomorrow, and your father's castle lies just beyond it. I would be very grateful if I were to arrive there with one adequate night's sleep behind me."

  "I can see now why it took you almost six weeks to come north," 1 remarked, tugging at my collar a little against the warmth of the air. Only three visits home over the last ten years had left me unused to the climate of the south, and traveling from the north as fast as we had, left my blood remembering the tail end of cold. I should have preferred continuing on and camping out again, but 1 discovered I was as tired of trail fare as Timper was of sleeping on the ground.

  "With the return trip taking barely four, we've certainly earned the right to one night of comfort," the courier persisted, trying to sound more firm than coaxing. "And think of all the gold we've saved, having come without escort and having stopped at almost no other inns. And this close to your father's city, the King's Fighters leave a good deal of the patrolling to the City Guard, who might not be abroad at this late an hour. Surely the blessing of safe, uneventful sleep is worth ..."

  "Al! right, all right, you've convinced me," I interrupted

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  the flow with an inner sigh, knowing I would probably get no sleep that night no matter where 1 was, and therefore might appreciate being in a place with drinkables. The next day I would be home, and I'd taken to wondering just exactly how my father would feel about what I'd made of my life until then. I knew him as a man filled with a lot of love and kindness, but he was also a man who knew who he was and what he wanted. My aunt Illi had always said I was just like him, but not at times when she was trying to compliment me.

  "My lady has this unworthy courier's undying gratitude," Timper burbled, and I would have been a good deal happier if it had been sarcasm rather than sincerity in his voice. "Please follow me, and I'll have us settled in with all the speed due your station."

  "No station or no stop," I told him bluntly as he ga
thered his reins, ready to try urging his poor gelding on to match the pace of my stallion again. "Either we stay at that inn as no more than two anonymous travelers, or we don't stay at that inn. I'd like my arrival at home to be a surprise to everyone."

  "Oh, very well," he surrendered with a sigh, annoyed with me but not about to say so. "Two anonymous travelers it shall be. I, however, mean to have the best of their accommodations, and insist that you have the same. Your father would be furious with me if I were to allow anything else."

  "As long as we discuss anything but my father and my station once we're in there, you've got a deal," 1 agreed, hoping he had enough sense to remember the deal when we were inside. Casual questioning over the past few weeks had shown me he knew nothing about the "accident" my brother had had, except that he thought it really had been an accident. It was enough that I knew better; if my father wanted Timper to know, he could tell him himself.

  The inn had a wide road leading to it from the highway, and as soon as we reached the front door a boy appeared from around the side of the building to take our horses. Timper didn't quite grumble aloud when he gave the boy a handful of coppers, but 1 could see he still wasn't happy about parting with what he obviously considered tribute. Tipping for above-routine service was a concept he found entirely alien, so I'd had to tell him that the coppers were for the danger the stable

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  boys faced in handling my stallion. Since we'd almost lost the first stable boy he knew the danger was real enough, and that had kept him almost quiet the next couple of times.

  This latest stable boy seemed to know the proper way of soothing a war horse while at the same time staying out of his reach, but I still watched them gone around the comer before turning to the house—only to find that Timper had already disappeared inside. I grinned as I realized he wasn't taking any chances that I'd change my mind, and followed along after wishing I couid pretend I had. Doing something like that with a straight face is a lot of fun, but not with someone like my father's courier. The man hadn't the slightest trace of a sense of humor, and I really hate seeing a grown man cry.