Well, Harbard would know what had happened to them so far. Of course, it was what was going to happen next that was important.
Ian wasn’t at all sure he was going to like it.
Ian had never had much of a sense of direction, but he was sure they had worked their way far inwards from the entrance to the ductwork where he and Hosea crouched. The entrance tunnel had terminated in a sideways T; one shaft, footholds carved into its surface, led up. Whispering so quietly that he had to put his lips to Ian’s ear, Hosea had admonished him never to take that one, as the way gradually led to what Hosea called a mousetrap.
The other shaft, sides polished smooth, became a slide that twisted down and in, and dumped them off in a small circular room, lit by reflected light from somewhere up above. Hosea had reached up to the ceiling and manipulated a carving; the ceiling swung down and became a set of stairs that led up to another tunnel, to a crawlway that narrowed until Ian had to take off his pack and push it ahead of him as he crawled on his belly, getting stuck for a moment on a rise in the floor, feeling the weight of the whole City pressing down on him, suppressing the waves of panic, forcing himself to breathe out, out, out, until his chest narrowed enough that his toes could find purchase to push him through; climbing, and crawling, and sliding, and creeping, feeling like a rat in the walls of a god’s house, until a hidden door dumped him out onto what felt like an honest-to-God airshaft, to follow Hosea along on hands and knees, toward where light splashed onto the floor of the airshaft.
Hosea held a long finger in front of his lips as he crouched in front of a latticework. Directly beneath him was what looked like an empty opera box, overlooking a sandy arena.
A gentle breeze blew in through the latticework, bringing him vague smells of distant perfumes, and something peaty that he couldn’t quite identify, while the sounds of an excited crowd babbling to itself filled his ears.
And below, on the floor of the arena, Torrie, stripped to shorts and sandals, accompanied by three men, faced off against a pair of swordsmen.
Hosea looked at Ian. Now it comes, he said, his mouth moving silently. Do you trust me? Can you trust me?
With what, dammit? he mouthed back. You’ve deliberately not told me what this is all about, and you’re not telling me anything now.
True enough, Ian Silverstone, Hosea said. But can you trust me now, to follow my lead, to do as you’re told, knowing that the risk is great, but the rewards real?
And if I can’t trust you?
Hosea held out the leather bag that contained the rest of the apple sausages Freya had prepared.
Do you trust her?
Hosea dumped out a pile of apple sausages, setting them carefully aside, then pulled out the sole remaining contents of the package: a small object, wrapped in silken cloth. Hosea placed it in Ian’s hand.
His fingers trembling, Ian unwrapped it.
It was a small wooden carving, that was all. But it was of a fencer in sixte, his face covered by a mesh mask.
Hosea fitted a miniature sword into the fencer’s hand. No, not sword—it was a foil, the blade a slim sliver of flexible steel. And the fencer—he was too skinny, really, although that was masked in part by the fullness of his fencing tunic and the short trous—
Ohgod. It’s me.
Do you trust her? Hosea mouthed. Do you accept that Freya wishes you well, and has told you to be yourself, to be what you are—
There’s a lot you aren’t telling me, Ian said.
I’ll tell you this, Hosea said. There’s to be confrontation here, and you are the last, best chance of winning it. Not Torrie, not me. You.
You’re not worth much, are you? his father said in the back of Ian’s head. The old man doesn’t know shit, or he wouldn’t be relying on you. Probably doesn’t. Probably going to sacrifice you in some sort of squeeze play. Probably all you’re worth.
Do it now, Ian thought, then said: “Do it now.” There was no point in whispering, not anymore.
And by God that felt good.
Hosea gestured toward the latticework. “I’ll be with you in but a moment.”
A couple of faces below had turned up, staring wide-eyed at the grillwork; Ian set his back against the side of the duct, and kicked out hard once, twice, three times.
The metal grillwork squealed in protest, then snapped, and fell away.
Thousands of eyes were on Ian Silverstein as he dropped lightly to the floor of the box below.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Duelist
Torrie had just finished his stretches when the other three showed up. The wheel-shaped fencing studio was high in one of the towers—it was a slice right through the tower, entered and exited by the central spiral staircase. Underneath the thin rattan matting that covered the floor, there were almost certainly secret entrances to one or more of the sets of runnels that honeycombed the City, but they were under the matting and Torrie wasn’t, and the occasional visits from the guards posted on the floors above and below were more than enough to prevent any extended searching.
Sunlight streamed in through the barred windows on the sunny side, while the windows opposite had been shuttered, perhaps to keep the wind from blowing too hard. He could have opened them, but he didn’t. That would be the last thing Torrie would need, to work up a sweat and then get his muscles all stiff and slow from a cold wind.
He reracked the practice sword he had been using, and dropped to the mat for another series of stretches, trying; to keep himself patient. There was nothing he could do for Mom, Dad, and Maggie here and now, and if he didn’t win tonight, there would be nothing he could do for anybody.
So he pasted a calm expression on his face.
His workout had been just enough to loosen his muscles and warm them, not long enough to tire himself. That was the trick of a prematch workout, after all, whether the reward was a mass-produced trophy or getting to breathe for another day: make it long enough to warm you, but not long enough to tire you.
This was different, though. A tournament was a series of bouts, each one of which would last only minutes, with plenty of time if you won to consider your next bout, and maybe to check out your next opponent; if you lost, even more time to watch the others, look for a telltale habit or weakness.
There would be none of that today, which was why Torrie had asked Thorian del Orvald to be one of his seconds.
His three seconds arrived in company: Thorian del Orvald, moving painfully but precisely, dressed in gray and black, his eyepatch still the same white linen it had been this morning; Ivar del Hival, a big bear of a man, his large chest and larger belly encased in a brown and green tunic, buckled tightly at the waist with his swordbelt; and Branden del Branden, trim form and freshly trimmed beard, a light tan overtunic covering an almost impossibly white, blousy shirt.
Torrie stood. “Thank you all for coming.”
Thorian del Orvald smiled precisely as he leaned against a rattan-shrouded pillar, trying to look casual, rather than in pain. “What is it that you wish of me, Thorian del Thorian the Younger?”
“Well, for one thing,” Torrie said, “I’d like you to call me Torrie, like my grand—like my other grandfather does. Like everybody else does.”
Again, a precise smile that spoke of amusement, if only a little, and of self-control, as much as would be required.
“Agreed, certainly, Torrie. And this, perhaps, is why you chose me?” The smile didn’t quite broaden as much as it seemed to become more sincere.
“No.” Torrie shook his head. “I’d like your help. I won’t have the chance to”—there wasn’t a Bersmal word for “scout”—“to analyze the techniques of Stanar del Brunden. Does he have any preferences, habits, mistakes I might take advantage of?”
The duelmaster shook his head. “No, nothing of the sort. Oh,” he said, with a precise flick of his hand, “perhaps he thinks a trifle more strategically than tactically, but he’s no more likely to be brought down by a simple feint-high-and-outside-then-
lunge-low-and-inside than he is by a Carpacian Attack.” He stroked his beard with two fingers. “He’s absolutely mechanical in a first-blood bout—I’ve never seen him go for a body touch when an arm or leg touch was available—and opportunistic in moderated affairs.” The bony shoulders moved up and down, once. “I’ve not seen him in a death battle; such things are, despite your circumstances, rare. There are young peasant boys who have played with sticks and think themselves swordsmen trying to challenge themselves into what they admiringly call the House of Steel all the time, but it’s been more than a dozen years since one was good enough or obnoxious enough to put a guildsman to the trouble of actually killing him.”
Ivar del Hival whistled through his teeth. “I’ve sparred with Stanar del Brunden, as I have with most guildsmen who have passed through here—”
The guildmaster smiled. “And rarely scored from them.”
Ivar del Hival grunted. “I’m an ordinary of the House of Flame, with two peasant villages to supervise, and little enough time to try to find myself a new wife, much less spend endless hours sparring, as I used to with your son.”
“Unfortunate. As it might be unfortunate for you to involve yourself in this matter.” Thorian del Orvald touched a fingertip to an earlobe, then to the corner of his good eye. It could have been accidental, or it could have meant that Ivar del Hival should be concerned about being overheard or even seen.
“Pfah. I’m not worried. And if we be overheard, let them hear that I’m unworried.” Ivar del Hival turned to Torrie. “His Warmth’s feelings about it don’t need to concern either His Warmth or me. My family has been loyal to the House of Fire as long as fire has burned; I can still second an old friend’s son, and am honored to have been asked.” His bow was formal; Torrie returned it with one equally formal, equally stiff.
“What I don’t understand,” Branden del Branden said, “is why me?”
Torrie blinked. Branden del Branden’s face was perhaps a shade paler than it had been, and there was a bead of perspiration on his face, just above his mustache.
He was scared. He was trying to act somewhere between irritated and insouciant, but he was scared.
Why would he be scared? Unless—
Torrie shrugged. “Because I thought we might become friends, before the bout with Danar del Reginal, and because I did nothing to … betray that beginning friendship.” Torrie took up a practice sword, and gave it a few tentative swings. “I was supposed to be killed—”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said that before, and—”
“And before,” Torrie said, working it out aloud, knowing where it was leading, “I thought it was His Warmth. But how would the Fire Duke know that his dogs were going to capture not one Thorian del Thorian, but two? When would Danar del Reginal receive his commands from the Fire Duke? No; that doesn’t make sense.” He tossed the practice sword to Ivar del Hival, and accepted the sword that Uncle Hosea had made, the needle point nevertheless strong, the sharp edge cured in Uncle Hosea’s own blood.
It wasn’t Torrie’s own sword—he had placed that in Maggie’s hands, hoping that it would serve her well—but it would do.
Torrie raised it in salute. “I’ve been thinking about it, and trying to decide who would have a reason, and what that reason might be.” He dropped the point of his sword. “Maggie is rather pretty, isn’t she? And somewhat exotic, by local standards—the short hair, the slightly upturned nose, the sharpness of her chin and her wit—”
Branden del Branden’s lips were almost white. “And what might you be suggesting?”
“I am suggesting,” Torrie said, “that it would not be the first time that a man has killed for a lovely face, or suggested to a friend that he do so, playing down the sort of training that I could have gotten in the Newer World.” Torrie sliced his blade through the air, tentatively, not looking Branden del Branden in the face. “Me dying would leave Maggie without a protector, and while her status is uncertain, her attractiveness is not. Her rank could be discussed later, with His Warmth; but in the interim, the only man interested in defending her honor or person would be my father, and he would be too busy, eh? If it turned out that her rank was insufficient, she could be dropped like a peasant girl; but if it was sufficient, if she was of high rank, well, then, an up-and-coming ordinary of the House of Flame could well find his stature increased by such a marriage.”
“Be careful what you say, Thorian del Thorian,” Branden del Branden said.
“Exquisitely, Branden del Branden,” Torrie said. “Entirely. I wouldn’t want to accuse somebody of something so dishonorable … unless I were sure, that is.” He smiled. “I’m not even sure it was dishonorable. Danar del Reginal seemed eager enough to provoke me, and Maggie and I were trying to make it appear that we didn’t get along, and that might persuade a decent man that she needed rescuing—”
“Ah.” Thorian del Orvald nodded. “It seems you do have at least a vague sense of strategy, young Thorian del Thorian. With the Exquisite Maggie appearing to be of less value to you, she was less of a lever as a hostage.” The duelmaster raised his eyebrow. “And what had you planned to make your mother seem less valuable?”
“I hadn’t worked that out.”
“Pity.”
Branden del Branden had regained the self-control that had slipped for just a moment. “And so, you wished to have me as your second so that you could taunt me with vague accusations? And that is it?”
“No,” Torrie said. “I wanted you as one of my seconds so we could make peace between the two of us.” I’ve few enough friends here, and the reason you’re mad at me is because you have wronged me, and I want that over.
One way or another.
“And if not?” Branden del Branden asked.
“If not,” Torrie said, his sword in his hand, his feet placed properly, at right angles to each other, “there are four of us here. Pick your second, and pick up your sword, if you’ll not accept my hand in friendship.”
Branden del Branden was silent for a long time.
Torrie sheathed his sword with a snap, and held out his hand. “Take your pick, Branden del Branden.”
Branden del Branden closed with a step and a half that could have been a lunge, and his hand closed on Torrie’s forearm while Torrie’s closed on his. His grip was strong, and his nod seemed genuine.
“You should be able to beat Stanar del Brunden,” he said, releasing Torrie. “I’ve seen both of you fence—your wrist is definitely faster; I’ve seen its equal only rarely.” He picked up a practice sword.
Thorian del Orvald raised an eyebrow. “An ordinary of the House of Flame paying more attention to a duelist than does the duelmaster? Will the wonders of this day never cease?”
“Please, Thorian del Orvald.” Branden del Branden made a complicated gesture, part bow, part salute, part dismissal. “You are the duelmaster for the whole guild, and have little time to pay attention to your individual duelists. Stanar del Brunden is the favored duelist of His Solidity, and His Solidity often has disputes with His Warmth; for an ordinary of the House of Flame to pay attention to his strengths and weaknesses is unsurprising, if that ordinary has a lick of ambition.”
“Ambition.” Ivar del Hival grunted. “More than a lick, I’d wager,” he said.
Branden del Branden picked up a practice sword. “His opening moves are often like this …”
Underneath some flowery essence, sprayed about with a heavy hand, the amphitheater smelled of death, Torrie thought, then decided he was being too dramatic.
Then again: he was about to fight a professional duelist to the death; perhaps he should allow himself a bit of drama.
But it didn’t feel dramatic. It just felt scary, but underneath the fear, there was a feeling that Torrie recognized, a sensation of competency he felt whenever he walked onto a fencing strip; whenever he climbed up to a deer stand; whenever he put his foot in the stirrup, his hand on the saddlehorn, and lifted himself to Jessie’s back: a sensation of this I ca
n do; the doing of this doesn’t just belong to me, but is part of me.
He smiled. He had once said something like that to Uncle Hosea before they went for a ride, and of course that was the time that Jessie had been startled by a woodchuck and threw him.
Torrie had stripped down to shorts and shoes; he gave a few tentative stretches before bending over to check his laces, not paying any attention to where Stanar del Brunden and his seconds waited, halfway across the amphitheater.
Keep it the same, he told himself. Yes, instead of cotton, the laces of his boots were of layered leather, stitched together by clever Vestri hands, but he fastened them with the same bow-and-knot. Yes, the match would end with blood on the floor, but it would depend on his eye and wrist, on the springiness of his thighs, and most importantly on his mind. Fencing was a sport of the mind, played out with the body. The mind had to be clear and unencumbered, calm as the surface of a quiet pond, ready to have the body react before it even knew what it was doing.
Thorian del Orvald eyed the edge of Torrie’s sword with a practiced eye. “A fine weapon,” he said, slipping a guard over the tip and bending it into a wide U—the old man was stronger than he looked.
He let it straighten and sighted down the blade again. “A fine one, indeed.” He clapped a hand to Torrie’s shoulder. “Fight well, young Thorian del Thorian; you seem to be a fine young man yourself, well-tempered and well-mannered; I would hope to have the chance to get to know you.”
Torrie’s mouth was dry; he couldn’t quite force the smile he knew he should. “Thank you, Grandfather.”
“Don’t worry about him, about me, about anything,” Ivar del Hival scowled, as he towered above Torrie. “Just keep your head about you, and take his.”
Branden del Branden’s jaw was set. “I’ve given you all that I can. Do well, friend,” he said.
Torrie moved a few steps away from them, more aware of a strong urge to piss than anything else.
He raised his sword in salute—
* * *
There was the squealing of metal above, and something, fell to the floor of the amphitheater. Somebody—Ian, by God!—crawled out of a hole in the wall above the box opposite His Warmth, and dropped first to the floor of the box, then to the floor of the amphitheater itself, taking up the shock easily with his long legs.
The Fire Duke Page 29
