“The largest obstacle, from what I can see, is that they will not think you – a new-come country knight from the far Mindens – as serious in your negotiations. Nor, as you are aware, is it seemly for a gentleman to discuss such things in the light of day. So you must walk the line between powerfully earnest and determined, but utterly laconic. If the judges think there might be a deal in the offing to fix the bout . . .”
Sir Cei looked startled. “You’re right, Magelord – no need to get disqualified. Nor would I do less than my best in the tournament, even if it meant the surety of her hand. But I take the wisdom of what you say. I shall demonstrate my earnestness, but I shall speak of nothing but the lists. Today is a day when Duin the Destroyer guides my hand!” he said, fiercely.
“They’re so cute when they get like that!” Alya whispered with a giggle in my ear, as Sir Cei’s armorers began the process of wrapping him in steel.
It wasn’t an hour after I left Alya and the squires to finish armoring Cei that my messengers returned, each of them looking thoughtful and pleased with themselves.
“It is done,” Sagal nodded, looking a little pale. Only a new-made Yeoman, he was playing in social politics far above his ken, and that made him uncomfortable. That was fine – I wanted him to learn such things, as he had more sense than most and complete loyalty to me, two gifts I would not see tarnished with misuse. “Sire Mavoxigon was surprised to hear of Sir Cei’s dedication to the contest. He did not seem eager to consider that outcome.”
“Sir Jinsalan went beyond surprised,” Tyndal told me, wryly, “he was appalled. ‘It is only a bloody contest, after all,’ he said, and while a dedicated and devoted contestant—
“I understand,” I nodded, smiling. “He has no desire to see things get . . . out of hand.”
“He’s far more concerned about the tournament in Funis in two weeks than he is about this,” Sir Festaran agreed earnestly. “He wanted to start sending his retinue out tonight, just to see that they get a good seating there.”
I sighed. That was about as much preparation as we’d get. Either this would work . . . or it wouldn’t.
“All right, Tyndal I want you to take care of Sir Cei’s tack: see every strap is tight and fit, and if you use a few binding cantrips to keep them from slipping, I won’t say anything to Sir Cei if you don’t. Then I want you to go into the arming tents and order three new war lances – not tournament lances, real, sharp war lances – to be delivered to his station in the lists by noon.
“Festaran, I want you to take Sir Cei’s sword – his war sword, not his tournament sword – into the fairgrounds to find a man to sharpen it. Pay good money, make sure you tell plenty of people who it belongs to but don’t mention why. Uh. . . Sagal, you think you can play an obnoxious peasant?”
My brother-in-law chuckled. Of course he could – just ask my sister-in-law.
“Then I want you on the opponent’s end, heckling. Here’s a purse, get good and soused if you have to – don’t worry, I’ll make it good with Ela. Don’t violate the fair oath, but shout every little obnoxious thing you can say, as loud as you can say it, just up to the point where they’d chase you. Keep them on edge.
“Banamor, you do the same . . . magically. Don’t do anything to actually, technically, cheat, mind you – but if a footwizard like yourself can’t think of a hundred annoying cantrips you could use, you aren’t worthy of the name. Everyone got their assignments? Then go . . . and we’ll see just how certain we can make the outcome.
Alya took extra time to dress and prepare that morning, since we would be spending the day at the lists. Darishi was in charge of the baby, and there were a few other retainers who wanted to attend in our company – including Sir Roncil, who was betting heavily on his fellow knight, and Sir Forondo, who had been unceremoniously knocked out in the first round. We also invited Sir Sigalan of Trestendor and his sister Lady Sarsha to sit with us, since they had already seen the fair and were at odds for entertainment.
Once I got our spectators and our agents safely under way, I helped oversee the last of Sir Cei’s armoring, while Tyndal saw to his charger.
“I have faced certain death and defeat,” he said calmly and slowly as he settled his gambeson on over his bare chest. “I have faced hordes of goblins and sneering outlaws. And never have I felt so anxious about a contest.” It was one of those rare moments where he was looking to me for support and guidance, and I realized another burden that comes with nobility. The duty to inspire and invest your people with your confidence.
“Calm yourself, Cei,” I encouraged, as casually as I could. “The fortunes and the gods are with you. Just don’t be distracted by the glint of the prize and fail to strike true with your lance.”
“Bah! She is no prize, she is a woman – gracious, beautiful, warm and lovely. She is only five years my junior, Minalan, and she has a little girl already from her first husband.”
I blinked. He’d called me by name, no title, a breach of familiarity that was noteworthy. This was unexpected. “When a man goes through . . . what we’ve been through, it changes him. It places his life in proper perspective. Surely you understand.”
“Well, certainly,” I said, smiling. “But perhaps you could be more specific,” I said, helping him strap his shoulder pauldrons on.
“When I was at Boval, I was a young man, a knight with an important post and a prosperous future. In due time, when I had the means, I’d planned to begin the search for a bride within the next year -- but Sheruel, damn his empty eyes, intervened. I had my duty to look to, then. And then I had to see the Bovali refugees were settled, as I had pledged to do on my honor.
“But then seeing you and Lady Alya at your wedding, and all of the unions at Sevendor . . . it makes a man wonder what he might leave behind him, when his body lies cold on the field.”
I studied him thoughtfully. “You are one morbid son-of-a-bitch, Cei,” I observed. “That’s perhaps the dullest, least-romantic argument for love I’ve ever heard.”
It didn’t faze him, as I knew it wouldn’t. Knights are just like that.
“You have given me far more opportunity at Sevendor than I deserve, Minalan. Far more than you should have, considering how foolishly I behaved in Boval.
“But . . . now that I have a stake at fortune, the gods have seen fit to put in my path a prize far more glorious than mere honor or duty. Mayhap they have given me a test, a test that I might win with my arm what my heart would slay thousands for.”
“She really had an effect on you,” I said, shaking my head in amazement as I stuck his riding gloves into his belt. His armorers were just strapping on his grieves, as Tyndal led his mount up, freshly curried and gleaming.
“It is not her beauty, although that would be enough,” Sir Cei said quietly. “There are fairer maidens, true; nor is it the richness of her holding. An apiary is no mean prize but there are wealthier widows. It is . . . Minalan, she begged me that if it came to a choice between harming myself on the lists or pressing my case to my death, as I told her I would do, she begged that I yield . . . not out of fear, but out of concern from some love she bears for me.” He looked guilty at the admission.
“Cei, are you sure?” I asked, a little confused. Maybe she was just giving him a line of bullshit.
“Lady Estret told me that of all the combatants on the lists, it was clear that I, alone, was a worthy gentleman, the sort she would see for a father to her child . . . and her children to come. And that she would not have me throw away my life so senselessly in pursuit of . . . of the likes of her, a poor widow. She would prefer a loveless marriage to a tournament hero than the thought of my blood on her hands.”
Oh. Well, that made a little more sense. In the mad, twisted logic of femininity.
“Then you have to ignore her,” I advised. “Of course she has to say that – she really does like you, if my wife is any judge. But do not let her plea weaken your resolve. So ignore her counsel and do what you know what must be done. You face but two oppon
ents.”
“Two mighty opponents,” he reminded me, concerned.
“Mighty? Only if you believe the jongleurs. I wouldn’t be worried about Sir Mavoxigon,” Tyndal said, nonchalantly, as he held Sir Cei’s steed. “That bay destrier of his looks fierce, and he rides well, but his left hind shoe has been loose all day, and no one has bothered to fix it. That means he isn’t getting good firm grounding on that side when he couches to charge. He’ll be weak on his shield arm, and ripe to take a lance.”
Sir Cei nodded in understanding, considered silently if it would be chivalrous to use such intelligence, and then nodded firmly.
“See? Fortune favors you already,” I soothed the big knight as I slipped his snowflake snowstone pendant over his head and helped him mount on his charger. “Now, why don’t you two head up to the list field to get checked in and I’ll see you in the stands. Duin’s strength with you today, my friend!” I said, clapping him on his armored thigh. He gave me a meaningful look before he rode off, looking just a little love-drunk and dazed. I hoped he could find his way to the lists.
I hurried to pack a basket and head up to the list field myself, and found our party with no great difficulty. Alya purchased a prominent section of the stands for us and arrayed quilts and blankets on the hard pine logs to the point where they were merely uncomfortable, not tortuous.
She had directed the two servants she’d brought to erect a small canopy over the baby against the sun and wind. There was also a big hamper of sweetmeats, fruits and biscuits and another one of ales and wines and cool water she had brought from camp. Sire Sigalan and his sister were our guests, and they were already enjoying biscuits and honey with hot tea in the mid-morning sun when I arrived.
“This will be the finest entertainment I’ve enjoyed in a while,” I said, as I settled into the delightfully cushioned seat that had been prepared for me. “I just had to give Sir Cei a pep-talk,” I added to Sire Sigalan, knowingly. “He’s a bit nervous.”
“As well he should be,” Sigalan agreed with a smile. “He did phenomenally well on the lists yesterday. The joust is not my strength, but I have a keen enough eye to see his style is . . . compelling.”
“My brother is unjust,” Lady Sarsha objected. “Your castellan rolled through these summer warriors like they were children riding llamas,” his sister said, less diplomatically and more enthusiastically. “I never noted how handsome Sir Cei was until I saw him throw his helmet in bloodlust, after winning his second bout.” That made Sir Roncil glance sharply in her direction.
“I’m sorry I missed that,” I admitted, truthfully.
It was still early in the day, and the Baron wanted to ensure everyone who’d paid his entrance fee got their money’s worth. We got to see roving bands of clowns and jugglers skitter gingerly around the lists, stopping periodically to cut a caper or to hurl hilarious insults at the audience. We had a bowl full of pennies at hand to reward the cleverest.
Then we got to see the last three bouts of the Squire’s Tournament, in which the un-spurred contended for glory, honor, and title to a pregnant sow. While amateurish even to my untrained eye, it was entertaining purely because of the earnest looks on the jousters’ faces. The youngest among them was fourteen, a squire from Sashtalia, who ended up taking the day three lances to two over a hulking sixteen-year-old from Sendaria.
We enjoyed another flight of clowns and jugglers, and then vendors purveying everything from sausages and sugarloafs to candied pears to warm ale or cold cider descended upon the stands. While they were transacting business, a troop of ten acrobats entertained from a trestled stage.
It was midmorning, and I was having a very good time. The weather was perfect, just a little cool, and the birds and the insects seemed to conspire to entertain us, not annoy us. Flirting lightly with Alya, playing with the baby, having someone else change the baby, getting to know the soft-spoken Sire Sigalan and learning to appreciate his wisdom and intellect, and delighting in his sister’s sharp humor – I was as relaxed and at ease as I’d been in ages. I wasn’t even dwelling on the unpleasant news from Alshar I’d gotten at dawn. I felt at peace.
Of course someone would have to wander by and fuck that up.
“I see Arathanial keeps all the bandits in one place, then,” came a familiar, if unwelcome voice. We turned around to see the scowling countenance of Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria, looming behind us. He had a small retinue of five or six knights and squires, including his elderly advisor, Sir Bromul. While his sword was tied with the Peace Knot, there were daggers in his eyes.
“Oh, Sire Gimbal, our benefactor!” I said, immediately on alarm. I considered sending mind-to-mind to Tyndal for support, but relaxed. I couldn’t imagine Gimbal starting anything here, when it would be seen as both discourteous and punishable, particularly not around my child. If he did, I’d burn him to a crisp.
“Benefactor?” he asked, confused.
“Yes, we’re using the proceeds from the ransoms you have so graciously paid to fund our outing,” I said, delivering the insult pleasantly. I didn’t need to even pretend to like the man. Alya stared daggers right back at him – sharper, more feminine daggers. Sire Sigalan and his sister just held their breath. “Do feel free to send even more mercenaries to our frontiers . . . I have so many new constructions to fund!”
“Using magic and treachery against honest warriors is no way to fight,” the Warbird growled.
“Harassing honest peasants on their way to market is not, either,” I said. “But I am new to the chivalry. Perhaps I’ve been misinformed.”
“You speak to me of chivalry? I know not what goes on beyond that sorcerous wall of yours,” Sire Gimbal grumbled, leaning on the rail, “but the lights and portents . . . the peasants all whisper of your abominations. It is evil at work, and all the Bontal knows it!”
“It’s magic at work, you ignorant lout,” Lady Alya said sassily. “When your folk need more daylight to plow, you beat them and fine them. When our folk need a few extra hours of light to tend the fields, we provide it for them.”
“It is unnatural!” he protested.
“That’s the point,” I stressed. “Sevendor is a mageland, now. We do things differently there. Magic is our servant, from lord to villein, and all prosper accordingly. Thus it should be throughout the magelands, in the future.”
“Bah! It is illegal and an abomination,” countered Sir Bromul. “The gods weep at the sight! The lords of our realm will never stand for it!”
“If they don’t, then the lords of the realm are going to be short, black, and furry,” I riposted. “You cannot fight against the Dead God without us. Or do you think you have the eggs to slay a dragon, Warbird?” That made Gimbal go pale, a bit. By now everyone had heard about the day of the dragons in Gilmora.
“Regardless, it is an insult to our noble ancestors that upstarts like you – a baker’s son, a peasant-mage, a spellmonger – that you should rule on our borders. It will not be endured, not while I draw breath. Mark my son’s face, will you? Steal my lands, will you? You shall learn what it is to challenge the proper order of things. There are traditions in the Riverlands and one does not attack those traditions lightly!”
“Like the tradition of your brother and you cowardly attacking Baron Arathanial’s kin in creating your ‘West Fleria?’” asked Lady Sarsha, acidly. “Like the tradition of taking secret counsel with the Lord of Sashtalia and depriving the rightful lords of Trestendor their holdings? Burning villages, slaying peasants, bullying merchants – is that the noble Riverlands tradition you uphold, Warbird?” Sigalan’s sister was bold, far more bold that I’d usually seen a noblewoman be in such discussions.
“As the lady has mentioned, things change,” I observed. “A noble house can be beset by upstarts, and a thieving warlord can be challenged by the good and righteous. Just like in the epics.”
The gods would have had to choose that time to send us a mummer’s show.
Not just any show – a merr
y gang of professional buffoons, which included a number of dwarfs and freakish-looking folk, tumbled into the list in front of us, pantomiming a spoof. About me, apparently.
The shortest of the midgets wore a spellmonger’s cap, and an over-long mantle that dragged the ground several feet behind him. He capered along until his way was blocked – by five ugly-looking men in checkered cloaks.
The cloaks were mere sackcloth hastily-painted with black squares, and the “wands” of the ersatz Censors were a comic variety of sausages, axe handles, feather dusters, and knitting needles. The “Censors” surrounded the poor dwarf, until he seemed overwhelmed . . . then a comically heroic second midget appeared, bounding in a summersault over the censors, wielding a long loaf of bread. While the “mage knight” dueled sausage-to-bread with one, the “spellmonger” reached into his pants with great exaggeration . . . and withdrew a large, bright green ball. And then another.
In a delightful show of juggling and acrobatics, the two pelted the checkered-cloaked Censors into the ground. Then, at a silent command, they all stood stock still, while the overly-officious (yet clearly benevolent) Baron appeared, to take the Censors away. The mageknight broke his loaf and flung it into the crowd, and the spellmonger threw candy to the laughing children.
“Well done!” my wife screamed, applauding with the rest of our group, and throwing a fistful of pennies. Sure, it had been a blatant pander to us, but it had been genuinely witty. And it told me something more important.
“See, Warbird?” I said, gesturing at the mummers. “The people certainly know which side is in their interest.”
“In Sendaria, perhaps, under the Baron’s thumb,” he observed coolly. “They’d sing a different tune in West Fleria! We don’t forget insults there, nor do we forgive them!”
”Sire Gimbal, I’ve never sought a quarrel with you, but you seem to crave one. Whether I’d enjoy your enmity or not, it departs the road of wisdom for you to seek one with me. I am powerful, and not merely in magic. I have powerful friends, Dukes among them. Yet you persist . . . for no better reason, I can see, than your guilt and your blemished honor.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 56
