by J. L. Doty
“What?” Olivia screeched.
Morgin turned carefully toward her. “This man is under Elhiyne guestright.”
“By whose word?” she demanded.
“By my word.”
“He is a common criminal.”
“According to the word of a Penda,” Morgin said. “And I do not know that the Penda speaks truly. But I do know that I owe this swordsman my life.”
“You deceived us.”
“There was not time to consult you.”
“Perhaps not at first,” the old witch snarled angrily. “But there was more than enough time after the fact.”
Roland was close by Morgin’s side. He whispered, “Don’t anger her further, son.”
Morgin nodded, caste his eyes downward, conceding Olivia the point. “I make no excuses for my own actions. But your displeasure should be with me, and not this innocent swordsman. The fact remains that he is under the protection of Elhiyne guestright, granted to him freely by me, and each moment he is held in bondage so, dishonors not only me, but all of House Elhiyne.”
Olivia sat on her throne staring at him, her eyes narrow and pinched, the godlight sparkling in their depths as it always did when her anger became strongly aroused. Morgin could feel it, sense it, a thing to fear.
Then it was suddenly gone, and she smiled at him warmly, an honest open smile, as if she approved of his tactics. She turned to the armsmen guarding France. “My grandson’s point is well taken. Release the swordsman.”
A clansman stepped forward instantly, displaying a small knife. He cut France’s bonds and helped him to his feet. The swordsman bowed deeply and somehow, even in a beggar’s rags, faced the old woman with quiet dignity. “Thank you, milady,” he said, with no trace of his usual accent.
“You must forgive us, swordsman,” Olivia said. “Had my grandson bothered to inform us of his actions, you would not have been detained so. As it was . . .” She nodded, indicating the rags he wore. “Under the circumstances I’m sure you’ll understand our misgivings.”
France bowed again. “Of course, madam.”
“As for the beggar and the stable boy.” Olivia eyed them narrowly. “It appears they were only obeying my grandson’s instructions. Is that so, Morgin?”
Morgin nodded, knowing that now was the time for silence, fully aware that he’d gained all he would gain this day.
“The fault, then, lies with my grandson. Release the beggar and the stable boy unpunished. We will condemn no man for merely obeying the House of Elhiyne. And give the beggar a hot meal to send him on his way.”
The beggar stood and bowed immediately. “Ah thank ye, milady,” he said, backing out of the room, almost crawling. “Ah thanks ye, me does.”
The Tulalane leaned aside to whisper something in Olivia’s ear. Olivia smiled, looked France over carefully. “I am told you are a master of weapons, swordsman.”
“Not all weapons, madam,” France said, still with no trace of a common accent. “Merely the sword, milady, and its accompaniments.”
“Truly a swordsman then?” she asked.
He nodded politely.
“Well then, vagabond. How good of a swordsman are you?”
France spoke without hesitation. “The best, madam.”
“You claim to be the best among all commoners?”
France shook his head. “I make no qualifications, madam. I am merely the best. No more. No less.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow skeptically. “You claim, then, to be the best swordsman among all men, commoner and clansmen alike?”
“As I said, I am the best.”
Morgin was not alone in his astonishment. For one to speak to the Lady Olivia in such a cavalier fashion was rank stupidity. All there well knew her anger.
Her eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe that.”
France shrugged, bowing slightly. “As you wish, madam. But do not confuse magic with swordsmanship. A clansman may win a duel using his magic, but that does not mean he is the better swordsman, merely the better wizard.”
To Morgin’s utter surprise, Olivia smiled. “A point well taken, swordsman. But if you are so skillful, and not merely arrogant, why did you allow yourself to be taken by my armsmen?”
France held his hands out, palms upward, and cocked his head slightly, a faintly polite smile at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you might forgive a little arrogance, milady. But killing your armsmen . . .”
“Indeed! And do you think you could have succeeded?”
“In killing armsmen, madam?”
“In that. Or in whatever else you might have chosen to do.”
France shrugged. “One never knows.”
Olivia’s brows shot up. “There is some doubt? The best of all swordsmen doubts his own ability?”
“No, madam. You misunderstand me. I doubt my ability not in the least, but nothing is ever certain. Chance is always waiting in the wings to lend a hand, or create a misstep. Sometimes it is wiser to place your trust in others, and since I have committed no crime here, I felt I could trust myself to your justice.”
“You felt you had a better chance with my justice.”
“Perhaps,” he answered. The faint smile returned to his lips. “Even making that decision is a chancy thing at best, milady.”
“And if you thought that my justice might be too harsh for your tastes?”
“Then, madam, I suppose I might seek justice elsewhere.” He finished with a polite smile, a nod of the head, and a deep bow.
Olivia laughed suddenly. “Well, swordsman, you were right. Arrogance I can forgive, but of course, not murder. Would you care to demonstrate this great skill of yours?”
“If that is your wish, madam, it would be my pleasure.”
“Very well,” she said, standing. “You shall fight our best swordsman: the Tulalane.”
The Tulalane grinned a wide, toothy smile, and Morgin had no doubt the twoname had whispered that thought in the old witch’s ear.
A servant was sent to bring France a pair of breeches, so he could be rid of the beggar’s rags. Others were sent to spread the word that a contest of swordsmanship would take place shortly in the practice yard, and that Olivia would begrudge no one a short break from a busy day’s work. The entire castle turned out to see the arrogant swordsman taught a lesson.
The practice yard, a large open square just within the main gate of the castle, was bordered on one side by the stone wall containing the gate, and on the other three by various buildings in the compound. Spectators crowded several deep along all four sides of the yard. They overfilled the parapets that lined the battlements high on the wall, and in the castle proper windows high and low were jammed to capacity with faces, all anticipating a few moments respite from the drudgeries of the workday. It was a fine, sunny, winter afternoon. The air had warmed. The snow had melted. The ground was dry.
France and the Tulalane limbered up carefully. Olivia gave them a few moments to do so, then stepped out into the middle of the yard and all fell silent. The old witch was always one for a show, and warmed up to a good audience quickly. After an appropriately dramatic pause, she said, “This is not a duel in anger, or revenge. He who draws the other’s blood first, will lose. The purpose of this duel is for each of you to demonstrate his skill with the sword. You will attempt to bring the tip of your sword as close to the other as possible, without drawing blood. No other weapon will be allowed, and you may not make bodily contact. The match will end on my command, or at first blood.”
The crowd gave a short round of applause in recognition of her shrewd choice of rules. The two men would be taxed to the utmost, forced to use their skills to the limit.
The applause died. Olivia looked at the two swordsmen. “Are there any questions?”
Hwatok Tulalane’s hawk face stretched into a broad smile, the scar on his left cheek puckering visibly. “I have no questions,” he said.
“None here, milady,” France said flatly. He bowed.
“Then begin,” Olivia cried, and walked from the yard with a flourish.
The two contestants bowed formally to each other, stepped back and raised their swords, then touched the two blades one to the other lightly. They paused for a motionless second, waiting, each silently daring the other to strike the first blow, and it was the Tulalane who moved. He cut low with lightning speed, then thrust high toward France’s face. But France, having moved with even greater speed, was no longer there.
France took the offensive then, testing the Tulalane’s reflexes, thrusting and slashing within inches of his skin. And while the magician parried each stroke, holding France’s sword at bay, backing across the yard, yielding ground slowly, grudgingly, it became obvious to all that France would not be the easy prey they had thought.
Both men were stripped to the waist, and as they danced about the yard playing their deadly game the Tulalane’s bulky muscles made him seem larger than life, yet at the same time trim and agile.
France, on the other hand, was a lean, wiry strap of leather, sun baked, tough and gristly. Where before he had stood so casually in front of Olivia, each muscle now seemed to hum like the string of a bow after the arrow has been struck on its way.
The Tulalane next took the offensive, changing the tempo of the match, backing France into the center of the yard. Their swords rang out in a constant din as France now appeared to be weakening. The Tulalane sensed victory; his eyes flashed greedily, but France, suddenly and without warning, quickened his back-step. The Tulalane charged forward to keep pace. France halted rock still, locked swords with the overbalanced magician and thrust against his weight. The larger man stumbled awkwardly. France’s sword leapt to within a hair’s breadth of his neck then sliced across his throat. The spectators gasped, thinking a death stroke had been delivered in a mere contest of skill. But as the two men separated, all could see that the Tulalane was untouched, bloodless. The audience gave France a rousing round of applause.
The Tulalane’s face turned an angry red. The two swordsmen reengaged, but now the Tulalane seemed just the slightest bit quicker, and all there who understood magic knew that the wizard had called upon his for speed. Then moments later the flavor of the match changed as he brought his sword through a long, flat arc aimed at removing France’s head. France ducked beneath it and the crowd murmured unhappily. The Tulalane attacked again, his eyes on fire with hate, the air about him glowing with magic. Morgin tried to catch Olivia’s eye, to stop what was about to become an execution, but she ignored him, looking delightedly on.
A gasp from the crowd brought Morgin’s attention back to the two contestants, locked chest to chest in combat. France fell backwards, the larger man falling on top of him, but France turned the fall into a roll, used his knees to throw the Tulalane over him and into the dust. And as both jumped to their feet, France stepped lightly beneath the Tulalane’s guard and cut him on the cheek.
Olivia cried out, “The contest is done.”
The Tulalane ignored her, even more angry than before, steam rising from his perspiration soaked shoulders. He thrust at France again, and their swords rang out once more.
“Halt I said,” Olivia cried. “I command it,” and all fell silent, for when she used that voice, not even the Tulalane dare disobey her.
The two swordsmen separated, and as they did so it appeared that the Tulalane’s old scar was bleeding of its own accord. Breathing heavily, still angry and almost in a rage, he looked at the old witch as if he might actually defy her.
Into the silence that followed she said calmly, “By the rules, Lord Hwatok has won this match.”
The Tulalane suddenly realized that according to the twisted rules laid down earlier, he had won. He grinned in triumph, while France bowed deeply from the waist in acknowledgement of that fact. But to all there it was clear that France was the better swordsman, and the audience broke into cheers and applause, many of the men whistling and stomping their feet.
Olivia stepped to the center of the yard and asked both swordsmen to take a bow. The cheers rang out anew. Then, as the acknowledged winner, she asked the Tulalane to take another. But while the Tulalane had won according to the rules, Morgin felt he had cheated by using his magic.
Olivia broke up the festivities quickly, reminding them all it was a day of work and not play. Then, with France and Morgin in tow, she led them back to the Hall of Wills. “Swordsman,” she said. “Your actions bear you out. In my lifetime I have seen none better, though I will not insult the Tulalane by acknowledging that when he is present. Would you consider taking service with House Elhiyne?”
France’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I must know what my duties will be before committing myself.”
“To serve as one of our lieutenants in battle.”
“Battle?” France asked. “But there has been no war for many years, madam.”
“And let us hope there will be none in the future,” Olivia said. “But there are always border skirmishes, and bandit holdings to clean out. And in between you might give lessons in the art of the sword.”
France started, scandalized. “I am no man to be teaching young boys how to fight with wooden blades.”
Olivia shook her head. “We have a weapons master for that. What I had in mind was one specific student.” She nodded toward Morgin. “My grandson here is sorely in need of a tutor. And his lack of skill is such that I fear only a master will do.”
France looked at Morgin, eyeing him as if he were a piece of steel whose quality must be judged. Morgin looked back, tried to say with his eyes, ‘Please. Would you?’
France smiled. “Very well, madam. I would accept such a responsibility. But before doing so we must discuss the price of my services.”
Chapter 10: The Fool
“No. No. No. No. No,” France bellowed. “I’m not teaching you how to duel, I’m teaching you how to fight.”
Morgin lifted his face out of the dirt of the practice yard and let France’s words sink in. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of it, the hilt of France’s sword had come crashing out of nowhere into the side of this head.
“Come on, lad,” France said more kindly. “Up with you now. Let’s try ‘er again.”
Morgin stumbled to his feet, though the ground swayed ominously beneath him. He thought back to the day France had first come to Elhiyne two years ago, and how then he’d wanted nothing more that such a tutor, and now he wanted nothing less. He raised his sword, but couldn’t hold it steady.
“Ahhh!” France screamed. “Ferget the damn rules, yer almighty lordship.” He reached out, put his finger on the tip of Morgin’s sword and pulled the point down. “Lower yer guard some. And square off yer shoulders more. This ain’t no duel and we ain’t fightin’ by no rules. If ya get the chance, kick me in the balls, ‘er punch out me eye.”
Morgin shook his head. France’s image seemed to ripple and sway in the hot spring sun.
France peered at Morgin carefully. His brow wrinkled, then he casually brushed Morgin’s sword aside and stepped in close to him. He reached out, pushed one of Morgin’s eyelids back and looked closely into his eye. Then he felt along the side of Morgin’s head.
“Ah! A nice bump there, lad. I give ya good one back there, eh?” France held his hand up in front of Morgin’s face, his fingers spread wide. “How many fingers you see?”
Morgin looked carefully at the swordsman’s hand, and instead of the usual six fingers he saw seven, then eight, then seven again. He closed his eyes, shook his head, groaned miserably.
“That’s what I thought,” France said. He slid his sword back into its sheath. “Put yer sword away, lad. Yer in no shape fer any more fightin’ today.”
France turned toward the porch. “Come on. Let’s get out of this sun.” He sat down in the shade near a leather bucket of water and Morgin sat down beside him. France drew a ladle of water from the bucket, sipped some and splashed the rest on his face. He dipped another ladle and handed it to Morg
in. “You see yer mother a little later about that head of yers. I don’t think yer hurt much, but she’s best to judge that.”
“I’m sorry,” Morgin said. “Rhianne’s coming today. I guess my mind’s just not on swords.”
France smiled. “Well now, lad, that’s the most encouraging thing I’ve heard you say. The ladies is as good a reason as any fer not thinkin’ about fightin’. Then again, sometimes it’s the ladies we do our fightin’ about, ain’t it?”
Morgin nodded. “Do you know why she’s coming?”
“Sure, lad. Everyone knows. The whole castle’s abuzz with it. You an’ the little lady are gonna get married, eh?”
“Yes,” Morgin said. “But not today. Father says we’ll sign the marriage contracts today. The wedding will be in the fall.”
“You don’t sound too awful excited about it, lad. I thought you liked that pretty little thing.”
Morgin shrugged. “I do. But I’m not sure she really likes me, not that way, though father says most marriages of high caste are political, to bind some interclan agreement, and they have nothing to do with what the bride and groom want.”
France dipped another ladle of water, sipped at it. “Is that how it is with you and the little lady?”
Morgin thought of the last time he’d seen Rhianne. She was always kind to him, and friendly, and polite, but her feelings for him ended there. She often sought him out, but to her he was just a friend whose company she enjoyed. She often said she’d much rather talk with him than with her gossipy girlfriends, and then she might proceed to tell him of her latest true love, her latest conquest: usually some handsome young lord born to one of the great houses of the Lesser Clans. So Morgin was careful to keep his feelings to himself, because every time he saw her he could think of no one else for days. She might laugh at him if he ever told her he was infatuated with her.
Morgin sighed, shook his head. “Yes and no. I rather like her, but I don’t think she knows I exist. I mean we’re friends, but not in that way. And besides, I didn’t even know about it until last month. I never really thought about marriage.”
