by Ari Marmell
“Bah!” The margrave slammed his cane into the wall—he’d been using the walking stick since falling ill last month, though he’d recovered enough that he scarcely needed it any longer—shaking the dust of old mortar loose from between the stones. “It’s asinine.”
“If you say so.”
Andarjin snarled something obscene and unkind, snatched a goblet from the cabinet—setting several of the other crystalline vessels rocking precariously—and poured it full to overflowing with the nearest decanter to hand, hoping to settle his churning gut. “And you! You couldn’t bring me any more details? ‘Everything’s the same.’ Not helpful, Zirresca!”
“So attend court yourself, Arj. You’re well enough again, most days.”
“Most days, yes! Today I wasn’t!”
“So today you get ‘everything’s the same.’ I promise you, if anything of import had occurred, I would tell you.”
“I’ll decide what’s important, Dame Zirresca!”
Slowly, meticulously, the knight stacked and straightened the parchments she had been examining. She laid them to one side, placing an inkwell atop them at the corner so they wouldn’t drift apart at the next opening of the door or passing of a body. Then, careful to make no noise, she scraped her chair back across the thin carpet and stood.
“Very well, then, my Lord. I most humbly offer my Lord my counsel, if he would do me the honor of hearing it?”
“Zirresca…”
Apparently she took that as permission to continue. “If you would be king, my Lord, it is not enough that you be clever, or educated, or cunning. You must also behave as a king.”
Andarjin bristled to do a porcupine proud. “I do behave as…” He stopped, took a breath. “Well, I normally do. I admit these past weeks have been… trying. My illness—”
“A king needs to know how to hide his weakness. I sympathize with your discomfort, but you cannot let it influence your behavior this way, my Lord.”
“Stop calling me—!”
“People are watching you, you know. Watching how you handle this. People such as her Highness.”
Andarjin went pale and stiff as petrified wood. “What has she said?”
“She’s said nothing about it to me specifically, but… You know that Prince Elias has been gathering a circle of advisors? That he’s openly admitted to them he needs their help if he’s to keep informed, to be able to make wise decisions when his time comes?”
“I’d heard rumors. What of it?”
“Princess Firillia was taken aback that her brother showed such self-awareness, and could put aside his pride enough to seek aid. I have every reason to believe she still thinks she’d make a better queen than he would a king, and that she still feels the support of Vidirrad—your support, and your mother’s—is integral to making that happen without violence.
“But it’s the only time since we first discussed the possibility, when we were all barely more than children, that I’ve heard from her even the slightest doubt, the tiniest inkling that perhaps her brother might make an acceptable sovereign after all. This is not the time to give her any cause to doubt you, Arj. Any at all.”
Andarjin turned, carefully placed his drink on the table, and then bowed. “I apologize for how I spoke to you, Zirresca. And your guidance is wise, as usual. Thank you.”
Behind the conciliatory smile he offered her, however—a smile that she faintly returned before going back to her report—the margrave’s mind raced. First that damned Nycolos, and now the royal idiot? How many people who should have been nothing were going to stand in his way?
He’d always had other plans, more dangerous and desperate plans, in case his current efforts failed to yield fruit. It wasn’t time to execute any of them, not yet, but he needed to sit down, review them, perhaps start preparing to make sure everything was in place. He needed to have options ready if there was any chance his pursuit of Princess Firillia, or her need for him, was under threat.
Any at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Summer faded, the days growing ever more pleasant and the nights increasingly chill. Leaves turned. The breezes passing through Talocsa came thick and redolent with the flavors of the harvest, the healthy aroma of felled grains and fresh crops and the heavier, less delightful odor as the leavings slowly rotted back into the soil.
And with the cooling of the season, the sporadic gentle rains that presaged the fiercer and colder weather to come, the bright blue skies ever more frequently flecked with grey, came his Majesty’s tournament.
Held yearly, save in times of war, it was a period of celebration, of competition, of parley and politics and planning. Nobles and their retinues came from across Kirresc, and even from other lands, for while Hasyan’s was not the only tourney to be held in the nations of southern Galadras, it was certainly the largest. Men and women challenged one another to all manner of martial competition, of course, but for many this was merely an excuse, a spectacle to be enjoyed while engaged in other, more pressing matters. Treaties and trade agreements were signed, marriages and alliances arranged, rivalries renewed, battle plans orchestrated. Nobles and gentry who dwelt nowhere near one another reestablished old acquaintances or met one another for the first time. Offspring were introduced to those peers among whom they would one day take their rightful place.
Musicians and entertainers, who had competed all year for the opportunity to perform at the tourney, made or broke their careers over the span of this hectic fortnight. Crafters sold wares enough to equal many months of normal business; hunters and cooks ran themselves ragged. Many of the common folk took a few days off work, some to watch the matches, others simply to enjoy the festive, holiday air. Restrictions on public drunkenness were relaxed (within reason), while both the larders of Oztyerva and the private hunting grounds of the king himself were briefly opened to all who wished to partake. (Again, within reason.)
For the servants who had to keep everyone happy and everything flowing smoothly, for the guards assigned to keep the peace, and for Denuel Jarta—who, as palatine, was responsible both for overseeing the arrangements of all visiting dignitaries and for effectively managing the kingdom while his Majesty attended the tournament and a thousand different meetings—these two weeks were sheer misery. For everyone else, they were supposed to be a delight.
Nycos hadn’t the first notion what to make of it all. He understood, intellectually, the need for knights and other warriors to practice their skills among the best Galadras had to offer, to feel as though they were noticed; the need for various nobles of various kingdoms to hobnob amongst themselves; even the need for the populace to have occasional opportunity to celebrate and escape their daily drudgery. For all that, though, it felt like nothing but a waste of energy, a chaotic and cacophonic mess that occasionally reached the level of physical discomfort.
That might have been the dragon within him talking—he, as with most of his kind, generally preferred solitude and periods of long rest between bursts of activity—but the fact that he was stuck as a human right now didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.
Such were his thoughts in general, and had been throughout most of the tournament thus far, but they were not his thoughts at this instant. No, at the moment, his head was full only of a dull pain, a flicker of embarrassment buried beneath the ashes of indifference, and the rich, heady smell of churned mud and horse manure.
Slow and aching, Nycos began to haul himself up from the dirt in which he’d landed, hard, only to find that his opponent—a fellow Kirresci knight, albeit from the court of Duke Gostav of Janu-Vala rather than here in Talocsa—had already dismounted and now held his sabre to Nycos’s throat.
“Yield!” the mail-clad warrior demanded from behind a mustache so thick it could have adorned the end of a broom.
Nycos nodded tiredly. “I yield.”
The other grinned, sheathed his sabre, and reached down a gauntleted hand. Keeping his grumbles internal, Nycos clasped it with his own and allowed
himself to be helped upright.
“That was a nasty fall, Sir Nycolos.”
“You wield a nasty lance, Sir Oclan.” He winced, flexing and rotating a sore shoulder and struggling to fake his opponent’s good humor. “Best hope we don’t meet again in the melee, though. You’ll find me a far less easy opponent on foot.”
“I look forward to finding out.” Oclan raised a finger to his helm, then turned to march from the list, accompanied by the cheers of his friends and the blaring of trumpets.
Nycos watched him go, then headed the other way, letting the pages and grooms chase down Avalanche.
He had barely passed between the stands, raised tiers of benches from which audience members could watch the jousts, when he felt the brush of soft fabrics and a small hand almost, but not quite, touching his own. “What happened, Nycos?”
He shrugged, still walking. “I don’t have much use for the lance. If I’m fighting from horseback, I far prefer the szandsya, or just my sabre. I have… not been keeping up practice with it as much as I probably ought. My hold on it was just a hair out of line, and Sir Oclan took full advantage.”
“It looked painful,” Mariscal said, gently mocking and genuinely concerned all at once.
“It wasn’t fun, but it’s not bad. I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Again her fingers just barely caressed his own without lingering. “You should find time to practice with the lance more, though.”
“Yes, and I’m quite certain I’ll be hearing that from Marshal Laszlan as well, only louder. Care to join me? He’ll likely be a tad politer with you present.”
“Are… If you’re sure you want me there?”
Much had improved between Nycos and Mariscal, but they still shied back around the edges of their interaction, each worried—albeit for different reasons, with different motivations—that an ill-chosen word might set things spiraling off in the wrong direction once more. It was yet another drain on Nycos’s patience, something else to tug at his attentions during what was already a nigh overwhelming time.
Right now, she sounded almost timid, doubtless surprised that he’d want her to witness him being reprimanded. For Nycos, however, more concerned with settling that situation and solidifying her status as an ally than with emotional attachment, to show her that he relied on her was far more important than any potential moment of humiliation.
“I’m sure, my Lady.”
He did have to admit to himself, however reluctantly, that her smile made him feel just a little bit better.
The pair meandered between various fenced-in competitions, around and among rows of food vendors, dodged wandering jugglers and jesters. Nycos found a minced meat pie in his hand with no memory of purchasing it, and found it gone a minute later with only the lingering spice on his tongue to remind him of eating it.
He clearly recalled, however, passing by a small melee—three warriors on three—that set him to scowling. One trio consisted of Kirresci soldiers, young but skilled, chosen for their teamwork and swordsmanship. The other…
“Why are they even permitted to be here?” he asked, not so much objecting as genuinely curious.
Now Mariscal did take a solid grip on his hand, perhaps half afraid that he would dash off and do something foolish. “We aren’t actually at war,” she reminded him. “And I’m quite certain Jarta and Marshal Laszlan both have any number of eyes on them.”
Nycos continued to watch the black-tabarded soldiers of Ktho Delios wielding their heavier broadswords against the sabres of their Kirresci opponents, but allowed Mariscal to guide him past.
He wondered what intelligence those men and women might be able to provide, if only the methods required to extract that information wouldn’t ignite the very conflict King Hasyan and the other southern monarchs sought desperately to avoid. Perhaps someone whose affiliation with the court can’t be proven ought to pay them a visit on their journey back home…
Those thoughts, and others of a similarly vicious nature, occupied him until they’d crossed the great fields behind Oztyerva and their destination hove into sight.
The royal pavilion, not quite a tent and not quite a gazebo but some peculiar offspring of both, stood atop a small hill overlooking those fields. From here, the most important and impressive of the contests played out within view, allowing the king and his guests to observe the best parts of the tourney from luxury. Servants moved in and about the various daises and platforms, providing a never-ending array of refreshments, while several dozen of the king’s bodyguards stood post to ensure the safety of their liege. The fact that this shelter was so distant from the doors of Oztyerva bestowed upon it—and his Majesty—an air of vulnerability despite those guards, an impression meant to foster trust and mutual goodwill.
The hidden hatchway to a collapsible tunnel leading back into the palace ensured that said perception of vulnerability was just that: perception.
At this time, his Majesty was indeed in attendance, along with several of his court, a number of visiting dukes and counts, and Ambassador Kidil. Most were watching a one-on-one match between Sir Tivador, son of the Judge Royal Amisco Valacos, and one of the Suunimi envoy’s countrymen. The tall, slender foreigner wore leathers dyed in deep reds and emeralds that shone against the dark of his skin. He fought with an elongated shield and a short spear that might have resembled a szandzsya save that its blade was leaf-shaped and dual-edged. His tumbling, acrobatic style of battle stymied Sir Tivador, whose own sabre-spear never came near to connecting.
Aadesh Kidil smiled broadly at Nycos and Mariscal as they pushed their way beneath the overhang that kept rain, sun, or wind from disturbing the audience within. “Zeyaash,” he boasted proudly. “The nephew of an old, old friend of mine. It appears this year’s single combat champion will be Suunimi, Sir Nycolos.”
Nycos grinned back. “Perhaps because I haven’t faced him, Ambassador.”
The laugh in response was booming. “I believe your custom is that anyone of rank may challenge the final victor, is it not? Feel free to do so when Zeyaash wins. Do not worry,” he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “It will be a duel on foot. We Suunimi do not favor fighting from horseback.”
The humor in which the jibe was offered made it impossible to take real offense. Mariscal snickered; Nycos merely grumbled and moved on. He did wonder just how rapidly word of his unfortunately swift unhorsing had traveled, though, since the lists in which he’d ridden were not readily visible from the hilltop.
His Majesty sat ensconced in a massive wooden chair, cushioned in purple velvet, far enough from the edge to rest in the shade without cutting off his view of the proceedings. He only half watched, however, engaged as he was in laughing conversation and reminiscence with one Duke Ishmar of Hesztilna.
Slightly older than the king himself, Ishmar had been a close friend of Hasyan’s since they’d been youths, learning the ins and outs of politics in the chambers of Oztyerva. He was far paler than his Majesty, his beard almost brittle, his skin showing the faint fleshiness and sallow tint of a man who enjoyed his wines and spirits perhaps a touch more often than was strictly healthy. His laugh remained hearty, however, his mind sharp, and his company welcomed by most of the court on those rare occasions when his duties to Hesztilna permitted him to visit.
And welcomed, in particular, by his daughter, the Margravine Mariscal.
She and Nycos wended their way through the guards and servants to stand before the duke and the king. Nycos knelt, while Mariscal moved straight to her father and kissed him on his bristly cheek.
“My dear!” he greeted her, moving his goblet to his other hand so he could wrap an arm briefly around her. Then, without hostility but without much in the way of affection, either, “Sir Nycolos.”
“Your Grace.” He had no notion whether the duke approved of his relationship—or “potential relationship,” at any rate—with Mariscal. Presumably, Ishmar would be a bit happier with it if and when Nycos attained the office of
Crown Marshal, but it was yet another complication for which the knight had little comprehension, and even less patience.
He wondered, at times, if Smim was right and he should just forget this whole concept of intimate relations. He didn’t want to hurt Mariscal, nor did he want to surrender his greatest supporter, but human entanglement and courtship were maddening.
His Majesty took something between a sip and a swig from his own drink. “What are you doing here, Sir Nycolos? Aren’t you supposed to be at the lists?”
“Ah…”
“He was, Your Majesty.” Orban Laszlan appeared from deeper within the pavilion. His tone was stern, but his expression far milder than Nycos had feared. “It seems, however, that our honored knight has been less than industrious in practice with the lance of late.”
Nycos grinned sheepishly. “It’s true, I’m afraid. My attentions have been elsewhere than the joust. I—”
He fell briefly silent as a gasp of awed appreciation flowed through the audience, both here in the shelter and across the stands beyond. On the grass before them, Zeyaash had leapt into the air, kicking out with both feet and twisting over a sharp slash of Tivador’s blade. The Suunimi warrior landed on one foot, continuing the momentum of his spin and sweeping the knight’s own feet from under him. By the time Tivador had even realized he was on his back, Zeyaash’s spear-tip hovered inches from his face.
The officiants called the match in favor of Zeyaash, to loud cheers and jeers alike, and the two combatants moved aside to rest and recuperate so the next pair of contenders might take the field.
“I’ve been caught up in other practices,” Nycos continued during the brief lull. “I’ll show you when the time comes for the dueling champion to accept final challenge.”
The king nodded. “Ambassador Kidil seems convinced Zeyaash will be that champion.”
“He’s probably right,” Orban warned. “He’s very, very good, Nycolos.”
