Читать книгу A Kingdom Besieged - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 8

THE WIND HOWLED.

Captain Jason Reinman bellowed to be heard above the noise. ‘Cut ’em loose, damn ya!’

The crew had been ordered aloft during the mad dash toward the harbour of Crydee in preparation for this desperate act.

‘Hard to starboard!’ he shouted and two men wrestling with the long handle on the rudder shoved with all their strength towards the left, to bring the balky ship around in the opposite direction.

The Royal Messenger’s timbers groaned in protest as the ship fought against stresses she was not designed to withstand. Turning to the man seated on the deck next to him, Captain Reinman shouted, ‘Hold! Just a few more minutes!’

The man squatted on the decks, his eyes closed and his face a mask of concentration as he fought to stay upright on the tossing deck. Reinman’s sunburned face turned upward, and he saw with satisfaction that the sails had all been cut loose and were now littering the decks. He’d refit in Crydee and what sail he’d lost the Duke could replace for him. The ropes would be mended and should any of his men have been overly zealous with the axes, the spars would be repaired.

The sound of the storm died away: the bubble of light was a tiny pool of calm in the middle of the storm-tossed harbour. ‘Don’t you fail me, you magic-wielding sot! You’re not allowed to pass out until we are at the docks!’ If the man at whom Reinman was shouting heard him he gave no indication, seemingly intent on keeping himself sitting upright.

The ship came about in the relative calm of the bubble of magic, and Reinman shouted, ‘Get the fenders over the side! As soon as this shell is down, the gale will slam us into the docks. I don’t want to sail home on a pile of kindling!’ To the men aloft, he said, ‘Grab hold and hang on, it’s going to be rough!’

As the large padded fenders went over the side to protect the ship from the dock wall, the magic bubble collapsed, and as the captain had predicted, the sudden gale slammed the hull against the pilings. But the fenders did their work and although there was the sound of wood cracking, both the dock and the ship held intact.

Then the ship rolled and the grinding sound of wood on wood was almost painfully loud, and the three masts came down towards the cobbles of the harbourside road at alarming speed. Men aloft held on for their lives, shouting in alarm.

But just as it seemed the ship would roll on its side and smash the yards into the ground, the movement stopped. For a pregnant moment the spars hovered mere feet above the stones, then they started to travel back the way they came. Men’s voices rose again in alarm as they realized they might be suddenly pitched off in the other direction.

‘Hang on!’ shouted the captain as he gripped the railing that had almost been overhead a moment before. Glancing around, he noticed that his companion on the poop deck was nowhere to be seen. ‘Drunken fool!’ he shouted at the spot recently vacated and then returned his attention to not being flung over the side of his ship.

As the ship rolled back, more creaking signalled the continuation of the elements’ assault on the vessel he loved dearly. He silently damned the need for such reckless behaviour and vowed that should the ship be rendered salvage, he would see to it that Lord James Dasher Jamison paid for a new one out of his own pocket. Though having secret access to the King’s treasury, he would barely miss the sum.

The ship was upright for a moment, then continued on its recoil, but the force of the wind and sea kept it from rolling very far. Captain Reinman let go of the railing and shouted, ‘Make fast! Any man not already dead get this ship securely lashed secure. Any man dead will answer to me!’

He hurried to the fore railing and looked around. The ship was in better shape than he had any right to expect, but not as pretty as he would have liked. But it did not seem that the main timbers had been compromised, so he thought a few days of carpentry and paint would make her as good as new.

He took a brief moment to congratulate himself on the insane entrance into Crydee Harbour and then shouted, ‘Anyone seen that drunken magician?’

One of the deck hands shouted, ‘Oh, was that what that was, sir? I think he went over the side when we heeled back.’ Suddenly realizing what he said, the sailor shouted, ‘Man overboard!’

Half a dozen sailors hurried to the rail and one pointed, ‘There!’

Two men went over the sides despite the dangerous chop in the water and the risk of being swept into the side of the ship, or worse, under the docks in what had to be a clutter of debris.

The object of their search, a slender man with a usually unruly thatch of black hair which was now plastered to his skull, sputtered and coughed as one sailor dragged him to the surface and held his head above water. The second sailor helped pull him to the side of the ship where two other sailors clung tightly to ropes despite the slashing winds.

Drenched, miserable, and wretched, the man in the soaked robes looked at the captain and said, ‘We there?’

‘More or less,’ said Reinman with a grin. ‘Mr Williams!’

The first mate appeared in front of his captain. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘Get below and see how much work needs to be done. I didn’t hear anything to make me believe we have any serious damage. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, if you please.’

The first mate saluted and turned away. Like the captain, the first mate knew the ship as well as he knew the face of his wife and children. He suspected that the groaning of wood and snapping of lines would mean repair, but nothing major. He’d heard the sound of a keelson cracking in a storm, and it was a sound he’d never forget.

Captain Reinman ordered, ‘Run out the gangway!’

The crew nearest to the docks hurried to obey. Unlike passenger ships with their fancy gangways with steps and rails, this was a merely a wide board of hardwood that managed to reach the docks without bowing so much it wouldn’t support a man carrying cargo.

No sooner had it touched the dock than Reinman was down it, his leather boots sliding along the plank as much as walking it. As he expected, by the time he stood on the dock, a company of horsemen was riding to meet him.

Duke Henry, Earl Robert, and half a dozen men-at-arms reined in.

‘Miserable night for a ride, your grace,’ said the captain with a grin, ignoring the pelting rain. Standing in the storm, water coursing off his head and shoulders, the red-headed seaman looked as if he was almost enjoying the experience.

‘Hell of a landing,’ said Duke Henry. ‘It must be something urgent to make you pull a stunt like that.’

‘You could say,’ he glanced around, ‘though it will keep for another few minutes until we can be alone. Strict instructions: for your ears only.’

The Duke nodded. He motioned to one of his escorts. ‘Give the captain your horse and follow on foot.’

The soldier did as ordered and handed the reins to Reinman. The captain mounted a little clumsily, as riding was not his first occupation, but once in the saddle he seemed comfortable enough.

‘To the keep!’ said the Duke over the wind’s howl and they turned back and started up the main street of Crydee Town, the boulevard that would take them to shelter and a roaring fire.

Still dripping wet, Captain Reinman accepted a heavy towel and began mopping his face, but waved away a servant bearing a change of clothes. ‘In a minute,’ he said, then to the Duke. ‘A word, my lord.’

They stood in the entrance to the keep with the Duchess, Countess and the three children waiting for an explanation for the mad display they had just witnessed. Both Martin and Brendan had started to speak at once, but the captain’s words cut them short.

Somewhat surprised by Reinman’s more than usually abrupt manner, the Duke nodded to the others to return to the great hall, indicating that he and the captain would join them. The two men moved to a corner of the entry hall and the Duke said, ‘Now, what is so important you’ll risk wrecking the King’s fastest ship to tell me a day early?’

‘Orders from the Crown, my lord. You’re to begin muster.’

The Duke’s face remained impassive, but the skin around his eyes tightened. ‘It’s war, then?’

‘Not yet, but soon, perhaps. Lord Sutherland and the Duke of Ran both say the frontier is quiet, but rumours have it Kesh is moving in the South and you’re to be ready to support Yabon or even Krondor if the need arises.’

Henry considered. War along the Far Coast had occurred only twice in the history of the Kingdom: the original conquest when the land was wrested from Kesh, and then the Tsurani invasion. The people of the Far Coast had known peace for a century and had almost nothing to do with Kesh, save for the occasional trader looking for a market hungry for exotic goods.

But east of the Straits of Darkness it was another matter. The border between the two giant nations had long borne witness to skirmishes and incursions as one side or the other sought advantage. The last time a major assault on the Kingdom had occurred had been on the heels of the invasion by the forces of the Emerald Queen. With the entire West in rubble, Kesh had moved against Krondor, only to be sent home with its tail between its legs by the power of the sorcerer Pug. He had scolded both sides against such wasteful recklessness and thus had earned the enmity of the Crown. Yet his lesson had held, as there had been little by way of conflict between the two giant nations for almost fifty years. The occasional border clash in the Vale of Dreams was not unusual, but this was the first hint of any major military action against the Kingdom by the Empire of Great Kesh.

Henry said, ‘They expect a move against Krondor?’

Reinman shrugged. ‘What the King’s council expects, I have no idea. If Kesh moves against Krondor, Yabon will have to move south in support, and you no doubt will be sent east to support Yabon. But that’s just speculation. All I know is that I have my orders from the mouth of Lord Jamison.’

‘Richard or James?’

‘James.’

Henry let out a long sigh. Richard was the Prince’s Knight-Marshal, second cousin to James, who was a lot closer to the Crown in Rillanon. If the message came from him, it really did mean war was coming. ‘So, Jim was in Krondor?’

‘The man seems to be everywhere,’ said Reinman, mopping his head one more time with the towel. ‘I don’t know how he does it, but I hear from this bloke or that that he was seen a week ago in Rillanon, then I see him in Krondor, and unless he’s sprouted wings and flown I don’t know how he could do that short of killing a string of horses and not sleeping for a week.’

‘He has his ways, obviously,’ said the Duke. ‘Change into something dry and come into the hall. Dinner’s still on the table and I’m sure the boys will pester you with questions once I tell everyone what’s going on.’

‘You’re going to tell everyone?’

‘Remember where you are, Captain. This is Crydee. If there’s been a Keshian spy around here in the last ten years he was lost and wandering far from anywhere he should be.

‘And I must instruct Earl Robert as well as send messages down to Tulan so Earl Morris can begin his muster.’ He smiled. ‘After the entrance you made if you think I could tell my wife that this is a matter of state … well, you don’t remember my wife very well.’

With a grin the captain said, ‘Well, yes, there is that.’

‘Besides, my boys are old enough that they need to learn some warcraft, and while I’m loath to see them fight this young, they are conDoins.’

‘Aye, my lord, there is that as well.’

The Duke led Reinman into the hall where the others waited expectantly. He motioned for the servants to depart, then quickly recounted the very simple but vital order from the Crown.

Earl Robert shook his head. ‘Muster. It’s a bad time of year, my lord. Spring planting begins in a few weeks.’

‘I know, but wars are inconvenient at any time of the year. Still, we can muster levies in stages. One man in three to report as soon as word reaches, outfit and train and return to the village in two weeks or three, the next man, then the last, and by the time we reach full muster, the planting should be in.’

‘If the rain stops,’ added Martin with a sour expression. ‘The ground won’t be ready for most crops for a week if it stops tomorrow, Father.’

‘Farmer, are you?’ asked Reinman with a grin.

Brendan returned the grin while Martin tried to suppress a chuckle. ‘Father believes in the old virtues. We were forced to work at every apprenticeship in the Duchy for a week or two as we grew up, the better to understand the lives of our subjects.’

‘The King’s subjects,’ corrected his father. ‘The citizens of the duchy are ours to protect, but they belong to no man, not even the King, though they are charged to obey him. As are we. Such is the tradition of the Great Freedom, upon which our nation is founded.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ said Brendan rolling his eyes.

Martin changed the subject: ‘Captain, how did you manage that … event, in the harbour, with the light bubble in the midst of the storm?’

‘Ah!’ said Reinman, obviously delighted. ‘That was my weather witch.’

‘Weather witch?’ asked the Duke.

‘Well, he’s not really a witch, I’ll grant you, but “weather magician” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as neatly. Besides, it annoys him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Bellard, by name,’ answered the captain. ‘One of the lot from Stardock. He was up with the elves north of here for a couple of years, learning weather magic from their spellweavers.’ He nodded in thanks as a mug of steaming mulled wine was presented to him by a servant. He sipped at this for a moment, then put down the mug and said, ‘Quite good at it too, save for one problem.’

‘What would that be?’ asked Earl Robert.

‘He drinks.’

‘Ah, a drunkard,’ said Martin.

‘Well, not really,’ said the captain. ‘He was having the devils trying to learn the magic, and got tipsy at one of the moon festivals or sun festivals or flower festivals or whatever it is the elves use as an excuse to get drunk and carry on, so they did, and apparently not wishing to offend his hosts, he did as well. Then the fun began. As I hear the story, after several cups of wine, he caused quite a little tempest in the middle of the forest. Took a few of the spellweavers a bit of time to make things right.

‘So Bellard discovered that because he’s a human, not an elf, or at least that’s what he thinks, he has to be drunk to make the magic work.’

‘Ah!’ said Brendan in obvious delight. ‘He must love that!’

‘Actually, quite the opposite. Turns out the other thing Bellard discovered at that festival was he didn’t care for strong drink. We have to hold him down and pour the grog down his gullet if we need his craft.’

Everyone was wide-eyed at that, and indeed Brendan and his father were both open-mouthed as well. Then the room erupted into laughter. Even the captain chuckled. ‘He fair hates it, really. But he drinks and does a masterful job, as you could see tonight, creating that bubble of calm in the middle of the storm. He pushed us along with a steady wind for three days, once, on a run from Rillanon around the southern nations up to Krondor – when we would have been becalmed for goodness knows how many days. Had the grandfather of all thumping heads for days after that and a sour stomach to put a man off food for life.’

‘Why does he do it?’ asked Lady Bethany. ‘Surely there are other magics he’s more suited to?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Reinman with a laugh. ‘Perhaps it’s because I told him he was pressed into service on the Prince’s writ and had no choice?’

‘You didn’t?’ said the Duke. ‘The press was outlawed after the war with the Tsurani.’

‘Yes,’ said Reinman with an evil barking laugh, ‘but he doesn’t know that.’

Laughter burst out again, though Brendan and the ladies all looked pained at the amusement at such duplicity. Reinman said, ‘In the end, he will be well rewarded. His service to the Crown will not be taken for granted.’

Martin said, ‘What of Hal?’

‘Yes,’ added Brendan, ‘should he be recalled?’

‘As to that,’ replied Reinman before the Duke could answer, ‘for the time being, the Prince would appreciate it if we kept word of the Western muster from Eastern ears.’

Henry waved the captain to a chair and held up his hand. Martin was standing closest to the door, so he opened it and motioned the servants waiting outside to enter. ‘Serve us, then leave us,’ the Duke told his staff.

The servants hurried to make sure everyone at the table was supplied with more food and drink, then left.

‘Sending the servants away?’ asked Robert.

‘They gossip, and while I trust all in this household, a stray word to a merchant, or a visiting seaman, would be unfortunate …’ He paused, ‘Now, Jason, what aren’t you telling us?’

Reinman smiled. ‘Just rumours. Before I left Rillanon last it was being said the King was ill, again.’

Henry sat back. ‘Cousin Gregory was never the man his father was,’ he said softly. ‘And with no sons …’

‘He would save a lot of trouble naming Oliver as his heir,’ said Robert.

Reinman sat back. ‘Prince Edward would appreciate that,’ he observed dryly. ‘The Prince of Krondor can hardly wait for the King to name another to the post and let him retire back to “civilization” as he likes to call the capital.’ Reinman shrugged. ‘As capitals go, Krondor’s not such a bad place, though it does lack a certain grandeur. Edward lives in deathly fear that somehow he’s going to make a terrible mistake one day and end up King.’ They all laughed.

‘Eddie was always a caretaker appointment,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘He has no political support and no ambition. I think if the Congress rallied and named him King after Gregory, he’d find a way to reject the crown and run off to his estates. He has a lavish villa on a small island off Roldem.’

Robert added, ‘Where it is said his wife spends most of her time …’ he glanced at the ladies ‘… reviewing the household guard.’

The Duchess raised an eyebrow. ‘Who are reputed to all be very handsome, very young and … very tall.’

Countess Marriann and the Lady Bethany both laughed out loud at the remarks, while the two boys exchanged glances before Brendan’s eyes widened and he said, ‘Oh!’

‘Marriages of state are not always what they might be,’ said his mother, as if that was all that needed to be added.

Reinman seemed uncomfortable. ‘You were speaking of Hal,’ he said. ‘How is he doing at that school in Roldem?’

‘That school in Roldem’ was the royal university, the finest educational facility in the world. It had been created originally for Roldem’s nobility and royalty as a place where they could study art, music, history, and the natural sciences, as well as magic and military skills. But over the years it had attracted the best from every surrounding kingdom and the Empire, until it had become almost a necessity for any young man of rank seeking to advance.

‘No one from the Far Coast has attended before,’ said Henry, ‘but Hal seems to be enjoying it, or at least so his letters suggest.’

‘He’s entering the Masters’ Court Championship,’ said Brendan to the captain.

‘That’s a feather in his cap if he wins,’ said Reinman.

Henry glanced at a shuttered window, as if he could somehow see the still-pouring rain outside. ‘Given the distance, it’s about midday in Roldem. He may be competing now, if he hasn’t already been eliminated.’

The swordsman lunged while the crowd watched in silent admiration as the combatants parried furiously. They were evenly matched and this was the first of three bouts to name the new Champion of the Masters’ Court.

The dark-haired youth from the Far Coast of the Kingdom had been an unexpected challenger who had been discounted by the betting touts in the early rounds. As he rose rapidly, vanquishing his first three opponents easily, the betting had shifted quickly, until now he was considered an even bet to emerge as the new champion.

His opponent had been the favourite, a blond youth of roughly the same age.

Henry conDoin, eldest son of Duke Henry of Crydee, parried, riposted, then feinted left and lunged right. ‘Touché!’ cried out the Master of the Court.

The crowd erupted in appreciative applause.

The two combatants exchanged bows and retired to separate corners of the huge duelling hall that was the heart of the Masters’ Court in Roldem City.

The blond youth returned to stand by his father. ‘He’s very good.’

Talwin Hawkins, the thirty-second Champion of the Masters’ Court, nodded, then smiled at his son. ‘Almost as good as you. You’ll have to be a little more focused. Even though you watched him, you didn’t expect him to be this quick. Now he can take risks, because he only needs one touch to win. You need two.’

Ty Hawkins turned a slightly sour expression on his father. He knew he was right, for young Tyrone Hawkins, the twenty-five-year-old son of a former champion, had been such a dominating force in the Masters’ Court as a student that he had entered the competition a heavy favourite. That reputation had aided him in easily disposing of all his early opponents, and he had become a little too self-confident in his father’s estimation.

‘He favours a triple combination,’ Tal said to his son. Looking into the young man’s face he considered how much he resembled his mother, Teal, and how deeply Tal had come to love him, even though he wasn’t his true father. Large blue eyes and a dusting of freckles gave a boyish countenance to a strong young face, with a smile that made him charming to the ladies. ‘If you can recognize it as he begins,’ he went on, ‘you can get under his second feint and reach him.’

‘And if I don’t recognize it, he’ll win the match,’ Ty said wryly.

Returning the lad’s crooked smile, Tal said, ‘Worse things happen.’

‘True,’ said Ty. ‘Nobody dies here … usually.’

That got him a dark look from his father, for part of the lore of the Masters’ Court was the attempt on his father’s life by two opponents that had ended in the first intentional bloodshed in the Court in a hundred and fifty years.

Waiting for the second round of the final bout to be signalled, both young men regarded their surroundings. Ty had been to the training floor countless times, but for Henry it was his first visit to the Court; indeed it was his first visit to Roldem. He had seen this hall for the first time when he was allowed his four practice bouts against the instructors only two days ago.

Yet for both young men the grandeur of the vast hall was still daunting. Large carved wooden columns surrounded a massive wooden floor which had been polished to a gleam like metal, like burnished copper. Intricate patterns had been worked into the floor. These served a function beyond aesthetics, for each pattern defined a duelling area, from the confined, narrow duelling path for rapier fencing, to the larger octagon for longer blades.

This was the reason the Masters’ Court existed.

More than two centuries earlier, the King of Roldem had commanded a tourney to name the greatest swordsman in the world. Contestants of all rank – noble and common – had travelled from as far away as the southernmost province of the Empire of Great Kesh, the distant Free Cities of Natal, and all points in between. The prize had been fabled: a golden broadsword studded with gems. It was a prize unmatched in the kingdom’s history.

For two weeks the contest had continued, until a local noble, Count Versi Dango, had triumphed. To the King’s astonishment, the Count had announced he would reject the prize so that the King might use the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the art of the blade, and there hold this recurring contest, thus creating the Masters’ Court.

The King had ordered the construction of this school, covering an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdom’s capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined until it now resembled a palace as much as a school. When it was finished, another tourney was held, and Count Dango had successfully defended his reputation as premier swordsman in the world. Every five years swordsmen gathered to compete for the title of Champion of the Masters’ Court. Four times Dango had prevailed as the ultimate victor, until a wound had prevented him from competing further.

Now, the instructor who was Master of the Competition signalled for the two combatants to return. Both young men assumed their positions as the Master held out his arm between them. They approached and raised their blades; the Master took hold of the points, brought them together, then stepped back crying, ‘Fence!’

Instantly Ty launched a wicked overhand lunge that almost struck home, driving Henry back a step. Then Ty recovered and took a step forward, his sword extended, his left hand resting on his hip, not raised in the air for balance as most fencers favoured. His father had taught him there was little advantage in doing this unless one overbalanced since holding the hand aloft robbed you of energy; not a severe problem on the fencing floor, but one that could get you killed in a battle.

Henry took a slight hopping step and started a circular motion with his blade, and Ty knew he was about to try that same triple move that had cost him a touch. Instead of pulling back on the second feint, Ty extended his arm, gaining right of way, and made an extraordinary low lunge, which struck Henry less than an inch above his belt, but still it was a clean strike. Even before the Master could announce it, Henry shouted, ‘Touché!’

Both combatants stood at attention for a moment, saluted one another, then turned to their respective ends of the floor. Henry came over to where his trainer, Swordmaster Phillip, waited. ‘He saw that one coming,’ said the old warrior.

Henry nodded and removed the basket helmet worn during these combats. Slightly out of breath, he said, ‘I was foolish to try the same move twice. He cozened me into trying that with his high lunge. Made me think he was desperate.’ He took the offered towel and wiped his face. ‘So now we come down to one touch for the championship.’

‘Too bad your father isn’t here. Win or lose this last touch, you’ve done your family proud, Hal.’

Henry nodded. ‘Better than I expected, really.’

‘Your many-greats-uncle Arutha was reputed to be a wicked swordsman. Seems you’ve inherited that skill.’

With a tired grin, Henry said, ‘Good thing, ’cause I’m nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.’

‘Or your grandfather, or your father,’ said the Swordmaster dryly.

Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, ‘Or my little brother.’

‘Or that lad who works at the blacksmith’s.’

‘So, what you’re saying is, I should win this.’

‘That’s the general idea.’

The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, ‘Fence!’

Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.

Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.

With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.

Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.

‘Oh …’ said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.

Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted – the tunic just below the face-guard – a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.

But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Ty’s foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.

The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, ‘Judges?’

Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henry’s end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henry’s blade. ‘This is really uncomfortable,’ Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.

‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.

The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’

Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his opponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.

Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’

As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’

‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’

‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’

‘What’s taking the judges so long?’

‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’

‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’

‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’

Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’

Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’

The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’

‘We must withdraw.’

There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’

‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’

Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’

Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’

‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.

The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’

The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.

When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’

Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.

‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months, years even.’

Hal nodded his acceptance of the offer.

The two finalists and their companions were escorted to the royal box where they bowed before the King of Roldem. King Carol was an ageing man with grey hair, but he still looked alert and happy. Next to him sat his wife, Queen Gertrude, and to her side stood their youngest son, Prince Grandprey, who was only a few years older than the two combatants and was dressed in the uniform of a general of the Royal Army; and his sister the Princess Stephané, resplendent in a gown of softly folded yellow silk, which spread gracefully out to the floor. Her shoulders were bare and her somewhat daring décolletage was hidden by a sheer shoulder wrap of the same hue. Her choice of colours made a dramatic contrast to her chestnut hair and striking brown eyes.

Henry tried not to blush as he looked away from her, then he noticed Ty Hawkins was staring boldly at the King’s daughter. And instantly decided he disliked the victor of the contest.

On the King’s right side stood Crown Prince Constantine, the Heir Apparent to the throne, and the middle son, Prince Albér, the Heir Presumptive. Henry and Tyrone both bowed before the royal family.

The Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Your majesties, your highnesses, the victor and vanquished of today’s final match. Lord Henry of Crydee, approach.’

As the first among those who were defeated by the winner, Henry was awarded a miniature silver sword. As he knelt to receive the gift from the hand of the Crown Prince, the King said, ‘Shame to end this way, lad; you’ve acquitted yourself admirably. Still, second is nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the next tourney.’

‘Your majesty is gracious,’ said Henry, accepting the sword and with some discomfort returning to stand next to Swordmaster Phillip.

‘We’ll send a healer over to your quarters at the university, and have that … leg seen to. You must be ready for tomorrow’s gala,’ said the King.

‘I thank your majesty,’ said Hal, bowing.

‘Tyrone Hawkins of Olasko,’ intoned the Master of Ceremonies.

Ty knelt and the King said, ‘Young Hawkins, I gave the King’s prize to your father many years ago.’ He gave Tal a rueful smile. ‘That was a day we’ll never forget.’

The bout had ended in the death of two of Tal’s opponents: a trained swordsman from Kesh who had come with one purpose, to kill the young swordsman, and a lieutenant in the army of Olasko who had been among those responsible for the death of most of Tal’s people.

The King said, ‘So concludes this contest, and we shall gather in five years to see if young Hawkins can continue his family’s achievements. I bid you, good lords, ladies, and gentlemen, a fair day and will welcome many of you to our gala tomorrow night.’

Everyone who had been seated rose when the King stood, and led his wife and family from the Hall of the Masters’ Court. As Ty turned to find Hal staring at him with a narrowed gaze, a man wended his way though the press of folk leaving the building to come and stand before Tal.

But it was Hal who spoke first, ‘Lord Jamison!’

James Dasher Jamison, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, nodded at the young nobleman and then to Ty and his father. ‘Well, Jim,’ said Tal Hawkins, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’

Lord Jamison, also known as Jim Dasher to some, glanced around the room and said, ‘Unexpected, I warrant, but hardly a pleasure.’ Lowering his voice a little he added, ‘We need to speak in private, Hawkins.’ Then he turned to Hal and said, ‘Don’t wander too far, Hal. I need to speak with you as well.’

Moving a short distance away from the throng surrounding the victor, Jim said, ‘Tal, I need to ask you a favour.’

‘What?’ replied Hawkins. His relationship with Jim Dasher and everyone else associated with the Conclave of Shadows had been a mixed one at best. They had saved his life as a child but exacted a high price in service, and even now, after he had been formally released from their service, they still were a presence in his life. He knew he owed all that he was to them, but there was no tender affection in his sense of obligation.

‘I need you to keep a close watch on young conDoin over there.’

‘Why?’

‘Something’s coming. I will tell you more tonight, in private.’

‘Very well, but how am I to keep watch over him while he’s at the university living in the students’ dormitory?’

‘We don’t let him return there.’ Jim glanced over his shoulder at the two young swordsmen and their admirers. ‘Invite him to dine with your family at the River House tonight and I’ll chance by afterwards to have words with you both. Yes, that would serve.’

‘Very well, again,’ said Hawkins, nodding his head once, then moving past the dark-eyed Kingdom noble.

Jim Dasher glanced around the room, trying to discern who might be observing him. If Kesh had agents in the room – which was almost certain – they would be very good at their jobs, which meant that he stood scant chance of identifying them. Still, a moment to scan the room was a little price to pay against the slight chance an agent might make a mistake and reveal himself.

Or herself, he amended as he caught sight of a young woman staring at him, then averting her eyes a moment later. Jim resisted an impulse to sigh; irrespective of her true intent, she had wished to be noticed, and notice her he had. If she was only an ambitious status-seeker, singling out the slightly older, but still very eligible nobleman from the Kingdom for a possible profitable liaison, or a Keshian spy, he had to find out.

Relaxing his expression and attempting to appear merely an interested spectator in the day’s events, he appeared to meander through the crowd, but made a straight path towards this woman.

A brief distraction arrived in the form of Lord Carrington, a minor court baron attached to the Kingdom’s delegation to Roldem, a fussy, officious man with an inflated sense of his ability at diplomacy and a strong appetite for gossip. ‘Lord Jamison!’ he exclaimed, taking Jim’s hand for a brief, limp squeeze.

‘My lord,’ said Jim trying not to take his eyes off the beautiful brunette he felt certain was a Keshian spy.

‘Pity young Lord Henry didn’t continue,’ said Carrington. ‘Had a bit of gold wagered on him and it would have done wonders for the Isles to have a champion in the Masters’ Court. Still,’ he said glancing over his shoulder to where Ty and Hal still talked to the onlookers, ‘I suppose it’s the next best, what with Hawkins over there claiming some title or another in the west, even though he now resides in Olasko.’

Sensing a potentially long conversation, Jim said, ‘I’ve known Talwin Hawkins for years, my lord Baron. His title is not “claimed” but his own.’

‘Oh?’ Like every other member of the King’s court in Rillanon,

Carrington wasn’t entirely certain what Jim did for the Crown, but he knew it was important and, besides, his grandfather was still Duke of Rillanon. ‘I see.’

‘Somehow I don’t think you do,’ said Jim under his breath, then loudly spoke up. ‘Excuse me, my lord, I must speak to someone over there.’

Before the portly courtier could reply, Jim was away from him and heading straight towards a large pillar next to which the object of his attention had paused. The woman glanced at Jim, and a small, almost flirtatious smile crossed her lips. Jim wondered if perhaps he had misjudged the woman: perhaps she wasn’t a agent of the Empire but merely a young woman with her eye on a man of position and wealth.

He reached the pillar a moment after she had passed behind it, and she was nowhere to be seen.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Jim muttered, glancing around. He was very good at keeping watch on someone in a crowd, even across a busy market in a big city, but for the moment, he seemed to have met his match. She was better.