A Kingdom Besieged (5 page)

‘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 un fortunate . . .’ 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 crowed 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 duel-ling 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 broad-sword 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.