Become like his shadow for a while and observe. Ask questions if they do not disturb me or any in my company; otherwise, keep them until the two of you are alone.
“Tell him to meet me at Remarga’s at midday and bring fresh clothing. Then I will dine at . . . Baldwin’s, _______________
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outside along the Grand Canal, then some afternoon cards at Depanov’s. I’ll return here to change into something more appropriate for supper.”
“Yes, Magnificence.”
Tal put on the same shirt he had worn the day before and threw a casual jacket across one shoulder as he grabbed his sword. “Now, find something to do until Pasko gets back, and I’ll see the two of you at noon.”
“Yes, Magnificence,” Amafi repeated.
Tal left the apartment and hurried down the stairs. He fastened his sword around his waist and kept the jacket over his shoulder. It was a warm day and he had elected to forgo a hat. As he worked his way along the streets to the Masters’ Court, he pondered just how much damage he could do to a royal without getting himself into too much trouble.
The morning sun, a warm breeze off the ocean, the memory of the Lady Natalia’s enthusiastic lovemaking—all combined to put Tal into a wonderful frame of mind.
By the time he reached the Masters’ Court he had a plan as to how to humiliate a royal without getting hanged, and had convinced himself it might even turn out to be fun.
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A week later, the gallery was full as Tal walked onto the floor of the Masters’ Court. With the return of the Greatest Swordsman in the World, observing practices and bouts had become the favored pastime of a large number of young women in the capital. Many noble daughters and a significant number of young wives found reason to take pause during their day’s shopping to indulge their new-found interest in the sword.
He had been practicing every day for a week since re-
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turning from the hunt, and waiting for his opportunity to confront Prince Matthew. He had finally realized the Prince was waiting until he departed to appear at Masters’
Court every second day. Tal judged that the vain prince didn’t wish to share the attention of those at the Masters’
Court with the Champion. So this day, Tal began his practice sessions in the late afternoon, rather than the morning, as was his habit.
Tal was saluted by every member on the floor, including the instructors, in recognition of his achievement.
Today Vassily Turkov was acting as Master of the Floor, head instructor, and arbiter of any dispute. Other instructors worked with students in all corners of the massive hall, but the Master of the Floor supervised the bouts at the center.
The floor of the court was of inlaid wood, arranged in a complex pattern that after a brief study revealed itself to be a clever series of boundaries between various practice areas. The floor was surrounded by massive columns of hand-polished wood supporting the ornate high ceiling.
Tal glanced up and saw that the ceiling had been re-painted, white with gold leaf over embossed garlands and wreaths that surrounded large skylights. Galleries ran along one wall between the columns, while the other wall boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping the entire hall brilliantly lit.
Vassily came and took Tal’s hand. “When you didn’t appear this morning, thought perhaps you’d given yourself a day of rest, Squire.” He glanced at the crowded gallery and said, “If this continues, we may have to put up those temporary seats again.” During the Masters’ Champion Tournament, temporary seating had been erected in front of the windows, to accommodate as many onlookers as possible.
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Tal smiled. “I just came to practice, Master.”
The older man smiled and nodded. “Then I shall find you an opponent.” He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: “Anatoli, you are first!”
Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out,
“Rapiers! Three points to the victor!”
Both men wore heavily padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury.
They advanced and faced each other.
The Master came to stand between them, holding out his sword. Each combatant raised his own weapon, touched it to the Master’s, and held it in place. Then the Master pulled his weapon away and the contest began.
Tal had been dueling during his nearly yearlong stay in Salador. The Court of Blades was no match for the Masters’ Court in terms of the number of quality opponents, but there were enough good swordsmen there to keep Tal sharp.
He had needed the time, for on Sorcerer’s Isle there was only Caleb to spar with, and Caleb had been absent a great deal of the time, out on one mission or another for his parents. And while Caleb was the best hunter and archer Tal knew, his blade work left room for improvement.
Before then, Tal had been with mercenaries, and most of the niceties of the dueling floor were lost on them.
They were not looking to perfect swordcraft as an art, but rather as a means of survival, and Tal was fairly certain the Masters of the Court would look dimly upon his using _______________
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kicks to the groin, eye gouging, and ear biting as part of his sparring regime. Tal realized that many of the young men who would spend years of their lives here in the Masters’ Court would never have to use their blades in anger.
Such was the life of a young noble in the civilized bosom of Roldem.
Young Anatoli was quickly dispatched, for he was sound at basic swordsmanship but lacked any particular gift. Three other young men were also quickly disposed of, and Tal elected to leave the floor.
Rather than heading straight for the changing room, he went to a table at the end of the hall that was laden with refreshments. A crystal bowl stood in the center, filled with water and floating slices of lemons. Tal had come to appreciate the drink after getting used to its tartness. Fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries, and smoked meats rested on trays. Bottles of ale and wine were also there for those who had finished with the day’s practices.
Tal took a cup of lemon water from a servant, then picked up a slice of apple to nibble on while he surveyed the room.
One of the court’s many servants stood next to Tal, busily restocking each dish so that the presentation always looked fresh. He calculated the expense and considered how costly it must be to operate the Masters’ Court. Any nobleman was free to use the court for the furtherance of the art of the blade. Commoners with gold could use it for a not-inconsiderable fee, and many choose to do so for political reasons. Otherwise, the entire cost of operating this palatial undertaking was borne by the Crown.
For an idle moment, Tal wondered just how much wealth King Carol commanded. He called up from memory a book he had read on the life of the Krondorian trader Rupert Avery, and reconsidered how exaggerated _______________
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the various sums mentioned by the self-aggrandizing fellow really were. Sitting alone in his little hut on Sorcerer’s Isle, Talon of the Silver Hawk had thought those figures must have been inflated to bolster the author’s claim of importance in the history of the Kingdom. But now that he considered how vast the palace of Roldem was, and just the cost of operating this court alone, not to mention the funding of Roldem’s navy, Tal realized just how naive Talon had been. From somewhere in his memory came the phrase “It’s good to be king,” and despite not being able to remember which of his teachers had uttered it, Talon was inclined to agree.
&
nbsp; For a brief instant he thought he was on the edge of understanding Duke Kaspar’s greed for power.
Then he saw another large party enter the floor, and, without needing a second glance, he knew Prince Matthew had arrived. Tal reconsidered his plan again, as he had countless times since he had dreamed it up the week before. Fresh from his heroics in saving the Duke and with the King’s approval he now stood the best chance of making it work without ending up on the headsman’s block or being discreetly dumped into the harbor.
Sipping on his drink, he ambled to where the Prince stood surrounded by his entourage. Prince Matthew was a vain man, despite the fact that by the age of thirty he had accumulated an ample girth around an otherwise slender figure. It gave the comic effect of a large reptile trying to digest an even larger ball. Still, the Prince heroically attempted to mask the result of his excesses by employing a jacket that was cinched tight around the middle and padded across the shoulders. He wore his hair short, heavily oiled, and combed forward to disguise his rapidly retreating hairline, and affected a thin mustache that had to have taken hours to trim each day, thought Talon. He _______________
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also carried an ornate little viewing glass, a thing of light purple quartz imported from Queg, through which he would peer at things as if the glass somehow gave him a better level of detail.
Tal waited a short distance away until he was noticed, then bowed.
The Prince said, “Ah, Squire. Good to see you back.
Sorry I missed you at the gala, but I was indisposed.”
The rumor in the palace had been that the Prince had consumed so much wine the night before Kaspar’s welcoming gala that he dared not step more than a dozen paces from the garderobe in his quarters lest his irritated bowels rebel unexpectedly. “My loss, Highness. It’s good to see you recovered.”
“Have you dueled?” asked the Prince.
“I just finished, Highness.”
“Ah, a pity. I had hoped for some decent competition today.”
The Prince was an indifferent fencer, but for reasons political, he rarely lost a bout. Tal had no doubt he had waited in the nearby changing rooms, under the soothing hands of a masseuse, waiting for word of Tal’s sessions being over. “That’s no trouble, Highness. I haven’t left the floor yet, so I would be happy to accommodate you should you wish a bit of a challenge.”
Several of the Prince’s party exchanged glances. On his best day the Prince would be no match for Tal on his worst, and few thought the Champion of the Masters’
Court likely to allow a victory to the Prince, given that Tal had never lost a bout, and if he continued to win until the next Masters’ Court Tournament, he would be the undisputed master of all time.
Prince Matthew forced a smile. “Again, a pity. I’ve already booked my opponents.”
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Three young fencers stood nearby, one of them being the youth, Anatoli. He beamed as he stepped forward, and said, “Highness, I would gladly surrender my place to allow the Champion to accommodate you.”
If looks could kill, Anatoli would have been instantly reduced to smoking debris. Instead, the Prince said,
“How kind, young sir. I shall be sure to remember.”
Tal tried to suppress a grin. “Why don’t you begin with the other two, Highness, while I finish my lemon water? When you’re finished with them, I’ll be delighted to be your last opponent.”
The Prince smiled, for at least Tal offered him a way to save face. He would win his first two bouts, after which being defeated by the Champion would be no shame. And, who knows, perhaps the Champion might seek to curry favor by allowing a draw—certainly he had done so before.
Tal wandered back to the buffet and helped himself to another piece of apple. The Prince quickly disposed of both his opponents, who contrived to lose in an almost convincing fashion.
Tal put down his cup of water and returned to the floor. “Congratulations, Highness. You barely broke a sweat.” In fact, the Prince was puffing like an old horse that had been run uphill all day.
“Kind of you . . . to say that . . . Squire.”
“Let’s say to seven? That will give us both a good workout.”
Master Vassily glanced at Tal with narrowed eyes. To seven meant best of seven touches. The usual match was to three touches. Tal would win without difficulty, but would have to score on the Prince four touches instead of the usual two out of three. The Prince was caught exactly where Tal wanted him, unwilling to decline. He said, “Of course.”
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Then Tal said, “And if you would be so gracious, we’ve already both matched with rapiers. I could use some practice with a heavier weapon. Sabers? Or long swords, perhaps?”
Everyone within hearing range fell silent. Prince Matthew was indifferent with the rapier, but it was his best weapon. The heavy cavalry blade required quick, powerful attacks, and the infantry sword required stamina. The Prince elected the lesser of two evils. “Sabers, then, Squire.”
Tal motioned for one of the floor staff to hand him his helmet and sword, while another attendant brought the Prince a practice saber. Master Vassily approached and whispered, “What do you think you’re doing, Squire?”
“I just thought it about time someone took some of the wind out of that pompous fool’s sails, Master Vassily.”
The Master of the Floor stood dumbfounded. His entire experience with Squire Hawkins had led him to believe him a young man of exceptional social adroitness.
He could charm nearly every woman he met, and most men wanted to be his friend. Yet here he stood ready to humiliate a royal prince. “He’s the King’s cousin, Squire!”
hissed Vassily.
“The fact of which the swine makes sure we never forget,” said Tal, trying to sound venomous. “Let’s get on with it.”
From the moment they took their places, Tal knew he could have his way with the Prince, injure him, or even kill him if he wanted. Despite the padding and the helmet, a saber—even a practice saber with a blunted edge—could wreak great harm in the hands of a master, and no man was more of a master than Tal.
Reluctantly, Vassily took his place and raised his weapon. “Places!”
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Both men approached and touched blades, and when Vassily ordered, “Begin!” the Prince attempted a quick but feeble overhand strike.
Tal knocked it aside effortlessly. The Prince was already overbalanced, and Tal should have without hesitation riposted with a strike to the shoulder or exposed side of the body for the point. Instead he retreated a step.
“Why don’t you try that again, Highness?” he said in a voice that merely hinted at mockery. It was almost as if he was turning a practice duel into a lesson.
Tal took his position, saber down at his side, waiting, while the Prince retreated and approached with his sword at the ready. The Prince tried the same move, even more clumsily than before, and Tal easily blocked to the side.
Prince Matthew overbalanced and was open to any number of light taps that would win Tal the match, but at the last instant, Tal slashed hard with a punishing blow to the ribs, hard enough to bring an audible grunt of pain from the Prince.
“Score, Squire Hawkins!” announced Vassily, as he looked at Tal with an expression halfway between a question and outrage.
With a gasp, Prince Matthew pulled himself upright, his left hand across his stomach, clutching his ribs. Affecting concern, Tal asked, “I trust I didn’t hurt you, Highness?”
For an instant Tal wondered if the Prince was going to be sick, for his voice sounded as if he were swallowing between words. “No . . . I’m . . . fine . . . Squire.”
Brightly, Tal suggested, “Let’s try another.”
For a moment it appeared as if the Prince might
decline, but instead he returned to his position, and Tal said,
“Be careful not to overextend, Highness.”
With barely concealed anger, Master Vassily approached. There was nothing he could do, really. As Mas-
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ter of the Floor he could halt any match for any reason, and over the years he had stopped several matches in which an advanced student was bullying a novice. But this was a royal prince of the House of Roldem, and to halt this bout because Tal was punishing him would only humiliate the Crown.
Tal scored two more brutal touches, and by the time the Prince approached the line, Master Vassily whispered,
“Squire, this is more than enough!”
“If his Highness wishes to retire, I will not object,” Tal said with as much contempt as he could manage in his tone. He let his voice carry just enough that all those nearby could overhear.
Prince Matthew was a proud man, even if that pride was founded in vanity rather than achievement. He seemed to be choking back tears when he said, “I’m not going to quit.”
Brightly, Tal said, “Well said, Highness. Let’s give the gallery something to remember, shall we?”
When Vassily instructed them to start, Prince Matthew held his ground, waiting for Tal to make the first move. Tal feinted, and the Prince reacted. In quick order, Tal knocked the Prince’s saber from his hand, then slipped the point of his own sabre under the Prince’s helmet, flipping it off his head. Then he stepped past the Prince and administered as hard a blow across the buttocks as he could. The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous. Gasps of astonishment were mixed with catcalls and jeers. The blow was so hard that Prince Matthew fell forward to his knees, hand stretched out before him. His face was flushed, and his eyes swollen from the tears of pain he had not shed from the previous blows. But the last strike had reduced him to crying, and despite his best efforts, he could not help himself.
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Courtiers rushed forward and helped the humiliated Prince to his feet. Tal turned his back and walked away, another breach of decorum. In the gallery, several young women who had come to the Masters’ Court in the hope of catching Tal’s eye rose and departed, contempt in their eyes as they regarded him.
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