A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  The pipe passed, and no one said nay.

  “What has happened to the Princess Irene?” Turkos asked quietly.

  “I have sent her to school,” the Red Knight said.

  “What school?” asked Turkos.

  “The Wild,” Gabriel said.

  * * *

  The Tournament of the Dragon opened with a parade, as such things often do. Despite the plague, despite the great battle, despite the threat of the dragon Ash and the fighting in the Adnacrags, or perhaps because of all those things, coupled with the presence of the young king and his mother the queen, the tournament opened with pageantry and music and much fanfare.

  The Queen of Alba led the parade, as was her right, with the royal standard borne before her and a sword, point upright. She held the baby king in her arms, just christened that morning in the chapel of the inn by the Bishop of Albinkirk, with the name Constantine.

  Her ladies and her knights rode by her, and they were magnificent. Lady Mary was radiant, her deep chocolate-brown hair and pale ivory skin set off by silk-embroidered crimson velvet and white, white linen. She rode a fine eastern mare whose colour matched her hair exactly. She led a knight all in green by a golden chain from her hand to his neck. She smiled a great deal. On the other side of the queen rode Lady Rebecca Almspend in midnight blue, her light brown hair, the longest and most remarkable hair in all the Nova Terra, in a wondrous cascade down her back. A ring on her right hand caught the sun in a dazzle of light that made the crowd cheer, and she led a knight by a silver chain, and he wore a red-and-black tabard in the checky of the Hillmen. And close behind the queen, in a gown of sky-blue silk worth more than all the clothes she’d ever owned in her life, with an overgown of golden yellow all embroidered in golden flowers and wearing a chaplet of wildflowers from the fields, rode Lady Blanche, and she led a knight all in red by a chain of gold. And by her side was Lady Kaitlin, and she wore a scarlet gown edged and accented in gold and lined in squirrel fur despite the heat of the day, with a short cloth-of-gold cloak and a long and pointed hat of peacock’s feathers to set off her beautiful hair. Where Lady Mary’s skin was ivory, Lady Kaitlin had the lightest dusting of freckles, and far more colour on her cheeks, and the silk brocade of her overgown in scarlet and dark gold matched her complexion. She held a silver chain, and led a knight in blue, whose bascinet was crowned with a great spray of blue plumes.

  And behind this part came two teams of chivalric combatants. The first was led by the Prince of Occitan, and his co-captain Ser Thomas Lachlan. Their team was proceeded by two women on warhorses, and themselves dressed for court: Lady Briar and her daughter Lady Helewise. The other team was led on by Lady Natalia in a superb gown of gold and blue with a train that spread over the rump of her horse and another lady in an incredible display of crystal, lace, and flowers, whose elfin beauty brought roars of approval from the crowd—Queen Tamsin of N’gara, and they were followed by the Faery Knight with Ser Gregario, Lord Weyland, as his co-captain. There were eight knights on each team.

  Behind the teams came a host of knights and ladies, or, in a few cases, knights and gentlemen; Ser Alison, often called Sauce, rode a superb jet-black courser, and Count Zac, on a spirited mare, led her by a chain of steel; there were two Occitan ladies in harness, and one lady from Jarsay. And a great host of ladies dressed in their very best, and young knights eager to prove themselves.

  And behind them, the regiments. First, unquestioned, came the twenty-six surviving Nordikaans. They came in their full dress: mail that reached to their thighs, and gold decorated helms, and greaves of blued steel or shining bronze, polished matching vambraces, and carrying on their shoulders heavy axes.

  Behind them came the Scholae, in the full splendour of their scarlet and gold, with armour of white steel. A year of constant war had changed them, and so had the horse plague, so that despite their terrible losses in the fields around them just a month before, they had half their number walking behind the mounted men. Ser Giorgos Comnenos led them, tall, ascetic, handsome as a saint on an icon.

  Behind them came the royal foresters of Alba, who had served through the fighting in the deep woods, and whose smart red jupons and forest-green cotes were now offset with porcupine quill garters and sword belts from a summer with Outwallers. They swaggered with their bows on their shoulders, and behind them came the Armourers’ Guild of Harndon in blue and gold, looking as rich as an imperial regiment with odd, new weapons on their shoulders, bronze maces on heavy wooden poles, and then, behind them, the scarlet-clad Vardariotes, with their strange eastern bow cases and short, soft boots and curved swords.

  And then came the company. If less than half its people had worn its scarlet, white, and green uniform for more than five days, they appeared magnificent, led by Ser Milus and Ser Francis Atcourt. But many of the men-at-arms were dismounted, and more than half the archers and pages. Still, when the company’s Saint Catherine standard appeared past the outwalls of the tavern, twenty thousand people gave the kind of cheer they’d only offered for the Queen of Faery and the Queen of Alba. By the time the company appeared, the stands were full, and so were the roped-off areas for the crowd. Every effort had been made to see to the comfort of men and the Wild, too, but in the event, either by the dragon’s hand, or by chance, or by the will of some higher being, the men and women of western Morea and northern Alba mixed freely with the bears and bogglins, wardens and irks. The cheers for the company were loud because everyone knew them, and perhaps, because there were now a pair of Irkish knights among the men-at-arms, riding horses, and three supernaturally tall forms paced along with the archers.

  And behind the company, a few hundred archers and other contestants, entered in the lists but not enrolled properly, or simply people who liked to be in a parade and not in the crowd. There was Tall Pine at the head of his warriors, painted red and black, a stunning sight. He wore a solid gold gorget provided to his forefathers by some past emperor, and a great flowing robe of black squirrel fur and carried his pipe. By him walked Gas-a-ho with a pouch of badger decorated with quills, wearing a headdress of heron and eagle feathers that towered above the others. He had a single black bar of paint over his eyes. The Outwallers received a rolling cheer that sounded up and down the crowd, and when it swelled to a certain level, Nita Qwan let out a great scream and all the warriors joined him, a scream that cut through the applause of twenty thousand folk of all nations. A few warriors brandished the grisly trophies of recent victories, but they were the youngest; the rest walked with the dignity of senators and legates, breaking into broad smiles when a child reached for them or a woman blew a kiss.

  By the time the company entered the ground around the lists, the queen had made her procession all the way around, dismounted to roars of applause, and been met by Ser Gerald Ransom and Master Smythe, who escorted her to her place in the stands, where two thrones had been prepared. Having greeted the queen, Ser Gerald walked away to a secret room under the stands...a secret room he had prepared for the first tournament, the one that ought to have happened in Harndon. And there, in privacy, the one-legged merchant became a knight in full harness, his missing leg cunningly hidden by Master Pye’s best work. And Toby, loaned for the occasion, led Ser Gerald to his horse and got him mounted, and handed him up his visored great helm, and Anne Woodstock buckled the helm to his back plate and tied his lace under his chin.

  Ser Gerald was in the queen’s colours, as was Ser Galahad D’Acon. And while the last of the parade was coming to a halt, and the crowd was still on their feet, the two of them rode out from behind the stands, to the center of the lists, and there, saluted each other and the queen, and rode to either end—and charged.

  Both their lances shattered magnificently, and Ser Gerald breathed freely for the first time in hours, as he was a newly trained jouster and having begged the boon of opening the lists, he’d worried about it for weeks.

  No sooner did Toby have his helmet off then the red knight and the green knight were at i
t.

  Galahad D’Acon’s helm came off over his head, and he favoured Ser Gerald with his beaming smile. “Look at them!” he said. “With war lances!”

  Both men set their lances as soon as they began their charge—both expert jousters on expert horses.

  Most of the crowd leaned forward, amazed to be offered such good sport in the very first moments.

  The green knight’s lance plucked the red knight’s helmet right off his head.

  The red knight’s lance broke into a thousand splinters on the green knight’s shield, and his lance head stuck deep, so that the green knight rode along the lists with the head stuck in the face of his green shield as the crowd roared, and he had been rocked in his seat. The knights were only running single courses, and the pennon went up awarding the point to the red knight, who pumped his fist in the air and rode along, saluted the queen bare-headed, and then cantered along the lists to where Toby and Anne were just ready to receive him. Ser Gavin rode up for the other direction, and his squire, Rob Salmon, had his helmet off his head in a moment.

  Ser Gavin looked at his brother. “Some bastards will do anything to win,” he shouted.

  Up in the stands, the dragon turned to the queen of Alba. “I do not understand,” he said.

  She smiled brilliantly at him, clearly delighted with everything. She put a hand on Blanche’s shoulder. Her former laundress had seen the war lances and the solid shafts, and she’d lost a year of her life when Gabriel’s helmet flew off.

  The queen looked out at the lists, where Ser Ranald and Ser Michael, also with war lances, flicked their salutes to the thrones.

  “What do you not understand, my fair host?” she asked.

  “As to that, if one of us is to be fair, it would be you, Queen of Men.” Master Smythe had disconcerting eyes, and they bored into her. The queen smiled despite his eyes.

  “But my confusion is about the helmet. Surely, the loss of a helmet is very serious. And the breaking of a lance, nothing.” He shrugged. He looked at Mogon, who sat in her own splendour by his elbow. Mogon had a superb fan of griffon’s feathers—feathers that seemed to have been made of gold—and she used it to fan herself even as she ate her fourth iced sherbet.

  “I cannot pretend to understand human combat rituals,” she said. “I can only promise you that ours are just as silly. And beautiful.”

  The queen smiled. “I can see, Ser Dragon, that you were not brought up in Occitan nor yet to the joust. The red knight left his helmet unlaced, expecting his brother to strike for it. It slid from his head, and he kept his seat perfectly, and thus, no point is scored against him. But his spear shattered and he rocked his brother in his saddle. Ser Gavin was too good a lance to be discomfited much, but the point clearly goes to Ser Gabriel, and the more so as it takes so much courage to leave your helmet unlaced. Don’t you think?”

  “And yet you use this game to train for war?” the dragon asked. “Would it not—”

  The crowd roared.

  Ser Ranald and Ser Michael had both splintered their heavy lances, and both men’s shields were split by the impact, and yet neither was injured. Lady Rebecca and Lady Kaitlin were leaning on each other, but managed to laugh and wave their hands as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  And then, in a burst of colour, the two teams entered the lists. It was too much—skilled jousters and veteran fans in the crowd were still trying to explain the Red Knight’s trick and there’d been another pair and now two teams entered and the barriers, themselves on wheels, were being maneuvered out of the lists even as eight knights formed a solid line at either end of the lists.

  Silence fell.

  Most of the humble folk of the Brogat had never seen an irk or a bogglin, except under awful conditions of bondage or terror or war. Now there were several thousand of the creatures in the crowd. Perhaps out of sensitivity to fresh alliances, both teams had irks and men.

  The two teams saluted the queen, and by then, Ser Gerald, master of the tournament, had shed enough armour to help Queen Tamsin dismount and lead her to her throne beside the Queen of Alba, from which Master Smythe departed with a stunning bow and flourish.

  Tamsin turned and waved at her love, and the Queen of Alba gave the signal.

  The two teams charged.

  The melee was not fought with lances. Instead, each knight had a sword of staves of wood, loosely enough bound so that they made a very loud noise when they struck, and cunningly enough made that a blow from one could knock a man from his saddle.

  The Faery Knight and the Prince of Occitan made for each other, but half a dozen knights on either team had the same notion. Ser Gregario unhorsed Ser George Brewes at the outset, and that knight rolled once and scrambled out of the lists, a veteran of other melees. Tom Lachlan knocked an irk clear of his saddle in one two-handed blow and managed a cut at the Faery Knight, but the canny Ser Tamio parried with his own wooden sword and cut back at Ser Thomas, and for ten long breaths the two champions cut at each other, blow and blow, and no one interfered. The Prince of Occitan unhorsed Ser Tancred and landed a good blow on Ser Gregario. But Ser Danved had the time and presence of mind to bide, and he came in close, locked the prince’s sword arm with his own, and threw him from his horse. Then Ser Berengar put Ser Danved down, the smaller man appearing out of the dust and slamming his wooden sword into his friend’s outstretched arm and riding through, until Danved fell, cursing, and Ser Berengar was in turn unhorsed by Daniel Favour, with a keen fire burning in his eyes.

  And still Tom Lachlan and the Faery Knight traded blows, as fast as smiths working metal, and men fell all around them. The dust rose, Daniel went down at the hands of Ser Francis Atcourt, and for a moment, as horses panicked and Ser Christos burst from the melee, nothing could be seen.

  Ser Christos had two swords, having disarmed someone in the dust. He bided, riding carefully along the lists. He threw the extra sword into the crowd, and people roared their approval. An Irkish knight rode out of the dust without a sword, and simply jumped his beautiful silver horse over the list barrier and then turned, pulled off a gauntlet and offered Ser Christos his hand, and both men opened their visors. Ser Francis Atcourt rode after them, realized that they had elected to end their fight, and bowed to the queens.

  And then Bad Tom and the Faery Knight rode out of the dust. Both of them rode to the foot of the lists below the royal box, and the folk in the crowd closest could see that both still held the hilts of wooden swords in their hands. Both threw the hilts into the crowd, and tapped their right gauntlets together, and rode, side by side, out of the lists.

  The people screamed their approval, even as the bells on the inn peeled for lunch.

  The queen paused on her way out of her box to lean over and kiss Ser Gerald on the cheek. “It is already superb!” she said.

  He grinned. “This is the tournament we was supposed to give Your Grace,” he said. “Instead of that sad thing of Rohan’s, God rest his soul.” He looked at the swirl of dust. “People need such things in a bad year. And I thought we would start with a bang.”

  Duchess Mogon leaned in between the merchant-knight and his queen, her big head and inlaid beak delicate as a dancer. “May I ask if perhaps two of my...ahem. Knights? Might give a display of our game of war?”

  Ser Gerald, who had planned every minute of the next four days, did not freeze or curse. He smiled steadily. He glanced at the queen. “Easily done,” he said.

  The Queen of Alba and the Queen of Faery both clapped their hands. “Delightful!”

  Master Smythe leaned in. “You may want to let the Outwallers show you their form of jousting,” he said. “It is done with a ball and sticks. There’s always blood.”

  Behind them, the barriers were being wheeled back into the middle of the lists.

  “You have more surprises for us?” the queen asked. She smiled at Tamsin, thinking that she had never seen such a beautiful person ever, even in a picture.

  Ser Gerald bowed to the two queens. “I
promise nothing but surprises,” he said.

  * * *

  “I don’t even want to sit with you,” Gavin said to his brother, and aimed a blow at the air by his head.

  Lady Mary kissed him. “I was not given to understand that you suffered from temper,” she said. She looked at Blanche, and her eyebrows went up and down, and Blanche tried to hide a laugh and mouthed Yes back.

  The Red Knight sat by his brother and was served, and he leaned over, kissed Lady Blanche to the delight of many, and then shook his head. “Brother, it was a cheap trick. What can I say? You are a better jouster. What else can I do?”

  Gavin leaned back, rolling his eyes. “See? It is just like growing up. First he does something outrageous, and then he apologizes, so that no one...” He looked at his brother. “It was beautifully done.”

  “Ser Henri would be proud,” Ser Gabriel said.

  A little, very uncomfortable silence fell.

  “You will have to get your revenge tomorrow, in the regular jousting,” Lady Mary said.

  “I won’t even be here...” Ser Gavin stopped and laughed. “If Gabriel keeps hitting me, I won’t even be here,” he went on smoothly.

  “Assuming any of us survive the council tonight,” Ser Gabriel said, lugubriously.

  * * *

  The afternoon drew on. As soon as the day began to cool, the first of several hundred archers began to loft their shafts into round targets of straw.

  “This ought to get Wilful to rise from the grave,” Cully muttered. “Damn it, I miss him.”

  Smoke took his shot and watched it strike home fifty paces away. He nodded his satisfaction. “He liked a clout shoot or a long shoot,” Smoke said. “But he was a gloomy bastard, and by now...”

  Long Paw wasn’t jousting. He was in a fey mood and when it was his turn, he placed an arrow on his string and pulled as if trying to throw the quarter-pound arrow into the next county. Instead, he shot high in the air. The arrow fell at a steep angle—and struck the target.