‘Your pardon, Majesty. It is very crowded here,’ Hondo murmured, bowing.
The prince seemed to understand he was being blocked, and what that meant. His colour deepened and Tellius wondered what the consequences might be if the young man returned home in a wooden box to his father. War, perhaps, if he was much loved. A delay to any trade treaty, at the very least. He swallowed, forcing such thoughts back down into the acids of his stomach, where they could not cause trouble.
‘These … gentlemen are swordsmen from Shiang, are they not?’ the prince said. ‘I wonder how they would fare against my father’s elite guards.’
‘Very well indeed, Your Majesty,’ Tellius replied smoothly. ‘But do not take it to heart. Shiang is a city built on mastery of the sword. They have no equal – though perhaps we will have a sword saint of Darien in a few years.’ He ignored the slight grunt from Hondo as he spoke. The idea of teaching Mazer steps to foreigners still had the sting of heresy.
‘I would love to see these extraordinary skills,’ the prince said. There was a note of anger in his voice still and Tellius continued to prick him, casting away caution.
‘There is a story told in Shiang of two masters, Your Majesty. One challenged the other to cut flies from the air with his blade. The older master stood perfectly still and when a fly came close, he drew and cut. The fly continued on its way. “You missed!” cried the younger man. “I did not miss,” the older swordsman replied. “He will not be fathering any new flies, not now.”’
Hondo snorted as he understood. The prince blinked, his irritation growing in opposition to Tellius’ enjoyment of it. On a sudden whim and spike of temper, the prince tossed his empty wine glass into the air. He had intended to interrupt the smug condescension he felt from the speaker to the council. The glass would shatter on the floor and perhaps they would remember to treat him with respect. Had he not brought Darien to the table and wrenched a treaty from them that very day? All that flashed through his mind in a childish spasm. He jerked the glass up and watched as Bosin took it from the air, as smoothly as if they had practised the move a thousand times. The man had moved with no perceptible lag, just reached out and caught the glass as it rose.
‘Ah, would you like a refill, Your Majesty?’ Tellius said lightly. He could hardly believe the petty temper in the young man. There had been no sign of it in the council meetings. In that, Tellius felt the sting of failure. He should have found the weakness and used it when it would have done some good.
‘That is kind of you, but no. I would like to see your man spar. A little action to take the taste of sweetness from my mouth. Do you understand? I will wager my man against yours, if you are willing.’
Tellius saw the prince’s gaze flicker over Bosin. The man’s size was intimidating. Yet Hondo was watching calmly, waiting to be asked. Tellius knew the sword saint would never forgive him if he gave the task to Bosin.
‘It would be our honour, of course. Should it be to the death?’
There was no sound in that room as the crowd waited for the prince to reply. He felt the pressure of so many listeners and barely hesitated.
‘Why, of course. A man’s life as the stake, then.’
‘And … what, four thousand in gold?’ Tellius added. It was a sum as great as the prince must have promised the house of Aeris or Woodville for their vote. It would make Tellius a rich man in a single night. Unless Hondo lost, of course. Then he would have to go on bended knee to Lady Sallet and explain why she had to sell her town house to keep him out of slavery.
‘Why not?’ the prince said more coldly. ‘Four thousand in gold.’
‘You have that much here, Your Majesty? Or would it be an order to be drawn on a later date?’
The prince had paled as Tellius poked him, over and over. He felt able to push back a little at that.
‘You don’t think my written word would be good?’
Tellius chuckled, the sound oddly muffled in a room with two hundred silent people thinking he had lost his mind to be infuriating the prince in this way.
‘I prefer gold, Your Majesty. Coins I can hold in my hand. Would you like a lower stake?’
The prince hesitated. He probably didn’t have so vast a sum in Darien, but his honour and desire to strike back were overruling good sense. To Tellius’ delight, the prince turned to Lord Aeris.
‘Will you stake me, Aeris? I cannot match so great a sum tonight.’
Lord Aeris raised a hand to his face, scratching a cheek in a nervous gesture. The fingers trembled, Tellius saw in delight. He had been wandering through a maze, but found, if not the centre, at least a spot to stop and laugh. Lord Aeris had no real wealth. Tellius was forcing the prince to ask for the return of the very bribe Aeris had accepted from his hand. The crowd would guess why Aeris was trembling so – seeing his new confidence drain away. The man nodded like a twitch, already aware he had hesitated too long.
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
‘Excellent,’ Tellius said. ‘Then we have a bet. And a little entertainment. Better than your musicians, anyway.’ He saw the anger in the prince’s eyes, though the man smiled.
5
To Lose
The house in Vine Street had clearly been refurbished with no expense spared. Tellius could smell fresh paint as the entire party trooped out to an inner yard. There, too, was evidence of an army of workers, though the space was stark and still mostly bare. Trimmed bushes spilled from raised stone beds, like clumps of moss or tumours. Paths wound between them, with a central space left for a table and chairs in wrought iron. Even the lines of moss between the path stones had been scrubbed out and lifted up, removing the grime of decades. Servants of Féal came out with the chattering guests, whisking away tables and chairs. Still more moved swiftly to replenish any empty glass. It was an impressive performance in its way, Tellius thought. Within moments, the centre of the courtyard was clear. Lamps hung overhead on metal wires from the floors above. Tellius glanced up to see black spars jutting from the brickwork, while Féal servants raised long poles to light each wick. One by one, pools of light made the courtyard a place of serenity and austere beauty. Tellius rather liked it, with his Shiang sensibilities. Yet he would end the evening in blood, even so.
Hondo and Bosin waited at his side, with more space around them than before. The crowd seemed to understand that at least one of them would enter a mortal ring. They pressed back, so that the three Shiang men found themselves apart, almost in the centre of the courtyard. The house rose around them on all sides, making Tellius wonder if the sun ever reached the ground. It would explain the empty flowerbeds if it did not. There seemed to be an unnatural chill there and he shivered.
The prince was performing for the crowd, there was no other way to describe it. The young man moved from group to group, explaining the event they would witness and leaving them beaming. Whatever else the man was, Tellius could admit, he had charm. Even those who had voted against the alliance were rewarded with a few brief words and a flashing grin. It made Tellius’ stomach grind to watch a politician flatter and amuse men and women who should have been immune.
Hondo showed no sign of tension as Tellius glanced at him. Even so, Tellius took a slow breath before he leaned in to whisper to his man. Shiang honour was a piece of glass in that place. Tellius stood as his patron and master that evening. As his king. He had forced Hondo to accept that royal authority by right two years before, when Tellius had needed the sword saint to defend Darien. With enemies all around, Tellius would not shame the man with a single note of doubt in his abilities.
‘You will have to kill whoever he puts up,’ Tellius said under his breath.
Hondo inclined his head a fraction in answer.
‘I want to win; I want him also to lose,’ Tellius murmured.
There was a slight tightening around Hondo’s eyes at that. The words were well known in the history of Shiang. Once again, Hondo dipped his head and Tellius moved away with Bosin at his shoulder.
> Unlike the man who would actually fight that evening, Tellius felt his heart beating hard and fast, fresh sweat breaking out on his brow. In all ways, he was a subject and citizen of Darien. In all ways but one, perhaps. Tellius loved the grace and mastery of the sword in a way that few from his adopted city could appreciate. He could not have had better seats that evening in any theatre. This was the play.
Lord Regis had fought alongside Hondo and Bosin two years before, when part of the city had been consumed in fire. Tellius was gratified to see the red-haired lord scaring up bets from the crowd – and having trouble getting any takers. They knew not to bet against a man who had won the title of sword saint from a city that revered masters of the blade.
The prince of Féal had conferred with one or two of his servants while the crowd assembled. He and his senior officers stared openly at Hondo, trying to gauge the man’s strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps they had a choice of champions. Tellius leaned back against one of the raised stone beds, pressing into dense shrubbery. It cradled him as he settled, so that green leaves and stems quivered on the edge of his vision.
The crowd fell silent as Hondo’s opponent arrived. Even if Prince Louis had not gestured, calling him to the centre, it could hardly have been anyone else. The man was not especially large, though he stood a head in height over Hondo. At that point, the sword saint was watching his opponent with intense concentration, judging gait and posture for any sign of old injuries. The man seemed to sense that scrutiny, so that he looked over and glared in challenge. He wore his hair short, revealing a fine scar that ran from his scalp and down into one cheek, as if pressed by a claw. He had survived a terrible wound at some point.
‘My lords and ladies,’ the prince said, making his voice echo from all sides. ‘I would like to introduce Master Emil Cartagne. Champion to the king of Féal.’
The prince flashed a glance of triumph at Tellius as he spoke. In the same moment, his man went into a pattern of strikes, a combination of knees and elbows. The Féal man carried no sword and Tellius wondered if the prince had somehow misunderstood. Before he could voice the thought, a servant brought up a short sword resting on his outstretched arms. It was little more than a machete, weighted at the tip. The short length lent itself to being swung and the king’s champion obliged, making silver blurs in the air. The crowd gasped and murmured.
The air was heating up with so many of them crammed in. One or two fanned themselves without looking away for an instant. They were close enough to be flecked with blood and they knew it. Tellius could see excitement rising in them like sap.
He saw the prince had extended a hand to him. Tellius came off the flowerbed to stand straight. His voice was strong enough to silence the whispering nobles.
‘On our side stands Master Hondo, the saint of swords.’ A thought struck him and he went on. ‘Bodyguard to the king of Shiang.’
Prince Louis blinked at that, though Tellius was sure he would have been told. Well, if the ambassador of Shiang was coming to accept his abdication, he hadn’t arrived yet. Tellius had not been crowned, but if it had ever been true, it was still true that evening.
‘One bout, then, between royal champions. To the death,’ the prince said.
Confidence came off him like heat and Tellius found himself staring intently at the fighter named as Emil Cartagne. The man looked fit and strong, with the sort of bone-hard body that can only be made in constant battle. It was too easy to imagine the flat, wide face twisting in anger and implacable strength.
Tellius scratched a line of sweat as it ran down his cheek. He could not help wondering if the prince had set him up. There had been no sign of the king’s champion in any of the council meetings. Prince Louis had kept him back, perhaps for just such a trap as this.
The prince seemed intent on his role as master of ceremonies. He gestured to Hondo and his own fighter, summoning them to face one another. In response, Hondo held up a hand, interrupting proceedings. With the slowness of ritual, Hondo untied the wide belt at his waist, then unbuttoned the jacket underneath, handing both to Bosin to drape over an arm. Emil Cartagne stood bare-chested in the lamplight and Hondo chose to match him, rather than wear armour of any kind.
Beneath the coat, the sword saint wore a strap-pouch with his money and a variety of slender blades. He removed that and added it to the bundle Bosin held. A thin linen shirt followed, then a skin of silk that fitted closely. Tellius knew that final layer would trap an arrow in its wound, so that it could more easily be drawn out. Silk was a wonderful weave for warriors. As Hondo added that to the rest, Tellius wondered how it would fare against bullets. He also wondered if it might be a wonderful weave for old men who felt the chill in winter.
When Hondo stood wearing only high-waisted leggings, he took back his sword from Bosin’s hand, the scabbard of orange and black he had been given at the moment of his triumph in Shiang, years before. He bowed over it to Tellius and drew the blade with a note like a bell struck. The sound hung in the air, making eyes round and nervous. Hondo would have given the scabbard to Bosin then, but Tellius held out his hand for it. It was an honour, from patron to master swordsman. Hondo showed no expression, but Tellius thought he was pleased as he passed the scabbard over. It was warm in Tellius’ hand, or perhaps he was just cold.
Servants of the prince marked two lines on the centre of the courtyard, roughly the height of a man apart. The space was more cramped than Tellius would have preferred, but no more so than a sparring hall, where a hundred men struck for a minute of frenzied activity, then paused on order, moving on to the next in line. Tellius had never known exhaustion like those days and the memories were thick as they rose in him.
Hondo bowed to Tellius as his patron and strode to where the prince waited with Emil Cartagne. He bowed again, to his opponent and then to the prince, for his role as master of ceremonies. The simple courtesies were from a sparring culture. Tellius felt his mouth tighten in irritation at the prince’s smile and exchange of glance with his fighter. Men of Féal had no right to be amused by the customs of Shiang. They knew nothing of honour.
‘When the bell sounds, begin,’ the prince said. He showed his teeth then, a wolfish expression that had Tellius checking all around and above for some attack. Was this just a diversion? He would not have been surprised. He was on the verge of calling Hondo back when a dozen of the prince’s servants stepped forward from every entrance to the courtyard. As one, they took hold of the lamps that hung on their wires and swung them away.
The only sources of light spun crazily, making the courtyard flicker in gold and shadow. Tellius saw the Féal champion ready himself as the prince stepped back. A real bell sounded, the note much deeper than Hondo’s blade leaving the scabbard.
The crowd roared as the two men came together, though the sound died away as quickly as it had risen. Tellius had watched ten thousand bouts in his youth. He knew how to look for a blow. Yet he had barely had time to register the speed of the champion of Féal before Hondo flicked the tip of his sword through the right side of the man’s throat.
When the Shiang patron of a swordsman demanded not only a victory, but that the other man lose, he asked for the humiliation of an enemy. Hondo had chosen to attack in the first instant, without respect or gaining a sense of the other man’s skill. In that way, it was a contemptuous cut, an insult.
It was also a killing blow, though Emil Cartagne immediately held a hand against the gash. Blood poured through his fingers and his expression was one of complete surprise. He went down to one knee, choking. As Tellius began to exult and prepare what he would say to the prince, Hondo suddenly curled over and slumped to the ground. Tellius went forward with the rest and the space in the middle vanished.
Tellius felt the crush of people around him in something like panic. Bosin was there at his shoulder, trying to watch every quarter for an attack, but he was still vulnerable. There were surely enemies in that courtyard, more than before. Still, he could not abandon Hondo.
‘Fetch me the other man’s sword,’ Tellius said.
It was Lord Regis who stood closest to the fighter from Féal. Emil Cartagne still lived, with servants already trying to wrap his throat, binding his hand against the wound while they summoned a surgeon. Tellius glanced once at him and saw huge, dark pupils as the man’s life and strength ebbed. He had no sympathy. Regis collected the man’s short blade and Tellius touched the tip of one finger to it, then to his tongue. He felt numbness spread immediately and cursed, letting the blade fall.
‘Succinylcholine. Pass me his belt, Master Bosin.’
He knew he had to act quickly. A small dose of the substance acted as a paralytic drug. No one would ever have known, not if Hondo had been quickly decapitated, or struck through the heart. No, that first slight gash would have been the end of him if Hondo hadn’t ended the bout in the same split second.
The prince pushed his way through the crowd and heard Tellius speak. The young man blushed scarlet, in shock or fury. When the prince reached for the Féal sword, Bosin put his foot on the blade rather than allow him a weapon at that moment. The prince tried to grab the hilt and Tellius could see Bosin was about to bring a club-fist down on his neck.
‘Prince Louis, please,’ Tellius snapped. ‘Master Hondo has been poisoned. I need an antidote in his belt. My man will be forced to defend us both if you persist.’
The prince looked up, aware of the sheer size of the Shiang master looming over him. He gave up scrabbling for the hilt and stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.
The Sword Saint Page 6