They emerged from the tunnel and stepped into pre-dawn gray. A sound like a nearby sea washed through the amphitheater, for the place was nearly full. Elves filled the stone seats row upon row, a kind of colorful lichen stretching from the ring of the arena itself right up to the very edge of the top, as high as the beacon of Saldemer lighthouse. She gaped, unmoving until she felt Detta tugging at her arm.
“The chevalier goes that way.” Detta pointed to her right. Jehan was just disappearing among a press of men. The two hurried after.
The arena floor had been covered with fresh sand. Around its edge stood a wooden wall about shoulder high, painted bright red, a little battered from use. Between the wall and the stone base of the amphitheater ran a space about ten feet wide. Every few feet was a stall big enough for three or four people, most stalls being already occupied by men being outfitted for the mêlée. Talysse and Detta hurried past the comments and the leers to catch up with Jehan.
His stall was a narrow, wretched thing, really only big enough for two. Detta had to stand outside it, dodging hurrying servants and fighters. A bare pole was erected in one corner; in the other stalls they flew banners, some frayed but all bearing images of animals or symbols.
“All the others,” she said to Jehan, “have armor and weapons. All you have is a big stick.”
“It is an advantage,” he said. What might have been a smile ghosted his lips. “Few will care to attack a man who has no armor to ransom.”
“Or they will attack first the one who looks like an easy victory,” Talysse said.
Jehan ignored that. “We need your banner,” he said, glancing up at the pole affixed to the stall.
She removed her scarf and held it a moment. “I’ll want this back,” she said, then handed it over. It was her reminder of the gardiens and she did not want it lost. Jehan nodded, secured it to the pole, and ran it up. She thought it looked ridiculous, a scrap of red and white hanging limp in the warm air. But the sun felt good on her head.
Detta tapped at her side, then cocked her head.
“Not to worry,” Talysse told her. “Look around. There’s silver hair everywhere. We’re among elves now, not likely to be noticed.” In truth there was more white and gray than silver, but the metal color was common enough.
Out in the arena, fighters were assembling. Their arrangement appeared random to her eyes. Some men stood just outside their stalls, but others gathered in groups, and still others wandered toward the middle of the arena.
“Why do you wait?” she asked Jehan.
“The horn has not sounded.”
“Those men do not wait,” she pointed out.
“No, they do not. They are wrong to do so.”
He was irritating her again. She cast about for some focus for her irritation.
“Is this all I am to do, stand and watch you fight?”
He glanced at her, then back out upon the arena. Fifty men or more were already on the sands.
“Yours is an important task. When I best an opponent,” he said, “that man will go to my standard. You must say you are the gonfaloniere for Jehan d’Ursay. He will leave his name and his arms with you. You must remember the name exactly, and must keep all the arms separated, making sure not to mix them up.”
“Are you planning on conquering them all?”
“Only those who attack me. I am here for only one.”
She started to ask about that one when bugles sounded in a brave flourish. Before they had finished, Jehan vaulted over the wall, carrying his quarterstaff at the ready.
Talysse cried out in surprise, and called out, “Don’t get killed!” He pivoted and raised his quarterstaff in a salute. Her heart fluttered in reply. He looked impossibly brave in his linen shirt, his pants held up by a rope belt, and his fine leather boots. Everyone else in the arena was armed and armored. Some wielded clubs, others maces. A few had swords. Fifty or more men, and all of them looked like killers, save for one, his white hair in braids, striding toward the center.
“He’ll be dead within a minute,” Talysse muttered. Detta leaned into her.
“I can’t see him,” she said.
Talysse boosted the gnome, who set her toes into one of the vaulting steps. “Ayi, ayi,” she said after a moment.
Bugles sounded in rising trills. Men who had previously moved at random now faced off against each other, some individually, others in lines of four or five. There came a single brilliant, shrill pipe and the arena exploded into chaos. Fighters ran at each other, with such wild ferocity Talysse expected to see blood shoot up in fountains. Men shouted, cried out, cursed, yelped. Metal clanged against metal, a fine brave sound. Metal also crunched against leather and bone, a grimmer sound. The crowd added their own cries to the din, shouting for their champion, no doubt, but the effect was a steady roar like a giant waterfall. Within the first moments, men lay on the ground, writhing or motionless. To her surprise, a man helped up another, who handed him his sword. The first warrior pointed. The man, staggering a little, made his way to one of the stalls and just stood there, beneath a black banner with a red boar’s head.
“There he is!” Detta cried, pointing. “Oh, he will be killed! But no, no one touches him, the brave chevalier.”
It was true. Jehan strode purposefully, scarcely glancing to one side or the other, like a man late for market. All around him men fought, a score of simultaneous duels, but no one challenged him until he was fully a third of the way across. Perhaps, Talysse thought, his theory was right.
Then a man wielding a greatsword ran at him. Talysse gasped. The attacker wore full helm and chain armor, with greaves and boots. He looked like some ancient warrior-god bearing down upon a doomed mortal.
“Look out!” Talysse cried, though her voice was as lost in the clamor as a drop in a rainstorm.
Jehan appeared hardly to notice the man. At the last instant, he took an odd sidestep, like an acrobat going into a leap or tumble. The mailed man missed his swing and went off balance. Jehan whirled quickly and delivered a blow to the base of the attacker’s neck. Though it seemed little more than a tap, the man pitched forward into the sand and did not get up.
“Hurrah!” Detta shouted.
Jehan helped the man up and spoke to him, pointing, then he walked away.
The armored man stumbled his way across the arena, dragging his sword. He proceeded to climb out of his armor even as Talysse kept trying to look past him. He gave his name; she noted it. The armor clanked at her feet.
“You have been defeated by Jehan d’Ursay,” Talysse said to him, and she was surprised at how pride leaped into her voice. The man nodded and slouched away.
“He had hoped for better,” Detta said, smirking.
“Where has Jehan gone?” Talysse wondered. There was so much fighting in the middle now, she caught only glimpses of him.
“Can you see him?” Detta asked.
“No. Wait, yes, there he is. Over there.” Even as she pointed, another man, this one but lightly armed, toppled to the ground. Jehan bent down, spoke to him, pointing back toward her. The fallen man got to one knee and nodded. Talysse raised an arm and pointed proudly at the red-checked kerchief hanging above.
Jehan stood and moved forward once more. Fighting swirled around him, then a red warrior emerged from the mob. Others moved away.
He stood before Jehan, armed and armored. His cap, vest and greaves were all of boiled leather, dyed dark red. Even at a distance, Talysse could see the armor was well used. The man bore a wide-bladed sword that shone with oil. He was about the same size and build as Jehan. He stood with feet apart, waiting. Talysse caught her breath. Her hands gripped the wall.
Jehan tapped the staff to his own forehead, then on the hard-packed sand, then pointed it directly at the man in red, who knocked it aside casually with the flat of his blade. For two heartbeats they faced each other, swaying, then they sprang together in a sudden rush. The armored man rained a steady hail of blows, aiming at Jehan’s head, legs, body,
arms, one after the other, quick but methodical, like a school exercise for advanced students. Like a teacher, Jehan caught and turned aside every stroke. Some he dodged, moving an arm, head, body, just enough to make the sword miss. Other blows he caught with his quarterstaff, knocking the blade to this side or that. Not once did he so much as attempt a reply.
After a full minute of this furious attack, the man broke off, standing still. “He must catch his breath,” Detta said, “but see? Our champion stands easy.” She bobbed up and down on her perch.
Again the red fighter advanced. This time his movements were more measured but also more vicious. Talysse thought surely this time he would drive past the quarterstaff. He feinted at Jehan’s head, then drove a powerful blow at his stomach. Jehan whirled like a dancer and the sword stabbed empty air. The quarterstaff blurred and the warrior fell.
“The enemy is staggered,” Detta said. “Jehan, Jehan!”
Jehan waited while he climbed back to his feet. At once, the man charged again. Talysse’s heart hammered. The warrior swung his weapon like a scythe, but Jehan stepped inside the wide arc. Quick as a falcon, the quarterstaff struck crosswise at leg, shoulder, head. The man spun, staggered, fell. Jehan pounced, driving one knee into his opponent’s back.
For a long minute Talysse lost them in the mêlée. When she saw them again, the red warrior was standing unsteadily, removing his armor. He handed Jehan his leather cap. The cuirass and greaves followed. Jehan picked the sword up from the sand, then strode back across the arena. No one stepped forward to challenge him.
Talysse and Detta cheered like madwomen. They looked at each other and grinned, then cheered some more.
Jehan slung the armor over the wall, then vaulted over himself. His shirt was torn across the front and was turning red on the upper arm. He picked up the cuirass and examined it, frowning.
“You’re hurt,” Talysse said. Her blood still raced within her, but the elf appeared barely winded.
“A scratch.”
He made a disgruntled sound and set the cuirass aside.
“You don’t look very happy that you won,” Talysse said. “You should be proud. You fought like a lion.”
“Honor is served,” he said. He picked up a greave and began to inspect it, his mouth tight. “He has let the leather go dry,” he muttered.
“Will you sell it?”
“No.”
She could not figure out why he seemed so unhappy. She tried something cheerful. “It’s probably worth a whole hat full of silver,” she said.
“No.”
She tried again. “Is there a prize you have won?”
“No.”
Talysse scowled. “Well, you’ve managed to take all the fun out of this.” She was about to say more when Detta spoke.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Here comes the red warrior, but the red on him now is from something else.” She snickered at that.
Jehan turned casually, but Talysse saw his neck muscles go tight. He reached for his quarterstaff.
“You won, comrade,” the man said as he approached, holding up one hand. Blood colored his pale hair. “I’m here to pay ransom.” He winced each time he put weight on his right leg.
“No ransom, Lexu,” Jehan said.
“Knew you’d say that. Told the captain. A stubborn ass, that Breton is. That’s what I told him.”
Jehan stood as if he were carved. A gash on the man’s forehead oozed red.
“Pfaugh,” the man said. “Merdre. Sixty deniers for the kit.” He held out a purse hesitantly, like a schoolboy who thinks his knuckles were about to be rapped.
“No ransom.”
“Rules of the tourney, comrade. You got no choice, you. I’m allowed to buy back my own kit.” He looked to Talysse as if to say, see what I have to deal with here?
Jehan said, “This is not your armor; it is mine. You know this, Lexu. I have taken it back. No ransom.”
But the man was no longer listening. His eyes darted like black minnows from Talysse to Detta and back. He stepped away, staring, then moved further away.
“You have a girl as a squire?”
But Jehan turned his attention again to the armor, examining each clasp, running his hand over every surface. Talysse noticed a device on the cuirass—the embossed outline of a hand, palm outward.
“I am the gonfaloniere,” she said, hoping she had pronounced it correctly.
“With a scarf for a banner, and a gnome for a servant.” The man laughed, though he winced as he did so.
“She is my compagnon,” Talysse said, stepping in front of Detta.
The man chuckled. “My mistake. The Red Hand has come upon hard times, I see.”
Talysse glared. “You should speak courteously to the man who beat you.” Her clenched hands were on her hips.
The man only stared at her, a hungry, mean look.
Talysse shook a finger in the man’s face. “You are rude,” she scolded. “I may give you a thrashing myself.”
“A gnome and a human girl,” he mused, “or is she an elf?”
He said it so softly, only Talysse heard it.
Abruptly he changed his tone, raising his voice to speak to Jehan. “Tell you what, comrade. I’ll bring your response to the captain. I take your point of view, naturally.” He kept retreating as he spoke. “No hard feelings.”
He turned and sprinted across the arena. The sands had largely emptied, for a mêlée never lasts long. Those who remained were too exhausted to fight with much effect, but were too desperate to lay down arms. For these men, defeat meant poverty. He wove between the handful of duels still dragging on.
Something slithered through her gut, something left there by the man Lexu.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“I am inspecting my arms,” Jehan said.
“Can we not do so in the shade?”
Detta seemed to understand. “It is true,” she said, “I am somewhat overcome by the excitement. Your pardon.”
Jehan glanced up and shrugged. He pulled down the red-and-white banner and returned it to Talysse, who quickly covered her hair again. The three made their way into one of the numerous alcoves that lined the outer wall of the arena.
“So, no reward,” Talysse said. It was cooler in the shade and she was thinking again of money.
“I bested two. We take their armor to the bench, where they will ransom it or I will sell it.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, assessing. “Then I pay you.”
“I do not see a bench,” Detta said.
Jehan cocked his head. “Banca,” he said, searching for a word. “Banque. The king’s agents run it. I will show you.”
Between the three of them they were barely able to carry everything. “I have no money to hire a boy,” Jehan said. Talysse was determined to show she was worth any two hired boys, but it was a struggle to keep from dropping something.
Fortunately it was not far, a large room beneath the stands, a room full of benches and cabinets, with men in royal colors taking names and indicating what should be stored where.
“We will come back tomorrow,” Jehan said, “and collect the money.”
“What about today?” Talysse asked. The whole business felt confusing, and she was anxious to take up her search again.
“I am a victor today,” Jehan said. “Now I have credit.” There was an amusement in his voice she did not understand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Geas
As they made their way back to the inn, people hailed Jehan, mostly from a distance, with a wave or nod. Once, though, two elf women, both with dull gray hair, approached with hands at their side, palms forward.
“Sieur d’Ursay?” one asked. Her head bobbed down briefly.
“I am,” Jehan said, slowing but not stopping.
“We saw you in the arena,” the other said.
“Yes, yes,” the first one said. “You were the best fighter there.”
“Of the entire tournoi,” added the other. She put
her hand to her mouth as if to temper her enthusiasm.
“I thank you for your praise,” Jehan replied, managing to bow without entirely stopping. The women gasped, one dared to touch his arm, then both hurried off in a flurry of whispers.
“Our chevalier is famous,” Talysse said with a smile.
“Impudent women,” Detta grumbled.
“Hmph,” Jehan said as a reply to both.
They returned to Jehan’s little room. He stashed his armor in two bags, inspecting each piece as he stowed it. As he worked, Talysse caught him studying her with the same appraising look he’d had back at the arena. Finally she could not keep quiet.
“Why do you keep looking at me?” she demanded.
“You are here. Ought I look away?”
“No. Or yes. I mean, it’s how you look.”
“How do I look?”
“Now you are teasing me,” she said.
“A little,” he replied. He stopped working to regard her openly. “I am thinking. I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Are you going to tell me what you are thinking, or do we have to talk around it for a while?”
“Lyssie,” Detta whispered, “that was perhaps rude.”
“I am wondering about a thing. Two things,” he said. “One of them is this: What do you plan to do now?”
The question struck her like a slap. She had been wondering herself, but without properly thinking. She didn’t want Detta—or Jehan—to know she had planned so poorly. She tried out an idea.
“I will wait here, for King Raimón,” she said.
“But Lyssie, we have no money,” Detta said.
“I know. I can find a job,” she said to the gnome. “We won’t have to wait all that long, I’m sure.”
“You don’t know how long,” Jehan said. “Wars do not run on a schedule.”
“I know that. Anyone knows that, obviously.”
“When he returns, he will not see you.”
“You’re not very helpful.”
“I’m not trying to be. I’m telling you the king will not see you. Only that.” He put aside the first bag, pulled off his boots, and began to polish them.
“I suppose you have a better idea,” Talysse said. If he wasn’t going to help, he shouldn’t have brought it up.
A Child of Great Promise: An Altearth Tale Page 12