A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  The invigilator had paid him a visit this morning. His palms went clammy at the memory. The man with the peculiar skin had smiled a familiar predatory smile throughout their short exchange – which hadn’t been short enough.

  “You need to be extra vigilant today, Master Scribe,” the Invigilator had drawled.

  “Why?” he’d managed, fighting hard against being cowed.

  The invigilator’s minty breath had washed over him. “Kings and queens are rarely brought low by the low. Serious threats imply serious influence. Your assassin’s master, or masters, will likely be sharing a pavilion with you today.” By the end the man had been whispering, hypnotic eyes large and immediate.

  He felt certain tonight’s parade of nightmares would feature all manner of grinning monstrosities.

  Even so, the invigilator’s words had rung true and he raked his eyes over the assembled nobles again. He’d watch them all if the invigilator liked but his suspicions had already nested... His eyes gravitated toward the elder princess of their own accord. Even at a distance, it was obvious there was no love lost between the sisters. But where the princess Dailill was obviously enjoying the day, clapping her hands and talking animatedly with the noblewoman on her left, the elder princess sat completely still, a statue by comparison. In the sea of constant motion that was the royal pavilion, she was the one point of dead calm. Cold blooded.

  If anyone was capable of planning their younger sibling’s murder–

  “Seen any shadows yet?”

  He jumped, jerking away from the unwelcome whisper in his ear. Princess Dailil’s other bodyguard lounged next to him, smiling. Though smiling was a loose term.

  “Luvid,” he greeted coldly.

  Goddess forgive him, how he loathed the man. Luvid looked no different than the first time he’d seen the man – on the sea monster-landing where he’d first met the princess. Luvid was unlike any of the other royal bodyguards he’d seen. The man wore not a single scale of armor except for hunting leathers. His garb hugged his lean frame so tight it showed muscles fighting like eels in a barrel. Luvid exuded amused derision like a musk. And he never stood but lounged. Did not walk but sauntered. If not for the bright edge of violence that clung to the man closer than the dark leathers, a train of angry duels would have sparked in the bodyguard’s wake.

  But the other bodyguards were strangely wary of Luvid and so he was too.

  “Having fun?” Luvid drawled, leaning much too close. The man had no concept of personal space. Eyes, so direct and invasive, were alight with unwelcome insinuation as the man cut them leeringly in the princess’s direction.

  Refusing to look at the man, he ground his teeth, just quietly grateful they spent so little time in each other’s company. Apart from the occasional appearance, Luvid was rarely in evidence, seemingly content to leave the guarding of the princess to Marco. This poor grasp of duty was just another reason he disliked the man.

  “Doing my job,” he shot back, hoping the lax bodyguard would hear the veiled criticism. It was a mistake, of course. Luvid delighted in confrontation and found him a soft target.

  “Yeah,” the man breathed in his ear, leaning dangerously close, emerald eyes flashing as if at a private joke, “me too.”

  Abruptly, the man dismissed him without adding more insult, which was out of character, and swaggered sinuously in the princess’s direction.

  Quite a few noble ladies’ heads turned to track Luvid’s progress. The man attracted women the way a carnivorous flower attracted flies.

  Men tracked him as well, like tied dogs watching a strange cat cross their yard.

  Luvid paraded under their attention as if oblivious. A lie. The man delighted in torturing people too much to be unaware of the effect he had. Drawing up behind the princess’s chair, the bodyguard leaned in to whisper in her ear. She nodded and waved a dismissal.

  He tried to ignore the smirk the man directed at him, keeping his eyes on the princess instead as Luvid left the pavilion.

  She was speaking to her father, past the motionless form of her sister. The king’s head inclined in her direction, listening. After a brief exchange, the monarch nodded. Rising, the princess dipped the shallowest of curtsies and headed for the exit nearest him.

  He didn’t miss that her sister’s head swiveled to follow her departure, cold eyes flat and unreadable. He cut his eyes quickly away before that wintry regard could find him, straightening as the younger princess approached.

  “Is she watching me?” she asked as she passed close by. She didn’t need to say who she meant.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, trying not to move his lips.

  “Good! Let’s get out of here!”

  Feeling more like a co-conspirator than a bodyguard, he let himself be drawn into her wake. It was a bit childish, he knew, but he was game for anything that discomfited the elder princess. Since that seemed to include anything and everything Dailill might enjoy, it was really two birds with one stone.

  Two Royal Guards fell smoothly into step behind them as they left the pavilion. Two more preceded them. The royal family crest, affixed to their tall halberds, bobbed above the party’s heads, insuring a relatively clear avenue through the press. The princess led them into the crowd. Her excitement infectious.

  “Where are we going?” he laughed, surprised to find he’d dispensed somewhat with the usual formality. The princess didn’t seem to mind.

  “You’ll see,” was all she said, flashing him a mysterious smile. She moved with impressive speed, considering her full skirts. The plural was well deserved. He would be the first to admit he knew nothing of fashion but she looked to be wearing enough material for several dresses, one layer atop the other. She’d gathered them up into one hand, though, and he and her guards had to stretch their strides to keep up. She cut through the crowd like the prow of a ship, leaving in her wake a wave of bows and genuflections. A few scattered hails reached them and she waved in acknowledgement. But she didn’t stop and she didn’t slow, leading them deep into the heart of the festival.

  A jumble of images flashed by on either side of him. A hundred different strains of music rode the breeze, melding into a single, sustained bar of jubilation. Delicious smells drifted among the colorful stalls, inviting a food hunt. A man on stilts, twice as tall as the tallest Inith he’d ever seen, ambled by, juggling two handfuls of flaming torches. If not for the necessity of keeping pace with her highness, he would have stopped to stare at a man actually swallowing swords. He was beginning to see what Dennik had been so excited about. So enthralled was he by the bustle of the festival he almost walked into the princess, who’d halted abruptly. He had to step quickly to keep from colliding with her.

  “Here we are,” she announced triumphantly.

  He looked around in confusion. They seemed to have left behind the majority of the colorful stalls and the pervasive music was much less noticeable here. If anything there were more people, though these seemed to be of a more serious cast of mind than the merrymakers they’d just left. Burly working men and brightly dressed servants bustled purposefully through the crowd to the marching beat of many hammers on anvils. They’d trekked deep into the belly of the festival. He had no idea where they were.

  “This way,” the princess commanded, setting off again. He and the cordon of Guards followed obediently as she led them toward a solid wall of people’s backs, staring at some show or other. Someone spotted the approaching halberds and the spectators shuffled respectfully aside as the princess cut straight to the edge of some kind of coral. He stared, a frown pebbling his brow. It was a double fence, an arm or more worth of space between the first ring and the second, enclosing a hexagonal patch of earth. It was obviously the center of the immediate crowd’s attention, though there was nothing in the coral. They were waiting for something.

  Helia’s mercy, let it not be horses!

  But no, the mulched earth was a crazed map of human footprints, not a hoof print in sight.

  The prince
ss was beaming at him delightedly. He smiled tentatively in return, looking around for any clue as to where she’d brought them. A man bowed at her from across the length of the coral, attracting his attention. The man was obviously a noble, fur collared jacket and oiled beard too rich to be anything else. She waved in acknowledgement. He could see other nobles, predominantly men, scattered through the crowd now, their blue blood ensuring them prime spots near the edge of the coral.

  Through a break in the crowd, he spotted the slightly raised wooden platform. On it, behind a table strewn with rich looking parchment and bottles of ink, sat three officials – if their clothes were any indication – wearing bored expressions.

  Judges, he realized with a start.

  His eyes flitted to the sign board above their table. A stylized wooden shield, bearing crossed swords, painted a vivid crimson. Understanding arrived on a wave of thunderous applause and he jerked his eyes back to the coral where two combatants were just now entering the sparring field to loud cheering. The two men must have been big to begin with but encased in heavily padded leather and crude iron half-plate, they were enormous. The rounded and blunted swords they held looked like clubs. A ringmaster, puny by comparison, stepped between them, speaking seriously to them both. The crazed cheering stole the man’s words but the combatants nodded, moving to opposites sides of the coral. Servants hurried up to their sides, buckling iron faced grill helms onto their heads.

  From safely outside of the ring, the ringmaster’s voice rang out.

  “Red, ready!”

  The combatant on the left raised a sword in salute and he saw, for the first time, the strips of red cloth tied to the man’s upper arms.

  “Green, ready!”

  Green saluted as well while the servants rushed hurriedly from the ring.

  “Begin!”

  The cheering redoubled.

  It wasn’t sparring the way he was used to. The combatants rushed each other, colliding like falling boulders. Sparks rang from iron as they swung at each other with savage, powerful blows. He felt his eyes slowly widen as he watched the crazed behemoths batter brutally at each other’s defenses.

  The crowd was loving it.

  “I entered you in the next match.”

  His turned his head so fast his vertebrae popped loudly in his ears. The princess beamed a beatific smile at him.

  “Close your mouth,” she directed.

  He did so with a snap of teeth.

  “I assume you know how to use a sword? Luvid said you had a swordsman’s muscles and calluses.”

  “Luvid?” he mouthed.

  She must have read his lips, since he hadn’t managed any sound.

  “Yes,” she affirmed. “I asked him which event would best suit you, since I had no idea, and he suggested the sword.”

  “But,” he struggled, warring with the shock, “but… but…” he couldn’t finish.

  “I told you I’d get you a day off,” she gushed excitedly. “I told father I would like to see some of the sword tourney and, naturally, he couldn’t say no to me. Clever of me, yes? So, this way, you get to take part in the festival! I know how boring it must be for you to just hover around me all day. I wanted to do something to thank you for all the hard work.”

  “A candied apple would have sufficed,” he whispered.

  There was a sudden upshot in the cheering. The crowd went wild. With a sound like a tin bucket tumbling end over end, a grill faced helm rolled to a stop between his feet. He stared down at it and had to concentrate to keep his knees from knocking.

  “Match to Garrom of Iromdale!” the ringmaster shouted. Cheers raged all around. Unable to help himself, his eyes climbed back to the ring where the victor turned slowly, basking in the adoration of the crowd. His dazed opponent was being helped to his feet by servants.

  Something of the trepidation he was feeling must have finally communicated itself to the princess.

  “Oh,” she tried to reassure him, following his wide eyed gaze, “don’t worry. I made sure to pick your opponent. His name is Keppin Norvalis, second son of Jorin Norvalis, the duke of High Reach.”

  He turned his stunned stare on her again.

  “He’s a sweet boy,” she went on, “about the same age as you and roughly the same size.” She tilted her head, appraising him critically. “Maybe a little taller.” She brightened. “Rumor has it he’s good though,” she added, like that was a good thing, “so you should watch yourself.” She leaned closer conspiratorially, as if imparting a secret. “The sword trainer of High Reach won nearly every tourney when he was a young man and Kepp is reportedly one of his most promising students.”

  He stared at her in speechless disbelief. She returned his gaze with excited enthusiasm that gradually gave way to concern and then apprehension. Her face fell as she searched his eyes.

  “You don’t like it?” she asked dejectedly and her expression was so wretched he felt like a murderer of puppies.

  Oh, sweet goddess, was her bottom lip trembling?!

  “No! No!” he stammered hurriedly with what little enthusiasm he could fake. “It’s… it’s…” he cast around desperately for something that wouldn’t be a lie. “It’s… very thoughtful of you,” he stumbled awkwardly over the words.

  “Truthfully!” he went on when she didn’t seem convinced. “You are too generous, highness. This is just… such an unexpected surprise…” That was putting it mildly. “You really shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” He really wished she hadn’t. Really. “I’ll happily take part.”

  If it means sparing your feelings, he refrained from adding.

  Her expression lightened a little as she peered at him hopefully.

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” he confirmed, “but–” he added, trying furiously to think of a way out of this, “what about your safety? I can’t just–”

  “Oh,” she interrupted him, “don’t worry. You’ll still be close and I’ll have more than adequate protection.” She gestured over her shoulder at the four Royal Guards flanking her. All looked to be in danger of bursting out laughing, though she couldn’t see that. “And don’t fret about Father,” she added. “If it makes it any easier on you, I can make this an order.”

  Apparently taking his defeated expression for assent, she clapped her hands joyously, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  “Brilliant!” she sang. “Let’s get you set up!” She raised one hand to beckon imperiously. Two servants appeared out of nowhere, each grabbing one of his arms. Still in shock, he tripped over his own feet as they rushed him away. He had just enough presence of mind to unhook the ancient orin from his belt.

  “Keep this safe for me,” he said, passing it into her waiting hands. She waved at him energetically as the servants manhandled him toward one of the shaded stalls that ringed the sparring field. Temple initiates were exempt from conscription. But he was pretty sure this was how it felt.

  Merciful Mother, how has it come to this?

  The servants, working in tandem, stuffed him into a padded cuirass that stank of sweat and mildew, quickly lacing the leggings over his weakened knees. He choked as a helm’s rank under-padding was forced on over his head. His flailing arms were grabbed and buckled into waiting vambraces. He gasped for air as rough hands adjusted the under-padding to free his face and found his own fingers already sheathed in thick leather gauntlets. Spinning him around, they buckled the iron plate first over his chest, then his back, adding shoulder guards to the ensemble. In no time at all, he was fully accoutered.

  “Thank–” his half-voiced and halfhearted thanks ended in a hiccup as one brought both fists down hard on his shoulder. That leg buckled beneath him and he almost fell. He stared at the responsible servant in surprise as he righted himself.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the man ducked an apology, “gots to settle the armor, sir.”

  The man gestured and he hesitantly turned his other shoulder, wondering if the man was joking. He braced himself
as the servant brought his fists crashing down on that pauldron as well. The plates clanked discordantly.

  “Can you lift your arms, sir?” the other one questioned.

  He obediently raised his arms above his shoulders, hampered by the heavy plates.

  “Perfect,” the servant pronounced.

  They rushed him over to a wooden rack filled with the Renali idea of practice swords. The collection of blunted iron blades seemed uniformly unwieldy. He selected one, meaning to test it for balance and heft but, before he could so much as swing it, they had him by the arms and were practically dragging him toward the coral. He imagined his heels left ploughed furrows in the soft earth as they deposited him in the ring. He was only vaguely aware of them tying strips of green cloth to his arms.

  Across from him, an armored figure, faceless behind an iron helm, had just stepped into the ring. The princess was right, the young lord was taller than he but mercifully wasn’t nearly as large as either of the previous two combatants. Keppin Norvalis’s practice sword was held in a relaxed grip and the lordling exuded confidence. He strained to make out the man’s eyes in the shadow of the grill helm…

  The same ringmaster as before appeared between them. The official spoke quickly and by rote. He had to listen closely to catch everything.

  “Three points for a clean strike to the head or for a disarming; two points for the chest; one for arms or legs. Any part above the knees touch the ground, that’s three points. Touch the palisade, that’s two. Fight until I call break or your opponent falls or yields. I call break, you step back to your corner. Your opponent falls or is disarmed, I call break. You ignore a call to break, lose a point. First one to reach five points wins. Fight when I call to begin.”

  With that, the ringmaster disappeared.

  Keppin Norvalis turned to face him.

  He had just enough time to catch the princess’s eye where she stood beyond the palisade, waving encouragement, before his helm was slapped on over his head. Rough fingers fumbled to buckle it beneath his chin and then the servants, too, scrambled to get out of the ring. He stepped back into his box, the padded insides of the helm squeezing his cheeks and his vision uncomfortably impaired.