He slowed for a moment, then stopped, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall, the noise of the crowd rushing in his ears, trying to breathe deep and compose himself.
‘Don’t worry, I know just how you feel.’ Jezal felt West’s consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I nearly turned around and ran the first time, but it’ll pass as soon as the steels are drawn, believe me.’
‘Yes,’ mumbled Jezal, ‘of course.’ He doubted that West knew exactly how he felt. The man might have been through a couple of Contests before, but Jezal thought it unlikely he had been considering a surreptitious meeting with his best friend’s sister the same night. He wondered whether West would be quite so considerate if he knew the contents of the letter in Jezal’s breast pocket. It did not seem likely.
‘We’d better get moving. Wouldn’t want them to start without us.’
‘No.’ Jezal took one last deep breath, opened his eyes and blew out hard. Then he pushed himself away from the wall and strode rapidly down the tunnel. He felt a sudden surge of panic—where were his steels? He cast about him desperately, then breathed a long sigh. They were in his hand.
There was quite a crowd in the hall at the far end: trainers, seconds, friends, family members and hangers-on. You could tell who the contestants were, though; the fifteen young men with steels clutched tightly in their hands. The sense of fear was palpable, and contagious. Everywhere Jezal looked he saw pale, nervous faces, sweaty foreheads, anxious eyes darting around. It wasn’t helped by the noise of the crowd, ominously loud beyond the closed double doors at the far end of the room, swelling and subsiding like a stormy sea.
There was only one man there who didn’t seem at all bothered by the occasion, leaning against the wall on his own with one foot up on the plaster and his head tipped back, staring down his nose at the assembly through barely open eyes. Most of the contestants were lithe, stringy, athletic. He was anything but. A big, heavy man with hair shaved to dark stubble. He had a great thick neck and a doorstep of a jaw—the jaw of a commoner, Jezal rather thought, but a large and powerful commoner with a mean streak. Jezal might have taken him for someone’s servant but that he had a pair of steels dangling loosely from one hand.
‘Gorst,’ West whispered in Jezal’s ear.
‘Huh. Looks more like a labourer than a swordsman to me.’
‘Maybe, but looks can lie.’ The sound of the crowd was slowly fading, and the nervy chatter within the room subsided along with it. West raised his eyebrows. ‘The King’s address,’ he whispered.
‘My friends! My countrymen! My fellow citizens of the Union!’ came a ringing voice, clearly audible even through the heavy doors.
‘Hoff,’ snorted West. ‘Even here he takes the King’s place. Why doesn’t he just put the crown on and have done with it?’
‘One month ago today,’ came the far-off bellow of the Lord Chamberlain, ‘fellows of mine on the Closed Council put forward the question . . . should there be a Contest this year?’ Boos and shouts of wild disapproval were heard from the crowd. ‘A fair question!’ cried Hoff, ‘for we are at war! A deadly struggle in the North! The very liberties which we hold so dear, the very freedoms which make us the envy of the world, our very way of life, stand threatened by the savage!’
A clerk began making his way around the room, separating the contestants from their families, their trainers, their friends. ‘Good luck,’ said West, clapping Jezal on the shoulder, ‘I’ll see you out there.’ Jezal’s mouth was dry, and he could only nod.
‘And these were brave men who asked the question!’ Boomed out Hoff’s voice from beyond the doors. ‘Wise men! Patriots all! My stalwart colleagues on the Closed Council! I understood why they might think, there should be no Contest this year!’ There was a long pause. ‘But I said to them, no!’
An eruption of manic cheering. ‘No! No!’ screamed the crowd. Jezal was ushered into line along with the other contestants, two abreast, eight pairs. He fussed with his steels as the Lord Chamberlain droned on, though he’d checked them twenty times already.
‘No, I said to them! Should we allow these barbarians, these animals of the frozen North, to tread upon our way of life? Should we allow this beacon of freedom amidst the darkness of the world to be extinguished? No, I said to them! Our liberty is not for sale at any price! On this, my friends, my countrymen, my fellow citizens of the Union, on this you may depend . . . we will win this war!’
Another great ocean swell of approval. Jezal swallowed, glanced nervously around. Bremer dan Gorst was standing there beside him. The big bastard had the temerity to wink, grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Damn idiot,’ whispered Jezal, but he took care that his lips didn’t move.
‘And so, my friends, and so,’ came Hoff’s final cries, ‘what finer occasion could there be than when we stand upon the very brink of peril? To celebrate the skill, the strength, the prowess, of some of our nation’s bravest sons! My fellow citizens, my countrymen of the Union, I give you your contestants!’
The doors were heaved open and the roar of the crowd beyond rushed into the hall and made the rafters ring: suddenly, deafeningly loud. The front pair of swordsmen began to stride out through the bright archway, then the next pair, then the next. Jezal was sure he would freeze, motionless and staring like a rabbit, but when his turn came his feet stepped off manfully next to Gorst’s, the heels of his highly polished boots clicking across the tiled floor and through the high doorway.
The Square of Marshals was transformed. All around, great banks of seating had been erected, stretching back, and back, and up, and up on all sides, spilling over with a boiling multitude. The contestants filed down a deep valley between the towering stands towards the centre of this great arena, the beams, and struts, and tree-trunk supports like a shadowy forest on either side. Directly before them, seeming very far away, the fencing circle had been laid, a little ring of dry yellow grass in the midst of a sea of faces.
Down near the front Jezal could make out the features of the rich and noble. Dressed in their best, shading their eyes from the bright sun, on the whole fashionably disinterested in the spectacle before them. Further back, higher up, the figures became less distinct, the clothes less fine. The vast majority of the crowd were mere blobs and specks of colour, crammed in around the distant edge of the dizzying bowl, but the commoners made up for their distance with their excitement: cheering, shouting, standing up on their toes and waving their arms in the air. Above them, the tops of the very highest buildings around the square peered over, walls and roofs sticking up like islands in the ocean, the windows and parapets crammed with minuscule onlookers.
Jezal blinked at this great display of humanity. Part of him was aware that his mouth was hanging open, but too small a part to close it. Damn, he felt queasy. He knew he should have eaten something, but it was too late now. What if he puked, right here in front of half the world? He felt that surge of blind panic again. Where did he leave his steels? Where were they? In his hand. In his hand. The crowd roared, and sighed, and wailed, with a myriad of different voices.
The contestants began to move away from the circle. Not all of them would be fighting today, most would only watch. As though there was a need for extra spectators. They began to make their way towards the front rows, but Jezal was not going with them, more was the pity. He made for the enclosures where the contestants prepared to fight.
He flopped down heavily next to West, closed his eyes and wiped his sweaty forehead as the crowd cheered on. Everything was too bright, too loud, too overpowering. Marshal Varuz was nearby, leaning over the side of the enclosure to shout in someone’s ear. Jezal stared across the arena at the occupants of the royal box opposite, hoping vainly for a distraction.
‘His Majesty the King seems to be enjoying the proceedings,’ whispered West in Jezal’s ear.
‘Mmm.’ The King, in fact, appeared already to have fallen soundly asleep, his crown slipping off at an angle. Jezal wondered idly what would happen if it
fell off.
Crown Prince Ladisla was there, fabulously dressed as always, beaming around at the arena with an enormous smile as though everyone was there for him. His younger brother, Prince Raynault, could hardly have looked more different: plain and sober, frowning worriedly at his semi-conscious father. Their mother, the Queen, sat beside them, bolt upright with her chin in the air, studiously pretending that her august husband was wide awake, and that his crown was in no danger of dropping suddenly and painfully into her lap. Between her and Lord Hoff, Jezal’s eye was caught by a young woman—very, very beautiful. She was even more expensively dressed than Ladisla, if that was possible, with a chain of huge diamonds round her neck, flashing bright in the sun.
‘Who’s the woman?’ asked Jezal.
‘Ah, the Princess Terez,’ murmured West. ‘The daughter of Grand Duke Orso, Lord of Talins. She’s quite the celebrated beauty, and for once it seems that rumour doesn’t exaggerate.’
‘I thought nothing good ever came from Talins.’
‘So I’ve heard, but I think she might be the exception, don’t you?’ Jezal was not entirely convinced. Spectacular, no doubt, but there was an icy proud look to her eye. ‘I think the Queen has it in mind that she marry Prince Ladisla.’ As Jezal watched, the Crown Prince leant across his mother to favour the Princess with some witless banter, then exploded into laughter at his own joke, slapping his knee with merriment. She gave a frosty little smile, radiating contempt even at this distance. Ladisla seemed not to notice though, and Jezal’s attention was soon distracted. A tall man in a red coat was striding ponderously towards the circle. The referee.
‘It’s time,’ murmured West.
The referee held up his arm with a theatrical flourish, two fingers extended, and turned slowly around, waiting for the hubbub to subside. ‘Today you will have the pleasure of witnessing two bouts of fencing!’ he thundered, then thrust up his other hand, three fingers out, as the audience applauded. ‘Each the best of three touches!’ He threw up both arms. ‘Four men will fight before you! Two of them will go home . . . empty handed.’ The referee let one arm drop, shook his head sadly, the crowd sighed. ‘But two will pass on to the next round!’ The crowd bellowed their approval.
‘Ready?’ asked Marshal Varuz, leaning forwards over Jezal’s shoulder.
What a damn fool question. What if he wasn’t ready? What then? Call the whole thing off? Sorry everyone, I’m not ready? See you next year? But all Jezal could say was, ‘Mmm.’
‘The time has come!’ cried the referee, turning slowly around in the centre of the arena, ‘for our first bout!’
‘Jacket!’ snapped Varuz.
‘Uh.’ Jezal fumbled with the buttons and pulled his jacket off, rolling up his shirt-sleeves mechanically. He glanced sideways and saw his opponent making similar preparations. A tall, thin young man with long arms and weak, slightly dewy eyes. Hardly the most intimidating looking of adversaries. Jezal noticed his hands were trembling slightly as he took his steels from his second.
‘Trained by Sepp dan Vissen, and hailing from Rostod, in Starikland . . .’ the referee paused for the greatest effect ‘. . . Kurtis dan Broya!’ There was a wave of enthusiastic clapping. Jezal snorted. These clowns would clap for anyone.
The tall young man got up from his seat and walked purposefully towards the circle, his steels flashing in the sunlight. ‘Broya!’ repeated the referee, as the gangly idiot took his mark. West pulled Jezal’s steels from their sheaths. The metallic ringing of the blades made him want to be sick again.
The referee pointed once more towards the contestant’s enclosure. ‘And his opponent today! An officer of the King’s Own, and trained by none other than Lord Marshal Varuz!’ There was scattered applause and the old soldier beamed happily. ‘Hailing from Luthar in Midderland but resident here in the Agriont . . . Captain Jezal dan Luthar!’ Another surge of cheering, far louder than Broya had received. There was a flurry of sharp cries above the din. Shouted numbers. Odds being offered. Jezal felt another rush of nausea as he got slowly to his feet.
‘Good luck.’ West handed Jezal his naked steels, hilts first.
‘He doesn’t need luck!’ snapped Varuz. ‘This Broya’s a nobody! Just watch his reach! Press him, Jezal, press him!’
It seemed to take forever to reach that ring of short dry grass, the sound of the crowd loud in Jezal’s ears but the sound of his heart louder still, turning the grips of his steels round and round in his sweaty palms. ‘Luthar!’ repeated the referee, smiling wide as he watched Jezal approach.
Pointless and irrelevant questions flitted in and out of his mind. Was Ardee watching, in the crowd, wondering whether he would come to meet her that night? Would he get killed in the war? How did they get the grass for the fencing circle into the Square of Marshals? He glanced up at Broya. Was he feeling the same way? The crowd was quiet now, very quiet. The weight of the silence pressed down on Jezal as he took his mark in the circle, pushed his feet into the dry earth. Broya shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, raised his steels. Jezal needed to piss. Needed to piss so badly. What if he pissed himself right now? A big dark stain spreading across his trousers. The man who pissed himself at the Contest. He would never live it down, not if he lived a hundred years.
‘Begin!’ thundered the referee.
But nothing happened. The two men stood there, facing each other, steels at the ready. Jezal’s eyebrow itched. He wanted to scratch it, but how? His opponent licked his lips, then took a cautious step to his left. Jezal did the same. They circled each other warily, shoes crunching gently on the dry grass: slowly, slowly drawing closer together. And as they came closer, Jezal’s world contracted to the space between the points of their long steels. Now it was only a stride. Now it was a foot. Now just six inches separated them. Jezal’s whole mind was focused on those two glittering points. Three inches. Broya jabbed forward, weakly, and Jezal flicked it away without thinking.
The blades rang gently together and, as though that were a signal prearranged with every person in the arena, the shouting began again, scattered calls to begin with:
‘Kill him, Luthar!’
‘Yes!’
‘Jab! Jab!’
But soon dissolving once more into the rumbling, angry sea of the crowd, rising and falling with the movements in the circle.
The more Jezal saw of this lanky idiot, the less daunted he became. His nerves began to subside. Broya jabbed, clumsy, and Jezal barely had to move. Broya cut, without conviction, and Jezal parried, without effort. Broya lunged, positively inept, off-balance and overextended. Jezal stepped around it and jabbed his opponent in the ribs with the blunt point of his long steel. It was all so very easy.
‘One for Luthar!’ cried the referee, and a surge of cheering ran around the stands. Jezal smiled to himself, basking in the appreciation of the crowd. Varuz had been right, this boob was nothing to worry about. One more touch and he’d be through to the next round.
He returned to his mark and Broya did the same, rubbing his ribs with one hand and staring at Jezal balefully from beneath his brows. Jezal was not intimidated. Angry looks are only any use if you can fight worth a damn.
‘Begin!’
They closed quickly this time, and exchanged a cut or two.
Jezal could hardly believe how slowly his opponent was moving. It was as if his swords weighed a ton each. Broya fished around in the air with his long steel, trying to use his reach to pin Jezal down. He had barely used his short steel yet, let alone coordinated the two. Worse still, he was starting to look out of breath, and they’d barely been fencing two minutes. Had he trained at all, this bumpkin? Or had they simply made up the numbers with some servant off the street? Jezal jumped away, danced around his opponent. Broya flapped after him, dogged but incompetent. It was starting to become embarrassing. Nobody enjoys a mismatch, and this dunce’s clumsiness was denying Jezal the opportunity to shine.
‘Oh come on!’ he shouted. A surge of laughter flowed around the s
tands. Broya gritted his teeth and came on with everything he had, but it wasn’t much. Jezal swatted his feeble efforts aside, dodged around them, flowed across the circle while his witless opponent lumbered after, always three steps behind. There was no precision, no speed, no thought. A few minutes before, Jezal had been half-terrified by the prospect of fencing with this gangling fool. Now he was almost bored.
‘Hah!’ he cried, switching suddenly onto the attack, catching his opponent off-balance with a savage cut, sending him stumbling back. The crowd came alive, roaring their support. He jabbed and jabbed again. Broya blocked desperately, all off-balance, reeled backwards, parried one last time then tripped, his arms flailing, short steel flying out of his hand, and pitched out of the circle onto his arse.
There was a wave of laughter, and Jezal could not help but join in. The poor dolt looked quite amusing, knocked on his back with his legs in the air like some sort of turtle.
‘Captain Luthar wins!’ roared the referee, ‘two to nothing!’ The laughter turned to jeering as Broya rolled over. He looked on the verge of tears, the oaf. Jezal stepped forwards and offered his hand, but found himself unable to entirely wipe the smirk off his face. His beaten adversary pointedly ignored his help, pushing himself up from the ground and giving him a look half hating, half hurt.
Jezal shrugged pleasantly. ‘It’s not my fault you’re shit.’
‘More?’ asked Kaspa, holding out the bottle in a wobbly hand, eyes misted over with too much booze.
‘No thanks.’ Jezal pushed the bottle gently away before Kaspa had the chance to pour. He looked blearily bewildered for a moment, then he turned to Jalenhorm.
‘More?’
‘Always.’ The big man slid his glass across the rough table top in a way that said, ‘I am not drunk’, though he clearly was. Kaspa lowered the bottle towards it, squinting at the glass as though it was a great distance away. Jezal watched the neck of the bottle wobbling in the air, then rattling on the edge of the glass. The inevitability of it was almost painful to behold. Wine spilled out across the table, splashing into Jalenhorm’s lap.
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