A ripple of polite applause went up from the crowd. Kyreen Asteria had entered the ground from the pavilion. As more people caught sight of her they added their voices to the crowd’s greeting, until all were shouting and cheering as loudly as decorum allowed. The applause spread out from the clearing, travelling hand-to-hand into the greater crowds, until all those out of sight on the Meadow had joined in.
Asteria strutted with supreme confidence. Her sheathed sword was unhooked from her belt and held before her so that the crowd could see it. The weapon was a backsword, shorter than a rapier but longer than Garten’s own favoured smallsword. Unlike his weapon, hers had an edge, being sharpened for half the length of the blade either side of the point. Primarily a thrusting weapon, it could be used for cutting also, and demanded a hybrid technique. Asteria was beyond such things as technique and school. She had a style all her own.
Josan came after Asteria from a second door in the pavilion and approached the ground. People made way for her and bowed but did not dare address her. She exchanged a few words with her brother, then joined Garten at his side of the circle.
“Your people have changed a great deal since our last visit,” said Josan.
“Some say it is a sign of our growing sophistication,” said Garten.
“Some say the same in my land also. They see it as a sign of hope,” she said. “I am not convinced.”
“There are more of you than two?” asked Garten.
“Why would there not be?” she said. She was tense, affecting calm as the worthies around the field affected knowledge. He glanced over at Josanad, seeking some clue to weakness there. The craven, child-like being he had seen in the Grand Hall of the Assembly had not given another showing, but Garten was wary of its reappearance. He had once relished the idea of fighting Kyreen Asteria. Confronted with the possibility, he was well aware she would kill him. This was a match best kept to daydreaming. He hoped Josanad could keep his head.
“When acting your dreams, reality has a rude way of spoiling a man’s life, in this case terminally,” said Issy smugly through her viewing slit. The case rested along with Garten’s fighting gloves on a table provided for his use. Wine, food and tobacco were laid out for him, none of which he had touched.
“Are you reading my mind?” he asked.
“Might be,” she said.
“Do not trust it,” Josan said. “The Y Dvar are older even than we. They are rotten in their hearts.”
Issy blew a raspberry at the Morfaan.
“Be quiet, Issy, you’ll be noticed,” said Garten.
Asteria took off her jacket. Buttons and sparkling crystal charms dangled from its seams, and her hat was similarly lurid. The fabric of the shirt and britches she wore underneath matched that of her outerwear, but they were practically cut and free of ostentatious decoration. A flunky appeared and took her coat, a fat goodlady snatched her hat from the arc of its flight when Asteria tossed it aside and held it up triumphantly, displaying it to envious friends.
Asteria lifted up her arms and paraded around the circle, waving her hands upward to encourage the crowd to louder cheering.
“She is confident,” said Josan. “She will die. No human has ever beaten a Morfaan blade to blade.”
Garten hesitated, unsure if he should speak his mind.
“My lady Morfaan, forgive me,” he said. “I do not think your brother should have accepted this combat.”
“Why? He is unbeaten.”
“I saw him in the Grand House of the Assembly. He was different. Is he ill?”
Josan’s alien features displayed an unreadable emotion. “He was not himself. A passing moment. The shock of the bomb. Our senses are more refined than yours.”
Garten dared to push further. “You were unaffected.”
“Our women are stronger than our men,” she said. “Enough questions. Wait here until you are needed, in silence.” She distanced herself from him.
“Uppity,” said Issy quietly. “Never change, the Morfaan.”
“How much do you know about them?” said Garten.
“Lots,” said Issy. “But I am sure you can guess what I will say next.”
“You can’t say because of—”
“Geas.”
Asteria finished her lap, hooked her sword back to her belt and strode to the centre of the circle. “Greetings citizens of Perus!” she cried. “I have come today for the fight of our lives! More my life than yours,” she said to appreciative laughter. She shone with the attention, her smile bright as the White Moon. “You will not witness a contest like this again. No human has fought the Lord Josanad for three hundred years. To see me fight, you are blessed. I am the finest swordswoman of the age!”
The crowd clapped and cheered, “Hear hear!”
“But to see a Morfaan fight, well. Well! You shall pass the story of this match down to your great-grandchildren’s children. Such finesse the Morfaan have, such fine movement, such speed!” A grave expression replaced her smile. “I am going to have my work cut out for me. Lord Morfaan Josanad has agreed to fight me not for grudge, not for vengeance or hate, but for spectacle, and such spectacle I have waited all my years to experience. Never have I experienced such honour. Goodfellows, goodladies and goodfolk of Perus, as challenger I welcome Lord Morfaan Josanad to the Meadow duelling ring!”
The crowd burst into wild clapping and shouting. Their blood was up. All eyes were on the challenger and the Morfaan. Garten stood there waiting like the seventh dray in a team of six. Josanad entered the circle. Asteria had the grace of a dancer, but the Morfaan’s poise was beyond human. The crowd fell silent. Asteria drew her sword and saluted him.
Josanad drew his paired, triangular swords but did not salute. He glared about the crowd with naked disgust. Josan flinched.
“I come to this world that my people once claimed as their own. I am insulted as an affront to the gods,” he said. “I am attacked with explosives, and now I am called to a duel by this woman. She says it is a matter of honour for her. Would she die by my hand for the sake of death’s thrill? Dead is dead, goodlady. Whether cheered by the crowd or in the corner of a field far from home. Why do you put me to this distasteful task?”
“You have killed already this week,” Asteria said. Her amicability cracked, but it was cool calmness that showed beneath. “What does it matter?”
“I kill those that would kill me. This is a pointless game,” he said.
“Then why play it?” she said.
“I cannot refuse, pointless or not. When you die, it will be your own choice.”
Asteria laughed. “Lord Morfaan, your argument is flawed. I do not intend to die today.”
“Then you will be disappointed.” When Josanad saluted her at last, bowing his head and crossing his swords in front of himself, he remained disdainful. She saluted again, and the president came to the side of the circle to begin his recitation of the conventions of the match.
“And now, is your brother himself?” asked Garten. Josan ignored him.
It was obvious that Josanad and Asteria intended to fight to the death, but the president stated it baldly. His four assistants spaced themselves around the circle, to prevent the duellist quitting the field and to judge hits on points should the duel be resolved inconclusively, chiefly if one of the participants sued for mercy, or was too wounded to continue fairly or, as commonly occurred, both struck simultaneously and died together. The latter was the fault of poor fencers, and Garten did not expect that outcome.
The president concluded the regulations and raised his arms out to his sides, a handkerchief held in each hand between forefinger and thumb.
“Stand ready!” said the president. “Take your guard!” Asteria and Josanad adopted fighting stances, she a variation of the Tellivarian school’s opening posture, he a contorted position a human could not accomplish, one blade held low, the other high. Hush fell. Out on the main Meadow a gentle hubbub persisted. A man called out the sale of pastries and a string ban
d played. It was so quiet on the duelling ground that the stirring of young leaves in the breeze sounded loudly.
“Begin!” called the president. He dropped his handkerchiefs, and withdrew.
“How exciting,” said Issy. It was impossible to tell if she meant it or not. People glanced over, looking for the voice.
“Shhh!” said Garten.
Duels always began the same way whatever the level of the combatants’ skill. They circled each other. Weak fencers sought to delay the inevitable, or to set up a bluff, or to display strength they lacked. The strong read their opponent. The result was the same, a measured pacing around the edge of the sand, feet spread and crossing nimbly, legs bent to provide thrust, swords points held firmly at the opponent or held deceptively off target. Garten had seen this preamble to blade contact go on for ten minutes. Frequently, that was all there was to the bout, circling, an attack followed by a flurry of parries and ripostes, ending without warning with one man lying dead or wounded.
That was not going to happen today. Asteria surprised no one by making the first move. She was an aggressive fighter, often employing a headlong rush to force a reaction so that she might gauge the defence of her opponent.
Asteria’s speed took the Morfaan by surprise. She arrowed across the circle, blade out at full stretch in a dazzling fleche. Josanad’s weapons blurred in a cage of steel around his head and torso. At the last moment, Asteria dropped her point, going for the Morfaan’s left leg. He moved it just slightly so that the point hissed past his knee, stepping around and back to face Asteria’s new position. She recovered nimbly, whipping her sword upward, seeking the Morfaan’s groin. He parried with one sword, and extended the other in an attack of his own. She turned the movement of her blade as she pivoted back into a guard and stopped dead, hand pronated, sword curling round into an unusual interpretation of the first position, point down. Josanad responded, his twin blades slicing across each other. Asteria kept her guard in the first, parrying the swords with delicate sideways sweeps, his weapons clicking quietly on hers as they were deflected for all the fury in the blows. Asteria twisted her hand so the palm was uppermost, sending her sword darting out at full stretch in the fourth position at such speed it was hard to see the move.
Josan hissed. Maybe Asteria was good enough to beat a Morfaan. Josanad attempted to break the weapon with a crosswise sweep from both swords. Sparks fountained from the metal. Asteria’s blade held and she disengaged. She made two more attempts to pierce his guard, he defended the first, counterattacked into the second by swerving his body around the sword. He was preternaturally quick, swaying in a fashion that put Garten in mind of a serpent. Snakes came often to mind when he was with the Morfaan. Asteria could not match his reflexes, but she was wise to the ways of the sword. Her arm and weapon moved as if inseparable, moving in to tangle Josanad’s upper blade, prising, and sliding down along its short length at his exposed shoulder. Josanad’s other sword batted it away, and he riposted with an arcing slash at Asteria’s belly that would have gutted a lesser warrior. The crowd gasped as Asteria stepped back, evading the blow at the last minute. At the fringes men muttered as they hastily relaid their bets. But if the crowd didn’t notice, Garten did—Josanad’s riposte was clumsy. Asteria saw that too, and she smiled.
They parted further, and circled again. This time Josanad attacked, weapons blurring, Asteria could not afford to take the full brunt of their hits against her more delicate weapon, and the way she twisted it just so or moved the forte of the blade a fraction to deflect the attacks made Garten envious of her ability. Josanad’s weapons were heavy, unbalanced looking things. By all rights he should have lacked finesse, but he wielded them dazzlingly, and Garten could only wonder how fast the Morfaan would be with a lighter sword.
The end came so quickly that Garten struggled to phrase the movements. Asteria panted and dropped her shoulder, a feint of body not of blade. Josanad took the bait, one sword smashing her weapon aside, the other sweeping for her arm. She turned only a little, allowing the edge of his leading weapon to open her shirtsleeve and scratch the skin beneath. They were close, almost body to body, a difficult position to land a hit, but Asteria held her right arm back, twisted awkwardly and high. Josanad’s lesser arms sprang out from their hiding place beneath his shirt, surprising the crowd more than Asteria. Josanad plunged the daggers held in his smaller hands at the woman, but Asteria was already moving away. Still with her sword angled downwards, she twisted and thrust, removing herself from the reach of Josanad’s blades and taking him through the shoulder. Six inches of needle sharp steel poked out of his back, dripping a pale blood. She withdrew sharply and leapt away.
Composure dropped from the Morfaan like a mask. Josanad snarled. Josan cried out an anguished warning, but he did not heed it. Enraged by the hit, he went into a whirling attack with all four weapons. Asteria waited until the last second, then drove forward, evading his blades by twisting and coming in from the side, piercing him neatly through his heart. He swung drunkenly three times, she moving side to side to dodge. Swords fell from limp fingers and he looked down at them stupidly. His eyes clicked closed, then open, and he collapsed. Asteria pulled out her sword as he fell to the ground. Josanad curled up on himself, shuddered, and lay still. Alien blood tinted the scuffed sand pink.
A terrible cry went up from the crowd. The true significance of the afternoon’s entertainment became apparent. Josanad, lord of the Morfaan, had been slain by mortal hand against all expectation. Horror filled the duelling ground, quick and cold as a flood of water. Asteria’s face blazed with triumph, oblivious to the mood of the audience.
Josan screeched. She ran to her brother, her poise lost, head bobbing like that of a charging battlemount.
“I declare the winner Kyreen Asteria, by dint of death of her opponent, Lord Morfaan Josanad!” proclaimed the president. Muted cheers greeted the announcement, quickly silenced.
“No!” shouted Josan through the shock of the crowd. “No! It is not over! The second will continue the bout!” She glared with ferocious yellow eyes at Garten.
“Do you consent?” asked the president.
“Yes, fifth best in Karsa, and possibly a little better than that. Do you consent?” crowed Asteria. She wiped watery blood from her blade with a cloth and tossed it into the crowd. Noble onlookers abandoned their manners to scrap over it.
Garten was surrounded by a sea of expectant faces already judging him for cowardice. To face Kyreen Asteria one-to-one was tantamount to suicide. Luck might see him through, but he doubted there was that much luck in all the world.
His honour, or his life.
“Do not engage her!” hissed Issy. “Do not fight!”
Garten drew his sword. “If I die...”
“When you die,” corrected Issy.
“If I die, get yourself sent to Katriona, my sister. You’ll get on with her, you are very alike.”
He saluted the Tyn, and was gratified to see genuine sorrow on her face behind the slit.
“You are an idiot,” she shouted. “I will tell all your brothers! I will! I swear.”
“It will be old news,” he said.
The president nodded at him. Garten saluted. Asteria grinned at him, flushed with exertion and victory. She saluted him back.
“A smallsword?” she mocked. “A weapon for jabbing at urchins and pickpockets.” She tilted her backsword. “I prefer this.”
“I like the speed. We all must make do with the preferences we were given when we are made.”
“Never take what you are given, but take what you want. The only other way is unsatisfactory, and in this arena will lead to death.” Asteria pointed her blade at Josanad. “Speed served him poorly. You will see that too, when you are transfixed by my sword.”
“Doubtless,” said Garten. Desperately he tried to ignite the flames of aggression. To go into a bout with anything less than a certainty in one’s own ability was to ensure defeat, and here that meant death. He looked at A
steria, gloating still, and he knew he could not beat her.
“Stand ready!” shouted the president, retrieving his handkerchiefs. “To your guard!” Garten adopted his favoured stance, basic fencing posture, hips sideways, shoulders turned forward, sword out and up to attack and defend according to circumstance. Basic, but effective.
“Begin!” the president cried.
Garten advanced quickly. He told himself he wished to surprise Asteria, and to take advantage of her winding. Truthfully he wished to get this over and done with as quickly as he could. He had already given up, and Asteria saw it.
Josan crouched by her brother, a knot of people around them. The Guider hovered nervously over her, unwilling to brave Josan’s wrath and unsure of how to guide the ghost of a Morfaan. Josan sent the crowd back with a glare, sheltered her brother’s body with her own, and began whispering into his ear. The atmosphere thickened. Garten’s ears popped as he attacked.
He would not give up. He would not die quietly. He would give Asteria something to remember him by.
Never had his sword moved so quickly. Asteria’s eyebrows rose. Her expression changed from mockery to appreciation. “You have a swift attack, very good. Now let us see you recover from its failure.” She parried it easily, bringing her own sword in to the left of his. Garten caught the disengagement and attack to his upper chest just before it came too close to stop, parrying it and attacking in his turn. She parried, feinted, remised. He ignored the first, and caught the second, rasping his sword up her blade in a return thrust to her arm. She dipped her forearm out of the way, stepped aside, causing him to stumble with the impetus of his own attack.
The City of Ice Page 44