by Matthew Ward
Kasamor’s eyes flickered open. “Is that curiosity I hear? Alas, my dear, beautiful sister-at-arms, you’ve missed your opportunity. I’m pledged to higher things.”
With an exasperated sigh she turned to stare out across the room. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Kasamor grew unusually sincere. “My heart belongs to another.”
Rosa offered no response. Enough, Malachi decided, was enough.
“So you’re still going through with it?” he asked.
“Without a flicker of hesitation.” Kasamor straightened up. “My mother’s mood will soften once she meets Calenne. How could it not?”
That aspiration struck Malachi as totally unfounded. A son saw much that remained hidden from acquaintances, but in this case . . .
“Is your mother much given to softening?” Rosa’s expression could have been carved from stone.
“On occasion. Why, I once saw her smile at Marek.”
“Her steward?” Malachi tried to picture Lady Ebigail Kiradin favouring a servant with anything resembling warmth. He gave up. There were limits even to imagination. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” If Kasamor was at all offended on his mother’s behalf, nothing of it showed. “He happened upon one of the indentured maids making off with the silverware. Girl looked like death by the time he was done scolding her.”
“Ah.” Now that did sound like the sort of thing to coax a smile from Lady Kiradin. “I wouldn’t have thought your mother would have trusted a southwealder near the silver.”
“She hasn’t, not since. Stripped them all of their papers and threw them onto the streets. They’ll be in Dregmeet now, hiding from the constabulary.”
Malachi scowled. Indentured southwealders weren’t technically slaves. Nonetheless, the exodus-brand on the palm meant they couldn’t take paid work without papers. At best, Ebigail Kiradin had doomed her servants to a life of starvation and criminality.
“Hold on . . .” Rosa grunted. “Are you drawing comparison between your betrothed and Marek, or your betrothed and a thieving servant?”
Kasamor’s lip twisted. “I speak merely to my mother’s occasional lightness of character.”
“One smile. And you think Calenne Trelan can coax forth another?” Rosa shook her head. “You must be in love to be so blind. I’m surprised your mother hasn’t disowned you.”
“Disown me? Her favourite son?”
“Her only son,” said Malachi.
Kasamor brushed the detail aside. “Some friends you are, dousing my happiness. I shan’t allow it. Calenne is to be my wife, and I the happiest man in the Republic.”
Malachi let the matter drop. He felt more than a little mean-spirited for needling his friend so. Whatever the complications of Calenne Trelan’s southwealder heritage, Kasamor was besotted. After two betrothals ended by Hadari spears, he deserved a good marriage. And if it was one founded in genuine affection rather than in furtherance of a dynasty, then Malachi envied him.
Rosa drained her tankard. “It’s my round. Another?”
Malachi stared into the remains of his ale. He should have left hours ago. Now he’d face a lecture and a polite smile undercut by disdain. Easier to face them after another drink.
“Sure.”
Kasamor lurched to his feet. “Put your coin away. We celebrate in style, and at my expense. In fact . . .” He paused, brow furrowed in thought.
Malachi caught Rosa’s eye, but the moment of shared realisation came too late.
“. . . I shall buy a drink for anyone who’ll offer a toast to Calenne Trelan,” Kasamor bellowed. “The jewel of the Southshires, and the brightest star in any sky!”
The hubbub gave way to a chorus of cheers. Fists and tankards hammered at tables in approval. Kasamor grinned broadly. He clambered atop his chair and drank in the adulation. Empty tankard in hand, he goaded the Silverway’s clientele to greater uproar, conducting their raucous clamour as music sprung from an orchestra.
Malachi released a sigh of relief. For a moment, he’d worried that . . .
“Toast your southwealder whore elsewhere.”
The cheers fell away.
Kasamor froze mid-gesture. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Then I’ll say it again, and clearer.”
Malachi twisted in the chair, striving to identify the speaker. There, in a booth by the crooked stairs. Nearer his own thirty-five summers than Rosa and Kasamor’s lesser tally. No intoxication in her face, nor in her husky voice. He’d seen her before, at council. Not in the Privy Council chamber, but attending Lord Tarev. His daughter . . . but what was her name?
The woman stood. Like Rosa, she’d forgone a bare-shouldered dress for a close-fitting blouse, jerkin and trews. Practical garb for a practical woman – especially when slumming it on the dockside.
“I lost my mother and a sister at Zanya. You want to toast a Trelan, do it in the gutter where you both belong.”
Kasamor jumped down and slammed his tankard onto the table. Malachi’s memory snapped into place. Aske Tarev . . . that was the woman’s name. But not for much longer, if something wasn’t done. Malachi rose a trifle more unsteadily than he’d have liked and blocked Kasamor’s advance.
“Then your kin sacrificed to make the Republic whole,” he told Aske. “Our divisions died with Katya Trelan. Let them remain in the past.”
“Malachi Reveque, ever the conciliator,” sneered Aske. “You don’t speak for my family.”
Kasamor growled. “And you owe my betrothed an apology. Must I tear it from you?”
Malachi set a hand against his chest. “Ignore her.”
To his relief, Kasamor halted.
There were too many swords in the Silverway. Kasamor could only count on Rosa’s in addition to his own. Judging by the stony faces at Aske’s table, she had three supporters. As to the rest? Most of the clientele wouldn’t risk getting caught up in a noble’s brawl. Probably. But you could never be sure once the blood was up.
“Rosa?” said Kasamor.
Alone of the three, Rosa still sat in her chair. Her crossed legs and propped elbow gave the impression of a woman taking her ease. However, her eyes darted back and forth, weighing up the odds.
“This would be better discussed outside. I like this tavern. I wouldn’t want to see it damaged.”
Translation: Rosa didn’t care for their prospects if it came to a straight fight. Malachi wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The chances of walking away from a tavern brawl were much higher than a back alley duel. The latter would spare Malachi and Rosa from injury, but it might cost Kasamor his life.
“Well?” Kasamor folded his arms and levelled a stare at Aske.
There was no amusement in his voice, no trace of the boisterous suitor of earlier. His smile belonged to a wolf. Malachi shuddered. This was the side of Kasamor the Hadari saw.
Aske didn’t reply at first, her watchful eyes taking their own measure of the odds. But the outcome was never really in doubt. You didn’t walk away from a challenge, however coded. Not with so many witnesses to hand and reputation at stake.
“Have it your way.”
Four
By unspoken accord, they settled on the alley between the Silver-way’s dray yard and the warehouse behind. Far enough from the roadway’s firestone lanterns so as not to draw a constable’s eye. Close enough that the low rush of the river weir rumbled beneath every word spoken.
Rosa halted a pace or two into the alley. She set her shoulders against the wall and shooed the others along. “Well? Get this over with.”
Malachi cast a nervous eye towards the river. “You heard her. I’d rather not be caught.”
Kasamor shook his head. “You’re always so concerned about your reputation.”
“I’m only here to stop you doing something foolish.”
Kasamor offered a wry smile. “Too late. And I’m not fighting for my reputation, but Calenne�
��s.”
Might be he even believed it, Malachi decided. Pride was a complicated burden. Yet, there was a rare lightness in Kasamor’s voice. Perhaps this was all about Calenne. Malachi only hoped the young woman was grateful for the risks taken in her name.
Malachi kept his thoughts to himself. His attention he spared for Aske’s group, deeper into the alley. Three others accompanied her. Two in the crimson and black surcoats of Tarev hearthguards, and the last in plain black garb. It struck Malachi as unfair that she’d brought so many, but that was the problem with such duels. The ritual had been born on distant battlefields and carried home by soldiers on leave. There were no rules, just a loose acceptance of what was to unfold.
Kasamor clapped him on the shoulder and set off down the alleyway. On reaching the midpoint, he spread his hands wide, sword still in its sheath.
“Right! How are we doing this? Three touches, or will only blood shake an apology loose?”
Aske’s only reply was a shriek of rage. Sword naked in her hand, she charged, boots thudding through refuse and horse-dung.
Malachi glanced at Rosa. She shrugged, eyes dark and thoughtful.
Kasamor stood arms outspread and sword scabbarded, seemingly frozen in place. At the last moment, he sidestepped. Aske’s sword flashed past. A heartbeat later so did Aske herself, further hastened by the heel of Kasamor’s boot against her rump.
“So you’ve no manners at all?” Kasamor asked. “Care to try again?”
Aske snarled and hurled herself into another headlong charge. It ended much the same as the first.
Kasamor drew his sword and cut at the air in sweeping circles. “Is this how your family fought at Zanya? No wonder they’re not here to speak for themselves.”
“Don’t humiliate her, Kasamor,” muttered Malachi. “It’ll only make matters worse.”
Aske spat. “You dare insult my family?”
Swords clashed, the blades locking. Aske twisted away. She struck again, trading high blows for a flurry of shallow cuts at Kasamor’s waist. He parried them all, then thrust at Aske’s belly. She stumbled back, breathing hard.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” mocked Kasamor. “Why, I crossed blades with Kai Saran himself less than a month ago.”
Aske feinted left, then thrust right. Kasamor ignored the former and sidestepped the latter.
“All that strength,” he continued, “and he couldn’t land a blow. Sent him back to the border with his tail between his legs.”
“Is that true?” Malachi asked Rosa, his attention still on the duel.
She snorted. “Doubt it. The Hadari are too busy worrying over their dying emperor to make trouble. I’ll bet Kasamor never left his tent the whole time he was out there, much less crossed swords with the emperor’s son.”
The blades clashed again. Kasamor, no longer content to defend, forced Aske into a series of unsteady parries. Even to Malachi’s inexperienced eye, there was a jarring difference to the two techniques. Kasamor’s arcs wove beautiful flashes of moonlight in the gloomy alley. Aske’s responses were jerky and uneven.
“This isn’t right,” Rosa muttered.
“He’s better than her, that’s all.” Malachi shrugged. “He’s better than most people.”
“No,” she said. “This is different. Mind and body are fighting one another.”
That was the trouble with Rosa. Sometimes she needed decoding. “She’s not trying to win?”
“Or maybe she’s stalling.” The corner of Rosa’s lip twitched. “Or maybe it’s something else.”
Malachi looked again, but if there was something deeper, he lacked the eye for it. But the expectation radiating from Aske’s companions struck him as misplaced. Aske had no hope of winning. The only question was how far she’d push before capitulation. Unless . . .
“The others,” he murmured. “They’re waiting for something. This is a distraction.”
Rosa frowned. “Find a patrol. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
Malachi opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again as he realised the sense of her suggestion. He’d be no use in a fight anyway.
Four shadows crowded the end of the alleyway, blotting out the weir behind and blocking hope of retreat.
“Too late,” Malachi breathed.
Rosa pushed off the wall. Her fingers drummed on the hilt of her sword. “Get behind me.” She raised her voice. “This is a private matter.”
The shadows ignored her. Strides lengthened, bringing crimson and black surcoats closer, the leader outpacing his companions.
“Stand down,” he bellowed, drawing his sword. “No need for you to die as well.”
Rosa shook her head sadly. “Oh my lad, you’ve no idea how much trouble you’re in.”
“Suit yourself.”
The leader’s sword flashed out. Rosa swept it aside. Her free hand closed around his throat. Her left heel hooked behind his ankle. His back struck the dunged cobbles, a strangled cry ending in a huff of expelled air.
Rosa slammed down her boot and gazed sedately at a trio of hearth-guards who were a touch paler than they’d been before. “Who’s next?”
Malachi tore his attention back to the duel and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Kasamor! You’ve been set up!”
“What?”
Kasamor glanced back over his shoulder, good humour vanished. Aske seized on his distraction. With a cry of triumph, she thrust at his spine.
Kasamor spun around. He teased Aske’s blade aside and struck it from her hand. A heartbeat later he had her pinned against the warehouse wall. He had a generous handful of her expensive blouse bunched in his fingers, and his sword at her throat.
He spared a glance for her companions from the Silverway, now advancing along the alley with blades drawn. “Stay back!”
The foremost, a sallow-faced man with a stubble beard and simple black garb, shrugged. “If Lady Tarev dies, so do your friends.”
Rosa reached Malachi’s side. Her blade dared the remaining newcomers to push their fortune. They hung back, content to wait, or ordered to do so.
For the first time in many years, Malachi wished he’d not abandoned the art of the sword. If nothing else, he should have been carrying a weapon . . . Sure, he’d only have gotten in the way, but perhaps that was better than being entirely useless.
“You can’t kill a councillor and two knights of the Republic,” he said. “Not without consequence.”
“If there were witnesses, maybe,” croaked Aske.
“And it’s not all of you who have to die,” said the sallow man. “You can walk away.”
Malachi snorted. “You’d let us leave? Witnesses?”
“It’s your word against Lady Aske’s. How much is your word worth, Lord Reveque? Valuable enough to make a case for murder before the Council?”
Malachi scowled. Aske’s father had too much influence for any such accusation to succeed. Aske would deny involvement. The violence would be dismissed as the work of opportunistic ne’er-do-wells.
The sallow man was right. Malachi hated it, but he was right. One life or three, and no justice for anyone. He felt sick; sick, and angrier than he had in years.
Kasamor growled in frustration. Letting his sword-point dip to the cobbles, he released Aske. “Never known someone go to so much trouble to win a duel. You want to tell me why?”
Aske massaged her throat and reclaimed her sword. “You already know why. My mother was three days dying from her wounds. My sister’s body was never found. We’d nothing to bury. Her voice echoes through the family vault, but I can’t give her peace.”
“Calenne was a child when that happened. She wasn’t even at Zanya.”
“Sins of the kith. Let her filthy bloodline rot in the south. It will never hold a seat on the Council.”
“Sounds like my reason for dying’s far nobler than yours for killing me.” Kasamor chuckled, but despite his apparent mirth, a rare note of fatalism crept into his tone, betraying a decision made. For a
man like Kasamor, preserving his own skin came a distant second to saving those of his friends. “You might want to think on that before you go bragging to your sister’s ghost.”
“Kasamor?” Rosa’s eyes didn’t leave her opponents’ swords. “I’m not agreeing to this.”
“Not your decision, Rosa,” he replied. “Set down your blade.”
She swore under her breath and let it fall.
“But let’s be clear.” Kasamor leaned close to Aske, his voice taking on a most un-Kasamoresque harshness. “You’re not done hearing ghosts. I’ll make whatever pact the Raven demands. My cyraeth will be back for your soul before my body’s cold. It’ll haunt you as only a restless spirit can. And you, my bitter little hag, will wish you’d never heard my name.”
Aske flinched. Her throat bobbed.
Kasamor straightened. His sword clattered to the ground.
“Are we doing this or not? It’s not polite to keep a man waiting.”
A yelp sounded at the mouth of the alley. The thud of a falling body followed, and a choked scream close behind. Malachi’s anger and shame bubbled away, replaced by giddy elation. Beside him, he felt Rosa tense as the sallow man fumbled for his sword.
Kasamor laughed and shook his head. “Decided to join us, did you?”
Even bereft of armour, Viktor Akadra cut an imposing figure in the confines of the passage. A head taller than Kasamor, nearly two taller than Malachi himself, he radiated unconcern. A hearthguard dangled like a toy from one massive fist. The fellow squalled and struggled, though Viktor seemed unaware he was even under attack. He cuffed his captive about the head and let the unconscious fellow fall atop his luckless companion. The black velvet of his cloak twitched at his heels.
“Some of us had duties.”
Aske Tarev’s face went ashen grey. Of course she knew of Viktor’s reputation. It was a rare soul that didn’t. The hero of Gathra’s Field. The man who’d slain the traitor Katya Trelan. The Council’s champion.
The last of Rosa’s erstwhile opponents spun to face the new threat.
Rosa dived for her sword. The sallow man started forward, hearth-guards at his back. Aske set her sword-point to Kasamor’s belly.