by Chogan Swan
Nimshi waved a hand at the serving tables. “We are informal at breakfast, Seth, just dish out whatever you like, and go back for more, if you're still hungry.”
Seth chose a plate from the serving tray and piled it high with meat and eggs. At the table, he unfolded his napkin with a snap and draped it over his right knee, chose the third fork from the left for his fish and ate. Nimshi and Lord Arturo continued to eat, but Seth felt them glancing at him. But at the moment, food was more important. He must have been on short rations awhile; his body needed food. He made another trip for bread and fruit, and again for scrambled eggs. Though he chewed everything—the meat in particular—with care, he finished at the same time as the prince and the weaponsmaster who were taking a more relaxed approach. He hadn't eaten like this since... An image of a crowded banquet hall rose in his mind. A king, tall and grey-haired raised a glass in salute...
“Does your breakfast agree with you, Seth?” asked Prince Arturo. “You ate more than I would have heretofore suspected was humanly possible.”
Seth smiled. Ibuchan nobles could turn a phrase well, no doubt of that. “The breakfast was superb, my lord prince,” he replied. “I was struck by a memory. And, in my condition, I find it impossible not to make the most of such occasions.”
“And what might your condition be?”
“Our friend Seth, claims to have lost all memories from a blow on the head two days ago,” said Nimshi.
“Claims to have?” said Arturo. “You have reason to doubt the truth of the statement?”
“I find it a convenient way to avoid questions, my lord prince,” Nimshi replied with a tight smile.
“And does his skull show evidence of a concussion?” snapped Arturo.
“I have heard there is evidence in that direction,” said Nimshi.
“I dislike this, Nimshi. First, you bring an opponent to breakfast, and now I learn he is not even in good health or convicted of a crime. Moreover, you want me to cross swords with him before he recovers. I find it ... unseemly.”
“My lord prince, in this matter I ask you to trust my judgment. You recall there have been lessons when I could not reveal everything at once in order for you to learn what had to be learned.”
Arturo glared at Nimshi. The weaponsmaster stared back at the prince. His face was calm and his body was relaxed, but his eyes burned. Arturo looked away.
“Let me see your injury,” he snapped to Seth, rising to stride around the table to where Seth sat. Seth indicated the general area at the back of his skull. The prince examined it, running his fingers over the bone. Then he turned to Nimshi.
“This lesson you would teach is not one I care to learn, weaponsmaster. When the physicians say he is healthy, then, but not sooner.” With that, Arturo spun and stalked out.
Nimshi pulled a pit from a grape and considered it before flicking it away. “Take him to his room, Sergeant.”
Seth rose to follow Niaal, tucking an apple into his shirt as he went as Nimshi stared at the wall and tapped his fingers together in a ragged rhythm.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Seth was climbing the walls.
Ten days had passed since the breakfast in the high chamber. Meals since then had been a homogeneous mush, nourishing enough, but unappetizing. So now, he was climbing the walls. Restless from inactivity, he’d started doing exercises, but that palled. Then he noticed a small pocket in one of the limestone blocks that made up the walls of his chamber.
He fitted two fingers into it then noticed a higher one. He couldn't quite reach it, so he stuck his right toe on a mortared joint and pulled. Only one finger fit into this pocket, so he moved his left foot up to steady himself, and fell. With a smile of challenge, he got up, rubbed his sore buttock and studied the wall.
That had been the start. At the end of the second day, he had connected a tenuous line of pockets together that reached to the massive timber truss twenty feet above the floor. With a lunge, he grabbed the timber and pulled himself up and onto it for a rest.
He examined his abraded fingertips then looked at his route up the wall with satisfaction. Then, he looked at the floor almost twenty feet below. It would be easier just to jump down—well prepared for the shock of landing—than to try the climb back to the floor. He would risk an awkward fall transitioning from timber to wall, or any of the dozen awkward positions involved on the way up, certain to be even more difficult in reverse. Somehow, jumping down would cheapen the victory he’d won getting here in the first place.
He was determined to climb down. He fell, but landed with more grace than he’d any right to expect.
The next morning, after breakfast, he'd managed a different route up to the ceiling and down with only three falls, and two more routes after midday meal. It was almost by accident that he climbed to the window. The grate was loose. It might have been unchecked for centuries. Seth peered out. A window well stretched up a few feet then opened to the sky. On the sill was a sticky, green pinecone. He wiggled the grate, it would come loose, but it was too early in the day to escape. He decided to wait until he’d thought about it more. Now, he had food and shelter, he might not have to stay a practice partner forever.
The next morning, the door to Seth's guest room opened, showing Niaal and an old man in a black robe that smelled of old blood.
Sergeant Niaal entered first, thumbs tucked into his sword-belt. He grunted, jerking his chin at the other man. “Doctor... check your head.” Seth had been halfway to the ceiling when he’d heard Niaal clinking down the hall. He’d dropped just in time to pull his shoes on and was wrapping the lacings when the door opened.
After a brief look at the wrong side of his head, the doctor pronounced him fit. Fit for what he didn't mention, but Seth was already sure he was unimpaired, so he didn't object.
“Looks like breakfast upstairs again,” said Niaal. “Let's go. Bath first.”
Seth saw that Niaal had brought him a change of clothes, so he washed out his old travel-worn things and switched to the new set. He wrung out his old clothes and stuffed them into the feed sack with the armor. They might help him remember his past, and he liked them.
Niaal took him back to the upstairs halls and the breakfast room. The breakfast room was the same—sumptuous and filled with the smells of exotic foods on their warming trays—but the seating arrangement was different. Two tables graced the room this time; the largest had been there the first time. This time it was so full of food there was no place to sit, so a round table with three chairs sat alongside the window.
Outside the window, the sound of waves breaking on stones sang to the morning. Warm spring air flooded in and the smell of the sea held only the slightest taint of the streets.
Weaponsmaster Nimshi and Lord Arturo already occupied two of the chairs. Arturo ate with steady poise his head down while the weaponsmaster studied the prince and ate as well.
Niaal cleared his throat, announcing their presence. Nimshi did not turn, but watched Arturo as the heir to the city looked up at Seth. Arturo's face darkened a bit in disappointment, regret, or irritation, and Nimshi measured the reaction.
“Ah, the amnesiac,” Arturo said. “Are you feeling fit now? Has your memory returned?”
“Respectfully, my lord, yes and no, respectively,” Seth said with a smile.
Arturo grinned and then turned back to his food with remembered irritation.
With a show of nonchalance, the weaponsmaster pulled the unoccupied chair back from the table so Seth could sit.
Politeness covering a multitude of insanities.
What was going on?
He wondered if his memories would have helped him unlock this puzzle. He went to the serving table and filled his plate with portions of bread, fish and fruit. Then sat and began to eat. Midway through his meal, he noticed Arturo shooting secretive glances at him. He looked up to meet Arturo's eyes and saw a hint of a suspicion hidden at once. Seth noted it, but could read nothing else there. Like all Ibuchan nobles, Ar
turo could be adept at hiding his thoughts and feelings, a survival trait in this city.
Now that's odd. What else do I know about Ibuchan nobility?
He found that he knew a good deal. The nobility of the city-state of Ibuchan were composed of nine recognized houses. Each could trace its lineage backwards for at least fifteen hundred years. Some claimed to trace it further, but much of that was fiction and conceit.
For seven generations the ruling house had been of Arturo's line, the house Bartizann. The intrigues and politics of the Ibuchan nobles were so complex and intricate that suspicion occupied much of their lives. Arturo's great-great-grandfather had been poisoned by the introduction of six—separately administered, otherwise harmless—ingredients: two at breakfast, one with desert, and so forth. The ruling lord had expired with the final course of the noonday meal while his rotating staff of food tasters had remained healthy.
There was much more information along the same lines: the names of the houses and their important members, endless histories of intrigues. It only frustrated Seth. None of the information had a sense of immediacy to it. He had no idea how he had come by it, and it felt as though it had little to do with his past. He knew it and that was all.
The rest of the breakfast was subdued. Arturo picked at his food. He expressed no more concern over Seth's recovery, and when Nimshi rose to fill his wineglass, Seth noticed Arturo glare at the weaponsmaster's back.
When Nimshi returned to the table, Arturo rose with a short nod and left. “... until the morning weapon practice,” he said as he walked out the door.
Nimshi glanced after him, startled then turned to Seth with a suspicious frown. Seth shrugged, as he had no idea what the problem was.
The weaponsmaster rose to his feet and stalked from the room, his thin, blade-straight back even more rigid than usual.
Sergeant Niaal slouched around the corner a few moments later, picked up an apple, took a casual bite and tossed the rest out the window. Seth wondered if some rag-tag vagabond below would catch it in the air, or have to scrape it off the cobbles for breakfast.
“Let's go. Get you ready,” said Niaal, waving for him to follow.
Seth tucked an apple in his shirt as he left. The rations in the guest room were short of fresh fruit. “What sort of weapon practice is expected from me today?” he asked when he caught up with Niaal.
Niaal turned to him; for once, he did not seem casual or offhand. “It's hard to call it practice to my mind, boy. But listen close and remember what I tell ya.” The sergeant pulled him close and lowered his voice, speaking fast. “You listen to me and you may live. When you get to the practice yard, pick out a short sword, with a blue cast to it and about as wide as your arm. It'll be decent steel, not as likely to shatter and you'll find it less awkward warding blows.”
“What, practicing with real weapons? Isn't that dangerous?”
Niaal shook his arm. “I said listen, not talk. Now shut it. It may be some kind of practice for the Prince, but it's your life in danger, not his. A faster sword I've ne'r seen in my career. Pick a shield that will cover mid-thigh to chin. Make sure all your straps are right on the rest of your gear. You'll be working with two others. Try to take a position on the far right. He’s right-handed and you'll be on his weak side. Stay behind the shield, but leave room at the right shoulder to give him a target. With luck, he may just stick you fast and move on to the others. Then you can work in the kitchen, or maybe they'll throw you out on the street and you can survive long enough to leave the city.”
Niaal turned away.
“One moment, sergeant,” Seth said. “Why make the bouts lethal? What's the point?”
Niaal glared. “It's the weaponsmaster's idea the Prince is a trifle reluctant to kill, so he seeks to harden him to it.”
“How many has he killed at this?”
“One hundred and fifty last year. This year, thirty so far.”
Seth shook his head. “The shame of it.... How many were only injured?”
“Seventeen, but four died later.”
“I wonder what Nimshi will say when he comes before the highest judgment.”
A look of surprise flashed over Niaal's long face. “Best not mention things like that in this place boy. Ideas like that aren't popular.”
Seth smiled with a grim show of teeth. “What? You mean I might put myself in danger?”
Niaal grunted. “You've spunk in you. I hope you're lucky. Maybe you will be. Come on then; let's put your gear on.”
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
The boss on the shield was a well-polished, hand-sized piece of steel. Some clever smith had come up with it as an attempt to reflect sunlight into an opponent's eyes. Seth was searching it for memories.
Even with the sun high in a clear sky over the rooftop practice yard, the reflection was hazy. The face he saw was intriguing; Brown and green eyes, high cheekbones, he looked as though he had seen about seventeen years, but somehow he thought he was older. It didn't waken any memories
The expression the face seemed to fall into was one of wide-eyed innocence. He didn't like the expression. His hair had been unshorn for some time and brown and sun-bleached gold blew about, whipping at his face. He’d found a rag—a bit oily—by the weapons rack, and now he bound it across his forehead to tie back his hair and cushion the ill-fitting metal cap.
He remembered Niaal's instructions, and saw two swords that fit the sergeant's requirements, but there was another, the only one still sheathed, leaning against the side of the rack somewhat apart from the others. Something seemed familiar about it, and he lifted it from the rack. The leather scabbard was well-worn, roughed up and cracked as though it had been in water and left untended afterwards. The pommel decorated as a dragon, cut into a textured black metal, untarnished for all the other evidence of neglect.
Seth pulled the blade free and felt something surge in him at the sharp, ringing sound. He liked this sword. He picked up the shield and went over to the other two practice dummies. They were both foot soldiers being punished for drunkenness on watch, he'd discovered from talking to them earlier. They looked him over as he returned. “We got a plan,” said Daglach, the bigger one, tucking his thinning hair up under his cap.
His companion, Chorl, nodded. “Whoever he gets first runs up the blade and grabs the hilts, so the other two can take him out. That way two of us will live at least.”
Seth paused. It seemed obvious they expected him to be the one running up the blade, which they could assure with no effort by hanging back at the right time. “I don't think whoever is left will live long after killing Arturo,” he said. “Our only chance is to wear him down or disarm him.”
Daglach and Chorl shook their heads in resignation. “No chance of that, boy,” Daglach said. “None at all. Kill Arturo and we may escape in the confusion. Other way, we're just meat for the street.”
Chorl nodded agreement.
Just then, a clattering came from the covered stair that opened on the roof. Eight soldiers with pikes and heavy armor filed up the stairs and took places around the sixty-foot circle. Four brown-robed medics came behind them. Nimshi, dressed in his usual black, came behind them, taking a place of advantage on a raised block.
Like a vulture in a tree.
Seth wished he’d tried to escape when he’d first found the window grate loose.
Arturo appeared at the stairs and glanced about with wary eyes. With him were twelve men: eight with swords; four with short recurved bows and armor-piercing arrows. All of them wore Arturo's crest over their hearts. Arturo bowed to the weaponsmaster. Nimshi returned the bow, expressionless, but Seth could tell he hadn’t expected Arturo to arrive with an armed escort.
Arturo stepped into the circle.
Seth took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. His stomach fluttered. He took a last look around. Brilliant banners snapped above the battlements; a few high clouds scudded across the sun; and a soaring raven or crow wheeled high above. It was a da
y that made you long to stretch out all four wings to the sun and fly.
Now what did that mean?
Seth turned his attention back to the circle. Arturo had two blades: a three-foot sword in his right hand and, in his left, a blade as long as his forearm. He also had a thick-bladed dagger in his belt, and a steel bracelet-buckler covered his left forearm. Seth noted his leather vest also bore steel plates over vital parts. He was armed and armored to move fast. Seth remembered Niall’s remarks on his speed.
Arturo shook the scabbards off his swords and checked their edges. His face was set and businesslike. Seth glanced at Daglach and Chorl. He wondered what they would do now. If Arturo knew how to use his two swords, stopping one of them with a body block would not slow him.
Arturo turned to Nimshi and signaled ready. The weaponsmaster put a small, bone whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. The eight pikemen stepped back and brought their spears to waist height.
Niaal had warned him about the outer edges of the circle, backing into the spears discouraged too much retreating, though he doubted any one of them would dare to prick Arturo.
Daglach and Chorl edged apart, trying to divide Arturo's attention. Somehow, Seth knew this was a poor choice of tactics, unless they planned to rush in right away. He doubted they’d be that bold, but decided to see if they’d support him.
At the signal to begin, he leapt forward.
They did not.
Arturo met Seth's leap midway. Seth blocked and parried with desperate haste, retreating across the circle. The only thing that saved him from backing into the spears was that Daglach and Chorl rushed in too late at Arturo's exposed back, missing by a long second the chance Seth had given them. Seth moved back into the fight. Not close enough to provoke another charge by Arturo, but enough to make him disengage from Daglach and Chorl to re-evaluate.
Seth shook his shield arm, it still tingled from the blows it had blocked in the last exchange. Arturo was fast, his swords a spinning blur. Lucky for Seth, he wasn’t quite so fast on his feet. He was fast, but Seth—to his surprise—realized he’d crossed swords with faster.