Rel stepped back, his practice sabre blurring in an arc to catch those of Veremond and another Maceriyan named Poussel simultaneously. His fourth opponent, Vormeen of Macer Lesser, took his chance as Rel strained against their blades and came at him from the side. Rel shoved Veremond and Poussel backwards, and backhanded the man across the face with the basket of his sword’s hilt so hard it caved the mesh of his mask in. The man shrieked and fell on his behind, blood pouring from his nose.
“Sorry!” shouted Rel. Froond was getting to his feet. Rel mimed a killing chop at the neck. Froon slapped the sand in frustration and hung his head.
“That’s one!” Rel shouted gleefully.
“Good good! I would watch your back, little merchant boy!”
“Let me handle this my own way!” said Rel. He parried two strikes from Poussel and Veremond, aimed a flick at Veremond’s head that had him duck back. He caught a riposte from Poussel, turned the blade and ran an upward slash along the inside of the man’s arm. Rel’s blunt training blade thumped into Poussel’s padded jerkin.
“Two!” he called, ducking Veremond’s return slash. A sweeping kick pushed the Perusian’s ankles together. He did not fall, but skipped back. Vormeen, shook blood from his hand and came on groggily. Rel spread his arms wide as if to say Really?, batted aside Vormeen’s half-hearted thrust. His own sabre bent in half as he lunged and thrust it with bruising force into Vormeen’s sternum, knocking him back onto his behind. “Three!”
“Ha!” Zhinsky clapped. “He will have big love mark there, little merchant’s boy.”
“I keep saying,” said Rel through gritted teeth, “my father is not a merchant.”
Rel fought flawlessly. He and Veremond traded blows, a parry for every strike.
“You are toying with him! Finish him, finish him now!” shouted Zhinsky.
“It’s not as if I’m not trying!” complained Rel. He feinted, stepped aside, and delivered a high, overhand downward thrust as Veremond stumbled toward where he had been.
Veremond rubbed at the scratch on his neck. “Four!”
“Maybe you not quite so useless after all,” Zhinsky said. “The rest of you, yes, all of you. You are needing to be getting better. Shame on you.”
Rel tore off his mask and dropped it. He saluted with his sword and exchanged it for a towel. Sweat ran off his face in a sheet. He screwed up his eyes and sponged them down.
“Damn stuff stings.”
“Such a complainer. Not befitting a master swordsman.”
“Master?”
“Well, you are not bad.” Zhinsky threw his apple core over his shoulder. “Gudrun here says many good things about you.” He waved at the master-at-arms, a bald-headed, thickset man who looked like he could not possibly have been anything else but a warrior. He leaned against one of the training posts set back from the training floor.
“Father made us all practise sword, grappling, various armed combats, all the arts of defence. He told us that a true nobleman should know how to fight, even though most of them don’t. My brother Garten is the fifth best fencer in Karsa.”
“Oh very good. And you?”
“Twelfth, as it happens.”
“Not so good then.”
“On the contrary. I am getting better. Garten’s past his prime. I am better than Garten was when he was my age.”
Zhinsky pursed his lips. “Very good merchant boy. I am impressed.”
“Good. Can I sit down now?”
“No! Not yet,” said Zhinsky, wagging a finger. “Little merchant boy wants to sit? Now?” he said, mumming wide-eyed surprise so effectively a laugh went up from the men in the salle. “I am interested to see, how with fancy fencing will you beat this?” He pointed a finger past Rel, grinning wickedly.
Rel turned around. The floor was empty of opponents. A boy resanded it from bucket while a second hurriedly raked it flat.
Zhinsky was pointing at the gate beyond the floor.
“What?” said Rel.
“You see.”
The gate slid upward, unnervingly noiseless in the Morfaan way. The corridor was dark behind it.
The most enormous man Rel had ever seen stepped through, his grin matching Zhinsky’s. The corridor had not been dark, the man was so large he had blocked out all the light.
“Merchant boy, meet Halvok. He is a Torosan. You ever see a Torosan before?”
Rel shook his head, dumbstruck. “Yes. Once or twice. There are three here.”
“Four,” said Halvok.
“But you have never seen one like him, eh? Halvok is nine and a half feet tall. Prodigiously tall! Have you ever fought one?”
“With all due respect, major, are you fucking joking? No! I have not fought one, as evidenced by the fact that I am stood here before you and not dead in a hole in the ground.”
“That’s fine. I am sure Halvok is not offended, is that not so?”
“No problem to me boss,” Halvok said. His Low Maceriyan was surprisingly pure, though his voice was deeper than thunder. “Not many of my sort around. Too big, you see. We need a lot of space. I had an uncle go Karsa way once. Came back. Didn’t like it. No offence meant, Captain Kressind, sir.”
“None taken,” said Rel quietly.
Halvok grinned. He stepped into the duelling square. He undid his uniform jacket and slipped it off, revealing a meaty geography of muscular slabs on a chest the size of Ruthnia itself. Ridged muscles covered his arms in the same manner mountains cover continents. “How you at wrestling, sir?” said the Torosan.
“You really want me to fight him?” said Rel, an unwelcome squeak entering his voice. He coughed.
“Oh, I want everyone to fight Corporal Halvok. Is that not so, Halvok?”
“Aye major. You and Colonel Estabanado.”
“I think we should explain to Captain Little Merchant why.” Zhinsky conjured a second apple from a pocket and took a bite.
Halvok smiled affably at Rel. “See sir, there’s a lot worse than me out there in the desert, so they says anyways. Big things, mean too. Modalmen and that. Fighting me is good practice, and I ain’t so big as a modal.”
“Don’t you mind being the punching bag for the garrison?”
Halvok laughed. “Nah sir. I like the work out. And we take it in turns, me and Moris, Fleki and Borid.”
“The other Torosans,” said Zhinsky. He crammed another bite of apple into his mouth. “You not see Halvok because he and his fellows are often out with Jakkar.”
“That’s right sir,” said Halvok. “We’re just back from a stint in the south checking the obelisks that way. Got too cold, sir.”
“If there are three more like him, I think the rest of us can retire and go home, don’t you?” said Rel.
Zhinsky grinned around his apple and shook his head.
“You really do want me to fight him?”
“The big advantage to you, Captain Kressind,” said Zhinsky, “is that Halvok here is a very nice man. He will not kill you. I cannot speak the same for the modalmen.”
Halvok gave a gleeful look. “Pull your guts right out of your arse while you’re still kicking, sir.” He let a serving boy powder his hands. He slapped them together, whip-crack loud, sending puffs of chalk outwards. “If you’d like to begin sir?”
Rel took a step forward, then a step back. He rolled his eyes, made up his mind and stepped into the square. He took off his padded jacket and his shirt. “I won’t be needing them, I suppose.” He felt tiny next to the Torosan.
“You know, they call them godlings. Did you know that? It is because they are so big!” Zhinsky laughed wildly. “No captain,” he said, when Rel moved to wave away the boy offering him back his practice sword. “You take that.”
“Can I at least have a more suitable weapon?”
Zhinsky cocked his head in query. “You suggest?”
“A lance, a full suit of armour and a battle-hungry dracon? Get me my gun! That would make it fair.”
“How about a trainin
g club?” Zhinsky twitched a finger. A boy ran to Rel with a single piece of wood fashioned into a shaft three feet long with a smooth, thick head. Rel hefted it.
“That might do.”
“Do not worry about hurting Halvok.”
“Do you know, major, I wasn’t.”
Zhinsky clapped his hands twice. “Begin!”
Rel circled the Torosan warily. He had never fought anything so large. They were a rarity in Karsa. The truth of Halvok’s size outdid all rumour. Halvok crouched, he swung his arms lightly out and chuckled deeply.
Rel swished the club experimentally. Halvok’s legs were long enough to have him over the circle in three bounds. Staying out of reach was not an option.
Rel dove at the giant, drawing out a grasping lunge from him. He sidestepped to the left, then swung the club out in a long loop at Halvok’s right knee. He had hoped that Halvok would be slow. He was disappointed. The giant’s arm shot out, deflecting the club easily.
“Nice try, sir,” said Halvok.
“Thanks,” said Rel.
Halvok lunged at him. Rel stepped aside, and knocked the giant hard on the back of the head. He might as well have been tapping stone.
“You will have to try harder than that!” shouted Zhinsky.
Rel breathed through his teeth. He ran at the Torosan. Halvok reached for him. Rel ducked, dropped the club, and grabbed at the Torosan’s wrists. Rel swung off them, bringing his feet hard into contact with Halvok’s stones.
The air whooshed out of Halvok’s lips. His knees buckled inward, and Halvok leaned forward.
“Oooooh,” he said.
“Oh! He is a dirty fighter!” shouted Zhinsky. Many of the others training in the room had drifted over to watch. Muted comments were becoming shouts. Wagers were being taken.
Rel scrabbled through Halvok’s legs. The giant had one hand clasped at his bruised genitals, but with the other he grabbed at Rel’s feet. Rel kicked hard, spraying sand into Halvok’s eyes. The giant blinked and shook his head. Rel scrambled to his feet behind Halvok. He turned round, grabbed the giant’s belt, and hauled himself up onto his back, kicking off on the Torosan’s waistband.
Rel looped one arm around Halvok’s neck. The giant lifted his hands over his back, slapping at Rel. At so awkward an angle, the blows lacked their full power. Any harder and his ribs would have shattered, as it was the blows were punishing and drove the wind from his lungs.
With his free hand he unhooked his scabbarded sword from his belt, slid it under the giant’s chin. Bracing himself against Halvok’s back with his knees, he leaned backward, throttling the Torosan with the sheathed weapon.
Zhinsky leaned forward, rapt.
Halvok grabbed at Rel, half hauling him off his back, but that only increased the pressure at his throat. Giant fingers raked across Rel’s ribs and spine. Rel gritted his teeth and held on.
Halvok’s face turned purple. His hands moved to the sword, trying to pull it from his neck. Rel would not let go.
“Yield!” he said.
“No-o-o,” choked out Halvok.
“Please yield.”
Halvok managed to smile. “No sir.”
He sank to his knees, the strength going from his arms. He attempted one last throw, trying to flip Rel over his head, but Rel would not be shifted. The Torosan went onto all fours, his chest heaving for breath. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he pitched forward, unconscious. Rel choked him still.
The crowd cheered. Zhinsky held his hands up for silence.
“Very good! Very good! Let us stop now, we do not want to kill him.”
“How do I know he is not shamming?” said Rel, but released the giant anyway. He staggered away, leaning with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Zhinsky toed the Torosan with his boot. “He is not shamming.” He looked at Rel, calculating his strength anew. “He will have a very sore neck when he wakes up. You will have to buy him a beer. It is only right.”
“I will.”
“He drinks it by the bucket.”
“I had anticipated that,” panted Rel.
Rel handed his sword back to the arming boy and retrieved his jacket. He winced as he moved. He was going to be bruised all over.
“Well, little merchant boy. I think I stop calling you ‘little’ now,” said the major.
“And the ‘merchant boy’ part?”
Zhinsky’s eyes narrowed. “We see about that. Perhaps when, one day, you beat me.”
Zhinsky held up a hand. His sword was brought for him. He swished it through the air. Zhinsky beckoned at Rel. For the second time, the boy returned his sword.
Rel groaned. He never beat Zhinsky.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Trassan and Katriona
A MOST TERRIBLE ACCIDENT
AT VAND SHIPYARD
An accident, yesterday, Homeday 33rd Frozmer, devastated the latest venture of Arkadian Vand, renowned engineer and industrialist, to create the world’s first successful ocean-going ship of iron. An investors’ tour ended in spectacular disaster when one of the vessel’s three glimmer fuelled steam engines suffered catastrophic failure resulting in immediate and terrifying detonation, the report of which was heard as far away as Mogawn-On-Land, over twelve miles from the centre of Karsa City. Your correspondent was present for the calamity, involving more than fifty of Karsa City’s wealthiest citizens, chosen by Vand to view the final testing of the revolutionary engine as potential backers for the finalisation of the construction. Fortunately, none of the worthies present were harmed in the explosion; however, six employees of Arkadian Vand were killed, and several more horribly injured.
KATRIONA READ ON. There then followed a description of the Prince Alfra, and the preamble to the tour. Trassan’s words were quoted. There was conjecture as to the relationship between Trassan and Vand and Vand’s daughter. The tone was scurrilous and distasteful in its gloating, thought Katriona. She made a note to change paper.
As was reported by your correspondent in the 27th Leffall edition of this very paper, Arkadian Vand and his protégé Trassan Kressind are constructing the Prince Alfra in order to cross the Southern Ocean—with all its perils of ice, and notwithstanding the jeopardisation of the long-standing treaty between the merchants of this nation and the Drowned King—facts that they were withholding from the goodfellows who had put their capital into the project initially in good faith. The public inquiry into the merit of awarding a Licence Undefined to the vessel and its owners, so allowing it free passage across all oceans, continues on, despite the announcement of renowned Maceriyan industrialist and engineer Vardeuche Persin that he intended to race with Goodfellow Vand’s enterprise to the Sotherwinter shortly after the revelation of the expedition’s intended destination, a purportedly intact Morfaan city crammed with the wonders of bygone ages. Despite the obvious benefit to the national interest of Karsa, there are increasingly loud calls from some that all construction efforts on the Prince Alfra be ordered to halt to await the outcome of the inquiry. Questions have been raised as to the safety.
Katriona stopped reading. She looked at page four again. Holdean had failed to hold his tongue. Today was not a good day to be a Kressind.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said.
“Begging your pardon, goodlady, your eleven o’clock appointment is here.”
“Show him in, Hollivar.”
“You may go in now,” she heard Hollivar say.
A moment later Trassan came in. He shut the door quietly behind him.
“Old Demion’s got you working for him, has he?” said Trassan.
“Something like that. Do take a seat, brother. Will you take tea?”
“No thank you,” he said. Trassan was wearing his formal engineer’s garb. It was exceedingly smart, the buttons and badges of it polished to a bright shine. But he looked haggard and woebegone, and consequently the overall effect was one of shabbiness. He sat down.
“I have be
en reading the paper.”
Trassan picked it up. Fury flickered over his face.
“It’s a bit of a fucking coincidence, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“Faulty glimmer rods the day of the demonstration. The only reasonable conclusion is that I’ve been sabotaged.”
“Persin,” said Katriona, tapping at the man’s name in the paper.
“Persin. Probably. Who knows? Could be anyone. Vand doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends. And now he’s absolutely livid with me. I’ve got my magister on it, but he insists the glamours on the ship are all intact. It has to be an inside job, but who?” Trassan flung the paper down. “‘An engine of my own devising’. My own words accuse me from the page.” He took his hat off and rubbed his scalp.
“If you look on page four, brother, you will see that I am also featured.”
Trassan picked up the paper again, flipped through. He skimmed the article.
“Holdean Morthrock,” said Katriona. “He had been stealing from the company for some time. I had hoped to keep it quiet. I will of course have to have him arrested now.”
“It seems we are both in a bit of bother.”
“Father will be so pleased.”
They smiled shamefacedly.
“Perhaps we can help each other, then. Family should stick together,” said Trassan.
“Quite. But how?”
“I want Morthrock to come in with me. The problem with the engine is not a problem with the design. Goodman Banruthen was distraught, let me tell you.” Trassan leaned back and plucked a model steam engine from a shelf of many such by the desk. He placed it on the desk and began to fiddle with it. “No, the problem is with the fuel rods. The majority worked as intended. The explosion was caused by two inferior rods, and this despite assurances of quality from Kollis and Son, my contractors.”
“A deliberate flaw?”
The Iron Ship Page 32