He smiled briefly and turned away. Dalt was already moving toward the center of the square.
Luke advanced, also. He and Dalt both halted, facing each other, while there were still several paces separating them. Dalt said something I could not hear, and Luke’s reply was lost to me, also.
Then they raised their arms. Luke struck a boxer’s stance, and Dalt’s hands came up in a wrestler’s defense. Luke threw the first punch—or maybe it was just a feint; either way, it didn’t land—toward Dalt’s face. Dalt brushed at it and stepped back, and Luke moved in quickly and landed two blows on his midsection. Another shot at his face was blocked, though, and Luke began to circle, jabbing. Dalt tried rushing twice then and got clipped both times, a little trickle of blood coming from his lip after the second one. On his third rush, though, he sent Luke sprawling but was unable to crash down on top of him, as Luke was able to twist partly away and roll when he hit. He tried kicking Dalt in the right kidney, though, as soon as he’d scrambled to his feet, and Dalt caught his ankle and rose, bearing him over backward. Luke landed a kick on the side of his knee with his other foot as he went down, but Dalt kept hold of the foot, bearing down and beginning to twist. Luke bent forward then, grimacing, and managed to catch Dalt’s right wrist with both hands and tear his foot free of the larger man’s grip. He doubled and moved forward then, still holding the wrist, regaining his feet and straightening as he advanced, passing under Dalt’s arm on his right side, turning, and dragging him face downward to the ground. He moved quickly then, bending the arm up into a hammerlock, holding it with his right hand and seizing a handful of Dalt’s hair with his left. But as he drew Dalt’s head backward—preparatory, I was certain, to slamming it a few times against the ground—I saw that it wasn’t going to work. Dalt stiffened, and his arm started to move downward. He was straightening it against Luke’s lock. Luke tried pushing Dalt’s head forward several times then, without effect. It became apparent that if he released either hand he was in trouble, and he wasn’t able to maintain the hold. Dalt was just too damned strong. Seeing this, Luke threw all of his weight against Dalt’s back, pushed, and sprang up. He wasn’t quite fast enough, however, because Dalt’s freed arm swung around and clipped him across the left calf as he moved away. Luke stumbled. Dalt was up and swinging immediately. He caught Luke with a wild haymaker that knocked him over backward. This time, when he threw himself upon Luke, Luke was unable to roll free; he only managed to turn his body partly. Dalt landed with considerable force, twisting past a slow knee aimed toward his groin. Luke did not get his hands free in time to defend against a punch that caught him on the left side of the jaw. He turned with it and fell completely flat. Then his right hand snapped upward, its heel striking the point of Dalt’s chin, fingers hooking toward the eyes. Dalt jerked his head back and slapped the hand away. Luke threw a hammer blow toward his temple with the other hand, and though it connected, Dalt was already moving his head to the side, and I couldn’t see that it had any effect. Luke dropped both elbows to the ground and pushed himself up and forward, bowing. His forehead struck Dalt’s face—where, I am not precisely certain—before he fell back. Moments later, Dalt’s nose began bleeding as he reached out with his left hand to grasp Luke by the neck. His right hand, open, slapped Luke hard on the side of the head. I saw Luke’s teeth just before it landed, as he tried biting at the incoming hand, but the grip on his neck prevented this. Dalt moved to repeat the blow, but this time Luke’s left arm came up and blocked it, while his right hand caught hold of Dalt’s left wrist in an effort to pull it away from his neck. Dalt’s right hand snaked in past Luke’s left then, to take hold, creating a two-handed grip on Luke’s neck, thumbs moving to depress the windpipe.
I thought that might well be it. But Luke’s right hand suddenly moved to Dalt’s left elbow, his left hand crossed both of Dalt’s arms to seize the left forearm, and Luke twisted his body and cranked the elbow skyward. Dalt went over to the left and Luke rolled to the right and regained his footing, shaking his head as he did so. This time he did not try kicking Dalt, who was already recovering. Dalt again extended his arms, Luke raised his fists, and they began circling once more.
The snow continued to fall, the wind to slacken and surge, sometimes driving the icy flakes hard against faces, other times permitting the snow to descend like a troubled curtain. I thought of all the troops about me and wondered for a moment whether I would find myself in the middle of a battlefield when this thing was finally over. The fact that Benedict was ready to swoop down from somewhere and wreak extra havoc did not exactly comfort me, even though it meant that my side would probably win. I remembered then that my being there was my own choice.
“Come on, Luke!” I yelled. “Flatten him!”
This produced a very odd effect. Immediately, Dalt’s torchbearers began shouting encouragement to him. Our voices must have carried though the wind’s lulls, for shortly there came waves of sound, which I at first took to be some distant part of the storm and only later realized to be shouting coming from both lines. Only Julian remained silent, inscrutable.
Luke continued to circle Dalt, throwing jabs and trying occasional combinations, and Dalt kept swatting away at them and trying to catch an arm. Both of them had blood on their faces and both seemed a bit slower than they had been earlier. I’d a feeling they’d both been hurt, though it was impossible to guess to what extent. Luke had opened a small cut high on Dalt’s left cheek. Both of their faces were beginning to look puffy.
Luke connected with another body combination, but it was hard to say how much force there was behind the blows. Dalt took them stoically and found extra energy somewhere to rush forward and attempt to grapple. Luke was slow in withdrawing and Dalt managed to draw him into a clinch. Both tried kneeing the other; both turned their hips and avoided it. They kept tangling arms and twisting as Dalt continued reaching after a better grip and Luke kept defeating the efforts while attempting to free an arm and get in a punch. Both tried several forehead bashes and instep stompings, but all of these were avoided by the other. Finally, Luke succeeded in hooking Dalt’s leg, driving him backward to the ground.
Half kneeling atop him then, Luke caught him with a left cross and followed it immediately with a right. He tried for another left then, and Dalt caught his fist, surged upward and threw him back to the ground. As Dalt hurled himself upon him again, his face a half mask of blood and dirt, Luke was somehow able to strike him beneath the heart, but this did not stop Dalt’s right fist which came down like a falling rock on the side of Luke’s jaw. Dalt followed it with a weak left to the other side, a weak right, paused to suck in a great breath, then landed a solid left. Luke’s head rolled to the side and he did not move.
Dalt crouched there atop him, panting like a dog, studying his face as if suspecting some trick, his right hand twitching as if he were contemplating striking again.
But nothing happened. They remained in that position for ten or fifteen seconds before Dalt slowly drew himself erect, eased off of Luke to Luke’s left, then rose carefully to his feet, swayed for a second and straightened fully.
I could almost taste the death spell I had hung earlier. It would only take a few seconds to nail him, and no one would be certain how he had died. But I wondered what would happen if he were to collapse now, too. Would both sides attack? It was neither this nor humanitarian considerations that finally restrained me, however. Instead, it was Luke’s words, “This really is a matter of honor. So you’ve got to stay out of it,” and, “Nobody’s going to die. . . . We’re too valuable to each other alive.”
Okay. There was still no sound of trumpets. No rush of men to combat. It seemed that things might actually go as had been agreed. This was the way Luke had wanted it. I was not going to interfere.
I watched as Dalt knelt and began to raise Luke from the ground. Immediately, he lowered him, then called to his two torchmen to come and carry him. Dalt rose again and faced Julian as the men advanced.
“I call upon you to
observe the rest of our agreement,” he said loudly.
Julian inclined his head slightly.
“We will, provided you do,” he answered. “Have your men out of here by daybreak.”
“We leave now,” Dalt replied, and he began to turn away.
“Dalt!” I called out.
He turned back and regarded me.
“My name is Merlin,” I said. “We’ve met, though I don’t know whether you remember.”
He shook his head.
I raised my right arm and pronounced my most useless and at the same time flashiest spell. The ground erupted before him, showering him with dirt and gravel. He stepped back and wiped his face, then looked down into the rough trench that had appeared.
“That is your grave,” I said, “If Luke’s death comes of this.”
He studied me again.
“Next time I’ll remember you,” he said, and he turned and followed the men who were carrying Luke back to his lines.
I looked over at Julian, who was watching me. He turned away and uprooted his torch. I did the same. I followed him back the way we had come.
Later, in his tent, Julian observed, “That solves one problem. Possibly two.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“It takes care of Dalt for the moment.”
“I guess.”
“Benedict tells me the man is already breaking camp.”
“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”
“If that’s the best he can manage for an army these days, it won’t matter.”
“Don’t you get the impression this was an impromptu mission?” I asked. “I’d guess he pulled his force together very fast. It makes me think he had a tight schedule.”
“You may be right there. But he really gambled.”
“And he won.”
“Yes, he did. And you shouldn’t have shown him your power, there at the end.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll have a wary enemy if you ever go after him.”
“He needed warning.”
“A man like that lives with risks. He calculates and he acts. However he figures you, he won’t change his plans at this point. Besides, you haven’t seen the last of Rinaldo either. He’s the same way. Those two understand each other.”
“You may be right.”
“I am.”
“If the fight had gone the other way, do you think his army would have stood for it?” I asked.
Julian shrugged. “He knew mine would if he won, because he knew I stood to gain by it. That was sufficient.”
I nodded.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to report this business to Vialle now. I assume you’ll want to trump through when I’ve finished?”
“Yes.” He produced a card and set about the business. And I found myself wondering, not for the first time, just what it was that Vialle sensed when it came to a Trump contact. I always see the other person myself, and all of the others say that they do, too. But Vialle, as I understood it, had been blind from birth. I’ve always felt it would be impolite to ask her, and for that matter it’s occurred to me that her answer probably wouldn’t make much sense to a sighted person. I’ll probably always wonder, though.
As Julian addressed her shadowy presence, I turned my mind to the future. I was going to have to do something about Mask and Jurt soon, and it looked now as if I’d be doing it without Luke. Did I really want to follow his advice and try to talk Jasra into an alliance against them? Would the benefits really be worth the risk? And if I didn’t, how would I manage the thing? Maybe I should make my way back to that strange bar and see about renting the Jabberwock. Or the Vorpal Sword. Or both. Maybe—
I heard my name mentioned, and I drifted back to the present moment, present problems. Julian was explaining something to Vialle, but I knew there wasn’t all that much to explain. So I got to my feet, stretched, and summoned the Logrus Sight.
I saw her ghostly form clearly when I directed my vision toward the area before Julian: She was in that same stiff chair where I had last seen her. I wondered whether she had remained there the entire while or had just returned. I hoped she’d had a chance to go back and eat that dessert I hadn’t had a shot at.
Julian glanced at me, then, “If you’re ready to go, she’s ready to take you through,” he said.
I crossed over and stood beside him, dropping the Logrus vision as I did so. I had decided it was not a good idea to bring the forces of the Logrus and the Pattern into too great a proximity. I reached out and touched the card, and Vialle’s image sprang into full focus. A moment, and it was no longer an image.
“Anytime,” she said, extending a hand. I reached out and took hold of it gently.
“So long, Julian,” I said, as I stepped forward.
He did not reply. Or if he did, I didn’t catch it.
“I did not mean for things to go this way,” she told me immediately, not releasing my hand.
“There was no way of foreseeing what happened,” I said.
“Luke knew,” she replied. “It makes sense now, doesn’t it? Some of those little remarks he made? He planned the challenge all along.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“He’s gambling on something. I wish I knew what.”
“I can’t help you on that,” I answered. “He didn’t say anything to me about it.”
“But you will be the one with whom he will get in touch, eventually,” she said. “I want to know immediately when you hear from him.”
“All right,” I agreed.
She released my hand.
“It would seem there is nothing more to say, for the moment.”
“Well,” I began, “there is another matter I think you ought to know about.”
“Oh?”
“It concerns Coral’s not being present at dinner this evening.”
“Go on,” she said.
“You are aware that we took a long walk about town today?”
“I am,” she said.
“We wound up below,” I continued, “in the chamber of the Pattern. She’d expressed a desire to see it.”
“Many visitors do. It is pretty much a matter of judgment whether to take them. Often they lose interest, though, when they learn about the stairway.”
“I did tell her about it,” I said, “but it didn’t discourage her. When she got there, she set foot upon the Pattern—”
“No!” she cried. “You should have watched her more closely! All that other trouble with Begma . . . and now this! Where is her body?”
“Good question,” I responded. “I don’t know. But she was alive the last time I saw her. You see, she claimed Oberon was her father, and then she proceeded to walk the Pattern. When she’d finished, she had it transport her somewhere. Now, her sister—who is aware that we went off together—is concerned. She was pestering me through dinner as to where Coral might be.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her that I’d left her sister enjoying some of the beauties of the palace and that she might be a bit late to dinner. As things wore on, though, she seemed to grow more concerned and made me promise to search for her tonight if she didn’t turn up. I didn’t want to talk about what had really happened because I didn’t want to go into the business of Coral’s parentage.”
“Understandable.” she replied. “Oh, my.”
I waited, but she said nothing more. I continued to wait.
Finally, “I was not aware of the late king’s affair in Begma,” she said, “so it is difficult to assess the impact of this revelation. Did Coral give you any indication as to how long she intended to stay away? And for that matter, did you provide her with any means of return?”
“I gave her my Trump,” I said, “but she hasn’t been in touch. I got the impression she didn’t intend to be away for too long, though.”
“This could be serious,” Vialle decided, “for reasons other than the obvious. How does Nayda strike you?”
/> “She seemed quite sensible,” I said. “Also, I believe she rather likes me.”
Vialle brooded a moment, then said, “If word of this gets to Orkuz, he could well get the impression that we are holding her hostage against his proper performance in any negotiations which might arise out of the situation in Kashfa.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“He will. People tend to think of such matters when dealing with us. So what we need to do is buy some time and try to turn her up before this begins looking suspicious.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Most likely, he will send to her quarters soon—if he hasn’t already done so—to discover why she was not present at dinner. If he can be satisfied now, you will have the entire night in which to try to locate her.”
“How?”
“You’re the magician. You figure it out. In the meantime, you say that Nayda is sympathetic?”
“Very much so.”
“Good. It seems to me that the best course of action then would be to attempt to enlist her aid. I trust you to be tactful and do this in the least distressing manner possible, of course—”
“Naturally—” I began.
“—because of her recent illness,” she went on. “All we need to do now is give the second daughter a heart attack.”
“Illness?” I inquired. “She hadn’t mentioned anything about that.”
“I’d imagine the memory is still distressing. She was apparently quite close to death until very recently, then rallied suddenly and insisted on accompanying her father on this mission. He’s the one who told me about it.”
“She seemed fine at dinner,” I said lamely.
“Well, try to keep her that way. I want you to go to her immediately, tell her what happened as diplomatically as possible, and try to get her to cover for her sister while you search for her. There is, of course, the risk that she will not believe you and that she will go directly to Orkuz. Perhaps you might employ a spell to prevent this. But we have no other choice that I can see. Tell me whether I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 142