by Jordan Rivet
Lord Zurren snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared with a goblet of wine for the king. Others circled amongst the guests, offering platters full of soldarberry tarts, salt cakes, and tiny slivers of baked apple drenched in thick caramel. The guests talked and drank, filling the parlor with a pleasant buzz.
Chairs arranged across the parlor floor faced a dueling strip marked out on the tile. The featured duelists were nowhere in sight, but most of the guests had arrived before Siv. When they noticed the king’s entrance, they rushed toward him, compliments and commiserations on their lips.
“Good of you to come out this evening,” Lord Tellen Roven said. He was a large man, and his voice carried over the others’. “You wouldn’t miss a good party, would you?”
“Of course not,” Siv raised his goblet. “How are your wife and daughter?”
“Oh, same as ever. My Jully misses your sisters. We hope you and the princesses will come for a meal now that you’re out and about again.”
“We’d love to,” Siv said.
“Your Highness, how is the wine?” Lord Zurren inquired, trying to recapture his attention as the other lords jockeyed for position around him.
“It’s superb, Lord Zurren.”
“Your Majesty.” An elderly noblewoman with more wrinkles than a cullmoran elbowed in front of Lord Zurren. “Do visit House Farrow when you have time. The apple harvest is almost in, and it’s high time we had a royal visit.”
“Of course, Lady Farrow.”
“Don’t forget, House Nanning, Your Highness,” called another lord. “The goats are particularly plump this year. Make the best pies you’ve ever tasted.”
“I will surely take you up on your invitation, Lord Nanning,” Siv said. He drank deeply from his goblet, and a servant materialized to refill it, expertly forcing his way through the throng of well-wishers. “I hear you have plans for a few exhibition duels of your own this winter.”
“We do,” Lord Nanning said. “We’ve had a very good year, apart from the recent tragedy. Begging your pardon.”
“Of course,” Siv said. “We should be looking to the future. And celebrating the good harvest! Perhaps I can host a little festival to mark the occasion. The mountain has been a bit gloomy of late.”
“My daughter will love you for that, Your Highness,” Lord Roven said. “She’s still talking about the last feast she attended up at the castle.”
“It’s about time we opened our gates again,” Siv said. A harvest festival might be just what they needed to brighten the halls again. And it would certainly cheer Selivia up if he got her to help him plan it.
In truth, Siv felt overwhelmed at the onslaught of attention. He used to lounge in corners and drink with his friends at evenings such as this. They all looked at him differently now. Every word he said carried new meaning, and every action was subject to closer scrutiny. He also couldn’t help remembering that the last time he’d been at a big event, he had learned his father was dead and then he’d nearly been killed himself. Siv shook off the thought and plastered a kingly smile on his face as he accepted condolences and returned greetings.
“My lords and ladies,” Lord Zurren announced. “Now that our guest of honor, His Majesty King Sivarrion, has arrived, let us take our seats. The duelists are warmed up and ready to fight.”
Siv took the center chair in the front row, set apart from the others, and the lords and ladies hurried to their seats around him. Siv knotted his fingers in the hem of his fine coat and breathed steadily for a moment. He should have been more prepared for this. Accustomed to the role of the easygoing, rascally prince, it was difficult to present himself as a benevolent ruler, deeply invested in everything his subjects said. He was still getting used to being king.
The last guests climbed down a grand staircase from the terrace and took seats facing the dueling strip. The scrape and shuffle of chairs and the murmur of voices filled the parlor until Lord Zurren stepped to the middle of the dueling strip. He twisted his hands nervously as the audience fell silent.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed to Siv. “Lords and fair ladies.” He nodded to his peers. “Welcome to House Zurren. We are honored to host you in our humble home. My wife and I hope you will return for many more occasions such as this.” Lord Zurren gestured toward a hawkish woman wearing a dress apparently decorated with thunderbird feathers. Lady Zurren acknowledged him with a nod. “Without further ado, allow me to introduce the great and terrible Murv ‘The Monster’ Mibben.”
Drumbeats sounded from behind the spectators. The crowd applauded as a door at the end of the dueling strip banged open and Murv the Monster stomped in. He was a big man and as bald as a baby. Tattoos covered his entire head like a cap. His padded dueling jacket was worn, and the smell of sweat came off him in waves. Siv spotted several ladies—including Lady Zurren herself—covering their noses with handkerchiefs. Murv halted in the middle of the strip and bent his blade over his knee to straighten it, muscles flexing impressively.
Lord Zurren patted his duelist’s shoulder, eliciting a scowl from Murv. Then he called, “And now for the challenger, a man who is as precocious on the dueling strip as he is popular with the ladies. Welcome, Kelad Korran!”
The applause for Kelad was quite a bit louder than for Murv, accompanied by a round of giggles from the women in the audience. Kelad entered through the door at the opposite end of the strip and strutted along it, waving to his admirers. He wore a red dueling jacket stitched with the Rollendar sigil in black. He was a full head shorter than Murv, but he looked wiry, sharp, and quick next to Murv’s bulk. He bowed to Siv, appropriately formal even though he had spent an evening drinking in the young king’s company not long ago.
Lord Zurren waited for the applause to die down then said, “I also welcome Lord Bolden Rollendar, who has graciously sponsored Kelad for the past few years.”
Bolden slouched to the front to acknowledge the thanks of the crowd. He met Siv’s eyes, his mouth quirking in a smirk beneath his blond mustache. Siv stared at him impassively while Bolden shook hands with Murv, Kelad, and Lord Zurren and returned to his seat.
Kelad and Murv retreated to the ends of the strip to collect their masks and prepare their weapons. Lord Zurren took a seat beside Siv as a dueling official who’d been hired for the occasion stepped forward.
“On guard,” he called, his voice a deep baritone.
The duelists saluted and assumed their positions, knees bent, blades at the ready.
The official raised his hands. “Ready?”
Murv grunted. Kelad tensed, a coiled spring preparing to jump.
“Duel!”
And the bout began.
Kelad had a dynamic style that played well against Murv’s brutal strength. He bounced on his toes and made quick, teasing feints. When Murv reacted, Kelad struck like a panviper with hits to the hand and the toe. Watching him made Siv itch to get back on strip.
Murv was good too, though. Every hit he landed made a resounding smack that caused the ladies in the audience to jump. Okay, maybe Siv jumped once or twice himself. They fought two fifteen-point matches (unlike ten-point tourney matches, exhibition bouts were usually longer) and won one each. Murv secured his victory in the second bout with a brutal compound attack, hitting Kelad so hard in the chest that he stumbled back a few paces.
“Point to Murv the Monster,” the official called, flinging his hand up. “That’s the bout!”
The duelists saluted, and Lord Zurren scrambled to his feet.
“Excellent work,” he said, twisting his hands as though he were trying to wring water from them. “Good show! Sire, my lords and ladies, let us take a break for refreshments and reconvene for the deciding match.”
A chatter of voices broke out immediately, followed by the scraping of chairs and delighted gasps as the servants reemerged, carrying platters of fanciful foods and beverages. The lords and ladies mingled and drank, their laughter replacing the clang of blades. Kelad quickly acquired a ring of admirers
(mostly female), so Siv couldn’t get close enough to speak to him. No one particularly wanted to talk to Murv. A space cleared around him as he downed a mug of ale in a single gulp. A Zurren servant mopped the sweat from Murv’s shiny, tattooed pate, watching him warily.
Siv meandered around the room, making small talk and generally trying to portray himself as a suitably respectable king. It was damn boring. He felt as if he were slowly suffocating as old ladies gathered around him in clouds of perfume and demanded that he come for tea and talk to their unmarried daughters. He extracted himself from one such ambush and escaped to the far side of the parlor, where a massive portrait depicted Lord and Lady Zurren and their fat-cheeked baby. The child in question was now a toddler, and he ambled through the crowd throwing grapes at people’s ankles while a harried-looking nursemaid trailed him.
Siv turned away from the portrait to find General Pavorran standing behind him. Siv jumped as though he’d been stung by a zur-wasp then tried to cover it by snatching another soldarberry tart from a passing servant.
“Pavorran, how do you fare this fine evening?” he asked.
“My king.” The general saluted curtly.
“Have you tried the tarts? The soldarberries are excellent this year.”
“I don’t eat tarts, Sire.”
“Your loss. Um, how is your—my—army doing these days?”
“I want more men,” Pavorran said. “Vertigon needs a bigger army. I told your father the same.”
“I see. Shall we arrange a time to discuss it in more detail? This is a social occasion.” Siv grinned. The last thing he wanted to do was promise the general more men to turn against him.
“Acceptable, Sire.” The general repeated his stiff salute and stalked toward Lord and Lady Farrow. So manners weren’t his strong suit. Siv wondered if Pavorran’s request for more men had anything to do with that secret training facility. He’d have to delay addressing Pavorran’s request for as long as possible—and find out who else in the army might not be on his side.
Siv looked around for the Rollendars. Lord Von and two of his brothers stood on the far side of the parlor with their own ring of sycophants. That wasn’t a good sign. The brothers, twins who were wider and darker than their sandy-haired brother, stood on either side of Von like gargoyles, forcing his devotees to squeeze together and face him as if he sat on a throne. Von looked powerful, almost kingly, as he spoke to the noblemen. Siv couldn’t have that. But before he could take more than two steps toward the Rollendars and their supporters, Ladies Roven and Nanning accosted him, trapping him between their wide skirts and nattering on about the refreshments until it was time for the duel to resume.
The nobles returned to their seats at an announcement from the dueling official, but Von took his time finishing a discussion with Lord Samanar. The official waited for him, folding his hands patiently and not beginning the final bout until Von took his seat. Bolden and Lord Zurren were deep in conversation and barely glanced up when the duelists stepped up to the starting lines. Interesting. Both Rollendars seemed very comfortable here in House Zurren. Not to mention their lack of concern about making the others—including the king—wait.
The official finally called the duelists to their guard, and Siv turned his attention back to the strip.
“Are you sure you can handle another bout, you big boor?” Kelad called as he adjusted the bend of his blade.
“Shut up, Korran,” Murv growled.
“Your last hit was a little weak. I hear your strength comes from your tattoos. What would happen if someone inked a picture of a pullturtle onto your skull?”
“Pullturtle?” Murv mopped the sweat off his shining forehead and pulled on his mask.
“They’re very cute,” Kelad said. “Would it slow you down or just make you slightly more adorable?”
Murv’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Adorable?”
“Ready?” the official said, raising his hands. “Duel.”
Kelad launched into a flying lunge and landed a hit on Murv’s arm while the man was still trying to figure out what adorable meant. The audience applauded, and giggles and whispers spread through the crowd.
“One, zero for Kelad. Ready? Duel!”
“Hey, Murv.” Kelad danced back and forth in front of his opponent, barely staying within the lines of the strip. “What happened to your dueling strategy? Did you forget it at home?”
Murv grunted and attacked. Kelad leapt out of his reach before immediately lunging in with a counterattack. The hit landed on Murv’s mask with a thunk. The lady sitting behind Siv gasped.
“Halt! Two, zero for Kelad.”
“Learned that move from Nightfall,” Kelad said as he returned to his starting line. He met the king’s eyes and winked. Siv grinned. So Kelad remembered their prior meeting after all.
“Ready? Duel!”
And so it went. The clang of blades filled the hall, mixed with Kelad’s taunts and Murv the Monster’s growls. Siv felt envy rolling over him like a hailstorm. He wished he were dueling rather than watching. He’d love to try his skills against Kelad and Murv both. It would be a lot simpler than sorting out which nobles were making power plays and less tedious than establishing himself as a king worthy of respect.
Eventually Kelad wrapped up a decisive victory—though still close enough to be suitably entertaining—and Lord Zurren presented him with a bag of firestones as a reward. Bolden clapped him on the back and promised him a bottle of Pendarkan liquor next time they went out. Siv wondered how close Kelad and Bolden really were. Kelad was Dara’s friend. Would she trust him enough to ask him to report on his sponsor’s movements? They needed to find out whether the Rollendars had anything to do with the mysterious swordsmen in the caverns. It was tempting to assume they were responsible because he didn’t like them, but Siv needed real evidence.
After the duel some of the party moved onto the terrace. It was a chilly evening, but large, freestanding Fire Lanterns warmed the space up like spring. Siv escaped the crowd after exchanging a few suitably regal pleasantries and retreated to the edge of the balcony. He leaned on the stone railing, enjoying the respite from the smothering attentions of the nobility. Thunderbird Square spread beneath him, a steady stream of workers crossing it to climb the steps to Fell Bridge and return to Village Peak for the night. A sharp wind blew across Siv’s face, making his hair tangle with the Firejewels in his crown.
“Beg pardon, Your Highness?” A middle-aged man in a neat servant’s uniform appeared at his elbow. “Would you like another goblet of wine?”
“Thank you.”
Siv took the goblet, but the servant didn’t walk away.
“Your Highness, if I may say it, I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man,” he said. He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “And he was a good king. I was proud to be Vertigonian under his rule.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Siv said, his throat constricting unexpectedly. He turned toward the man, who had thick, graying hair and a strong nose. Servants in the Lands Below could be obsequious and submissive, and they’d never presume to speak directly to (or about) a king. But Vertigon was different, and Siv wanted it to stay that way. His people were proud, no matter their profession.
“What’s your name?”
“Hirram, Your Highness.”
“Have a drink with me, Hirram.”
“Lord Zurren won’t be pleased if I drink his wine.”
“I’ll tell him I drank both goblets,” Siv said. “He’ll believe it.”
“Very well.” Hirram balanced his platter on the rail and took one of the drinks for himself. “This is good, sir.”
“Think it really comes from across the Bell Sea?” Siv asked, tapping his goblet against Hirram’s before taking another sip.
Hirram glanced around to make sure no one was nearby before answering. “No, sir. Lord Zurren got it from a Pendarkan merchant who’s rumored to be unreliable. That’s Fork Town wine, if ever I tasted it.”
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Siv grinned. “I thought it might be. Doesn’t mean it’s not delicious.”
“Aye, sir.” Hirram turned the goblet around in his hands, which were spotted with age but strong. A low mutter of voices drifted from the square beneath them. Some of the nobles were beginning to pile into their palanquins to return home. Others left on foot, steps weaving unconcernedly. The mountain was still considered safe at night, despite recent events.
Siv glanced at his companion. “Did you ever meet my father, Hirram?”
“Yes, sir. I served him here a few times. He treated his people with respect. He always spoke to me like a man, something that hasn’t been the case with all my employers. I used to work for Lord Rollendar, and he . . . Forgive me, Your Highness, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s all right, Hirram. So you worked for Lord Von?”
“Aye. I can only say that a man knows when he’s being spoken to as a man and when he’s being spoken to as little better than a packhorse.”
Siv frowned. “Well, I may not be as good as my father, but I swear to always respect my people,” Siv said. “All of my people.”
“Hirram!” Lady Zurren’s sharp voice cut across the terrace. “Attend me.”
“Coming, my lady.” Hirram drained the last of his wine and picked up his tray.
Siv stopped him with a hand on the arm. “Come to the castle if you ever want a different job, Hirram. I’ll find a place for you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Hirram met his eyes levelly. “Be as good as your father one day, Your Highness. We are counting on you.”
“Aye,” Siv whispered as the servant hurried off. One day, he hoped he would be.
In the meantime, he needed to do more to get to know his people—and to get them to know him. He’d spent enough time trying to court the nobles. He wanted to show the people he cared about them too. The mountain had been too depressing of late.