The effect of this living canopy was an odd combination of feeling both safely enclosed and exposed to the elements. He shuddered as he watched the ant-like figures that crawled through the overhanging latticework, tending to the dangling multicolored glowlamps scattered above. Symmlrey was up there somewhere, watching like a hawk from her nest. For his own part, he would’ve gladly stayed within the hollow halls that honeycombed the massive wall of trunks, except for the entertaining show of arms to be seen below.
The vantage point of the royal pavilion was, not surprisingly, the best of the venue. It was at the oval Field’s midpoint, and raised several hetahrs to maximize the view. The canopy, chairs, tables and sideboards had all been sung directly from the walls by some long-vanished treesinger, along with passageways leading back to a sitting room where guests could retreat to escape the noisy spectacle below. He leaned against the railing, staring out as the turf was smoothed and groomed for the next bout by a team of eight groundskeepers.
“Sir Artygalle is up next,” he heard Sir Calvraign mention from over his shoulder.
Vaujn had found the boy a good sort, capable of intelligent conversation, unassuming, and the only other person in the pavilion not invited to the heated and private conversation that occupied Osrith and the others. The king, his son Hiruld, the wizard, the Lady Aeolil and the grizzled old Vanelorn were all engaged in a muted but intense discussion. Vaujn doubted if any of them had watched more than a fleeting moment of the tourney so far. Aside from the guards, it was just him and the boy.
“Friend of yours, is he?” Vaujn asked.
“Yes. But not of the oddsmakers, by the looks of it.”
Vaujn watched as several men made their way about the perimeter of the crowd, holding up placards with the odds for the match. If his reading of the human runes was up to snuff, it looked as if the knight in question was in the hole, ten to one against. Vaujn’s right hand twitched toward his belt pouch, but he restrained the move. He knew his wife was scrying on him, and he didn’t want to explain how he’d gambled away their meager traveling funds on a whim.
With a sigh of resignation, the kinsman turned toward the young man. “Are you betting on him, then?”
Calvraign nodded. “A bit.”
“So he’s quite the lancer I suppose, eh?”
“I don’t really know,” answered Calvraign. “I’ve never seen him joust before. But he is my friend, so I thought I should back him.”
“At ten to one, he must be a good friend.”
Calvraign laughed, a sound that came easily and often from the boy. “Good enough, I guess.”
Artygalle and his opponent, Sir Guir of Praed, took their positions at opposite ends of the field. Vaujn could see straight away why the oddsmakers favored the latter knight. Though his appearance in the Opening Melee meant he was not one of the elite knights of the realm, he was definitely the beneficiary of a wealthy patron. His armor was ornate and well-worked by human standards, and his horse and person were decked out in well-tailored finery. Sir Guir’s squire trotted before his mounted master, waving a pennant that mirrored the device on his tabard – three copper sea horses rampant on a field of light blue.
By contrast, Calvraign’s friend was at the poorer end of things, not to mention a little worse for wear. His armor seemed well worn and sturdy, but ill fitted to his frame. His tabard, with its three scarlet bears, matched neither the owl device on his shield nor the pennant carried by his dark-skinned squire. Vaujn tried to make out some sort of design on the pennant but, as far as he could tell, it was just a long streamer of ratty brown cloth.
He looked over at Calvraign skeptically, but the boy just shrugged.
The marshal of the field approached the royal pavilion to formally announce the combatants. “At the eastern quarter, I present the honorable Sir Guir of Praed, appointed heir of House Réneuhl of the Grand Duchy of Aeyrdyn and formerly squire to that city’s champion, Sir Mellieux.”
A loud burst of applause erupted from the common seating around the Aerydii pavilion to their left, and the grand duke himself lifted a hand in salute to his vassal. The middle-aged ruler seemed interested but unconcerned with the match-up below.
There was a pause while the commotion died down. “And at the western quarter,” continued the marshal of the field in an equally passionless tone, “Sir Artygalle of Tiriel, Knight Lancer in the Order of Andulin and formerly squire to His Departed Grace, Knight Lieutenant General Ghaerieal of the Order of Andulin.”
Calvraign began whooping and clapping like a commoner, which seemed appropriate considering the only other welcome the knight received was a smattering of applause from the lowborn seating and the ecclesiastical pavilion across the way.
That’s it, Vaujn decided. I like this boy for certain sure, now.
It took either bravery or stupidity to place friendship before the airs and affectations of others, especially those of such esteemed rank and prestige that were frowning at them from all sides, and Calvraign didn’t strike the stout kinsman as stupid. Naïve, perhaps – but not stupid. Where the boy might be lacking worldliness, instead of sniping from a concealing cloak of cynicism or hiding behind the trappings of political discretion, he wore his innocence like a crown, for all to see. Therein lay his appeal.
Vaujn joined him in a full-bellied roar of support, shouting out a traditional kin battle cry, “Verklämme Artygalle! Verklämme im mahr!”
That got their attention! He chuckled to himself and grinned mischievously up at Calvraign, who looked almost as shocked as the rest of the pavilion’s occupants. Vaujn looked across at the equally surprised grand duke and his courtiers and waved cheerily at their dumbfounded stares.
Both knights raised their lances to salute the royal pavilion, and then squared themselves for the coming charge. Vaujn sensed a looming presence behind him and tensed, then relaxed as he recognized the gruff voice.
“Did you forget our little talk in the keep already?” Osrith gritted out between his clenched teeth.
“Refresh my memory,” answered Vaujn, his eyes never leaving the field. The marshal dropped his white flag, and the knights spurred their horses into a thundering charge. Vaujn had never seen jousting before today, and it amazed him. Just calculating the amount of force that each lance tip carried to its point of impact, factoring in the mass of the horse, knight and armor and the speed they hurtled at each other, it was a wonder there weren’t more deaths, even with the blunted tips of this friendly tourney.
“Our talk about not drawing attention to yourself? About the differences between an underkin hall and the royal cour –”
The crash of impact cut off the rest of Osrith’s sentence, and Vaujn whistled appreciatively. “Looks like the oddsmakers were wrong, after all.”
“That was a solid strike,” added Osrith. “Good grip with his knees, kept his balance steady, used the horse instead of his arm strength to deliver the blow. That’s how it should be done.”
Vaujn nudged Calvraign. “Even faint praise is hard earned from him, boy. Looks like your friend might be worth betting on again.”
Calvraign opened his mouth to respond, but Osrith was quicker. “Don’t be too impressed, now. This is the Opening Melee. Working your way through a bunch of green wood isn’t like chopping down a stand of hardened oak.”
At least half of the arena’s occupants still looked on in a hushed silence, but Artygalle’s scattered supporters were cheering enthusiastically. Sir Guir was picking himself up from the ground unsteadily, obviously still dizzy from the blow he’d absorbed. Artygalle brought his steed around to Guir’s side of the list to offer assistance to his vanquished opponent.
“That’s a first,” commented Vaujn.
“He’s a lancer,” explained Calvraign, “a knight of the Holy Church.”
“I’ll try not to hold that against him,” Osrith mumbled.
“Oh,” Vaujn said, as if satisfied by Calvraign’s answer. In reality, he was a little confused at how humans sep
arated their religious life from their everyday existence. In the Underkingdom, one kin was as much a knight of the church as the next, because they all carried the spirit of Rondainaken in their hearts. Chaplains like Mother Chloe served as spiritual guides, but they weren’t held to standards different from any other kin. He shrugged it off. Humans will be humans, as his grandfather used to say.
Artygalle made his way to each of the five major pavilions, saluting the lords and ladies within as was customary. Last and longest of the salutes was to the royal pavilion, but instead of returning to his quarter to face the next challenger, he raced Windthane around the perimeter of the stands at a full gallop, holding his lance out in a traditional salute. This was met with more cheers from the lowborn, and conspicuous silence from the nobles in their pavilions.
“What’s he doing?” cried out Lady Aeolil.
Vaujn was surprised she’d even been paying attention, as engrossed as she’d been in her parlay with the king and wizard.
“Sir Artygalle just won his first round,” said Calvraign, his voice still showing his excitement.
“Yes, I saw that,” she said impatiently, “I mean what is he doing now?”
“Showing off,” suggested Osrith.
“No,” Calvraign protested, giving Osrith a frustrated glare, “he’s not the sort. I think he’s just hailing the crowd.”
Aeolil frowned, watching the display with obvious displeasure. “He’d better not do any damage to my horse,” she grumbled.
Something about that amused Osrith, and he broke out into a rare chuckle.
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Prince Hiruld, his attention following Aeolil’s. “He’s a fine rider, from the looks of it.”
Vaujn didn’t know anything about horses, much less riding them, but he took the prince’s word on faith. No one else disagreed with Hiruld either, but Vaujn wasn’t sure if that had more to do with rank than truth.
The hours passed, and the victors of each match rotated in round-robin fashion until only two of their number remained undefeated. By this final round, the whole of Saint Kaissus Field was alive with cheers and chants, from the typically reserved nobles and clergymen of the pavilions to the boisterous peasants and middle-classed in the common seats. Even the archbishop was on his feet, along with some of the bishops of the Holy Quorum, all beaming at one of the last two knights below them. Sir Artygalle had made an impressive and almost effortless show of unhorsing opponent after opponent, much to the great pleasure of Calvraign – and the substantial betterment of his purse.
The king’s attention was also on the field. “What do you know of this Sir William, Agrylon?”
“Nothing at all, Your Majesty,” the wizard admitted.
“Vanelorn?” the king persisted. “Hiruld?”
It was the lord high marshal who answered. “Sir William is the Sheriff of Bettleshire, a vassal of House Vespurial. He has always been a fine and loyal subject, but this is his first time in the lists, I believe.”
“He seems fair enough with the lance. What odds do you give him against this boy of Renarre’s?”
Vaujn could tell Calvraign didn’t care for that characterization of Artygalle, but he had the good sense not to say anything to the king. Or maybe it was Osrith’s good sense, he reconsidered, belatedly noticing the Shaddach Chi’s hand on Calvraign’s arm.
“I would say the oddsmakers have finally gotten it right, Your Majesty.” Vanelorn pointed down at the placards as they were toted around the extent of the field. “They are evenly matched, or close enough. William, I think, has better shield work, but this Artygalle can ride, Your Majesty, like none I’ve seen in years – save perhaps Garath or Stuart.”
The king made a musing grumble in his throat. “Well, let’s hope he has Oghran’s luck as well as good shield work, then.”
Vaujn poked Osrith in the ribs. “So why are they so fired up about this? I gather the king has a grudge or some such with that archbishop over there.”
“Yeah,” agreed Osrith. “There’s that. And this whole saluting the crowd business isn’t sitting too well with the blue bloods either.”
“What do they care if he salutes the crowd?”
Osrith scowled. “It’s not seemly. Don’t want the lesser folk to feel too important now, do we?”
“Why not?”
“That’s just the way they like it. Keep the commoners common, and you don’t get trouble like the Maeziir Kings had a while back.”
Vaujn wondered if Osrith was stringing him along like this on purpose, or if he just didn’t know how to have a normal conversation. “What trouble did the Maeziir Kings have?”
“Well, they don’t have any troubles now, if you catch my meaning. I don’t suppose you ever heard of the Merchant Revolution in the Underkingdom? Mazod’s ruled by the Council of Regents now. No king. No nobles. Just merchants. Not like it works any better, from what I could tell.”
Vaujn was glad when the marshal of the field began with his introductions for the final match of the day. He’d had his fill of bad human beer, strange human politics, and even the novelty of human mounted combat was wearing off. Besides, he was getting hungry, and the little trays of sweets and meat pies had long since been devoured.
The rustlings and rumblings of the spectators subsided into a reverent sort of silence as the knights squared and saluted each other. The light filtering through the leaves overhead had thinned as afternoon wore on, and massive fire pits now provided much of the arena’s light, as well as heat. Overhead, the glowlamps glittered like stars.
There was the briefest of pauses as shields were readied and squires hurried away, and then the combatants kicked their mounts forward into a charge. The horses churned up the beaten turf in a thick spray of mud and clay behind them, the knights brought their lances to bear, and then there was the now familiar crash of shield and lance.
Artygalle lurched in the saddle, his body sliding off to the right as his left foot came free of the stirrup. The audience sprang to its collective feet regardless of station. Vaujn waited for the young knight to make the inevitable final fall from his horse, but the moment never came.
Artygalle discarded his shattered lance and clung precariously to Windthane’s neck and saddle horn, his wayward left foot catching on the beast’s rump to secure his balance. With a loud grunt, Artygalle righted himself and rode back to his quarter. He was slumped over, and obviously favoring his shield arm, but he had not lost his seat. Neither had William, and though his lance had also shattered, he looked to have sustained no injury.
“Does either party wish to concede the match?” asked the marshal of the field.
Sir William reared his horse and nosed it over to his squire, already waiting with a fresh lance. “I do not!” he yelled clearly.
Artygalle steadied himself on Windthane’s proud neck with his good arm as his squire attempted to adjust his badly dented shield. The metal was bent inward just below the painted owl beak, and his squire seemed increasingly distressed as he worked to mend it. A low murmuring began when there was no immediate answer. After a few tense, silent moments, Artygalle motioned his squire to the lance rack.
“I will not yield!” he yelled.
Vaujn hoped the strength of his conviction was greater than that of his voice.
“Well, you were right about his riding, Vanelorn,” said the king, with some relief, “but I think he’s through, now.”
“Aye,” agreed the lord high marshal, “that shield is biting into his arm. Likely as not it’s broken.”
The crowd hushed again as the knights prepared for their second run.
“So, do you think he’s had it, too, Osrith?” Vaujn whispered to the Shaddach Chi.
“Hardly. If that last blow didn’t knock him on his ass I don’t know what would. And Sir Willy there is a bit too impressed with himself. He’ll choke.”
“I never thought I’d hear you being optimistic,” Aeolil said with a smile, “let alone cheer for a lancer. And now, both
in one afternoon!”
Osrith’s only response was a humorless glower. The flag dropped, and the charge began anew.
Calvraign clutched at the rail. “He can’t even hold up his lance – he’s done for!”
“He’ll bring it to bear when he has to,” Osrith said. “He’s tired and hurt. He’s just saving his strength.”
Osrith’s words were borne out a few ticks later, as Artygalle hoisted his lance into striking ready just before contact with Sir William. Artygalle’s shield received another blast, and his arm flew back as he tried to absorb the blow. His own lance shattered on William’s shield, which in turn slid up to strike a glancing blow to William’s great helm. Artygalle gripped hard at Windthane’s flanks with his knees, and he kept to the saddle.
Sir William’s lance had fallen, and he rode on past the end of the low, long list, his head on his chin. As Sir William’s horse slowed to a stop, the knight slumped over and slid from the saddle. He landed on his shoulder, and then crumpled over to lie motionless, face down in the mud.
“Out before he hit the ground,” said Osrith.
There was no series of salutes or charging about the arena from Artygalle this time. He dismounted with the aid of his squire and fell to his knees, resting the remainder of his weight on his good arm. He made the sign of the moon on his breast, even as his devotees cheered him in victory, and waited for the physics to come take him away. He would have to receive his respects from a sick bed, from the looks of it.
Vaujn glanced over at Calvraign, cheering with the best of them, then across at the feral smile of triumph on the distant face of the archbishop. The mood behind him was somewhat less ecstatic.
“Now we have to feed this lot,” Guillaume complained. “Are you ready, Hiruld?”
“Aye, father,” answered the prince. Hiruld stood and stretched, then moved up to the railing. Osrith pulled Vaujn and Calvraign back as Inulf and the Prince’s Guard flanked their charge. Hiruld cleared his throat, and then shouted, “All hail Sir Artygalle of Tiriel, Champion of the Opening Melee! We shall see him further test his mettle in the King’s Joust. For now, let the Feast of Prince’s Bread commence!”
In Siege of Daylight Page 49