by Cara Witter
Kenton had half a mind to leave Jaeme here and do just that, but Jaeme couldn’t be trusted to accomplish anything in their absence, and Kenton couldn’t take the chance that Mortiche’s borders, however impenetrable they seemed, might fall in that time.
So Kenton was forced to spend his pent-up energy accompanying the others to the tournament, keeping up the appearance of a supposed bodyguard. He and Perchaya met up with Daniella, Nikaenor, and Sayvil just outside the castle gates, near a cluster of booths. Kenton was chagrined to find Hugh among them. The duke’s face lit up in a way that made Kenton want to douse him like a fire pit, but instead he shouldered past Hugh and began to lead the way through the crowd toward the competition yards. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could return to business.
The streets were packed and loud with the buzz of excitement and the shouts of vendors attracting customers to their wares. Nikaenor was particularly prone to being lured by every one of them and soon walked alongside Kenton while alternately taking bites from a fat turkey leg and a dripping plum-cake. Sayvil and Daniella each bought cheap beaded bracelets from a little peasant girl who, though young, was a master of the wide brown eyes and the quivering lip.
Of course, Hugh, master of gallantry himself, bought the girl’s most expensive piece, a long necklace made of the same painted clay beads. He gave the girl a full shield coin, which by the dropping of her jaw was worth much more than she had demanded, and presented the gift to a beaming Perchaya.
Yes, they needed to get out of Mortiche.
Perchaya put on the necklace and held the book Kenton had given her to her chest. He probably should have presented it with more gusto, but he didn’t want her to think it was a romantic gesture—didn’t want to promise her anything he couldn’t give her. Though he did take some comfort in the way she clutched the book, as if she was afraid to be separated from it.
“What’s this?” Hugh asked, pointing to the book.
Perchaya blushed and held the book closer. “It’s a fresh copy of the Chronicle,” she said. “For illumination. I’m—I’m—”
“Perchaya’s an artist,” Kenton said.
Hugh smiled as if this pleased him, and it was all Kenton could do to keep from rolling his eyes. No doubt he’d only given the man ideas for even more appropriate gifts he could give her.
“Come on,” Sayvil said, a sour look on her face. “I want to see some knights beating on each other for fun and profit. It’s the only consolation for being stuck in this gods-forsaken place.”
Nikaenor licked a stream of turkey grease from the back of his hand. “And Jaeme said he was going to compete in the bandit chase. We can’t miss that.”
The bearer of Kotali in a bandit chase. Kenton had half a mind to kill Jaeme himself, if only so the god would have to call another chosen. Sayvil didn’t seem much happier about it.
“If that man tears open his shoulder again, he’s stitching it back up himself,” she groused.
Kenton doubted he would—it was his off hand shoulder and seemed to be healing up just fine—but he didn’t mind having at least one of them on his side.
They passed several areas of livestock judging en route to the main tourney field, and even Kenton was a bit surprised by the size of the hog that was slated to win first prize and the honor of being served at the duke’s ball. The hog’s owner, a small man who seemed practically minuscule standing next to his immense pig, taunted the other contestants with tales of how he was going to spend the exorbitant amount of money he would receive from the duke.
“I’ve never seen a pig so fat!” Nikaenor exclaimed around a mouthful of plum-purple turkey.
Kenton smirked. “You’ll hear that again in about ten years, Nikaenor.”
Nikaenor glanced quizzically at him, purple juice dribbling down his chin.
“Kenton!” Perchaya exclaimed, but let out a laugh along with the others, including Hugh, who Kenton was annoyed to discover appeared to have some semblance of a sense of humor.
Nikaenor shrugged with a lopsided smile and brushed away the juice with the sleeve of his tunic.
“All right, we’ve seen our future supper,” Daniella said, her fingers toying with the beaded bracelet impatiently. “Let’s go. We’re due to meet Jaeme at the sword ring.”
Kenton saw Jaeme approaching from behind her just as she said this, dressed casually for a festival day in Grisham, in plain brown leather breeches and a linen tunic. “It’s always nice to know that I’m missed,” he said, loping an arm around her waist. Jaeme’s friend Stephan was only a few steps behind him, dressed similarly.
“I hear your lordship has found time to enter the competition,” Kenton said, giving Jaeme a hostile look which Jaeme returned.
Stephan shot a wary glance at Jaeme, as if he expected Jaeme to put the snotty bodyguard in his place, but Jaeme merely shrugged. “It’s true. I’m going to do the bandit chase later today. Stephan here seems to be under the mistaken impression that he’s a better horseman than I am.”
Stephan snorted. “Less an impression, more of a knowledge. I would think coming in at a paltry fifth place last year would be more humbling than that.”
Jaeme grinned. “As opposed to the unmerited arrogance of a third-place finish?”
Stephan shrugged. “The numbers speak for themselves.”
Kenton was saved from this foolishness by a sudden swell of cheering from the competition yards ahead. The rest of the group pushed through the crowd toward the first of three circles set up for duels. They easily jostled their way to a point where they could all see, mostly due to the parting of the crowd to make way for Hugh, who, unlike Jaeme or Stephan, was properly attired for his rank.
The crowd was larger at this circle than the others. The disparity in the quality of their clothing marked this as a fight between a knight and a peasant. The two combatants looked fairly evenly matched in size and age—mid-twenties, Kenton would guess—although he saw after only a few moves that they were not so evenly matched in skill.
The nobleman, clad in a vibrant red tunic over black breeches that were dusted brown with dirt, was clearly on the defensive and barely holding off the inevitable. His opponent wore plain gray cotton clothing, peasant’s garb, and pressed fast and hard, much to the jubilation of the crowd.
Kenton squished in next to Jaeme, who stood with Daniella in front of him, his arms wrapped around her.
“I’m surprised so many have come to watch a peasant,” Kenton said. “I thought you barely let them compete.”
“That peasant is Matthon Buras,” Stephan said. “He’s already won in axes and—” The rest of what he said was interrupted by another roar from the crowd as Buras advanced and the knight defended.
“He’s good,” Jaeme said. Kenton nodded his agreement.
“The man in the red keeps favoring his left,” Sayvil said.
Kenton barely had time to express surprise at her astute observation before Nikaenor added, “Buras knows it too—see how he’s pressing him? Old Red’s going to be left wide open soon.”
Sayvil must have read the blatant shock on Kenton’s face, because she crossed her arms. “You have taught us a few things. We may not be able to best you in combat, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t been paying attention.”
Kenton smiled at her, feeling suddenly proud. Maybe all the training while traveling hadn’t been for nothing, after all.
The crowd roared as Nikaenor’s prediction proved true and the nobleman swung too heavily, leaving his right side open. “Stick him, Matthon!” a husky man standing next to Kenton screamed in Mortichean. Buras lunged forward and bloodied his opponent across the shoulder. Applause and wild cheers filled the air, as the nobleman held his sword up in front of his face and bowed his head, which Kenton took to be the knight’s salute. The peasant did the same back to him before turning and repeating the salute to the crowd. He
had a ruddy complexion—more so after the fight, Kenton imagined—and dark hair that shone with sweat. His stoic expression slipped into a smile as several in the crowd chanted his name.
Jaeme elbowed Stephan. “What other event did you say he took?”
“Axes and archery,” Stephan said. “If he takes two more, he’ll be in the running for tournament champion. If no one else takes two events, he may not even have to do that well.”
Jaeme looked impressed. “This should be an interesting tourney, then,” he said, his hands rubbing Daniella’s shoulders.
“What happens if a peasant wins?” Kenton asked.
Stephan shrugged. “Hasn’t happened in a hundred years.”
“That wasn’t what I asked,” Kenton said.
Stephan gave Kenton a warning look and turned to Daniella. “Do all your guards speak to their betters that way?”
Daniella smiled at Kenton. “Yes. We like them lippy in Sevairn.”
Jaeme laughed. “The answer is that if a peasant scores the most points—you get a heavy bonus for coming in first, smaller for second, and smallest still for third—he’ll go to the final duel at the ball, same as any knight. It just doesn’t happen often.”
“Because your peasants aren’t trained to fight,” Kenton said. He’d never understood the Mortichean desire to keep trained combat within the nobility. Sevairn’s standing army was a formidable threat. If it weren’t impossible to march such an army into Mortiche due to the mountains and swampland, Diamis probably would have taken them first.
“And if he wins the final duel?” Daniella asked.
“Then he gets the tourney prize, same as anyone,” Jaeme said. “A chest of gold battalions or the hand of his chosen bride in marriage.”
“Pity you knights can’t win over women with your shining personalities,” Kenton said.
“Yes,” Daniella said. “I dearly hope they can say no.”
Stephan was still eyeing Kenton uncomfortably, and had no doubt surmised that he was more than a mere bodyguard. Kenton might have felt bad about his failings in playing the role, if he hadn’t already been certain that Jaeme was going to spill all the details of their quest to anyone who asked, as he’d been doing in his letters all this time.
“They can now,” Stephan said, scratching at his short brown beard. “It didn’t used to be so, but one too many of the chosen women ran off before their vows were said. But the fathers aren’t allowed to say no, so it helps when some minor noble’s fourth son is pining after a duke’s daughter. If he’s good enough to win, that is.”
Kenton shook his head. The whole concept of “winning” a woman was ludicrous.
Jaeme smiled. “I need to go. I’ll be up for the bandit chase soon, and I’ve got to make sure my horse is ready.”
“Wish Horse Three well for me,” Daniella said. Kenton watched in horror as Jaeme took a dagger from his belt and raised it to the back of her neck.
Kenton reached out a hand for Jaeme’s wrist—and then lowered it again as Jaeme cut off a lock of her hair.
“Ow!” Daniella said, putting a hand to her head. “What do you think you’re . . .”
Jaeme’s face was the picture of innocence. “For luck,” he said, holding up the red curl.
“Isn’t she supposed to give you a lock of her hair?” Sayvil said.
He shrugged with his usual grin. “I’m testing my luck. She didn’t hit me, so it must be working.”
Testing more than just his luck, Kenton couldn’t help but think. It was a good thing Daniella’s protective reflexes didn’t extend to locks of her hair, or this would have been a bloodbath.
Daniella swatted at him but didn’t seem to mind when he pulled her in for a kiss before he and Stephan shouldered through the crowd and moved farther down the tourney field.
Hugh took the lead, Perchaya at his arm, and Sayvil and Nikaenor followed in their wake. Kenton trailed reluctantly behind, and Daniella fell into step beside him.
“It must be difficult to watch them together,” Daniella said.
“Excuse me?”
Daniella gestured at Hugh and Perchaya. “You can’t admit how much it bothers you, can you?”
“I can admit how much you bother me,” Kenton said. But he knew he didn’t sound like he meant it. The truth was, Daniella didn’t bother him, not like she used to.
She seemed to notice, because she smiled. “I can see why you’re jealous. You usually get all of her attention.”
“Hmph,” Kenton said. “I see mind reading isn’t among your mystery powers.”
Daniella smirked at him. “Are you certain?”
He was sure about the power. If she could read his mind, there were any number of things in the past she would never have agreed to. But that, he knew, wasn’t what she meant. “You’re observant,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
Daniella didn’t prod him further, for which he was glad. It did bother him, though, that she seemed to know how he felt about Perchaya. Was it that obvious? Did the others know as well? Worse still, did Perchaya know? He felt a tight squeezing in his chest at the thought.
They reached the bandit chase grounds after a short walk. Another large crowd had gathered here, their rowdy voices combining with the whickering and snorting of the horses being readied for the race. Again, Hugh was able to lead them to the front of the crowd. After seeing them to a good spot for watching the races, Hugh took his leave of the group and particularly Perchaya, bestowing the back of her hand with a kiss that lingered far too long for Kenton’s liking.
Kenton diverted his attention towards the bandit chase, which consisted of two parallel courses in which the riders would not only jump and swerve between obstacles, but also demonstrate lancing and swordsmanship. The riders raced against each other and also against time, which was determined by an impressive system of hourglasses and balances. The winner of the race was allowed to try again to improve his time, and a set of three judges watched over the proceedings from a large tent festooned with bright banners.
Kenton was surprised to see the crowd parting for Matthon Buras, whose tattered tunic looked only slightly dirtier than when Kenton had last seen him. He was astride a dappled gelding that stood calmly next to his opponent’s black stallion, which pawed the ground impatiently. Kenton was a bit surprised that Buras was competing so much in one day—particularly in matches so close together—but he didn’t look much worse for the wear. He wondered if the tournament organizers had arranged his bouts close together to impede his progress. If they’d done that to a full knight, no doubt his house would have cried foul.
The knight on the black mount wore brown studded leather with a green-dyed belt. A young man in Grisham’s red and gold who was serving as the herald—complete with a Vorgalian sound charm at his throat to make his voice loud enough to echo over the gathered crowds—announced him as Lord Osgoode. The cheer following Buras’ name was far greater. Kenton couldn’t help but smile at that.
The red and gold flag was lifted, and the riders thundered off down the course, leaping over the initial jumps and whipping around the barrels set in their path. Both riders were obviously in control, and both passed the first stretch without difficulty. They made the first tight turn between two long poles, with Matthon only a beat in front of Osgoode. A dusting of chalk filled the air as Osgoode swept too closely to one of the poles, leaving a white streak across his arm that Kenton assumed would result in a penalty.
Matthon, having passed cleanly through, reached the lance station first, hefted the lance that had been set up for him, and began the stretch that headed back the way they had come. Osgoode didn’t needed long to recover; his lance was under his arm only heartbeats later, and he charged along behind Matthon.
Just before reaching the rings that they needed to hook with the lance, however, Osgoode’s lance tipped out to the right, smacking hard
into Matthon and pushing him perilously close to falling. His tight grip on the saddle allowed him to right himself without too much difficulty, but he had already passed by three rings and missed the fourth. Osgoode’s tactic had only cost him the first ring, but he caught the other three easily enough and managed to bound ahead of Buras. The gasp of the crowd at Osgoode’s dirty ploy was followed by angry shouts. Kenton was used to seeing men cheat in tournaments, but even he was surprised by Osgoode’s audacity; the others in their group gaped.
“Did you see that . . . he just . . . that filthy . . .” Nikaenor sputtered, echoing the fragments of shouts all around him. Standing to the side of the course with his horse’s reins in hand, Jaeme appeared to be shouting at the judges, who were ignoring him and all the others who were trying to sway their view of the incident.
The riders whipped through the next tight turn to head back the other way again and this time neither was dusted by the poles. Their lances dropped, and they unsheathed their swords to hack left and right at the melons placed at varying heights along the path. Both managed to slice clean through each melon, although Matthon was behind Osgoode and still hadn’t managed to catch up by the time Osgoode crossed the finish line. Osgoode lifted his sword triumphantly. Scattered applause sounded from the crowd, but the grumbling was far louder.
“They have to disqualify him for that,” Perchaya said, but Kenton wasn’t so sure. The two men brought their mounts around to stand before the judges, who leaned in to confer amongst themselves. After a moment, the judge in the middle, a tall man with a thick blond beard, stood and beckoned Osgoode over to them.
The judges spoke to Osgoode, who no doubt gave some petty excuse, before conferring for a bit longer, until they each nodded. The middle judge stepped forward again, pressed a sound charm to his throat, and gave the pronouncement.