‘Marriages of state are not always what they might be,’ said his mother, as if that was all that needed to be added.
Reinman seemed uncomfortable. ‘You were speaking of Hal,’ he said. ‘How is he doing at that school in Roldem?’
‘That school in Roldem’ was the royal university, the finest educational facility in the world. It had been created originally for Roldem’s nobility and royalty as a place where they could study art, music, history, and the natural sciences, as well as magic and military skills. But over the years it had attracted the best from every surrounding kingdom and the Empire, until it had become almost a necessity for any young man of rank seeking to advance.
‘No one from the Far Coast has attended before,’ said Henry, ‘but Hal seems to be enjoying it, or at least so his letters suggest.’
‘He’s entering the Masters’ Court Championship,’ said Brendan to the captain.
‘That’s a feather in his cap if he wins,’ said Reinman.
Henry glanced at a shuttered window, as if he could somehow see the still-pouring rain outside. ‘Given the distance, it’s about midday in Roldem. He may be competing now, if he hasn’t already been eliminated.’
The swordsman lunged while the crowed watched in silent admiration as the combatants parried furiously. They were evenly matched and this was the first of three bouts to name the new Champion of the Masters’ Court.
The dark-haired youth from the Far Coast of the Kingdom had been an unexpected challenger who had been discounted by the betting touts in the early rounds. As he rose rapidly, vanquishing his first three opponents easily, the betting had shifted quickly, until now he was considered an even bet to emerge as the new champion.
His opponent had been the favourite, a blond youth of roughly the same age.
Henry conDoin, eldest son of Duke Henry of Crydee, parried, riposted, then feinted left and lunged right. ‘Touché!’ cried out the Master of the Court.
The crowd erupted in appreciative applause.
The two combatants exchanged bows and retired to separate corners of the huge duelling hall that was the heart of the Masters’ Court in Roldem City.
The blond youth returned to stand by his father. ‘He’s very good.’
Talwin Hawkins, the thirty-second Champion of the Masters’ Court, nodded, then smiled at his son. ‘Almost as good as you. You’ll have to be a little more focused. Even though you watched him, you didn’t expect him to be this quick. Now he can take risks, because he only needs one touch to win. You need two.’
Ty Hawkins turned a slightly sour expression on his father. He knew he was right, for young Tyrone Hawkins, the twenty-five-year-old son of a former champion, had been such a dominating force in the Masters’ Court as a student that he had entered the competition a heavy favourite. That reputation had aided him in easily disposing of all his early opponents, and he had become a little too self-confident in his father’s estimation.
‘He favours a triple combination,’ Tal said to his son. Looking into the young man’s face he considered how much he resembled his mother, Teal, and how deeply Tal had come to love him, even though he wasn’t his true father. Large blue eyes and a dusting of freckles gave a boyish countenance to a strong young face, with a smile that made him charming to the ladies. ‘If you can recognize it as he begins,’ he went on, ‘you can get under his second feint and reach him.’
‘And if I don’t recognize it, he’ll win the match,’ Ty said wryly.
Returning the lad’s crooked smile, Tal said, ‘Worse things happen.’
‘True,’ said Ty. ‘Nobody dies here . . . usually.’
That got him a dark look from his father, for part of the lore of the Masters’ Court was the attempt on his father’s life by two opponents that had ended in the first intentional bloodshed in the Court in a hundred and fifty years.
Waiting for the second round of the final bout to be signalled, both young men regarded their surroundings. Ty had been to the training floor countless times, but for Henry it was his first visit to the Court; indeed it was his first visit to Roldem. He had seen this hall for the first time when he was allowed his four practice bouts against the instructors only two days ago.
Yet for both young men the grandeur of the vast hall was still daunting. Large carved wooden columns surrounded a massive wooden floor which had been polished to a gleam like metal, like burnished copper. Intricate patterns had been worked into the floor. These served a function beyond aesthetics, for each pattern defined a duelling area, from the confined, narrow duel-ling path for rapier fencing, to the larger octagon for longer blades.
This was the reason the Masters’ Court existed.
More than two centuries earlier, the King of Roldem had commanded a tourney to name the greatest swordsman in the world. Contestants of all rank – noble and common – had travelled from as far away as the southernmost province of the Empire of Great Kesh, the distant Free Cities of Natal, and all points in between. The prize had been fabled: a golden broad-sword studded with gems. It was a prize unmatched in the kingdom’s history.
For two weeks the contest had continued, until a local noble, Count Versi Dango, had triumphed. To the King’s astonishment, the Count had announced he would reject the prize so that the King might use the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the art of the blade, and there hold this recurring contest, thus creating the Masters’ Court.
The King had ordered the construction of this school, covering an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdom’s capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined until it now resembled a palace as much as a school. When it was finished, another tourney was held, and Count Dango had successfully defended his reputation as premier swordsman in the world. Every five years swordsmen gathered to compete for the title of Champion of the Masters’ Court. Four times Dango had prevailed as the ultimate victor, until a wound had prevented him from competing further.
Now, the instructor who was Master of the Competition signalled for the two combatants to return. Both young men assumed their positions as the Master held out his arm between them. They approached and raised their blades; the Master took hold of the points, brought them together, then stepped back crying, ‘Fence!’
Instantly Ty launched a wicked overhand lunge that almost struck home, driving Henry back a step. Then Ty recovered and took a step forward, his sword extended, his left hand resting on his hip, not raised in the air for balance as most fencers favoured. His father had taught him there was little advantage in doing this unless one overbalanced since holding the hand aloft robbed you of energy; not a severe problem on the fencing floor, but one that could get you killed in a battle.
Henry took a slight hopping step and started a circular motion with his blade, and Ty knew he was about to try that same triple move that had cost him a touch. Instead of pulling back on the second feint, Ty extended his arm, gaining right of way, and made an extraordinary low lunge, which struck Henry less than an inch above his belt, but still it was a clean strike. Even before the Master could announce it, Henry shouted, ‘Touché!’
Both combatants stood at attention for a moment, saluted one another, then turned to their respective ends of the floor. Henry came over to where his trainer, Swordmaster Phillip, waited. ‘He saw that one coming,’ said the old warrior.
Henry nodded and removed the basket helmet worn during these combats. Slightly out of breath, he said, ‘I was foolish to try the same move twice. He cozened me into trying that with his high lunge. Made me think he was desperate.’ He took the offered towel and wiped his face. ‘So now we come down to one touch for the championship.’
‘Too bad your father isn’t here. Win or lose this last touch, you’ve done your family proud, Hal.’
Henry nodded. ‘Better than I expected, really.’
‘Your many-greats-uncle Arutha was reputed to be a wicked swordsman. Seems you’ve inherited that skill.’
With a ti
red grin, Henry said, ‘Good thing, ’cause I’m nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.’
‘Or your grandfather, or your father,’ said the Swordmaster dryly.
Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, ‘Or my little brother.’
‘Or that lad who works at the blacksmith’s.’
‘So, what you’re saying is, I should win this.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, ‘Fence!’
Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.
Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.
With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.
Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.
‘Oh . . .’ said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.
Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted – the tunic just below the face-guard – a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.
But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Ty’s foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.
The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, ‘Judges?’
Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henry’s end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henry’s blade. ‘This is really uncomfortable,’ Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.
‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.
The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’
Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his op ponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.
Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’
As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’
‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’
‘What’s taking the judges so long?’
‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’
‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’
‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’
Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’
Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’
The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’
‘We must withdraw.’
There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’
‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’
Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’
Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’
‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.
The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’
The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.
When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’
Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.
‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months, years even.’
Hal nodded his acceptance of the offer.
The two finalists and their companions were escorted to the royal box where they bowed before the King of Roldem. King Carol was an ageing man with grey hair, but he still looked alert and happy. Next to him sat his wife, Queen Gertrude, and to her side stood their youngest son, Prince Grandprey, who was only a few years older than the two combatants and was dressed in the uniform of a general of the Royal Army; and his sister the Princess Stephané, resplendent in a gown of softly folded yellow silk, which spread gracefully out to the floor. Her shoulders were bare and her somewhat daring décolletage was hidden by a sheer shoulder wrap of the same hue. Her choice of colours made a dramatic contrast to her chestnut hair and striking brown eyes.
Henry tried not to blush as he looked away from her, then he noticed Ty Hawkins was staring boldly at the King’s daughter. And instantly decided he disliked the victor of the contest.
On the King’s right side stood Crown Prince Constantine, the Heir Apparent to the throne, and the middle son, Prince Albér, the Heir Presumptive. Henry and Tyrone both bowed before the roy
al family.
The Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Your majesties, your highnesses, the victor and vanquished of today’s final match. Lord Henry of Crydee, approach.’
As the first among those who were defeated by the winner, Henry was awarded a miniature silver sword. As he knelt to receive the gift from the hand of the Crown Prince, the King said, ‘Shame to end this way, lad; you’ve acquitted yourself admir ably. Still, second is nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the next tourney.’
‘Your majesty is gracious,’ said Henry, accepting the sword and with some discomfort returning to stand next to Swordmaster Phillip.
‘We’ll send a healer over to your quarters at the university, and have that . . . leg seen to. You must be ready for tomorrow’s gala,’ said the King.
‘I thank your majesty,’ said Hal, bowing. ‘Tyrone Hawkins of Olasko,’ intoned the Master of Ceremonies. Ty knelt and the King said, ‘Young Hawkins, I gave the King’s prize to your father many years ago.’ He gave Tal a rueful smile. ‘That was a day we’ll never forget.’
The bout had ended in the death of two of Tal’s opponents: a trained swordsman from Kesh who had come with one purpose, to kill the young swordsman, and a lieutenant in the army of Olasko who had been among those responsible for the death of most of Tal’s people.
The King said, ‘So concludes this contest, and we shall gather in five years to see if young Hawkins can continue his family’s achievements. I bid you, good lords, ladies, and gentlemen, a fair day and will welcome many of you to our gala tomorrow night.’
Everyone who had been seated rose when the King stood, and led his wife and family from the Hall of the Masters’ Court. As Ty turned to find Hal staring at him with a narrowed gaze, a man wended his way though the press of folk leaving the building to come and stand before Tal.
But it was Hal who spoke first, ‘Lord Jamison!’
James Dasher Jamison, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, nodded at the young nobleman and then to Ty and his father. ‘Well, Jim,’ said Tal Hawkins, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’
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