LITMIR.BIZ

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his own weapon, touched it to the Master’s and held it in place. Then the Master pulled his weapon away and the contest began.

      Tal had been duelling during his nearly year-long stay in Salador. The Court of Blades was no match for the Masters’ Court in terms of the number of quality opponents, but there were enough good swordsmen there to keep Tal sharp.

      He had needed the time, for on Sorcerer’s Isle there was only Caleb to spar with, and he had been absent a great deal of the time, out on one mission or another for his parents. And while he was the best hunter and archer Tal knew, Caleb’s blade-work left room for improvement.

      Before then, Tal had been with mercenaries, and most of the niceties of the duelling floor were lost on them. They were not looking to perfect swordcraft as an art, but rather as a means of survival, and Tal was fairly certain the Masters of the Court would look dimly upon his using kicks to the groin, eye gouging, and ear biting as part of his sparring regime. Tal realized that many of the young men who would spend years of their lives here in the Masters’ Court would never have to use their blades in anger. Such was the life of a young noble in the civilized bosom of Roldem.

      Young Anatoli was quickly dispatched, for he was sound at basic swordsmanship but lacked any particular gift. Three other young men were also quickly disposed of, and Tal elected to leave the floor.

      Rather than heading straight for the changing room, he went to a table at the end of the hall which was laden with refreshments. A crystal bowl stood in the centre, filled with water and floating slices of lemons. Tal had come to appreciate the drink after getting used to its tartness. Fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries and smoked meats rested on trays. Bottles of ale and wine were also there for those who had finished with the day’s practices. Tal took a cup of lemon-water from a servant, then picked up a slice of apple to nibble on while he surveyed the room.

      One of the court’s many servants stood next to Tal, busily restocking each dish so that the presentation always looked fresh. He calculated the expense and considered how costly it must be to operate the Masters’ Court. Any nobleman was free to use the court for the furtherance of the art of the blade. Commoners with gold could use it for a not-inconsiderable fee, and many chose to do so, for political reasons. Otherwise, the entire cost of operating this palatial undertaking was borne by the Crown.

      For an idle moment, Tal wondered just how much wealth King Carol commanded. He called up from memory a book he had read on the life of the Krondorian trader Rupert Avery, and reconsidered how exaggerated the various sums mentioned by the self-aggrandizing fellow really were. Sitting alone in his little hut on Sorcerer’s Isle, Talon of the Silver Hawk had thought those figures must have been inflated to bolster the author’s claim of importance in the history of the Kingdom. But now that he considered how vast the palace of Roldem was, and just the cost of operating this court alone, not to mention the funding of Roldem’s navy, Tal realized just how naive Talon had been. From somewhere in his memory came the phrase, ‘It’s good to be king’, and despite not being able to remember which of his teachers had uttered it, Talon was inclined to agree.

      For a brief instant he thought he was on the edge of understanding Duke Kaspar’s greed for power.

      Then he saw another large party enter the floor and without needing a second glance, he knew Prince Matthew had arrived. Tal reconsidered his plan again, as he had countless times since he had dreamed it up the week before. Fresh from his heroics in saving the Duke and with the King’s approval he now stood the best chance of making it work without ending up on the headsman’s block, or being discreetly dumped into the harbour.

      Sipping on his drink, he ambled to where the Prince stood surrounded by his entourage. Prince Matthew was a vain man, despite the fact that by the age of thirty he had accumulated an ample girth around an otherwise slender figure. It gave the comic effect of a large reptile trying to digest an even larger ball. Still, the Prince heroically attempted to mask the result of his excesses by employing a jacket that was cinched tight around the middle and padded across the shoulders. He wore his hair short, heavily oiled, and combed forward to disguise his rapidly-retreating hairline, and affected a thin moustache that must take hours to trim each day, thought Talon. He also carried an ornate little viewing-glass, a thing of light purple quartz imported from Queg through which he would peer at things as if the glass somehow gave him a better level of detail.

      Tal waited a short distance away until he was noticed, then bowed.

      The Prince said, ‘Ah, Squire. Good to see you back. Sorry I missed you at the gala, but I was indisposed.’

      The rumour in the palace had been that the Prince had consumed so much wine the night before Kaspar’s welcoming gala he dared not step more than a dozen paces from the garderobe in his quarters lest his irritated bowels rebel unexpectedly. ‘My loss, Highness. It’s good to see you recovered.’

      ‘Have you duelled?’ asked the Prince.

      ‘I just finished, Highness.’

      ‘Ah, a pity. I had hoped for some decent competition today.’

      The Prince was an indifferent fencer, but for reasons political, he rarely lost a bout. Tal had no doubt he had waited in the nearby changing rooms, under the soothing hands of a masseuse, waiting for word of Tal’s sessions being over. ‘That’s no trouble, Highness. I haven’t left the floor yet, so I would be happy to accommodate you should you wish a bit of a challenge.’

      Several of the Prince’s party exchanged glances. On his best day the Prince would be no match for Tal on his worst, and few thought the Champion of the Masters’ Court likely to allow a victory to the Prince, given that Tal had never lost a bout and if he continued to win until the next Masters’ Court Tournament he would be the undisputed master of all time.

      Prince Matthew forced a smile. ‘Again, a pity. I’ve already booked my opponents.’

      Three young fencers stood nearby, one of them being the youth, Anatoli. He beamed as he stepped forward and said, ‘Highness, I would gladly surrender my place to allow the Champion to accommodate you.’

      If looks could kill, Anatoli would have been instantly reduced to smoking debris. Instead, the Prince said, ‘How kind, young sir. I shall be sure to remember.’

      Tal tried to suppress a grin. ‘Why don’t you begin with the other two, Highness, while I finish my lemon-water? When you’re finished with them, I’ll be delighted to be your last opponent.’

      The Prince smiled, for at least Tal offered him a way to save face. He would win his first two bouts, after which being defeated by the Champion would be no shame. And, who knows, perhaps the Champion might seek to curry favour by allowing a draw – certainly he had done so before.

      Tal wandered back to the buffet and helped himself to another piece of apple. The Prince quickly disposed of both his opponents who contrived to lose in an almost convincing fashion.

      Tal put down his cup of water and returned to the floor. ‘Congratulations, Highness. You barely broke a sweat.’ In fact the Prince was puffing like an old horse that had been run uphill all day.

      ‘Kind of you … to say that … Squire.’

      ‘Let’s say to seven? That will give us both a good workout.’

      Master Vassily glanced at Tal with narrowed eyes. To seven meant best of seven touches. The usual match was to three touches. Tal would win without difficulty, but would have to score on the Prince four touches instead of the usual two out of three. The Prince was caught exactly where Tal wanted him, unwilling to decline. He said, ‘Of course.’

      Then Tal said, ‘And if you would be so gracious, we’ve already both matched with rapiers. I could use some practice with a heavier weapon. Sabres? Or longswords, perhaps?’

      Everyone within hearing range fell silent. Prince Matthew was indifferent with the rapier, but it was his best weapon. The heavy cavalry blade required quick, powerful attacks, and the infantry sword required stamina. The Prince elected the lesser of two evils. ‘Sabres, then, Squire.’

      Tal motioned

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