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‘Why?’
Magnus held his broad-brimmed hat in both hands. ‘First the questions. Are you ready to take service with Kaspar?’
‘Almost, but not quite.’
‘Soon, then?’
‘Yes, soon.’
‘Has either the Duke or his sister mentioned the man Leso Varen to you?’
‘No. I would have taken note.’
‘Father’s last question: do you have any idea why Kaspar seeks to put troops on the border of the Kingdom of the Isles, hundreds of miles from any significant objective?’
‘Not even a hint.’
‘Now, a question from me: why did you save Kaspar from that bear?’
Tal shook his head and sipped his wine. ‘To tell you the truth, I had no idea at the time. I just reacted. But after dwelling on it, I decided it must be the gods telling me something.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not enough to see Kaspar die. At the very least he must know why he is dying, but even more …’
‘What?’
‘I want to see him humbled. I want to watch as he realizes that everything he’s done, every murderous order given, every treacherous decision, has come to naught.’
Magnus was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Killing him will be far easier than reducing him to such a state.’
‘Still, that is my goal.’
‘Your goal,’ said Magnus, ‘if I may remind you, is to first discover why he desires a war with the Kingdom. Every shred of intelligence we have tells us you are correct in your surmise: Kaspar has some mad design on forging an alliance among the Eastern Kingdoms so he may launch a strike against the Isles.
‘And I emphasize the word “mad” for none of what he has accomplished so far reveals a hint of sanity.’
Tal nodded. ‘Yet I would wager my life that Kaspar is anything but mad. Devious, murderous, charming, even amusing; but he is as sane as any man. His choices may appear pointless, but there is always a design behind them.’ He leaned forward and put his wine cup on the table. ‘Now, Pasko and Amafi will return soon, so we must be done with this quickly.’
‘Then to the message. This from my father. You are to be detached.’
‘Exactly what does that mean?’
‘It means no one will be calling on you at any time, Tal.’ Magnus adjusted his hat. ‘When you decide to take Kaspar up on his offer and enter his service, find an excuse to discharge Pasko. I leave it up to you as to what you do with this Amafi fellow. But you are oath-bound to never mention your connection to the Conclave to him, or even hint of the Conclave’s existence.
‘From now on, we will have no further contact with you until you seek us out. If you are in the north, find a way to send a message to Kendrick’s or go there yourself. In Rillanon, seek out an inn called the Golden Sunrise, and you’ve already been to the Cask and Vine in Salador. Should you find yourself in Krondor, you already know the Admiral Trask. Here, see the night barman at Molkonski’s Inn. We don’t have any agents in Opardum, more’s the pity, but if you can get a message up to the Anvil and Tong, in the town of Karesh’kaar in Bardac’s Holdfast, it’ll get to us.’
Tal laughed. ‘Are all your agents ensconced in inns and taverns?’
Magnus smiled. ‘No, but we find inns and taverns to be useful places to collect information. Devise a way to get a message to any of those locations, addressed to the Squire of Forest Deep, and it will reach us. Use the code phrase if you can. There are other inns in other cities, and Pasko can see you have a full list before you part company.’
‘Why am I to do without him?’
‘Two … no, three reasons. First, with each additional agent of the Conclave who gets near Leso Varen, the risk to us is multiplied. Mother has Lady Rowena as close to Kaspar as a woman can get – I assume in the vain hope Kaspar might let something slip among the pillow-talk – and with you there, our vulnerability increases; Pasko adds nothing of use to us, but increases the hazard.
‘Second, we have other tasks for Pasko.
‘And lastly, he works for the Conclave, not Squire Hawkins of Ylith, no matter what you have come to believe.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Now, I must make this clear: no matter what opportunity you have to revenge yourself on Kaspar, he is only part of the problem; find out what you may of Leso Varen. He is the true danger in this. Finally, if you are found out, we will see you dead before risking the security of the Conclave. Is that clear?’
‘Abundantly.’
‘Good. So, don’t get killed, or at least try to do something useful before you do. If you get into trouble, we can’t and won’t fetch you out.’
Suddenly he was gone. There was a slight intake of air where Magnus had stood and the room went silent.
Tal reached out and took his wine cup and muttered, ‘I hate that he always has to have the last word.’
Tal awoke feeling a little disoriented. He had only had one cup of wine the night before during his conversation with Magnus. The day had been uneventful, a somewhat leisurely ride down the mountain and through the city to the palace. But he hadn’t slept well, and wondered if his restless night was due to the choice that now confronted him.
Kaspar was in his debt; so how was Tal to take service with him and not look overly anxious? His idea of killing Prince Matthew and having Kaspar intercede to protect him now seemed eminently plausible; Magnus was correct: Tal’s status as Champion of the Masters’ Court gained him many privileges, but what were the obligations? Tal pondered that for a moment.
He knew he could manipulate any number of social situations where Prince Matthew would be forced to call him out for a duel. Someone would insist it be to first blood and Tal could ‘accidentally’ kill him; unfortunate, but these things happen. Ironically, Tal considered, they happen to me a lot, actually. No, that wouldn’t do, for a duel would be about honour and while the King might never again allow him in the palace …
A brawl perhaps? Matthew had an appetite for some of the seedier bordellos and gaming halls in the city. He went ‘in disguise’, despite the fact everyone knew him and he used his position to great advantage.
Tal discarded the idea; not public enough.
There was no easy way to kill him in such a way as to land in that magic place between being forgiven and being beheaded. And even if he did land in that magical place, and Kaspar interceded on his behalf, that would settle Kaspar’s debt. Tal liked having that debt.
No, he decided as he arose, he wouldn’t kill Prince Matthew. Another idea came to him. He sat back and thought about it, and decided he had not considered his own role closely enough. There might just be a way to make himself persona non grata in Roldem. He could keep himself off the headsman’s block yet seemingly have no social future left in Roldem. At which point it would seem as if he had no choice to but take service with the Duke.
‘Pasko,’ he called and a moment later Amafi entered the room. ‘Magnificence, may I serve?’ he asked in the language of the Isles.
‘Where’s Pasko?’ he asked, motioning for his trousers.
The former assassin handed them to Tal. ‘He went to the morning market, Magnificence, shopping for food. What may I do for you?’
Tal considered this, and then said, ‘I guess now is as good a time as any for you to learn to be a valet.’
‘Valet? Magnificence, I do not know the word.’
Tal had forgotten he was speaking Roldemish, a language in which Amafi could barely keep up. ‘Il cameriere personate,’ said Tal in the Quegan language.
‘Ah, a manservant,’ said Amafi in the Ring’s Tongue, as the language of the Isles was known. ‘I have spent some time among men of breeding, Magnificence, so it will be of little matter to learn your needs. But what of Pasko?’
‘Pasko will be leaving us soon, I’m afraid.’ Tal sat and pulled on his boots. ‘It’s a family matter, and he must return to his father’s side up north in Latagore.’
Amafi didn’t ask for any details. He just said, ‘Then I shall endeavour to match him in caring for your comfort.’
‘We still need to work on your Roldemish,’ said Tal, falling back into that language. ‘I’m for the Masters’ Court. Wait here for Pasko, then tell him to begin to acquaint you with my routines. He will explain as he goes. Become like his shadow for a while and observe. Ask questions if they do not disturb me or any in my company, otherwise keep them until the two of you are alone.
‘Tell him to meet me at Remarga’s at midday and bring fresh clothing. Then I will dine at … Baldwin’s, outside along the Grand Canal, then some afternoon cards at Depanov’s. I’ll return here to change into something more appropriate for supper.’
‘Yes, Magnificence.’
Tal put on the same shirt he had worn the day before, and threw a casual jacket across one shoulder as he grabbed his sword. ‘Now, find something to do until Pasko gets back and I’ll see the two of you at noon.’
‘Yes, Magnificence,’ Amafi repeated.
Tal left the apartment and hurried down the stairs. He fastened his sword around his waist and kept the jacket over his shoulder. It was a warm day and he had elected to forgo a hat. As he worked his way along the streets to the Masters’ Court, he pondered just how much damage he could do to a royal without getting himself into too much trouble.
The morning sun, a warm breeze off the ocean, the memory of the Lady Natalia’s enthusiastic lovemaking – all combined to put Tal into a wonderful frame of mind. By the time he reached the Masters’ Court he had a plan as to how to humiliate a royal without getting hung, and had convinced himself it might even turn out to be fun.
A week later, the gallery was full as Tal walked onto the floor of the Masters’ Court. With the return of the Greatest Swordsman in the World, observing practices and bouts had become the favoured pastime of a large number of young women in the capital. Many noble daughters and a significant number of young wives found reason to take pause during their day’s shopping to indulge their new-found interest in the sword.
He had been practising every day for a week since returning from the hunt, and waiting for his opportunity to confront Prince Matthew. He had finally realized the Prince was waiting until he departed to appear at Masters’ Court every second day. Tal judged that the vain prince didn’t wish to share the attention of those at the Masters’ Court with the Champion. So this day, Tal began his practice sessions in the late afternoon, rather than the morning, as was his habit.
Tal was saluted by every member on the floor, including the instructors, in recognition of his achievement. Today Vassily Turkov was acting as Master of the Floor, head instructor, and arbiter of any dispute. Other instructors worked with students in all corners of the massive hall, but the Master of the Floor supervised the bouts at the centre.
The floor of the court was of inlaid wood, arranged in a complex pattern that after a brief study revealed itself to be a clever series of boundaries between various practice areas. The floor was surrounded by massive columns of hand-polished wood supporting the ornate high ceiling. Tal glanced up and saw that the ceiling had been repainted, white with gold leaf over embossed garlands and wreaths which surrounded large skylights. Galleries ran along one wall between the columns, while the other wall boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping the entire hall brilliantly lit.
Vassily came and took Tal’s hand. ‘When you didn’t appear this morning, I thought perhaps you’d given yourself a day of rest, Squire.’ He glanced at the crowded gallery and said, ‘If this continues, we may have to put up those temporary seats again.’ During the Masters’ Champion Tournament, temporary seating had been erected in front of the windows, to accommodate as many onlookers as possible.
Tal smiled. ‘I just came to practise, Master.’
The older man smiled and nodded. ‘Then I shall find you an opponent.’ He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: ‘Anatoli, you are first!’
Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out, ‘Rapiers! Three points to the victor!’
Both men wore heavily-padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury. They advanced and faced one another.
The Master came to stand between them, holding out his sword. Each combatant raised 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 for one of the floor staff to hand him his helmet and sword, while another attendant brought the Prince a practice sabre. Master Vassily approached and whispered, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Squire?’
