Heirs of the Blade (74 page)

She glanced back, her eyes seeking Che. Her sister sat resting her leg, with Thalric standing guard over her, and the halfbreed Maure nearby. The magician was looking guilty, and Che had pointedly turned away from her, but Tynisa could feel philosophical.
She was right, after all, this is the best way. I have done many bad things, and made many bad decisions, and I cannot blame them all on Tisamon’s ghost.

Even as she had this thought, the echo of his presence returned to her, almost like a plea to be allowed back in.
I shall make you win. You will carve your way through them, spill the blood of your enemies. What else is there?

But she shook her head.
If I die, it will not be undeserved.
That was the bare truth of it. The Commonweal of Salme Dien, with its moral certainties, enlightened nobles and happy serfs, was already a lost world, and she had believed in it for too long, to her detriment. Perhaps men such as Felipe Shah and Lowre Cean did their best, but human nature was the same the world over. There was nothing magically pure about the nobles of the Commonweal. She had simply been lucky enough to know Salma, and he had been something special.

There was a murmur in the ranks, and she saw Salme Elass had arrived.
Alain’s mother.
Dien’s
mother.
The woman stared at her, the hard sun glinting and shimmering on her armour, then a servant brought forth a chair for her and she sat down, for all the world like the guest of honour at some theatrical presentation. Into the silence that followed stepped Isendter Whitehand.

The pale-haired Mantis paused a moment at Salme Elass’s side, gazing down at his mistress. His gauntlet was buckled on, its blade jutting out between his middle fingers, and he flexed it in and out as he watched her: now forwards like a punch-dagger, now folding back along his arm. For a moment Tynisa sensed uncertainty in him, and she wondered whether he might have some reason to fear her, after all. Then he came striding to meet her, and the silence seemed to grow and grow around them both. The light touched brightly on his brooch too, the match for her own.

‘You have lost a companion, I think,’ he told her, when close enough to be heard without raising his voice. For a moment she thought he meant Varmen, but then she realized that he must have sensed the change, the absence of the ghost.

‘I sent him away, in the end,’ she declared. ‘The price was too high.’

He regarded her levelly. ‘Some might say that it was now that you would most need such aid.’

She forced a smile. ‘I’ll beat you on my own. I need no crutch, Master Whitehand.’

His nod was brief but approving. ‘You are worthy to wear the badge, then,’ he said simply, but the words seemed to strike her deeper than she could account for, drawing out parts of her that had withered in Tisamon’s shadow.

I am a Weaponsmaster, after all. Live or die.

‘And the justice of your cause?’ he asked, nodding towards the little pack of brigands.

‘And the justice of yours?’ Because his words had practically invited the comparison. ‘The fight is all.’

‘We understand one another.’ In a single step, he had put a very precise distance between them, a fighting distance, and her sword was in her hand without her needing to reach for it.

Even as he cut for her, she heard in her mind the beat of the Martiette, back in the ballroom of Leose. She already knew him, knew his skill and his style, the pattern of how he fought, taught to her in that dance. He perhaps thought he knew her just as well, but she had been playing host to Tisamon since then, and been twisted in his grip. She was no longer the same dance partner as before.

The first series of cuts came as though she and he had arranged them by prior agreement, as he made to step within her reach and bring his shorter, more agile blade to bear, twisting his wrist to lash at her from all angles, and she stepped back and round, circling, letting him drive her, and adjusting her stance for the sloping ground but catching each blow as it darted towards her, turning it aside with her blade and, once, with her quillons. Then, without warning, she had taken two steps to his one, widening the gap between them and putting him at her sword’s point, and she lunged without giving him a chance to react. It was unfair, perhaps, that it was a move he would not see coming, not part of their previous course of dealings, but her sword led her into it, and she took the opening as soon as she had made it.

He did not even step back. Instead, his metal claw cut across his body, her sword’s tip almost trapped between it and the spines of his arm. Then he moved further in, for a moment almost body to body, then past her, turning as neatly as any dancer – even as she spun on the ball of her foot, drawing her blade free, backing up to allow space again.

Two sharp lines of pain were clamouring in her mind, torn through her arming jacket below her right shoulder, dug there by the spikes of his off-hand arm.

His face bore a slight smile, and his eyes were encouraging, almost genial. He was enjoying himself, but not at her expense. She was impressing him, even though it was her blood glistening on his spines.

Then he drove straight at her, destroying all the distance she had tried to create. His swift blade flicked past her face, only her last-moment sway saving an eye from it, and then it was back to cut across her body, too close to be parried. She let her left leg fold, shoulder almost touching her knee, letting the strike pass her by. A heavier weapon would have left him open but, when she tried to jab at him with her sword, twisting her wrist and arm inwards to bring the needle tip to him, his weapon was in place to scrape down the length of her own blade, nicking her elbow to draw a single bead of blood.

She slapped him with her off-hand. She had no needles or spines of Art there, but it was a move both unbecoming and unheralded, and she felt the inside of her fingers connect with his chin, hooking his head aside. She used this tenuous purchase to swing her back foot round and retreat, then kick off and move forward again, even as he started to close once more.

She should have had him then. Her technique had been faultless: not a spare twitch or quiver to warn him that he would be driving himself on to her blade. His body was abruptly sideways, though, feet skipping him aside so that the slender lance of her rapier scoured a gouge in the grey leather of his jacket but drew no blood, and then he drove his clawed gauntlet down at her like a scythe-blade.

The first jolt passed through her, though in that moment she could not have recognized what it was. She pressed forward, ducking almost under his armpit, feeling the descending blade rake through her flurrying hair as she put on a rush of speed, clearing ten, twelve paces before she turned with sword outstretched and ready for him. She found him standing, as before, without having deigned to follow her. His expression was patiently encouraging, maddening because there was a meaning there that she could not quite grasp.

Her heart and innards felt taut and out of balance. He had bloodied her twice, and he was improvising. She had the measure of him, yet had barely touched him.

Some small, clear voice in the back of her mind explained it to her patiently:
This is fear.

He approached again, his steps confident but without arrogance, a man who has seen the history of his duel written out like a play, and intends to perform his role without melodrama.

She seized the initiative, a three-step lunge from a standing start before he had even neared her, her sword lashing down on him, demanding an answering parry as he tried to catch her blade in the crook of his. Instead she drew her weapon back, whipped it at his face so he swayed aside, then was already drawing it back across her to pierce between his right-side ribs. His blade shadowed hers, his parry waiting for the strike to land as if it were a fly. Instead she wrenched her lunge up and stabbed straight at his face again, a strike meant to take him through the eye, but dropping for his throat even as he brought his blade up, hoping to slip under his guard.

Something rang across her skull, scattering her vision with sparks and lights, and she felt a solid impact on her sword-guard, a complaint of steel, and a pain in her side that seemed to spring from nowhere. For a second she could not see, but instinct brought her blade about to fend his off even as she stumbled back, and he let her go again, a second break, providing punctuation in the meticulous rhythm of the duel in his head, that he was carefully teaching to her.

That was what his expression meant, she realized miserably. It was the look of a hard teacher whose student is proving capable, if not exemplary.

He had punched her with his gauntlet even as he had the blade hinged down to catch her blow. Somehow she had warded off his first riposte, but the next had gashed her just above the waist. There was a trickle of blood down the side of her face where he had broken the skin.

The cold, ill feeling within her had crystallized.
I am not as good as he is.
The gap between them was certainly smaller than should be expected, given the difference in their years, but Isendter had been a master since before she was born.

He was stepping forward again, ready with his next lesson, and she felt a tremble inside.
Save me – he’s going to kill me.
She had never acknowledged such before. When she had fought Tisamon, so long ago, she had been too young and foolish to quite understand what losing a duel meant. Since then, she had fought many times, but no single opponent had really challenged her, not like this.

She tried another attack, putting her sword through a half-dozen feints and lunges, keeping him at its far end, and herself out of his reach. In her arm, her side, her face, the pain seemed to grow and grow. His metal claw had become a thing of horror, a torture implement.
I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to die.

He let her stave him off for a little while, demonstrating a parrying style that moved his arm faster than she could flick the tip of her blade.

I am going to lose.
The small voice was growing louder within her.

Dal Arche watched, and he knew enough to see how the fight was going. Everyone else was watching, too – all save one. Someone tugged at his elbow urgently.

‘Dal, we have to go.’

He dragged his eyes away from the contest to see the Spider, Avaris, hopping anxiously from one foot to another.

‘Dal, it’s the plan, remember. We leg it now, maybe some of us get clear, come
on!
’

He glanced back at the duel, saw the pair separate again, another flash of red on the girl’s body.
I owe her nothing, not even enough to watch her die. She’s not one of mine.

But he realized, with sour reluctance, that somehow she was, even though it was she who had got them into this mess. She was his champion, after all. He was a peasant woodsman gone to the bad, but in this moment he owed her something of that feudal loyalty that princes never quite seemed to grant to their underlings.

‘We’re going nowhere,’ he growled.

‘What?
Dal!’
Avaris hissed, and then, when the brigand chief rounded on him, he bared his teeth in a rictus of desperation. ‘I want to live, Dal. Don’t do this.’

However that loyalty to his followers cut both ways, and Dal sagged and nodded, feeling off balance, and unfamiliar to himself. ‘Those that want to, go now, creep off, but no sudden moves. The Beetle girl and her Wasp are staying, no doubt, and so am I. Maybe they won’t notice those that leave, if some of us stick around.’

He turned his eyes back to the fight, hands clenching and unclenching on his bow, hearing the careful, wretched sounds of his people taking their chances. Someone stepped up to his elbow, though, and he glanced sideways to find Soul Je nodding to him.

‘Go and take your chances,’ Dal advised, but the Grasshopper shook his head.

‘Mordrec, then?’ Dal asked.

‘Right behind you, Dala. Don’t feel up to running, anyway.’

At that he did glance around. As he had known, the Beetle girl and her escort had remained, and their magician too, though she seemed perilously close to flight.

‘A man can die in worse company, it’s true,’ he decided, clapping Soul Je on the shoulder, and settled down to watch the conclusion of the duel.

He saw the Beetle girl shift, coming half to her feet before the Wasp dragged her back down.

‘Look at them,’ Thalric snapped, his eyes not on the fight but on the Salmae’s followers. ‘See how many of them? And if you break the rules and interfere, why not them?’ And then, perhaps in answer to some stubborn expression on the girl’s face, ‘And if you interfere by . . .
other means
, do you think they’d not know? They must have some two-stripe conjuror amongst them, if I’m to credit any of it.’

And Che sagged in his grip, but her eyes had never left the antagonists.

Tynisa backed and backed again, keeping Isendter away from her, but he simply walked into her reach, unhurried, careful and inexorable. When she tried to use this against him, to pin him at the far extent of her sword’s length, he slipped by her guard like water, and his claw was already ready for more blood. Her little wounds were beginning to work at her as a pack, snagging at her every time she moved, trying to drag her down. Inside she was fighting a similarly losing battle with her fear. She had never realized just how bitterly she wanted to keep on living, for a tenday, a single day, an hour more. How terrible it was to have already seen her last dawn.

She worked up some alchemy to transmute that fear to anger, and her next strike almost caught him off balance, breaking the rhythm that she had let herself succumb to. For a precious few steps she was driving him before her, the air suddenly filled with the dull clatter of steel. He parried and parried, his gauntlet making circles in the air as he took her sword’s point aside, over and over, but her blade was as insistent as a fly over food, and she nearly blooded his arm, nearly gashed his ribs, then flicked a drop of blood from his ear.
Now you fear!