The Queen's Gambit (21 page)

If he squinted his eyes, Talmor glimpsed something dark and shadowy around this man, something very wrong, and wholly at variance with his mild, cultured, smiling demeanor.

Talmor frowned. “What do you want?”

With a flourish, the courtier closed his fist, then turned it over and opened his fingers. Thick disks of gold lay on his palm. They were larger than Mandrian coinage, and heavier.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Talmor scowled. “Keep your gold. I'll not take it.”

“But I want you to win,” the courtier said with a smile. “This is simply an extra inducement, in case your energy has started to flag.”

“What else do you want?”

“Your loyalty in the years to come. Your information.”

Talmor's eyes narrowed. The man looked Mandrian. There was no trace of Gantese narrowness to his skull or features. His skin was too pale to be Saelutian. “Who pays you?” he asked sharply. “The Kladites?”

The courtier's smile vanished. “I shall ignore your question. Your rough manners are insulting, but even those will I overlook. Come, sir, let us strike a bargain.”

“Get out,” Talmor growled.

“I'm offering you a fortune,” the courtier said sharply. “Regular payments in exchange for information whenever you're asked for it. You're a fool if you turn this down.”

“My name is fool.”

“Insolent cur!” the courtier said angrily. Pocketing the gold, he glared at Talmor. “You should be thinking of your future. How many years will you toil as a sentry, earning little beyond your room and board? In the end, what will you have to show for it? Nothing! I offer you security, a chance to build wealth without—”

“Get out,” Talmor said. He stepped forward, and the courtier retreated, scowling and angry, with a bang of the door.

Swearing beneath his breath, Talmor glowered and paced a rapid circuit of the small room before leaning over the stone basin and dumping water over his head.

It felt cool and refreshing. It seemed to clear away some of the stink of treason and dishonor from the chamber.

Something hard and heavy walloped his back, driving him headfirst into the water. Gasping and spluttering, he jerked up his head and whirled around without straightening, driving his fist deep into his attacker's belly.

With a grunt of expelled air, the man went staggering back, and Talmor charged him, using his impetus to drive him hard into the wall. The club dropped from the man's hand and
thudded on the stone floor. The attacker, a peasant with a coarse, pockmarked face beneath a fringe of ill-cut hair, clutched himself and groaned.

Talmor bent and scooped up the club. The moment he touched the wood, a surge of fury slammed through him, and he felt a kind of madness. He wanted to hammer this man with it, beat him, pound him to a pulp.

Astonished by this brutal, surging, violence, this lust to strike out and murder, Talmor swung the club high before he realized what he was doing. With an oath, he hurled it in the far corner. It clattered against the stone wall and fell, rolling across the floor.

Breathing hard, Talmor shuddered and rubbed his stinging palm back and forth across the other. He glared at the peasant, who looked at him now with fear.

“A magicked club,” Talmor said in accusation. “Who made it?”

Rising to his feet, the peasant uttered a curse, and Talmor drove his fist hard into the man's belly. Doubling over, the man retched dryly, and groaned. Talmor gripped his filthy hair and jerked up his head, observing that he'd turned a sickly gray hue.

“Who made it?”

“Dunno!”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Dunno!”

Talmor hit him again.

“Dunno!” the man said desperately this time, holding up his hands in surrender. “Gave me a piece of silver for the job. Told me where to go. That's all I know! Swear it!”

Pears came in, looking curious, then alarmed. Tossing down Talmor's sword and mail, he drew his dagger. “What's amiss here?”

“An assassin out to crack my skull,” Talmor said grimly.

Pears's face turned red. He put the point of his dagger right in the peasant's sweating face. “By Thod, I'll fix you—”

“Never mind that,” Talmor broke in. “Run and fetch the guards. Tell them this fellow wields a magicked club.”

It took a moment for that to sink into Pears's brain. He frowned at Talmor with dawning horror. “A magicked—you mean a—”

“Exactly what I said. Don't touch it!” Talmor said sharply.

Pears stopped in his tracks.

“Fetch the guards,” Talmor repeated. “Hurry! I've little time before I go back to the arena.”

Running into the passageway, Pears set up a shout. Guardsmen arrived in short order, bursting in and looking around with their hands on their sword hilts. At the sight of Talmor, holding the peasant pinned against the wall, they relaxed and grinned.

“Here's our champion,” one said. “Victor over a—”

“Take care,” Talmor said grimly. “That's his club over there. We need a priest to destroy it.”

“A club against Talmor's sword,” the other guardsman said. “I'll wager silver on that contest.”

Both men laughed. In the distance a trumpet sounded, and Talmor released his prisoner with an angry shove.

“He won't say who hired him to break my skull, but he was paid handsomely for the job.”

The guardsmen sobered immediately, while the peasant held up his grimy hands and began to blubber for mercy.

“Dunno who it was, sirs,” he said. “Dunno we's to hit one of yer—”

“He won't say how he came to be using a magicked club,” Talmor went on, “but it's dangerous. Don't touch it.”

“Magicked!” one of the guards said in astonishment. “But that can't be. It's not—”

“—possible?” Talmor broke in, exasperated with such ignorance. “I tell you it's enspelled with evil.”

The trumpet call came again, and he swore. “I leave the matter in your hands, for if I don't go now, I'll forfeit to Sir Kedrien.”

“Get to your contest. We'll lock up your man. And luck to you, but my bet's on Sir Kedrien,” the guardsman said, and grinned. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Talmor hesitated, wanting to make sure they handled this properly and knowing they didn't believe what he said about the club. It lay there on the floor, looking innocuous, but it was quite deadly.
Who?
he wondered furiously, but there was no time to investigate.

Pears pulled his hauberk on over his head, tugging it down ruthlessly. Picking up his sword belt, Talmor strode out of there quickly, swearing with every step. “We've got to find out who's behind this,” he said to Pears. “I thought it was—”

The roar of the crowd drowned him out. He came up the steps into the hot sunshine and walked down the alley between the two sections of stone stands. Pears was skipping along at his side, trying to buckle his sword belt the way he liked it.

Talmor flexed his shoulders. “As soon as the contest begins, get back down there and see that those louts don't mishandle the club. It's dangerous, and the fools don't believe me.”

“Ain't no one hereabouts believes in spells and magic,” Pears mumbled with a frown. “Just as well, damn 'em.”

Talmor paused at the gate and stared out across the arena, where the heralds were already bawling out the announcements over the cheering of the crowd. “See to it.”

“Aye, sir.”

Pears hastened away, and Sir Kedrien came up beside Talmor at the gate. Busy fitting on his helmet, the officer did not speak, did not even glance at Talmor. He radiated grim determination so strong it took no soulgazing to tell Talmor what lay in his heart.

As their names were called and the gate was swung open, Talmor said, “Luck to the best man.”

Sir Kedrien shot him a glare. His eyes were stony. “You'll never serve her,” he said, his voice soft and furious. “I've sworn I shan't let the likes of you defile her with your presence. It's abominable that she should be required even to consider you.”

“We are all the king's subjects,” Talmor said mildly, but
his jaw felt tight. He knew those around him were listening with big ears.

“Take heed, for I'll give you no quarter.”

“I ask none,” Talmor replied.

Ducking his head, Sir Kedrien strode ahead of him, his hand already gripping his sword hilt, his back rigid.

Talmor had been taught that in combat one used anger for energy, but one also kept a cool head. He would use Kedrien's ire against him, he thought.

He walked into the arena more slowly, and heard the crowd cheer him. Keeping his hand off his sword hilt as was courteous until the round started, Talmor held himself like a champion.

He hurt, dammit, and he was weary. He was tired of being the butt of Sir Kedrien's derision and petty bigotry. At last the chance had come to end this man's power over him.

The herald rode up to him. “Draw your weapon, sir.”

Talmor obeyed.

The other herald gave the same command to Kedrien, who yanked out his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, and he held it with strength and confidence, flourishing it a little to stir up the crowd.

“Salute the king.”

Both knights turned to face the royal box, where servants were busy plying large fans made of woven splints and bringing drinks to his majesty and companions. Together Talmor and Kedrien lifted their swords high, then swung them down in perfect unison.

The crowd applauded, and with quickening heart, Talmor turned to face his opponent. They carried no shields and no other weapons besides their swords. The midafternoon sun felt brutal. Not a single breath of wind stirred in the enclosure. The heat was shimmering on the sand, and he felt as though his mail and helmet had become crucibles for melting him alive.

The herald's flag flashed, and with a roar Kedrien charged, swinging his sword aloft. He came at Talmor hard, pent-up anger behind every blow. Talmor parried skillfully, aware of
how Kedrien meant to attack him. He could read the man's stance and footwork. He caught the telltale glint and shift of Kedrien's eyes behind his visor. Every trick he tried, Talmor was ready for him. At first they went at it hard and fast, keeping the crowd on its feet.

The heavy broadswords clanged steadily. Sure of his weapon and confident in his skill, Talmor made no charges, no feints. He was content to stay on the defensive at first, letting Kedrien tire himself out and reveal all his tricks. They had never fought each other before, but Talmor had watched Kedrien on the practice field and understood his patterns. He liked to attack swiftly, taking no time to measure his opponent. He was quick, very quick, and deft in the wrists. He handled the broadsword at times almost like a thinsword, making his blade flash brightly when it caught the sunlight. The crowd loved the action, cheering his flourishes. Clearly he knew how to compete in a tourney and win the approval of a crowd.

Talmor's experience lay mostly in battle, where the opponent mattered more than the crowd. He defended himself, doing no more than he had to at first. Their blades locked together, and, with a grunt of effort, Kedrien twisted the guard of his sword against Talmor's.

Standing there braced and straining against each other, Kedrien glared at Talmor. “Fight me, damn you!”

Talmor didn't answer, but he shifted his weight suddenly and broke the lock. He retreated swiftly, leaving Kedrien to stagger in order to keep his balance, then feinted close, giving Kedrien an almost playful slap with the flat of his blade.

Laughter broke out from the spectators, and Kedrien's eyes narrowed behind his visor. Cursing, he charged Talmor again, and again Talmor defended himself. Kedrien's next blow, however, came so fast and with such power that Talmor almost wasn't quick enough to catch it. Steel clashed against steel, and Talmor grunted with the effort to parry the blow. He heard Kedrien's wheezing breath. The heat was taking as much toll on them as the fighting.

Now, Talmor thought to himself.

With a lightning shift of his feet, he took the offensive in midblow, shifting his swing without warning and catching Kedrien off guard. His blade bit deep into Kedrien's arm, gashing through the mail and bringing the bright redness of blood.

Kedrien staggered, but managed an awkward parry that was enough to free him from Talmor's attack. Talmor pressed him hard, pounding him with every blow. As though executing a drill, he backed the weakening Kedrien across the arena, one part of his mind gauging the amount of blood now dripping steadily from Kedrien's arm.

As they neared the wall, the spectators there sprang up, some leaning over dangerously close, others yelling and waving their caps. Talmor glimpsed Sir Maldriard watching behind the gate in his black surcoat, his swarthy, black-bearded face grim. There was no doubt he was observing this contest closely to learn all he could about the fighting style of his next opponent.