The boat lurched its laborious way around the ship basin and then turned in. After some searching, they found the arch of the Leethee mouth. When they’d rowed a hundred feet or so up its length they took their hats off and Orcrist began bailing the water out of their boat with a couple of coffee cans. The Leethee was deeper and faster than usual, and Frank was soon sweating with the effort of making headway.
“How well do you know Blanchard, Frank?” It was the first thing either of them had said since Frank had entered the boat.
“Oh, I don’t know. I drink and play chess with him. Mostly he tells me stories about his younger days. Why do you ask?”
“Your acquaintance with him seems to have caused some jealousy in high circles.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Take that side-channel there, it’ll avoid most of this current.” Eventually they pulled up to an ancient stone dock and moored their boat in its shadow. “Nobody’s likely to see it here,” Orcrist whispered. “Come on—up these stairs.” Frank buckled his sword to his belt and followed the older man up the cracked granite stairs, slipping occasionally on the wet stone surfaces.
The steps led up to a long, entirely unlit corridor, down which they had to feel their way as slowly as disoriented blind men. At last they reached another stairway and found at the top a high-roofed hall lit by frequent torches, and they were able to move more quickly.
“Say, Sam, I’ve been meaning to ask you: was the Subterranean Companions’ meeting hall ever a church? It sure looks like it was.”
“Didn’t you ever hear the story about that, Frank? There was a—”
A sharp twang sounded up ahead and an arrow buried half its length in Orcrist’s chest. Frank leaped to the wall and whipped out his sword, and two more arrows hissed through the space he’d occupied a moment before. Orcrist fell to his knees and then slumped sideways onto the wet pavement. Six men burst out of an alcove ahead and ran at Frank, waving wicked-looking double-edged sabres. Fired to an irrational fury by Orcrist’s death, Frank ran almost joyfully to meet them.
He collided with the first of them so hard that their bell guards clacked against each other, numbing the other man’s arm; Frank drove a backhand thrust through the man’s kidney. Two more blades were jabbing at his stomach, and he parried both of them low, then leaped backward and snatched up the fallen man’s sword. Two of the thugs were trying to circle around him, so Frank quickly leaped toward the other three with an intimidating stamp, his two swords held crossed in front of him. All three men extended stop-thrusts that Frank swept up with his right-hand blade, clearing the way for a lightning-quick stab into the throat of the man on the far left; whirling with the move, Frank drove his blade to the hilt into a would-be back-stabber’s belly. The other man’s blade-edge cut a notch in Frank’s chin, but Frank’s right-hand sword pierced him through the eye.
Frank backed off warily to catch his breath. Barely five seconds had passed, but four of his opponents were down, three dead and one slumped moaning against the wall. Drops of blood fell in a steady rain onto the front of Frank’s dress shirt. The two remaining ambushers approached Frank cautiously, about six feet apart. The man on Frank’s right was leaving his six-line open.
Frank tensed; very quickly he leaned forward on his lead leg and then kicked off with his rear leg in a rushing fleche attack that drove his blade into the man’s chest and snapped it off a foot above the bell guard. He spun to meet the remaining man, whose point was rushing at Frank’s neck, and parried the thrust with his right-hand blade. Frank then drove his shortened left-hand sword dagger-style upward, with a sound of tearing cloth, into the man’s heart. After a few seconds Frank’s rigid arm released the grip and the body dropped to the pavement.
HODGES stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The hall was full tonight—more members had shown up than he had known there were. Shouts and whistles and a low roar of talking were amplified in the cathedral-like hall until people had to cup their hands and shout to be heard.
Hodges glanced to his right into the sacristy and saw Blanchard, his hair and beard newly combed, give him a nod. Hodges banged on the speaker’s stand with a gavel, but to no avail. He gave it a stronger blow and the head flew off into the crowd. Somebody threw it back at him and he had to leap aside to avoid being hit. He could be seen to be mouthing words like “Shut up, dammit, you idiots!” but in the general roar his shouts couldn’t be heard.
Blanchard strode out onto the platform carrying a ceremonial shotgun, and fired it at the ceiling, where a few other ripped-up areas provided reminders of times in the past when this had been necessary. The sharp roar of the gun silenced the crowd abruptly, and the bits of stone and shot whining around the hall were all that could be heard.
“All right then,” Blanchard growled. “Let’s get down to business. The first thing we’ve got to get straight is—”
“The question of your successor!” called Lord Tolley Christensen, who stood up now from his fourth-row seat.
“What’s the problem, Tolley?” asked Blanchard quietly.
“There’s no problem, sire. I’m just invoking a precedent—one you’re familiar with yourself.”
“That precedent being ...?”
“The ius gladii.”
Hodges stared at Tolley in amazement, and there were shocked gasps from those thieves who knew what was being mentioned.
“All right.” Blanchard raised his voice so that everyone in the hall could hear him. “Lord Tolley Christensen has invoked the ius gladii and challenged me to a duel. The winner will be your king. Here, two of you move this table out of here. Hodges, get my sword.”
Lord Emsley stood sweating in the vestibule. He had posted six experienced, expensive killers in each of the three corridors Rovzar might have taken to get to the hall, and he had little doubt that Rovzar would be killed. Also, he had great confidence in Tolley’s swordsmanship—still, he’d be happier when this evening was over.
Blanchard and Tolley now faced each other on the wide marble speaker’s stand. They drew their swords and saluted; then they took the on guard position and cautiously advanced at each other.
Tolley tried a feint-and-lunge, Blanchard parried it and riposted, Tolley extended a stop-thrust that Blanchard got a bind on, Tolley released, and they both stepped back, panting a little. The assembled thieves growled and muttered among themselves.
Tolley hopped forward, attacking fiercely now, and the clang and rasp of the thrust-parry-riposte-cut-parry filled the hall. Tolley had Blanchard retreating, thrusting savagely and constantly at the old king. Finally a quick over-the-top jab hit the king in the chest; Tolley redoubled the attack and drove the blade into Blanchard’s heart.
Angry yells came from the crowd as the old king fell and rolled off the back of the platform, and several of the thieves leaped up, waving their swords. Hodges, looking grim, raised his hand.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he said in a rasping, levelly controlled voice. “Tolley Christensen is the King of the Subterranean Companions. The only way to dispute that is to challenge him to a single combat. Are there ... any members who want to do that?”
There was silence. Lord Tolley’s swordsmanship was almost legendary.