Bayaz, so-called. Sitting near the front, leaning forward and staring at the two fighters with fixed concentration, his “apprentice” and the scarred Northman beside him. No one else noticed it, everyone was intent on the fighters before them, but Glokta did. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Something wrong.
“Say one thing for the First of the Magi, say he’s a cheating bastard,” growled Logen.
Bayaz had a little smile at the corner of his mouth as he mopped the sweat from his forehead. “Who ever said he wasn’t?”
Luthar was in trouble again. Bad trouble. Each time he blocked one of those heavy sweeps, his swords snapped back further, his grip seemed slacker. Each time he dodged, he ended up a little further back towards the edge of the yellow circle.
Then, when the end seemed certain, out of the corner of his eye, Logen saw the air above Bayaz’ shoulders shimmer, as it had on the road south when the trees burned, and he felt that strange tugging at his guts.
Luthar seemed suddenly to find new vigour. He caught the next great blow on the grip of his short sword. A moment before, it might easily have sent the thing flying from his hand. Now he held it there for an instant, then flung it away with a cry, pushing his opponent off balance and jumping forward, suddenly on the attack.
“If you were caught cheating in a Northern duel,” growled Logen, shaking his head, “they’d cut the bloody cross into your stomach and pull your guts out.”
“Lucky for me,” murmured Bayaz through gritted teeth, without taking his eyes away from the fighters, “that we are in the North no longer.” Sweat was already beading his bald scalp again, running down his face in fat drops. His fists were clenched tight and trembling with effort.
Luthar struck furiously, again and again, his swords a flashing blur. Gorst grunted and growled as he turned the blows away, but Luthar was too quick for him now, and too strong. He drove him mercilessly across the circle like a crazy dog might drive a cow.
“Fucking cheating,” growled Logen again, as Luthar’s blade flashed and left a bright red line across Gorst’s cheek. A few drops of blood spattered across into the crowd on Logen’s left, and they exploded into riotous cheering. That, just for a moment, was a shadow of his own duels. The referee’s cry of three apiece could hardly be heard at all. Gorst frowned slightly and touched one hand to his face.
Above the din, Logen could just hear Quai’s whisper. “Never bet against a Magus…”
Jezal knew that he was good, but he had never dreamed he could be this good. He was sharp as a cat, nimble as a fly, strong as a bear. His ribs no longer hurt, his wrists no longer hurt, all trace of tiredness had left him, all trace of doubt. He was fearless, peerless, unstoppable. The applause thundered around him and yet he could hear every word of it, see every detail of every face in the crowd. His heart was pumping tingling fire instead of blood, his lungs were sucking in the very clouds.
He did not bother even to sit in the break, so great was his eagerness to get back into the circle. The chair was an insult to him. He was not listening to what Varuz and West were saying. They were of no importance. Little people, far below. They stared at him: flushed, amazed, as well they might be.
He was the greatest swordsman ever.
That cripple Glokta could not have known how right he was: Jezal had only to try, it seemed, and he could have anything he wanted. He chuckled as he danced back to the mark. He laughed as he heard the crowds cheer. He smiled at Gorst as he stepped back into the circle. All was precisely as it should be. Those eyes were still heavy-lidded, lazy above the little red cut that Jezal had given him, but there was something else there now as welclass="underline" a trace of shock, of wariness, of respect. As well there might be.
There was nothing that Jezal could not do. He was invincible. He was unstoppable. He was…
“Begin!”
…completely lost. The pain lanced through his side and made him gasp. Suddenly he was afraid, and tired, and weak again. Gorst growled and unleashed his savage cuts, jarring the steels in Jezal’s hands, making him jump like a frightened rabbit. The mastery was gone, the anticipation, the nerve, and Gorst’s onslaught was more brutal than ever. He felt a terrible lurch of despair as his long steel was torn from his buzzing fingers, flew through the air and clattered into the barrier. Jezal was bludgeoned to his knees. The crowd gasped. It was all over…
…It was not over. The blow was arcing down towards him. The final blow. It seemed to drift. Slow, slow, as though through honey. Jezal smiled. It was a simple matter for him to push it away with his short steel. The strength flowed again. He sprang upwards, shoved Gorst away with his empty hand, flicked another swing aside, and then another, his one sword doing the work of two with time to spare. The arena was breathless silent but for the rapid clashing of the steels. Right and left, right and left went the short blade, flashing faster than his eye could follow, faster than his mind could think, seeming almost to be dragging him along behind it.
There was a squeal of metal on metal as it tore Gorst’s notched long steel from his hand, then another as it flickered across and did the same with his short. For a moment, all was still. The big man, disarmed and with his heels on the very edge of the circle, looked up at Jezal. The crowd was silent.
Then Jezal slowly lifted his short steel, all of a sudden seeming to weigh a ton, and poked Gorst gently in the ribs with it.
“Huh,” said the big man quietly, raising his eyebrows.
Then the crowd exploded into deafening applause. The noise went on and on, rising and rising, washing over Jezal in waves. Now that it was finished he felt drained beyond description. He closed his eyes, swaying, his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers and he sank to his knees. He was beyond exhaustion. It was as though he had used a whole week’s energy in a few moments. Even kneeling was an effort he was not sure he could sustain for long, and if he fell he was not sure he could ever get up again.
But then he felt strong hands taking him under the arms, and felt himself being lifted. The noise of the crowd grew even louder as he was hoisted into the air. He opened his eyes—bleary, blurry colour flashed in front of him as he was turned around. His head rang with the sound. He was up on someone’s shoulders. A shaved head. Gorst. The big man had lifted him up, as a father might lift his child, displaying him to the crowd, smiling up at him with a big, ugly grin. Jezal smiled back despite himself. It was a strange moment, all in all.
“Luthar wins!” cried the referee pointlessly, barely audible. “Luthar wins!”
The cheering had resolved itself into a steady chant of “Luthar! Luthar! Luthar!” The arena shook with it. Jezal’s head swam with it. It was like being drunk. Drunk on victory. Drunk on yourself.
Gorst lowered him back to the circle as the cheering of the crowd began to fade. “You beat me,” he said, smiling wide. His voice was strangely high and soft, almost like a woman’s. “Fair and square. I’d like to be the first to congratulate you.” And he nodded his big head and smiled again, rubbing at the cut under his eye without the slightest bitterness. “You deserve it,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thank you.” Jezal flashed a sour smile and gave the man’s big paw as cursory a squeeze as possible, then he turned away towards his enclosure. Of course he fucking deserved it, and he was damned if he would let that bastard bask in his reflected glory a moment longer.
“Bravely done, my boy, bravely done!” frothed Marshal Varuz, slapping him on the shoulder as he stumbled back to his chair on wobbly legs. “I knew you could do it!”