He tossed the jewel he’d just created in the air, and Mortirmir saw his left hand strip the glove off his right. Saw his own right hand hover above the Duke’s side. There was a crossbow bolt protruding just above the heart on the left.
Assassin, the old man said. Very, very close. Another finger’s width to the left, and we’d both be gone. As it is we’re in trouble, and Mortirmir’s finger touched the Duke’s side. Power flared as if a small sun had been released. Poison, alchemy, and magick altogether. Someone wanted my young friend to be very, very dead. The sun intensified, and Mortirmir felt all his potential flowing out of him like water from a broken bottle.
It was the most terrifying sensation.
Worst of all, it became obvious to both of them – together, intertwined – that there was not enough potentia between the three – Harmodius, Mortirmir, and the stricken Megas Dukas – to save him. The power ran in as if into a bottomless pit, and nothing changed.
Mortirmir felt Harmodius sag in defeat.
His last aethereal pouch of of carefully hoarded ops vanished-
There was an explosion of pale, golden green light that seemed to come from the mortally wounded man’s hand.
Mortirmir’s left hand reached in, took the bolt, and withdrew it from the wound with a gentle tug and a horrible wet sucking noise. As the steel head slid free, the skin underneath closed. Perfectly.
Harmodius, deep in Mortirmir’s memory garden, stumbled against a stone pillar – the only remnant of the former palace – and shook his head. By Saint George, young magister. May you never see that again.
What happened? Mortirmir breathed.
Harmodius stood breathing, like a man who had run a long race. Then he shook his head. Not my secret to share, young man. He needs to sleep now. How’s your jousting?
Every knight ran three courses. The jousts were arranged carefully – every man knew the order of his opponents, and there were four sets of lists, and squires and pages ran from one to another as Ser Michael directed the whole entertainment.
Ser Alison unhorsed Ser George Brewes, to the crowd’s enormous satisfaction. Ser Francis Atcourt unhorsed the Red Knight, who fought with a singular lack of grace, and the princess put her hand to her chest when he struck the ground. But he rose with some of his usual bounce, and improved in his next exchange, plucking the crest neatly off the helmet of Ser Bescanon, whose lance tip scratched across the Red Knight’s shield and failed even to break.
Ser Gavin dominated the afternoon. His lance was sure, and it was clearly his day – he dropped Ser Francis Atcourt hard enough to make people in the crowd wince, and he broke a lance on each of three opponents from the Latinikon and then managed a spectacular feat against Ser Jehan, striking his helmet below the crest so that the whole helmet failed along its forge-weld lines and burst asunder. The older man was unhurt, but helmetless, as he rode down the list, and he wheeled his horse and bowed to his opponent as the crowd applauded.
Ser Alcaeus was the crowd’s darling, as captain of the defenders, and he dropped three opponents in a row. But the Podesta of the Etruscans, Ser Antonio, knocked him back in his saddle without unhorsing him and was judged the better lance on points. He rode off to stony silence from the crowd, and to the wild celebrations of the Etruscan merchants near the gate.
As the sun began to set, Ser Gavin faced the Megas Ducas, who was riding stiffly. For the first time all afternoon, the Duke was mounted on his new warhorse. Despite his stiff seat, he was technically perfect – as was his brother. They rode the first course, and broke lances on each other. As they walked their horses back to their starting positions Gavin raised his hand and they halted their horses in the centre of the lists, separated by the barrier that kept horses from colliding – and kept them on course.
Ser Gavin leaned over the barrier. ‘Is that you?’ he asked.
The Red Knight’s eyes flashed. ‘It is now,’ he said.
‘Why don’t I get to fight someone incompetent wearing your armour?’ Gavin asked. He flipped a salute and rode on. ‘You’re too bloody good.’
On their second course they broke lances on each other. The crowd roared. The small white handkerchief fluttered on the Red Knight’s aventail. The knights who were already out pointed and laughed.
Ser Bescanon said to Ser Jehan, ‘That was as pretty a pass as I’ve ever seen. We need an Alban crowd – this is art wasted on swine.’
Ser Jehan handed him a cup of wine. ‘He’s a brilliant lance,’ he admitted. ‘Better than I ever was.’
On their third pass, Ser Gavin’s lance skidded off the Red Knight’s shield and slammed into his left pauldron and ripped it off his body.
The Red Knight kept his seat as if made of iron, but the circular pauldron rolled across the sand like an accusation. The Red Knight paused at his own pavilion to have his visor removed, and then cantered back down the list and embraced his brother, and the two men pounded each other on the back.
‘Sweet Jesu, brother!’ Ser Gavin said. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘So I am. But that was spectacular,’ his brother said, and they rode together down the lists, saluted the princess, and rode to one of the heated pavilions.
‘Melee by torchlight?’ Ser George Brewes said, after exchanging a steel hug with his Captain. ‘People will die out there.’
Toby got the Red Knight’s maille off over his head and they could all see the bandages.
‘What the fuck!’ shouted Francis Atcourt.
‘Crossbow,’ the Red Knight said. ‘It’s out and healed. And now I’ll get it worked again. Relax.’ He waved to Morgon Mortirmir, who was in full armour. The young man looked as if his eyes had been glazed by a potter, but he was adept enough with his healing. ‘Poisoned and magicked. Somebody thought it would be a one-shot kill.’
‘We didn’t get the shooter,’ Ser Michael said.
The other knights in the pavilion looked shocked.
The Red Knight took a deep breath as a pair of Academy Scholae lifted his shirt. Blue fire played across his left shoulder. Mortirmir ran his hand over the wound and nodded.
Tancreda Comnena smiled at her Plague. ‘When did you learn to heal so neatly?’ she asked.
‘At the siege of Lissen Carrak,’ Mortirmir’s mouth said. ‘Damn – despoina, please forget I said that.’
She blinked once, slowly.
‘You are very beautiful, and I think I’m in love with you,’ Mortirmir said.
She flushed.
He knelt with the sort of grace usually acquired by older men. ‘My lady, if you would vouchsafe me a token, I would be proud to defend your beauty against all others, taking you and you alone as my lady fair.’
She put a hand on his head. ‘What a pretty speech,’ she said. ‘Does that work on girls in Alba?’
She had left her hand on his shoulder, and he took it, turned the hand over and kissed her palm. And then her wrist.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Now that would work on the girls of Alba, I’m sure.’ She leaned down. ‘Suddenly you are very sure of yourself.’ She leaned closer and brushed her lips against his – the lightest of butterfly pressures.
There you go, boy. That’s all there is to it. Really, you are lucky I’m giving you back this palace of meat and lust and power. I do this so much better than you do.
When Mortirmir rode out for his last exchange of blows, he wore a magnificent red and purple sleeve on his shoulder. And Despoina Comnena pulled her cloak tight against her and refused to let her cousin look to see if she had given the sleeve.
In the last courses – mostly retakes from earlier bouts where a run had been missed or a horse or man had been injured – Mortirmir broke a lance against Ser Antonio and rocked the Podesta in his saddle, to the delight of the crowd and young Mortirmir himself, who pumped his fist in the air in self-satisfied glee. But he mastered himself, and the two were seen to embrace. Ser Alcaeus hit Ser Alison hard but didn’t unhorse her, and the crowd roared. It was the last pass, between two favourites, and when it was over the two knights met in the middle of the barrier. Ser Alison said something and Ser Alcaeus put his hand on his heart and shook his head, and then the two embraced.