"Why do you laugh?" the masked man asked in a braying voice, his sword on guard. "You should not laugh, my friend, for you are about to die."
"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "I know you for a boaster only."
"I am a greater swordsman than you," replied the man. "You had best surrender now."
"I regret I can't accept your word on the quality of my swordsmanship or your own," Hawkmoon replied with a smile. "How is it that such a master of the blade is so poorly attired, for instance?"
With his sword he indicated the man's patched red jerkin, his trousers and boots of cracked leather. Even his bright sword had no scabbard, but had been drawn from a loop of cord attached to a rope belt on which also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.
"A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where did you steal the sword, beggar?"
He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then withdrew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to his face and discovered that it bled.
"Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make yourself my prisoner."
Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he lunged at the masked man.
His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon barely managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each recognising in the other a true master of the sword.
They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon decided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back down the bank towards the water.
Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.
Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, going down on one knee. The other sprang forward to thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the other's throat.
"Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled the masked man.
"I am easily bored," Hawkmoon replied. "I was becoming impatient with the game."
"Well, what now?"
"Your name?" Hawkmoon said. "I'll know that first -then see your face-then know your business here-then, and perhaps most important, discover how you came here."
"My name you will know," said the man with undisguised pride. "It is Elvereza Tozer."
"I do know it, indeed!" remarked the Duke of Koln in some surprise.
Chapter Three
ELVEREZA TOZER
ELVEREZA TOZER was not the man Hawkmoon would have expected to meet if he had been told in advance that he was to encounter Granbretan's greatest playwright-a writer whose work was admired throughout Europe, even by those who in all other ways loathed Granbretan. The author of King Staleen, The Tragedy of Katine and Carna, The Last of the Braldurs, Annala, Chirshil and Adutf, The Comedy of Steel and many more, had not been heard of of late, but Hawkmoon had thought this due to the wars. He would have expected Tozer to have been rich in dress, confident in every way, poised and full of wit. Instead he found a man who seemed more at ease with a sword than with words, a vain man, something of a fool and a poppinjay, dressed in rags.
As he propelled Tozer with his own sword along the marsh trails towards Castle Brass, Hawkmoon puzzled over this apparent paradox. Was the man lying? If so, why should he claim to be, of all things, an eminent playmaker?
Tozer walked along, apparently undisturbed by his change of fortune, whistling a jaunty tune.
Hawkmoon paused. "A moment," he said, and reached to grasp the reins of his horse, which had been following him. Tozer turned. He still wore his mask.
Hawkmoon had been so astonished at hearing the name that he had forgotten to order Tozer to remove the leather from his face.
"Well," Tozer said, glancing about him. "It is a lovely country-though short in audiences, I would gather."
"Aye," replied Hawkmoon, nonplussed. "Aye…"
He gestured towards the horse. "We'll ride pillion, I think. Into the saddle with you, Master Tozer."
Tozer swung up onto the horse and Hawkmoon followed him, taking the reins and urging the horse into a trot.
In this manner they rode until they came to the gates of the town, passed through them, and proceeded slowly through the winding streets, up the steep road to the walls of Castle Brass.
Dismounting in the courtyard, Hawkmoon gave the horse to a groom and indicated the door to the main hall of the castle. "Through there, if you please," he told Tozer.
With a small shrug, Tozer sauntered through the door and bowed to the two men who stood there by the great fire which blazed in the hall. Hawkmoon nodded to them. "Good morning, Sir Bowgentle-D'Averc. I have a prisoner…"
"So I see," D'Averc said, his gaunt, handsome features brightening a little with interest. "Are the warriors of Granbretan at our gates again?"
"He is the only one, so far as I can judge," Hawkmoon replied. "He claims to be Elvereza Tozer…"
"Indeed?" The ascetic Bowgentle's quiet eyes took on a look of curiosity. "The author of Chirshil and Adulf? It is hard to believe."
Tozer's thin hand went to the mask and tugged at the thongs securing it. "I know you, sir," he said. "We met ten years hence when I came with my play to Malaga."
"I recall the time. We discussed some poems you had recently published and which I admired." Bowgentle shook his head. "You are Elvereza Tozer, but…"
The mask came loose and revealed an emaciated, shifty face sporting a whispy beard which did not hide a weak, receding chin and which was dominated by a long, thin nose. The flesh of the face was unhealthy and bore the marks of a pox.
"And I recall the face-though it was fuller then.
Pray, what has happened to you, sir?" Bowgentle asked faintly. "Are you a refugee seeking escape from your countrymen?"
"Ah," Tozer sighed, darting Bowgentle a calculating look. "Perhaps. Would you have a glass of wine, sir?
My encounter with your military friend here has left me thirsty, I fear."
"What?" put in D'Averc. "Have you been fighting?"
"Fighting to kill," Hawkmoon said grimly. "I feel that Master Tozer did not come to our Kamarg on an errand of goodwill. I found him skulking in the reeds to the south. I think he comes as a spy."
"And why should Elvereza Tozer, greatest playwright of the world, wish to spy?" The words were delivered by Tozer in a disdainful tone that yet somehow lacked conviction.
Bowgentle bit his lip and tugged a bell rope for a servant.
"That is for you to tell us, sir," Huillam D'Averc said with some amusement in his voice. He coughed ostentatiously. "Forgive me-a slight chill, I think. The castle is full of drafts…"
"And I'd wish the same for myself," Tozer said, "if a draft could be found." He looked at them expectantly.
"A draft to help us forget the draft, if you understand me. A draft…"
"Yes, yes," said Bowgentle hastily and turned to the servant who had entered. "A jug of wine for our guest," he requested. "And would you eat, Master Tozer?"