Rod had just time to appreciate the humor of a black belt calling for help before he saw the kick smashing at his groin.
He leaped back, and the Mocker leaped after him. This time, the kick landed.
Rod rolled on the floor, curled around his agony.
He saw the foot aimed at his jaw and managed to turn his head aside just enough; the foot glanced off the side of his head.
He saw a shower of red asterisks, glowing against black, and shook his head frantically, trying to clear it.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard another scream, suddenly cut off, then a thud; then Big Tom was bellowing, "Thy sling, Tuan! There'll be guards to answer that scream!"
Then the big man was bending over him, face close. "How bad art thou hurt, master?"
Rod had never known stale beer and onions could smell so good.
"I'm all right," he gasped. "The blow landed a little off-center, thank heaven!"
"Canst thou stand?"
"In a minute. Gwen may be in for a temporary disappointment, though. How'd you do it, Big Tom?"
"Caught his foot on the upswing," Tom grinned, "and threw him high. Then I got in an uppercut ere he landed."
Rod stared. "A what?"
"An uppercut. A haymaker."
Rod rolled over, got his knees under him, shook his head in amazement. " 'Uppercut takes out Black Belt.' Call the newspapers."
There was a cry outside, choked off suddenly.
Rod's head snapped up, listening. Then he stumbled to his feet, hands still pressed to his groin, and all but fell out the door, ignoring Big Tom's solicitous protests.
Three more bodies lay on the stone floor of the common room.
Tuan stood at the balcony rail, sling stretched tight between his hands, jaw clamped shut, bleak dismay in his eyes.
"First the one came," he said in a monotone, "then the other, then the third. The first two I dispatched ere they could cry; but on the third, I was tardy." Tuan turned back to the hall. After a moment, he said, slow and hard, "I do not like this killing."
Then his vision cleared.
"Huh." Rod nodded, gasping, as a brief spasm of nausea made him clutch at the railing. "No man worthy to be called a man does like it, Tuan. Don't let it worry you. It's war."
"Oh, I ha' slain before." Tuan's lips pressed thin. "But to slay men who three days agone drank my health…!"
Rod nodded, closing his eyes. "I know. But if you have any hope of being a king, Tuan, or even a good Duke, you've got to learn not to let it bother you."
He looked up at the boy. "Besides, remember— they'd have killed you if they could."
Tom came out on the balcony, carrying the trussed-up Mocker in his arms, like a baby.
He looked briefly at the common room; his face hardened. "More killing?"
He turned away, laying the Mocker carefully on the floor next to the prone bodies of his lieutenants, and sighed. "Ay de mi! But 'tis the times, and the fashion ."
He bent to the work of binding up one of the lieutenants, a tall, emaciated skeleton of a man with a scar where he should have had an ear, a souvenir of royal justice.
Rod looked, and nodded; the Mocker had chosen his confederates well. They had cause for hating the monarch.
Rod slowly straightened, wincing at the pain.
Tuan glanced at him. "Thou ought to seat thyself and take rest, Rod Gallowglass."
Rod pulled in a sharp, quick breath and shook his head. "It's just pain. Hadn't we better cart these three down to the dungeon?"
A gleam sparked in Tuan's eye. "Nay. Bind them and keep them here; I have uses for them."
Rod frowned. "What do you mean, uses?"
Big Tom held up a hand. "Do not ask, master. If Tuan has need of them, let him have them. This lad knows his craft; I ha' ne'er seen, and but rarely heard, of any man who could so sway the mob."
He turned and leaped down the stairs, checked for heartbeats in the fallen men, bound up the one that still lived, and dragged them all under the balcony. Then he caught up the their lieutenant from the hearth, slung him over a shoulder.
"Tom!" Tuan called, and the big man looked up.
"Bring that horn that hangs o'er the mantle, and the drum beside it!" Tuan called.
Tom nodded and took down the battered, curled hunting horn from its nail and plucked one of the rude drums—nothing more than an empty cask with hide stretched over each end—from its place on the mantle.
Rod frowned, perplexed. "What do you want the drum and bugle for?"
Tuan grinned. "Canst play at the horn?"
"Well, I wouldn't exactly qualify for first chair in the Philharmonic, but…"
"Thou'lt do," said Tuan, eyes dancing.
Big Tom bounded back up the stairs with the Mocker's lieutenant over one shoulder and the trumpet and drum over the other.
He dropped the instruments and laid the bound man by his companions.
He straightened, fists on hips, grinning. "Halloa, my masters! What would you have us do with 'em, lordling?"
"Do thou take the drum," said Tuan, "and when I give the word, hang these four from the balcony rail, but not by their necks. Tis far more to our credit we've taken them living."
Rod cocked an eyebrow. "Not that old wheeze about being powerful enough to be merciful?"
He didn't hear the answer, because Tom started pounding the drum. The tenor throbbing filled the room.
Rod caught up the horn.
Tuan grinned, jumped up on the rail, stood with feet wide apart and arms folded. "Summon them, Master Gallowglass," he shouted.
Rod set the mouthpiece to his lips and blew "Reveille."
It sounded rather weird on a hunting horn, but it had its effect. Before he was halfway through with the second chorus, the hall had filled with beggars, muggers, lame, one-armed, thieves and cutpurses and murderers .
Their muttering, surf and wind before a storm, filled the hall as an undercurrent to the drum and horn. They were fresh-woken, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained, hurling a thousand incredulous questions at one another, shaken and cowed to see Tuan, whom they had jailed, standing tall and proud in the hall he'd been exiled from.
He should fear them; he should have feared to return; and if he had come back, it should have been as a thief in the night, skulking and secret.
Yet here he stood, free in their eyes, summoning them to him with bugle and drum—and where was the Mocker?
They were shaken, and more than a little afraid. Men who had never been taught how to think now faced the unthinkable.
Rod ended with a flourish, and flipped the trumpet away from his lips, whirling it in a flashing circle to land belldown at his hip.
Big Tom gave the drum a last final boom.
Tuan held his hand out to Tom and began clicking his fingers very softly.
The drum spoke again, throbbing, insistent, but very soft.
Rod looked up at Tuan, who was grinning, arms akimbo, a royal elf come into his kingdom. He looked down at the audience, shaken and fearful, staring, mouths agape, at the lordly, commanding figure above them.
Rod had to admit it was a great way to open a speech.
Tuan flung up his arms, and the hall stilled, except for the low-pitched throb of Tom's drum.
"You cast me out!" Tuan shouted.
The mob shrank back on itself, muttering, fearful.
"Cast out, thrown to exile!" Tuan called. "You had turned your eyes from me, turned away from me, thought never to look upon me!"
The muttering grew, began to take a surly, desperate quality.
"Was I not banished?" Tuan called, then, "Be still!" he snapped.
And, miraculously, the room stilled.
He leveled an accusing forefinger at the crowd and growled, "Was I not banished?"
This time there werea few muttered "Ayes."
"Was I not?"
The mutter of "Ayes" grew.
"Was I not?"
"Aye!" rolled across the heads of the crowd.
"Did you not call me traitor?"
"Aye," the crowd growled again.
"Yet here I stand," Tuan cried, "strong and free, and master again of the House of Clovis!"
Nobody disputed it.
"And where are the real traitors, who would ha' seen you all torn to bits in hopeless battle?The traitors, who ha' turned this House to a jail in my absence? Where are they now, to dispute my mastership?"