“Have many challenges have been met?” Mistal caught a passing man-at-arms by the sleeve.
“They’re just rounding off the sworn.” The man lifted a jug of dark red wine, smiling broadly. “My brother won his day, so I’m off to get the little shit so drunk he can’t stand!”
Mistal laughed, nodding towards an open door. “We’ve a few moments yet, Temar. Do you want a drink?” A girl wearing a scarf in D’Olbriot colours round her waist came out to stack empty bottles in a discarded wine barrel.
“Mist! Temar!”
Temar turned round to see Ryshad, loose shirt over faded breeches and soft shoes laced tight on bare feet.
“It’s good to see you both.” Ryshad looked keenly at Mistal. “So you introduced yourself. Turn it to any advantage?”
Mistal grinned. “Master Burquest has retained me to research D’Alsennin’s claim to be Sieur.”
Temar looked at his boots, all dusty now, and wondered if anyone in this age ever did anything without some ulterior motive.
“Then no one’s going to wonder at you being with Temar.” Ryshad sounded relieved. “How’s the Sieur faring at court?”
“They’ve a fight on their hands, but Burquest’s equal to it,” Mistal said with judicious confidence. “As long as Camarl doesn’t lose his temper if he’s goaded and provided your Sieur doesn’t get too cocky after an easy victory. A bit like you here today.”
“I don’t need advice on fighting from some soft-handed bookworm,” said Ryshad with faint derision.
“You get yourself killed and I’ll argue Saedrin into letting me cross to the Otherworld, just so I can tan your arse,” warned Mistal.
“You and what Cohort?” challenged Ryshad with a grin. “You haven’t been a match for me since your seventeenth summer.”
Temar felt a pang of envy at this easy camaraderie. Turning away he saw a youth being led out of the sword school, one arm swathed in bandages stained with bright scarlet. That put an immediate end to feeling sorry for himself. “I thought these contests were a matter of form.”
The wounded boy was screwing up his face in a futile effort to stem tears of pain and humiliation.
“They’re to prove a man’s fitness to serve his Name,” Ryshad said soberly. “A few fall short of the mark.”
“Oh, there’s always blood to get the crowds emptying their purses,” said Mistal with obvious disapproval. “Otherwise they’d be spending their coin watching mercenaries slice lumps off each other up in the Lescari quarter.”
Ryshad rounded on him. “There’s no comparison, and you know it. Any blood shed here is down to bad luck in a fair fight. Lescari fights are little better than masquerades.”
“At least the Lescari use blunt blades,” challenged Mistal.
“Which is why they end up with broken bones and blood all over the floor,” Ryshad retorted. “A fool thinks a blunted blade can’t hurt him and goes in hard. A swordsman worth his oath treats a real weapon with due respect!”
Temar felt uncomfortably excluded from what was plainly a long-standing argument, never mind by the deepening southern accents both men were slipping into. He watched the lad slump by a barracks door, arms around his drawn-up knees, face hidden and shoulders shaking. Temar felt a pang of sympathy; he knew that bitter taste of defeat, though at least a sword fight was more straightforward than all these legal and social battles besetting him.
“What is the form of the contest?” he asked when Mistal took a breath.
Ryshad spared Mistal a glare. “Each challenge is a formal bout, best of three touches.”
“Do you know who’ll be answering the challenge?” asked Mistal.
Ryshad grimaced. “I’ve seen Jord from Den Murivance around, and Fyle says Lovis from D’Istrac and Eradan from Den Janaquel are definitely up for it. But I know them, have done for years. They’ll try and raise a bruise or two, just to keep me humble, but I can’t think there’s any malice there.”
Mistal mouthed the names silently to fix them in his memory. “It won’t hurt to ask a few questions, find out who’s been buying their wine.”
“You advocates suspect everyone, don’t you?” laughed Ryshad, but Temar found his air of unconcern a trifle unconvincing. “It’s the ones I don’t know about that could be the problem.” There was no doubting the sincerity of those words.
Five chimes rang out from some heavy brazen bell.
Ryshad grimaced. “If they’ve got all the boys off the sand, I’d better go and see who turns up. Keep an eye for the crowd, will you? If this is some scheme to leave me dead or injured, someone might give themselves away if I take a bad touch or their man goes down hard.” He grinned at Temar. “It won’t be the first time you’ve watched my back.”
Mistal guided Temar inside the echoing training ground. “What did Rysh mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing,” Temar shrugged. He wasn’t about to try to explain how he’d broken through the enchantment binding him, finding himself in what felt like some insane, waking dream, facing an Elietimm enchanter trying to bash out his brains with a mace. With aetheric malice unravelling Ryshad’s wits, Temar had been the one guiding his limbs in that frantic fight far away in the Archipelago.
The memory still made him shudder, so Temar looked around the practice ground with determined interest. Old battles had no place here. He watched as men much his own age and dripping with sweat came walking off the sand, elation brightening their exhausted faces. Older men congratulated them, some struggling to moderate their pride in their protégés. Temar found the palpable air of common purpose and good fellowship more than a little familiar. This wasn’t so far removed from his own training for service in the Imperial Cohorts, he decided. A few seasons spent fighting for the lands and privilege they assumed as their due might improve those pampered nobles who sneered at him so.
“Mistal!” A heavy-set man in D’Olbriot colours came over, arms wide in expansive welcome.
“Stolley,” Mistal nodded politely, and Temar belatedly recognised D’Olbriot’s Sergeant. “How’s the morning gone?”
“All our lads acquitted themselves worthy of their oath,” said Stolley with pride buoyed by wine on an empty stomach. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” His bow was studied. “An honour to see you here. Are you looking to recruit for your Name?”
That remark and Stolley’s carrying voice turned plenty of interested heads.
“The Esquire’s just here to support my brother,” Mistal answered smoothly.
Temar’s smile was guarded, but the idea intrigued him. Kel Ar’Ayen needed fighting men, didn’t it? They’d given the Elietimm a bloody nose the second time round but they’d needed wizards and mercenaries to do it. Wouldn’t Tormalin men, sworn to him be better? He’d see what Ryshad thought.
“I’ll have silence or I’ll clear the place!” A grey-headed man muscled like a wrestler strode out on to the sandy floor.
“That’s Fyle, sword school provost,” Mistal whispered hastily.
Temar nodded; that explained the unmistakable air of authority.
“All challenges posted by recognised men have been duly met, as you all bear witness. Now we have a final challenge.” Fyle paused for some latecomers hurrying in. “A challenge posted without the knowledge or consent of the man named, which is an abuse of all our practice. When I find out who’s responsible, they’ll answer for it at the point of my sword.” He scowled at the assembled onlookers standing in tense silence. Clapping his hands together with a crack that made everyone jump, Fyle turned to the far door of the practice ground. “Ryshad Tathel, sworn man to D’Olbriot and newly chosen, stands ready to defend his right to that honour!” The belligerent shout echoed back from the empty rafters and even silenced the hum of noise outside.