“So it’s a good thing you’ve got Master Burquest arguing for D’Olbriot and all the resources of the Sieur’s archivist,” said Mistal bracingly. “He’ll have handfuls of clerks turning up with parchments from the days when Correl the Stout was a lad. And Master Burquest is well worth his fee; he hasn’t lost an argument in the last nine seasons. Raeponin may favour the just, but coin by the sackload can tilt his scales all the same.” He turned down an alley between two low-roofed, modest terraces. “But that’s a different fight. Here’s the sword school, and let’s hope Rysh’s got his wits about him today.”
Temar saw splintered paling fencing off a sizeable patch of land. Men in D’Olbriot colours stood either side of a sturdy gate with pails in their hands where Temar saw bills of challenge pasted up, just like the one Ryshad had shown him.
Mistal was rummaging in a pocket. “Something for the widows and orphans.” He dropped a silver Mark into a proffered bucket.
“Good to see you, Mistal,” grinned the man-at-arms. “So what’s Rysh think he’s playing at?”
“Can’t say,” shrugged Mistal.
“Can’t say or won’t, Master Advocate?” The man shook his pail meaningfully at Temar. “Something for charity, Esquire?”
So much for going unrecognised, Temar thought, digging in his purse. At least he had some small coin today, thanks to Allin.
Inside the compound women in modest gowns were selling bread, meat and miscellaneous trinkets from baskets and barrows. Two long trestle tables displayed swords and daggers guarded by muscular men whose forbidding frowns turned quickly to smiles of welcome if anyone approached with a purse. Runes were being cast over to one side and wagers made, to the considerable interest of onlookers, while a silent ring watched two men sitting deep in contemplation on either side of a White Raven board. Beyond, long, squat buildings flanked a lofty circular structure. A roar went up inside it, followed by enthusiastic feet stamping approval.
“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.