“—as I thought,” Olfeon said, contempt in his voice. “You mages are all cowards. If you have to take on a real man, you can only do it with your stinking magic.”
Briar’s six inches shorter than this kaq, thought Daja as she moved into a space in the half-circle. The men next to her were too interested in the brewing fight to do more than glance at her. But they’re muscled about the same, Daja thought as she continued to measure Briar against Olfeon. He may be a warrior sort—that scar on his cheek isn’t some lady’s kiss.
Briar raised his eyebrows. “Of course, if you think so, how could I possibly disagree?” he asked politely. He’d shifted his weight so he was balanced properly. “Look, are you trying to challenge me to a duel or something? Because if you are, could you get it over with? And if you aren’t, would you go away? There’s blight in that patch of speedwell over there, and I’d like to get rid of it before Her Imperial Majesty sees it and gets upset.”
“Duel?” snapped Olfeon. “With you, guttersnipe?”
Stinking kaq, thought Daja in disgust.
Olfeon continued: “I’d no more duel with a peasant like you than I’d duel with dog dung on my boot. Duels are for noblemen. I’ll just have my lackeys whip you. And if you go whining to Her Imperial Majesty about it, you won’t live to make it to the border.”
The men who watched laughed. Daja wrinkled her nose in disgust. Civilized Namornese my eye, she thought with disdain. They treat their women like property and outsiders like idiots. They deserve a lesson or two. She leaned on her staff with a smile and waited.
Briar looked over at her. “I can handle this myself,” he said, eyes glittering in anger. “I don’t need imperial protection—or yours.”
Even a former street rat has his pride, Daja told herself. To Briar, she said, “I’m just here to take wagers, if he’ll actually deign to trade blows with you.” She looked at the other noblemen. “I’ll bet gold that my friend hurts this kaq if it comes to a fistfight.”
“You’ll lose your money. We don’t wager with Trader mage spawn,” said one of the nobles.
The two closest to her kept their mouths shut as the others laughed. My neighbors fear my magic, not my staff, but it’s still rather sweet of them to be scared, Daja thought. Aloud she said, “Oh—too bad, because I’m giving five-to-one odds on a fistfight between my friend and yours. You know Traders don’t wager money they don’t have.” She looked at Olfeon and sighed. “I forgot. You won’t fight a commoner, even bare-handed.”
“You both need a lesson!” snapped Olfeon. He glared at the other men. “Bet, rot your eyes!” To Briar, he said, “When I leave you as jelly, get your friend here to pack you in a basket and send you home. Have we a bargain?”
Briar spat on his palm and offered it with an evil grin. It was a way for street rats to conclude a deal.
It was not the way Namornese noblemen sealed their oaths. Olfeon produced a handkerchief and let one end of it hang. “You may grab that,” he said impatiently. “Wipe your hand, while you’re at it.” He pointed to Daja. “No magic from you, either. These two?” He pointed to two men. “They see that nonsense. The fight will be forfeit in my favor if they catch either of you trying it.”
“Don’t think much of mages, do they?” Briar asked. He gave the handkerchief a sharp yank, then retreated to take off his boots and stockings.
“Apparently not. Let me know if you want me to ignore the rules. For you I’ll bash a couple of heads,” Daja offered. Olfeon sat on a rock to take off his own boots and stockings.
“You were always the most commonsensical of my sisters,” Briar said with a grunt as he worked a boot free. “If they kill me, just break their knees. They’re not worth a death sentence.” His second boot was off. Next he began to remove his knives, starting with the two he reached through the pockets of his breeches, and ending with the flat one that lay just below the nape of his neck under his shirt. There were eight in the pile when he finished, not including the pair he’d left in his boots. The nobles stared at the blades in shock. Briar continued, “Though, if you smack ’em on the head, the skull will cave in because there’s nothing to hold it up, and then you can sell ’em to Her Imperial Majesty as planters.”
Daja eyed the noblemen, who looked as if they would be glad to leap on Briar at this very moment. “Wagers, gentlemen?” she asked coolly.
She carried a small tablet and a stick of charcoal in a holder in an inner pocket of her tunic, in case she got the urge to design something. She used them now to record wagers, making sure each man wrote his name down clearly.
They were almost ready when she heard a familiar voice snap, “What is going on here?”
She looked up. It was that fellow Shan, the one who was the empress’s current lover.
Olfeon, who had stripped off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves, glared at the newcomer. “Not your affair, fer Roth.”
“Do you think she’ll be gratified if you kill her pet gardener?” Shan demanded. “She’ll be livid.”
“For all I know, she’ll be vexed with me if I dent one of her playtoys,” Briar said.
“Silence, clodhopper!” snapped Olfeon.
Briar looked at Daja and sniffed. “He’s so mean,” he said plaintively.
Daja tucked her tablet and the charcoal holder away. “I noticed that. You should be very offended and hit him first.”
As they had meant it to—it was how they’d have played it in the old days, when they were bonded—this exchange brought Olfeon hurtling at Briar, hands outstretched. Briar let him get almost close enough to touch, then twisted to the side and smashed his knee into Olfeon’s belly.
Daja watched with interest as the fight continued. He learned a lot while he was away, she thought as Briar used new throws and twists to slam Olfeon to the ground time after time.
He knew better than to let the bigger man get both hands on him. Then Olfeon would use his superior weight and height to drag Briar down. Instead, Briar aimed for nerve points he had studied for medicine, added to his old street fighter’s arsenal of tricks. At the end of the fight, Briar’s foot rested on Olfeon’s neck, pressing the right side of his face into the grass as Olfeon flailed wildly. When he tried to grab Briar’s leg, Briar pressed harder. The Namornese collapsed at last, starved for air. Daja made the final tally. Briar had a black eye, several cuts, a split lip, ripped clothes, bruises, and perhaps a sprained knee. Olfeon had facial cuts, a sprained wrist, a broken nose, ripped clothes, and his own collection of bruises.
“Pay me by the end of today,” Daja called to the losing bettors. “I won’t take signatures in place of real coin, and I’m cross when people think to cheat me.” She looked around, about to call for Sandry to fix the clothes, when she saw her sister being handed down the stairs by Shan. Quenaill followed Sandry, a scowl on his long face.
As they approached, Shan said to Briar and Olfeon, “Did you think I’d leave you both to face Her Imperial Majesty in this condition? Clehame Sandry will see to your clothes, Quen to your wounds.”
You just did it for an excuse to have Sandry hold you by the arm, Daja thought cynically. I bet you couldn’t care less for Briar or the other fellow.
Sandry glared at the two battered young men. “What was this about?”
Briar glared back. “Namornese sheep,” he retorted. “He claimed Namorn breeds sheep that think for themselves.”
“We fought over his right to wear that medallion,” said Olfeon. “Right, lads?”
The young men nodded. Through their magical connection Daja told Sandry, It was over the empress. I suppose she would be vexed with Olfeon if she knew.