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I rested my blade gently on his corded neck, between grizzled, close-cropped hair and his sweat-soaked collar. “Yield?”
He dropped his sword but only so he could rub the tender skin above each elbow. “That cursed hurt, Rysh.”
“Good enough?” I persisted, turning my face vainly for a cool breeze but the air was heavy and warm inside the rough wooden circle.
Fyle nodded, easing broad shoulders in a familiar gesture. “Good enough, unless someone unexpected turns up to answer the challenge.”
“So you’ve heard about that.” I sheathed my own sword and picked up Fyle’s blade, returning it to him with a bow of respect. “Any notion who might be interested?
“In taking you down a peg or two? His laughter rang up to the crudely shaped rafters. “They’ll be lining up!”
“Anyone I know in particular?” I wiped sweat from my face with my shirt sleeve.
Fyle paused, shirt open at the neck, breeches patched and sweat stained. He had more than half a generation on me, the chest hair tangling in the laces of his shirt greying, but he was still impressively muscled. “It was D’Istrac men you got into that fight with, you and Aiten.”
I sat on a plain wooden bench to ease the laces on one boot but looked up at his words. “Which fight?”
“Well, there were so many, weren’t there?” Sarcasm rasped in Fyle’s voice.
“Not so many,” I protested. “And we didn’t always start them.”
“You started that one with D’Istrac’s men though.” Fyle shook his head at me. “When you were ringing a bell about the way men raised to chosen and proven should take their turn at challenge, same as the rest, same as it always had been done. Debasing the metal of the amulet, wasn’t it?”
“But that was ten years ago,” I said slowly.
“You’d forgotten?” Fyle laughed. “Well, throw shit in the sea on the ebb and the stink’ll come back on the flow, you know that.”
“Can’t a man say stupid things when he’s young, drunk and stupid?” I pleaded, shucking my jerkin and hanging it on a peg.
“Of course,” Fyle assured me. “But older, wise and sober, you admit your mistakes.” He looked at me sternly, the scant space between his bushy eyebrows disappearing. “That’s what I reckoned when I saw that challenge posted. If you’d come to me to get my warrant, I’d have told you to forget it and just buy enough wine to sink the insult if you felt that bad about it.”
“But it’s not my challenge,” I told him. “That’s what I came to see you about. Who might have posted it in my name?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Fyle, voice muffled as he scrubbed at his face with a coarse towel.
“What about the other sword provosts?” I persisted. “Maybe someone came to them looking for a warrant?”
“No, and I went asking, ready to take a piece out of anyone’s hide who thought he could give warrant for a D’Olbriot challenge.” Fyle shook his head.
I managed a rueful grin. “So D’Istrac will be sending every chosen man they can muster, will they?”
“All those who don’t mind risking a bloody nose or a few stitches to put a crimp in their Festival rutting.” Fyle shoved wide bare feet into loose shoes. “You’ve a face like the southern end of a northbound mule! There’s no malice in it, Ryshad, but you’ve done well for yourself, got the Sieur’s ear these last few years, been sent off on Raeponin knows what duty. So you got chosen when men you trained with are still polishing up their scabbards in the barracks, and the higher a cat climbs a tree the more people want to tweak its tail.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll get us something to wash the dust out of our throats and you can tell me all about that Aldabreshin woman of yours. I’ve been wanting to hear the full story.”
Fyle went to the open door and whistled. An eager lad appeared; there are always a few hanging round any sword school, watching, learning and hoping one day to be recognised.
Fyle gave the boy coin and he ran off to fetch wine from one of the many nearby i
Young men drinking deep on empty stomachs say some brainless things. Was it that simple? Were my own foolish words coming back to mock me? Dast be my witness, I’d completely forgotten that quarrel so long past. I couldn’t even recall exactly where or when I’d been laying down the ancient law of the sword schools, intoxicated with all the vigour of youth and not a little wine. I didn’t relish explaining this to the Sieur or Camarl, admitting this challenge wasn’t some ploy to deprive the House or D’Alse
Who else would have remembered that evening? Who would care enough, after all this time to want to set me up for a fall? Why now? I’d spent a lot of time away from Toremal these last few years, but there’d been other Solstices for anyone wanting to settle that score to set their little game in play.
Aiten would have laughed, I thought gloomily. If he’d been here, he’d have been the first I’d have suspected of posting the challenge. He’d have thought it a glorious prank and then would have trained with me every waking moment so I’d walk off the sand as victor at the end of the day. But he was two years dead, all but a season and a half. Dead at Livak’s hand, but his death was owed to Elietimm malice. I knew she still fretted about the appalling choice she’d made, to kill my friend to save my life and hers when his wits had been taken from him by foul enchantment. I only hoped this distance between us wouldn’t have her doubting my assurance that I never blamed her.
Fyle returned swinging leather beakers in one hand and a blackened flagon in the other. “We’ll drink to your success tomorrow, shall we?”
“I hope there’s plenty of water in that,” I commented, taking a drink. Aiten was dead, Livak was away and I had to deal with the here and now. Someone had set a challenge and I had to meet it. If I was paying debts run up in my foolish youth, so be it. If someone pla
“We’ll lift the good stuff tomorrow,” Fyle promised, seeing my expression as I sipped. “When you’ve seen off whatever dogs come yapping round your heels.”
“You think I’ll do?” If he didn’t, Fyle would soon tell me.
“You’re the equal of any sworn man I’ve had here in the last five years,” he said slowly. “You’re young for a chosen, so you’ll face men with more experience than you, but on the other side of that coin they’ll be older, slower.” He smiled at me, the creases around his dark eyes deepening. “You were a loud-mouthed lad, but you were saying nothing we sword provosts don’t mutter among ourselves over a late night flagon. Too many chosen and proven polish up their armring and let their swords rust.”
Like Gla
“You know I’m no man for a wager.” Fyle shook his head. “I only take risks I can’t avoid, like any sensible soldier.”
We both drank deep, thirst gripping us by the throat.
“I’d have thought you’d have had a few more tricks up your sleeve,” remarked Fyle as he refilled our beakers with the well watered wine. “Didn’t you learn anything in those god-cursed islands down south?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” I laughed.
“One of our own gets sold into slavery by those worthless Relshazri, taken off into the Archipelago, where even honest traders say disease takes three men for every two the Aldabreshi kill. He fights his way out with wizards behind him and then turns up on the far side of the ocean, unearthing Nemith the Last’s lost colony, untouched by time?” Fyle looked at me, mock incredulous. “You don’t suppose I’m going to swallow that, do you? What really happened?”