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“Having been in the Circle will bring you fame enough,” I said in a conciliatory tone.
“Fame as a has-been.” Gio pointed the foil, working himself up. “Why did I ever aspire to such a corrupt little world? Wre
Gio did not realize how hidebound he had become over four centuries. He had systematized the art of fencing and relied so much on his perfect knowledge that Wre
“You’ve gained a year and you can try again.”
“A year for what? A year to practice?” He gestured at a wall-chart of footprints coding positions for rapier exercises. “To shape up, lose weight, gain stamina?” He bent a sinewy arm until the long muscles knotted.
I took Gio’s point that clearly he was in the best fitness and still got beaten, but none of us could know what effect the following year of renown and a six-month sea voyage might have on Wre
I said, “Gio, the Empire needs you too. We don’t want to lose you.”
“The Castle’s already rejected me. Though I devoted my entire life to its service…I defended Hacilith in the last swarm.” His voice was drained of its usual energy. He would take days to recover from such an intense fight. “I felt the Circle dropping me. I knelt down and couldn’t get up. You bastards. But now I don’t feel much different, I suppose because I’m only twelve hours older. I think mortals feel like they’re twenty-one years old all their life, though their body gets slower and then they die. I’ll provoke a few duels before I die, though. I’m going to send a few of them ahead of me.”
Gio picked up his predecessor’s book, Treatise on the Art of Fencing, and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “What happened to the Serein before me? When I displaced him from the Circle he went mad and hung himself.” A downward twist of his lips showed what he thought of a Swordsman committing suicide. He spun the book through the air and swore when a servant ducked and it hardly clipped him.
Lightning said, “We are nowhere near restoring Awia and people already gripe about the necessary austerity. We need your imagination, not to mention your leadership.”
“Saker Micawater, what the rich fuck do I care about Awia now?”
Serein Wre
At the sight of Wre
“No!” said Lightning. “You may not fight.”
I took the knife from my boot and pressed the button for the blade.
Gio eyed me. “Nice. A Rhyda
Lightning said, “Put it away, Jant.”
“If you think I’m afraid to keep dueling, you’re wrong,” Wre
“Every single year until one of us is dead,” Gio spat.
“You were wide open with that moulinet. You bloody deserved it!”
Lightning repeated, “You may meet in twelve months. You may not fight now.”
“Step aside, Archer.”
Lightning stared at Gio, arms folded and wings spread.
Wre
Gio shook with fury. “I swear, Archer, get out of my way! Or I’ll cut every tendon in your bow arm! I’ll have my title back within an hour!”
“Honor demands a respite.”
“I’m mortal, I’m going to die anyway! Where’s the honor in that? I’ve nothing to lose!”
Wre
Gio flourished the foil. “I’ll die famous by ru
“Jant,” Lightning said eventually. “It looks like we need Tornado’s help to close this situation. Go to his room and fetch him; quickly, please.”
I hesitated.
“I can skewer you all on one blade!”
I nodded, ducked past and sprinted away. Gio watched until I reached the stairs and then he threw his foil aside. He pushed past Lightning and Wre
Lightning exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “God,” he said. “Such a worthy adversary.”
MEMO
To: Tern
From: Jant. You know, your husband. Tall, cheekbones, black wings…Yes, that one.
Tern, darling
Where are you? I wanted to say goodbye. The Stormy Petrel sails Friday-Mist has ordered us straight to Awndyn and I doubt I will be coming back. It is bound to sink, and I shall drown. Or be lost, becalmed, and starve. Besides, the sea nourishes monsters far worse than Insects. If you feel the Circle break, think of me, and open the letter I left with Rayne.
NB I borrowed a thousand pounds from the Wrought Restoration Fund. Hope you don’t mind. If we return in six months’ time, I’ll make enough money to pay it back with curios from “Ata’s Island.” Love you. Goodbye.
Jant.
CHAPTER FOUR
A shower of sleet fell at dawn, covering the stable courtyard with lumpy, slushy ice. Shallow puddles in its gutters looked gray as laundry water. Darker clouds smeared in the overcast sky above the large square forecourt. The sparrows that infested the eaves and stalls shouted out a dawn chorus. Warm air steamed from three pairs of thoroughbred horses harnessed to a gleaming coach. Lightning’s carriage was waiting to carry him and Wre
There was a clock tower on an arch above the main gate. I landed in front of its peacock-blue dial, which showed eight A.M., and watched Wre
The coachman stooped to check the bits in the mouths of the dapple gray mares and ran the reins through brass rings on the center bar. His scarf and thick buttoned coat made him look portly. He held the coach door open; Wre