In Search of Spice (2 page)

“Damn! She’s good,” said Victor. “She won it with that. Very, very clever and she played for it perfectly.”

“What? Over? Why, she barely touched him.”

The crowd was murmuring, unsure what had happened, though a canny few were making their way to the bookmakers, strategically placed near the lanes leading into the crowded square.

“Tendons” said Victor with a smile. “That sachet marks the tendon, either he fences now with his left hand or he retires. Morten will retire, he can’t fence left handed. Not at this standard.”

“But, but it was just a touch!”

“It doesn’t take much to slice open a tendon, that’s why it is protected. It takes one hell of an accurate blademaster to make that shot - she had a tiny, tiny area to hit, the crease which allows the wrist to turn, which was moving damn fast but she hit it.”

The referee examined Morten’s wrist, but Morten only had eyes for the girl, with a stunned smile on his face. His voice carried.

“I misjudged you, ma’am. I congratulate you on your win, quite brilliant. You totally foxed me. May I have the honour of knowing my victor’s name?”

The girl smiled. “Thank you, sir, for your kind words. I fear for now I must keep my identity secret a little longer, you will understand later. Good fortune.” Her voice was low and melodious, but it carried clearly round the sale.

The referee spoke quietly to Morten, who responded firmly, “I do.”

The referee turned to the crowd. “A tendon shot wins the bout for the Mystery Entrant. Morten retires, declining to fence on with his left.”

The crowd did not erupt. They muttered, as they felt a little cheated at not seeing more of her. The lucky ones nodded their heads and headed off to the bookies to collect their winnings. The mutterings increased, a little angry, but deflated when the rough crowd outside the Upturned Oxcart pub began to cheer and shout, waving their beer pots.

“Well done Russet!”

“The Red Rattna strikes again!”

“Fastest win for the Red Rapier!”

“Gives us a kiss for luck!”

At this last, the girl smiled and blew kisses to them, causing the noise to double.

“Umph,” said Victor, “she is very young. She should stay focused - her next match is against the Champion - she needs to be ready for him, he is superb, highly skilled. Come Oliver, I shall let you buy me lunch and another bottle of this excellent red and I shall explain what happened.”

“Never mind, I don’t need to know.” Oliver was impatient. He looked around. They were in a private booth of the Drunken Courtier, a public house; the veranda overlooked the raised fighting dais, with the door open so the waiters and waitresses could see them. “Is this place secure?”

“Of course it is,” Victor glared at him. “I have more to lose, consorting with the likes of you. I don’t want anyone seeing you, let alone hearing what we talk about.”

“Very well.” Oliver didn’t look convinced. “So, what is the latest news?”

“All in good time. So impatient, it is not polite to discuss business till after we have eaten.”

“I pay you enough not to have to put up with your foibles.” Oliver hated Victor for his upper class smoothness, but masked the hatred behind impatient anger.

“Nonsense. And I am going to need more; I have to keep up my position in society. You must follow the customs or you will stand out, and the waiter may report it. He will think it deuced odd if we are talking business over food.” Victor waved at the waitress through the doorway. She nodded and moved off.

Victor leaned forward. “I spoke yesterday with a friend from Westport. He tells me you can forget Fearaigh.”

“I did not expect anything else. They do not love us.”

“They don’t care much for your ways, they prefer the old religions, trade with the Elves and they love the Starrs. Half the army is from Fearaigh.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, and show me the money is not wasted.” Oliver’s eyes gleamed in his pale face.

As Victor started to speak, a young man pushed his way into the room. “Hello, gentle sirs, my name is Andy. Can I help you with your order?”

“Excellent!” Beamed Victor. “You can indeed. First we need another bottle of the Navarre, then tell me the menu. Who is the chef today?”

“Mrs Jenks has the oven today, sir; she recommends the pheasant pie, or the steak and oyster pie. Otherwise I could do you some nice wood pigeons, or there is some ham, and I think if I hurry I can rustle up a lamprey, as it’s you, sir.”

“Lamprey? Mrs Jenks? Really, ah yes that would be wonderful - I shall have it with a couple of pigeons, they go well together and Mrs Jenks cooks them superbly. The Navarre will complement the pigeon beautifully. Will you share with me, my friend?” He asked Oliver.

“Thank you, no, that would be far too rich for me. Some light chicken broth, bread and a bit of cheese.” Oliver tried to smile, which was scary.

“Certainly, gentle sirs,” nodded Andy, “it will be about half of the hour, if that is acceptable?” He minced out and they heard him snap at the serving girl to bring the wine.

“Count Rotherstone is on everyone’s lips,” murmured Victor, wiping his mouth on a napkin with precise care. “He is considered the leader of the revolutionary cadre, even though he does nothing overtly. Raphael is not taken seriously, though a significant number of invitations are arriving for him.”

“Invitations? So what? Be serious, man!” Oliver stared at him.

Victor sighed. “Prince Raphael is single. The increases in invitations are coming from mothers of unmarried girls. They are hedging their bets, offering their daughters in the hope of catching a king. The increase means many of the upper classes think there is a chance he may inherit. A good chance.”

“Ah, I see.” Oliver was actually impressed by the subtlety, but took care to hide that. “How many are converting to the true religion?”

“That I cannot know, it is not widely talked about and very private. But there has been a sea-change in outlook. It is no longer derided, but talked about as just another religion. As you know, most of them care little for religion in any form, so this is a good sign.” Victor smiled and sipped his wine, building suspense before he delivered the good news. “The merchant boys are successful as officers. It is agreed to allow many more of them to join, and their competence allows the nobility to move their sons to the City Guard rather than fighting regiments.” He sneered. “The weaker, diluted nobility, of course. They don’t want to fight the barbarians on the northern border, or meet Spakka raids in the east. They are happy to let your lads do that for them, and the rate of retirement is up hugely.”

“Very good,” Oliver was pleased. He placed a large purse on the table, which vanished into Victor’s pouch. “And the Palace Guard?”

“Oh, no problem there. I lunched with the adjutant three days ago and on my advice he is taking on a cadre of not just officers, but guardsmen as well. You will own it within a few years. Worth an extra purse, I fancy!” He watched greedily as Oliver reluctantly placed a smaller purse on the table.

“What is the King’s attitude to the new parliament? Has it changed?”

“Not really. He’s not convinced they can do anything worthwhile, and isn’t paying much attention to them. The Princess is a different matter. She’s been bending his ear about it and I understand she is now forbidden to talk about parliament at meals. I believe she is spending time listening to them in session?”

“Yes, she does. I don’t think she likes me very much.” Oliver smiled with satisfaction.

Victor took a larger sip of wine, to stop himself commenting on the princess’s exemplary taste.

Oliver did not think he would get much more from the old courtier, and decided to leave. Excellent news on the officers, which would speed the process, and even better news on the guard. He thought briefly of his own commission, sitting in his pocket, and wondered when he would take it up. The king would not like to find out members of parliament were officers in the new army they were raising.

The daughter was an issue. She would work out the possibilities, and they needed to debate some sensitive issues in the coming weeks. He decided to bring forward the plan to remove her and install Raphael. He stood abruptly, seeing Victor’s raised eyebrow at his silence, and threw a coin on the table. “That’s for lunch. I shall meet with you again in a month’s time. Get a table at the archery tournament, I shall find you.” He pulled on his cloak and left.

Victor sighed with pleasure and ruminated on the ills of life that had destroyed his investments and forced him into taking the puritan coin. To say nothing of the wretched boy who had sucked him into this mess in the first place. Still, he could see the way the wind was blowing and it would be important to come out on the right side.

It was the last bout of the day and had stretched to half an hour, the longest bout so far. The Champion, Ariston, was moving easily, but giving the Red Queen huge respect. Both players were level on 11 points - 12 was the victory target. They had been on 11 for the last ten minutes, an unprecedented time with no score.

Ariston was a well-muscled man in his late twenties, approaching six foot tall, balanced and moving well. He was still smiling as he fought, but his grey eyes showed his care, watching the girl like a cat, riveted on her face. The sweat rolled down his face and his shirt was stained dark. Most was sweat but a few minor sachets had burst.

The girl was laughing. Not all the time, but you could see the joy on her face as she moved lightly and easily, matching Ariston”s every move. This did not bother Ariston; you could see he loved every moment of the challenge. The crowd was hushed. This was a bout such as you were lucky to see once in five years, and to see two blade masters enjoying each other’s skill was unusual to say the least. Once Ariston had skidded on a flower thrown from the crowd, and the Red Queen had backed up and let him recover.

Victor’s face wreathed in smiles as he watched with reverence. He had a crowd of his friends on his veranda with him now.

Ariston launched an attack in the high line, arm raised, forcing the parried response higher and higher, to the full extension of the girl’s reach. In a moment, it would be too high and he would overcome her as he pushed her off balance. A trick he would not have tried had he not sensed her tiring. She went from the high quarte parry, flowing smoothly into a derobement, trapping and forcing his blade outwards as she went forward and leapt impossibly high into the air, pushing his blade well out of line. The forward movement and the jump prevented him from disengaging and he started to back-pedal. The girl’s blade disengaged, her foot came up high to replace it and continued pushing his blade out of the way and then her rapier arced back towards his eye.

The crowd sighed, and Victor breathed, “The Heron Strike! That I should live to see it.”

At the very peak of her leap, her rapier swept down to his face and Ariston literally saw death. Somehow, she stopped the stab a fraction from the eye, and alighted with a small, victorious smile, her point resting on his cheek. Ariston relaxed and with care brought his sword back to the en garde position, almost touching her arm in the process. He swung the sword round in the loser’s salute.

The arena erupted with shouts and screams, people throwing all sorts into the salle. Mainly flowers, some jewellery, even fruit.

The referee went into a huddle with the four men of the jury, rapidly joined by the tournament director.

Ariston went to one knee, and spoke quietly so only the girl could hear. “My thanks, my Lady, for the finest fight I have been privileged to enjoy. It has been an honour to cross blades with you, and I know you will win this tournament.”

“You are too kind, good sir. I cannot tell you the pleasure it has given me. I had quite forgotten the tournament, to be honest.”

They grinned at each other in mutual respect. The referee called for quiet, repeatedly, until the noise fell. The tournament director stepped up and the crowd stilled, uncertain. This was not expected.

“We have a little difficulty here. The Strike of the Heron may be a winning blow in a real fight, but in tournament the eyes are sacrosanct and use of the foot in this manner is illegal. By making this attack, the mystery entrant has struck a foul blow. Although the Champion has ceded defeat, we cannot accept it. The score remains 11 each and the mystery entrant must be disqualified.”

At first, there was a stunned silence. The crowd started to hiss and rise. Before it could reach any volume, the girl stepped forward and stood beside the tournament director, who was looking decidedly nervous.

“Good people of Praesidium, listen to me. I accept the director’s decision. He is correct, my actions were outside the rules of the tournament and I apologise I was carried away by the bout and performed an illegal move. It is only right I concede defeat to a very worthy Champion.”

The crowd clearly disagreed with her.

She held up her hand for silence, and slowly got it. Behind her mask, her green eyes flashed. “I have made my decision. It is the right one. You will accept it, for now I shall reveal who I am and you will realise that once you know, I cannot carry on.”

That got the crowd’s attention, sure enough and they fell silent as she raised a hand to the half mask that covered her eyes and the top of her face. She ripped it off and shock rippled round the crowd. A small, square, determined chin and the flashing eyes dominated and enlivened a plain face, high cheekbones and famous nose. The tournament director, the jury, the referee and Ariston dropped to their knees, the Champion with a huge grin on his face.