Sharps (53 page)

“What? Oh.” She’d forgotten all about that. “Look, are you …?” All right? No, obviously not. Likely to die, alone, in the next twenty minutes? She’d have to take a guess on that one. “Stay there and rest,” she said. “I’ll be back. Count on it.”

He didn’t look utterly transported by joy, but she guessed that was a hurt man’s privilege. She looked around for the stupid sword, grabbed it, patted the back of her head to make sure her hair hadn’t burst free of its pins, and galloped down the stairs two at a time.

“Good heavens,” the Auzeil said. “It’s a woman.”

“Oh yes,” the interpreter said, nodding vigorously. “There’s been a ladies’ class in Permian fencing for, what, seventy years now. Of course they only fence smallsword, but some of them are really quite good. And the Scherians …”

“The swords aren’t sharp, are they?” The Cosseilhatz wasn’t really asking a question; more like seeking reassurance. But the interpreter nodded again.

“Oh yes. It’s proper fencing. In Scheria I understand they use foils, though I find that hard to believe.”

The no Vei frowned. “Foils?”

The interpreter had to shout, because the Permian girl had just walked out. “Swords with buttons on the end, to make them safe. But we don’t. That’s just for kids, really.”

She was about five foot six, slim, and beautiful. She was dressed from head to foot in red velvet, and her straight black hair was held back with an ivory comb. Her salute was the most graceful thing Iseutz had ever seen, and when she’d made it, she smiled. Not a mocking leer or any sort of a grin; a polite, friendly smile, from force of habit.
I can’t fight that
, Iseutz thought furiously.

She told herself: don’t look at the fencer, look at the sword. So she did; and it was thin and strong, triangular section with fullers, lighter than her colichemarde but just as good for parrying. The point was a needle, a geometric paradox, tapering by mathematical progression to the disputed place where nought-point-nought-nought-one subdivided into zero – an impossibility, but real nevertheless. I can fight that, Iseutz decided. Got to, in fact, or it’ll kill me.

It occurred to her, suddenly and without warning, that the Permian woman was probably a better fencer than she was, and that she could well die. It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d been aware that she was in danger, but on the other occasions she’d been too busy to dwell on it: the fight with the bandits, the fencing match at Joiauz, a couple of times during the riots at Beaute. But now here was Death, in red velvet, pretty as a picture, making a graceful salute and taking a middle guard in fourth; her assurance, her perfect balance, the steadiness of her extended right hand. This woman’s going to kill me, Iseutz thought, and there’s not really very much I can do about it.

She thought about dropping the sword and running, tried to do it, failed. Her fingers were frozen to the handle, as though she’d grabbed metal outdoors in midwinter. Something she couldn’t understand wouldn’t let her run or give up; that made her furiously angry, mad enough to want to fight, but there was no escaping the fact: the Permian girl was better at it, and was bound to win. She couldn’t feel her feet. Paralysed.

The Permian took a step forward, closing to long measure. Iseutz felt her own back foot slide out, her front foot following. The Permian edged towards her; she retreated. There was nothing else at all in the whole world apart from the point of the Permian’s sword. She stared at it, but she knew she wasn’t really concentrating. Her mind was a blank. She’d forgotten everything she’d ever known about fencing. Her feet moved without her orders or consent.

The Permian lunged; Iseutz put it aside to the left, moving the hilt but keeping the point still. The Permian disengaged quickly and smoothly and lunged again; Iseutz had to parry high and force the point down, and when the Permian disengaged again and lunged hard, all she could do was bunny-hop backwards into long measure, which was no answer at all. She felt panic surging through her, drowning all her practised reflexes, her instinctive responses. She tried desperately hard to open her hand to let the sword fall, but her fingers were cramped shut. The Permian lunged, and she tried to demivolte, but she couldn’t remember how to do it; instead, she managed a clumsy right-and-back traverse that just about got her out of trouble, in time for another lunge to come in directly at eye level. She had no idea what to do about that, but her left hand flicked out at the last moment and backhanded the blade away. The Permian pulled back sharply, and Iseutz realised she’d just missed a perfect opportunity for a counterthrust in straight time.

The Permian, however, seemed impressed, enough to back away and find a new line.
Pull yourself together
, Iseutz commanded herself,
for crying out loud
. Brave words; but it didn’t alter the fact that she was fighting a superior opponent, and had just used up a year’s supply of luck.

Suddenly, she remembered Phrantzes, the way he’d gone for Suidas like a lunatic or a drunk – no skill to speak of, and Suidas was far and away the better fighter, but Phrantzes had won. Wouldn’t work, of course; the Permian woman would turn her aggression against her, and besides, you couldn’t win at smallsword that way. Ah yes – Iseutz suddenly grinned – but you’re not
going
to win. So that’s all right.

The Permian was circling, choosing her line, clearly a perfectionist, resolved to make the most of the fight of her life, show off her skill in front of ten thousand connoisseurs. Iseutz kicked away from the sand with her back foot and shot out her right arm, as if she was trying to throw her hand at the Permian’s face. It was a stupid move, because it left her wide open; a volte or demi-volte would kill her, or a deflection and counterthrust in straight time. But her point was moving very fast straight at the Permian’s left eye. She parried and made space immaculately, but that didn’t matter. Iseutz lunged again, even harder, even wilder; she knew she was going to die, but really, so what? She felt a muscle in her forearm tear – you can’t lunge like that without doing yourself a mischief, so nobody does, so nobody practises a defence against it. A strong, sweetly economical parry put her blade aside, leaving her in direct line for a killing riposte. She ignored it and thrust again. The Permian parried, not quite so well this time, trying to bring herself round to Iseutz’s inside line. The hell with that. Iseutz lunged at full stretch, and the Permian woman’s point hit her in the mouth.

When Giraut saw Phrantzes collapse, he stood quite still for a moment, as if he’d been walking in a city and suddenly realised he was lost. Then he ran back along the catwalk. He assumed Addo would follow.

The Permians who’d carried him out of the arena were putting him down on the floor when he reached the landing. He pushed one of them aside and knelt down. “Phrantzes,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“No. Yes, I’m fine, I’m just exhausted. What’s happening with Iseutz? How’s she doing?”

Giraut had forgotten all about her. “I don’t know. I’ll go and look.” He hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”

“
Yes
. Go on, quickly.”

She’ll be fine, Giraut muttered under his breath as he scrambled down the stairs, she’ll be fine. He could hear gasps and shouts from the crowd, but that could mean anything; he knew they were perfectly capable of cheering for a Scherian. He reached the foot of the stairs and pushed the doors open, just in time to see …

The Cosseilhatz, who was short-sighted, leaned forward. “What happened?” he asked.

The interpreter frowned. “I’m not sure.”

Addo, climbing back on to the catwalk, heard the deep rumble of the crowd gasping and froze. He glanced down, but there wasn’t time.
My fault
, he told himself, and ran.

At the door, he stopped. He was covered in dust, and his shirt was ripped at the shoulder, where he’d caught it in a window stay, of all the stupid things. No fit state to go out in front of ten thousand people; but the noises the crowd were making suggested he’d run out of time for making himself look presentable. He patted helplessly at his knees and thighs, and told himself that everybody would be much too far away to see.

He’d left his messer on the table, but Phrantzes was lying there. He couldn’t see any blood. “Have you seen my messer anywhere?” he asked. Phrantzes stared at him. “It was here on the table, but …”

“On the floor,” Phrantzes said. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry, I haven’t been watching.” Addo was on his hands and knees, looking under the table. “Ah, got it, thank goodness for that.” He stood up, the messer in his left hand. “Is Iseutz out there?”

Phrantzes gave him a look he almost certainly deserved, and nodded. “I think you may be on now,” he said.

“Right.” Addo nodded. It was a strangely false gesture. “How did you do, by the way?”

“I won.”

“Excellent. Right.” Addo put the messer between his knees and rubbed his hands together, working some of the dust into his wet-soft palms. Not too much. “Where’s Giraut?”

“Down there, watching.”

“Splendid. Well, wish me luck.”

Phrantzes didn’t say anything. Addo turned and walked briskly down the stairs, like a clerk who’s slightly late for the start of his shift.

“I’m guessing,” the interpreter said, “that the Scherian woman had her mouth closed. I don’t think it was a particularly strong thrust, so presumably her lips and teeth took most of the force out of it. Usually, a stab in the mouth is game over. She must’ve been lucky.”

“And the Permian?”

“Stuck through the upper left arm, just above the elbow. Well,” the interpreter went on, “they’re just standing there, so I suppose that means they’ve given up and it’s a draw. Simultaneous strike. Surprisingly rare. Ought to happen far more often than it does, if you think about it.”

Iseutz spat out the mouthful of gravel that had been her front teeth. Her mouth was full of blood, welling out of her lips like floodwater. Strangely enough, it didn’t hurt – no, that wasn’t quite right. It hurt, but the pain was happening to someone else, the other Iseutz. She realised her sword was still a third of the blade deep in the Permian’s arm, but she wasn’t quite sure of the protocol for pulling it out. Should she ask permission first? It was such an intimate act.

The Permian had gone milk-white and frozen. She’d dropped her sword – reflex, not deliberate; now she was standing dead still, pinned to the empty air. Academic anyway, Iseutz realised, I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. It’d come out a sort of bloody-spitty mumble. As gently as she could, like taking away your hand when you’ve just laid the last card on the roof of a perfect card house, she pulled the sword out of the Permian’s arm. She saw her wince, and felt terrible about it. As soon as the blade was free, the sword dropped from her hand, like a ripe apple from a tree.

She was quite wrong about the pain. It did apply to her, after all.

Two men were helping Iseutz, each of them holding an elbow, helping her to shuffle along, like a very old woman supported by her grandsons. The violent tremor of relief he felt when he saw her surprised Addo, shocked him somewhat, but he didn’t have the time or the spare attention to do more than note it and recognise that there would be implications, if he lived that long. Still, he thought, she’s alive, and standing, that’s what matters.

He felt empty as he walked through the gate, still holding the messer in his left hand. As he emerged into the light, there was a sudden, extraordinary silence, as ten thousand Permians got their first look at the son of the Irrigator. Then a roar; a bursting of sound from overhead, like – he shrugged off the obvious, inevitable simile that his mind had found for him. Yes, like the sound the water must have made, thundering down the mountainsides. Fine. He didn’t know if the sound was hostile or friendly; probably both, he decided. Anyhow, it wasn’t important. Iseutz was alive, so at least something was probably going to be all right. They wouldn’t murder an injured woman in cold blood, no matter what. Would they?

Define murder. He looked round, but he was alone in the arena; the ten thousand in the stands didn’t count. Then the sound nearly crushed his head, as the people of Luzir Beal welcomed the arrival of the Permian champion.

It would’ve been a good idea, Addo realised, to have tried to find out something about the opposition beforehand. But there hadn’t been time, nobody to ask, and it had slipped his mind. Now he saw him, the opponent, the enemy, the other man. Addo resisted the temptation to smile. If he’d been given the job of making a Permian messer champion out of clay, and he’d had the necessary skill, working from first principles but without drawings and sketches, this was what he’d have come up with.

He was about six feet, very broad across the shoulders, about thirty years old; in fact, he looked like Suidas Deutzel with a beard. He wore a green linen shirt with big puffy sleeves, blue breeches and white woollen stockings, fencing pumps with silver buckles. He had a friendly sort of a face, very hard to read. He would undoubtedly have been in the War. His messer was the double-fuller pattern, relatively short and broad in the blade. Without that thing in his right hand he’d probably be a sensible, reasonable sort of fellow. He stopped just outside long measure and bowed. Addo responded in kind. The arena was suddenly quiet, so quiet that Addo could hear a bird singing a very long way away.

Concentrate
, he told himself, but he was finding it difficult to keep his mind on this, and not the other thing. Slowly the Permian straightened up out of the bow. When his back was straight, the fight would be on.

Fight messer like you’d play a chess game
. His father’s only observation on the subject, and from what he’d seen of messer-play, entirely wrong and inappropriate. Still, in the absence of any supervening instructions from a source of equivalent authority, those were presumably his orders. He wondered if his father had ever seen a messer, let alone picked one up; but he opened with a mildly aggressive gambit and took a long pace forward, into middle distance.