Swordpoint (15 page)

She said, 'You'll want to lay quiet for a couple days. I'll tell Willie to bring the news round to you at Marie's. If you've got any appointments Hugo can -'

He looked at her as though she weren't there. 'What are you talking about?' His eyes were the mute colour of drowned hyacinths.

'His lordship won't like it,' she explained. 'The city's not a good place for you to be.'

'Why not? I'm taking the job.'

He handed her the full mug and walked away. At the doorway he turned, remembering to say, 'Thank you, Ginnie,' before he left.

For a moment she stood looking after him; then she spun on her heel and walked slowly back into the tavern.

It was true; he could not afford to be blackmailed. But neither would he let someone under his protection be taken away from him. And that was the more immediate problem, to which Richard St Vier addressed himself.

He had nothing against Lord Michael Godwin, and what he knew of Lord Horn he didn't like: the man was stupid, graceless and impatient. It meant there was little chance of Richard's finding Alec before Horn gave up on him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't count on Horn being quite stupid enough to have Alec in his townhouse. It was a shame: Richard was good at breaking into houses. A set of plans like crystalline maps unrolled before him; but they all took time, and the note had said at once. There was no one on the Hill who owed him favours: Richard took care to keep himself debt-free both ways. There were people up there who might help him, if he asked, for his own sake; but it was bad enough that most of Riverside now knew about Alec's disappearance - he didn't want the whole city talking about it.

He crumpled the note in his fist. He must remember to burn it. Tonight he would challenge Godwin, take care of him, and hope that the duchess or someone would want St Vier badly enough to protect him from the Godwin family lawyers, should the need arise. He had no faith in Horn's protection. What happened after that, St Vier would have to take care of himself.

Chapter XVI

He left Riverside well before the sun set, wearing his comfortable brown clothes. He knew that most nobles were at home at that hour, getting dressed up for the evening's activities.

There were very few pedestrians on the Hill; he passed only random servants on last-minute errands. The meat and produce delivery wagons had departed with the last of their charges hours ago, leaving the cooks to their own devices; the visiting-carriages were being burnished in the yards. The gates and walls of the riverward estates cast long purple shadows across the wide streets. In the shadows, night's chill had already set in. He was glad of his long cloak, chosen to hide the sword he wore. Because of the spring damp, the ruddy clay in the street was not yet dusty. In the squares of sunlight between houses it glowed golden, blocked out by shadows in geometric patterns arbitrary and beautiful.

The Godwin townhouse was not large, but it was set back from the street, with a conveniently corniced gate. If the lord drove or rode out, he would certainly come through it. Richard positioned himself in a shadow against the wall, and waited.

The wait gave him time, unfortunately, to think about Alec and Lord Horn. He doubted the scholar was curbing his tongue any, and hoped, despite the note's assurance, that Alec would not be too badly damaged. These nobles were not like Riversiders: they were used to acting on their wills, they didn't understand about signs that something wasn't safe to handle, or instinct that said to let it go for now. That was what had first preserved Alec when he'd entered Riverside alone. People had sensed something not right about him, and had not exacted retribution for his offences. But Lord Horn wouldn't be thinking that way. And Richard already knew Alec's opinion of Horn. He felt himself smile with the memory.

St Vier shrugged and shivered at the chill that had settled in the folds of his cloak. There was nothing he could do about it now: only wait, and hope Lord Michael was not too heavily attended. So far as he knew he did not have his own bodyguard; if Richard issued the formal challenge to Lord Michael on the street he would have no choice but to fight St Vier then and there. But he was a long time coming out. Richard looked at the sky. He'd give it until sundown before going up to the door to call the noble out. That was a risk, because Godwin might have some servant inside who could take the challenge for him, fight in his stead and give Lord Michael time to flee the city before Horn could find another challenger. They were a silly bunch of rules, but they made death by duel with a professional seem less like assassination. It was all correct within the boundaries of formal challenge; but Richard doubted that Horn would be pleased, and he needed to keep him happy.

He'd challenged other young lords in his time, and was not looking forward to this. Often they made a great deal of fuss over their clothes, taking off and folding their coats as though they were going to be putting them on again. Even the ones with enough presence to strike a proper stance had hands that shook holding the sword. The only such challenge he'd ever enjoyed was one in which the lady hired him only to scar his mark distinctively.

He heard footsteps suddenly, and looked up. On the other side of the gate a small postern opened, and a man stepped out. When he turned to shut the door Richard recognised him as the red-haired nobleman who'd run after him that winter day at the bookshop, whom he'd pointed out to Alec at the theatre. Lord Michael was wearing a sword. He set off down the street, without looking behind him, whistling.

He could easily catch up to him. The space in the street was good, the light not yet failed. And, wonder of wonders, it was an excellent sword from what Richard could see of it: not the nobleman's toy they usually carried. He readied himself to move, and then paused. Where was this noble sauntering off to so purposefully, on foot and without attendance, carrying a real duelling sword? He wanted to know; and he did not really relish butchering the man in front of all his neighbours. Richard decided it would do no harm to stalk Lord Michael to his destination and satisfy his curiosity. Without undue hurry, he detached himself from the shadows and set off down the Hill after his guide.

'You're late,' observed Vincent Applethorpe, looking up from the sword he was polishing one-handed, the hilt wedged between his knees.

'Sorry,' Michael panted, having run up the stairs. He knew he was being accused, however mildly; and he had learned not to try to bluster his way out. He only explained, 'I had some people over, and they wouldn't go away.'

Applethorpe smiled slowly, secretly, into the polished blade. 'You may find that stops being a problem soon. In a year or so, after you've won your first duel. People become very eager to pick up the slightest of hints from you then.'

Michael grinned in return, more broadly than he'd meant to, at the thought of Lord Bertram and Lord Thomas flinching, putting down their chocolate cups and slinking away at the sign of a yawn. He found it hard to imagine really killing anyone; and if he did some day he certainly hoped none of his friends would find out about it.

Michael stripped down to his shirt and began limbering up. The master commented, 'The Tragedy's in town. Do you know about it?'

'I __it's at Blackwell's,' he answered noncommitally.

'It's not a good idea to go,' the Master said, putting the sword back on the rack. It hadn't really needed polishing, but he liked to keep up contact with his blades, and he didn't like sitting idle waiting for Godwin to come. Now he could pace, watching the young man from every angle, alert to any flaw. 'You want to avoid things like that.'

'Is there really a curse?'

'I don't know. But it's never done anyone any good.'

It satisfied him: practical, like all of Applethorpe's advice.

'Ready?'

Michael caught the practice-sword that was tossed to him -possibly Master Applethorpe's only theatrical tendency, but also good for his eye. It meant the Master would be calling out orders, and his student must follow the shifting commands with precision. He hoped tonight Applethorpe would duel with him again. He was getting better at it, learning how to integrate the moves and defences he'd been taught. It excited him - but not! any more, past skill and reason. He was learning to think and act at the same time.

'Garde!' the Master snapped, and Lord Michael sprang to the first defensive position, already tensed for the rapid command to follow. He waited a beat, two beats, but there was nothing.

'That's strange,' the Master said; 'there's someone coming up the stairs.'

Richard couldn't think why the lord should be walking to a common hiring-stable, when he had plenty of horses at home. He watched him go in a side door, and heard the swift tread of feet on wooden stairs. In a judicious few minutes, he followed.

He took it all in at a glance: the clear space, the targets, and the two men, one without an arm, the other still at garde, both staring at him in surprise.

'Excuse me for interrupting,' he said. 'My name is Richard St Vier. I bear a challenge to Lord Michael Godwin, to fight past first blood, until a conclusion is reached.'

'Michael,' said Vincent Applethorpe calmly, 'light the candles; there won't be enough daylight soon.'

Carefully Michael replaced his sword in the rack. He could hear the sound of his own breathing in his ears, but he tried to get it to sound like Applethorpe's voice, steady and even. He was surprised at how well he could control his muscles, despite the racing of his blood: the tinder struck on the first try. He walked around the room, lighting the fat drippy candles, their flames pale and indefinite in the twilight, almost transparent. This was St Vier, the strange man who had bought the book of philosophy from Felman that winter's day. He remembered rather liking him; and his friend Thomas, at the theatre, had betrayed a definite interest. He's watching you ... God, Michael thought, of course he was! He wished he had had the chance to watch St Vier fight, just once. Accidents did happen, and strokes of luck.

While Michael was making his rounds, Applethorpe came forward to greet the swordsman. 'I've heard of you,' he said, 'of course. I'm very glad to meet you.' They did not touch hands. St Vier's were inside his cloak, one resting on the pommel of his sword. They faced each other in the dim studio, two men of nearly identical height and build, but for the older man's missing arm. 'My name is Vincent Applethorpe,' the Master said. It was clear from St Vier's face that he'd never heard the name. 'I claim the challenge.'

'No!' said Michael without meaning to. He cursed as candle-wax dripped onto his hand.

'I wish you wouldn't,' Richard answered the Master. 'It will make things harder.'

'I was told you liked a challenge,' Applethorpe said.

Richard compressed his lips in mild annoyance. 'Of course it would be a pleasure. But I have obligations___'

'I have the right.'

The wax was cooling on Michael's hand. 'Master, please - it isn't your fight.'

'It will be a very short fight if it is yours,' Applethorpe said to him. 'You won't learn a thing. It is very much my fight,'

'You do have the right,' St Vier admitted. 'Let's begin.'

'Thank you. Michael, get your sword. Now kiss the blade and promise not to interfere.'

'I promise not to interfere.' The steel was very cold against Michael's lips. At this angle the blade felt heavy; it seemed to pull his hand down. He made his wrist sustain the weight for an extra moment, and then saluted his teacher with it.

'Your honour's good,' the Master was saying to St Vier.

'Inconveniently good,' Richard sighed. 'I won't touch him if you lose. If I lose, please see that word gets back to Riverside; they'll know what to do.'

'Then let's begin.'

And the master swordsmen began. It was all there as Michael had studied it. But now he saw the strength and grace of Applethorpe's demonstrations compacted into the little space of precious time.

Michael watched with luxurious pleasure the rise and fall of their arms, the turn of their wrists, now that he could follow what was happening. Master Applethorpe was demonstrating again, as fine and precise as at the lessons; but now there was a mirror to him, the polished, focused motions of St Vier. Michael forgot that death was at hand as, indeed, the two swordsmen seemed to have done, leisurely stroking and countering their way across the scrubbed white floor, with the high ceiling catching and returning the ring of their steel.

As the swordplay grew fiercer the sound of their breath became audible, and the nearer candle flames shuddered in their passing. It was almost too fast for Michael to follow now, moves followed up and elaborated on before he could discern them; like trying to follow an argument between two scholars fluent in a foreign language, rich with obscure textual references.

St Vier, who never spoke when fighting, gasped, 'Applethorpe - why have I never heard of you?'

Vincent Applethorpe took the occasion to come in high in a corkscrew movement that turned the other swordsman in a half-circle defending himself. St Vier stumbled backward, but turned it to his advantage by crouching into a sideways dodge that Applethorpe had to swerve to avoid.

Subtly, something changed. At first Michael couldn't figure out what it was. Both men were smiling twin wolfish grins, their lips parted as much for air as for delight. Their moves were a little slower, more deliberate, but not the careful demonstration of earlier. They didn't flow into each other. There were pauses between each flurry of strokes and returns, pauses heavy with tension. The air grew thick with it; it seemed to weight their movement. The time of testing, and of playing, was over. This was the final duel for one of them. Now they were fighting for their lives - for the one life that would emerge from this elegant battle. For a moment Michael let himself think of it: that whatever happened here, he would emerge unscathed. Of course there would be things to do, people to notify.... He caught his breath as St Vier was forced to lunge back into the wall, between two candles. He could see a crazy grin on the man's face as he held Applethorpe off with elaborate wristwork. For the moment the two were evenly matched, arm against arm. Michael prayed that it would never stop, that there would always be this moment of utter mastery, beautiful and rare, and no conclusion ever be reached. St Vier knocked over a candle; it put itself out rolling on the floor. He kicked aside the table it had been on, extricating himself from the corner, and the action resumed.

Richard knew he was fighting for his life, and he was terribly happy. In most of his fights, even the good ones, he made all the decisions: when to turn serious, whether to fight high or low... but already Applethorpe had taken that away from him. He wasn't afraid, but the edge of challenge was sharp under him, and the drop from it irrevocable. The world had narrowed to the strength of his body, the trained agility of his mind in response to his opponent. The universe began and ended within the reach of his senses, the stretch of his four limbs and the gleaming steel. It was too good to lose now, the bright point coming at him always from another angle, the clarity of his mind anticipating and returning it, creating new patterns to play___

He saw the opening and went for it, but Applethorpe countered at the last instant, pivoting clumsily so that what would have been a clean death stroke caught him raggedly across the chest.

The Master stood upright, gripping his rapier too tightly, staring straight ahead. 'Michael,' he said clearly, 'that arm is for balance.'

Blood was soaking through the sweat in his shirt, the smell of it like decaying iron overlaying the tang of exertion that still hung thick in the air. Quickly Richard caught him and eased him to the floor, supporting him on his own heaving chest. Applethorpe's breath made a liquid, tearing sound. Michael found his cloak, and spread it over his teacher's legs.

'Step back,' St Vier ordered him. He leaned his head down next to Applethorpe's and murmured, 'Shall I finish it?'

'No,' Applethorpe rasped. 'Not yet. Godwin - '