Devlin's Luck (16 page)

An axe was no weapon for a fight in such a confined space. It had been luck that had won that battle, not skill. But perhaps there was a way to tip luck in his favor, next time. He had not time to learn the sword, but there were other weapons that could be used close in. Weapons that he had once known, and could learn again.

Devlin paid another visit to the forge of Master Timo, the Royal Armorer. His reception this time was chilly, as he had known it would be. Yet Master Timo’s skill was widely praised, and as the Royal Armorer he could be trusted to craft the weapons, and to keep silent about their existence. Until Devlin had a chance to regain his skill, it was best that no one know what he was planning. So he had invoked the power of his office to insist that the smith forge the knives to his specifications.

Two days later Devlin inspected the first of the knives that had been crafted, and pronounced himself satisfied. Master Timo promised the others would be ready within the day.

Returning to his chamber, he entered, then paused. Someone had been there, for a uniform had been carefully laid out upon the bed. A piece of parchment tied with a ribbon lay next to it.

The ribbon was silk, tied in an intricate knot meant to display the sender’s skill at this royal art. One stroke with the new knife put an end to the foolishness, and Devlin unrolled the parchment and began to read.

“His Grace Duke Gerhard, King’s Champion, General of the Royal Army, Defender of the Throne, invites you to witness an exhibition of skill at arms, in a courtly duel against the challengers from Selvarat. At the third hour, in the arms salon.”

A courtly duel. No doubt it was nothing more than a few overdressed nobles, posturing with their swords. He released the end of the scroll, and it curled up in his hand. He began to crumple it, as he had discarded all previous invitations.

Yet something made him pause. He remembered Captain Drakken’s warning about court intrigue. This duel would give him a chance to observe the members of the court, when their attention was on something other than his presence. And should Duke Gerhard suffer an ignominious loss, Devlin wanted to be there to bear witness. There had been something about the Duke that he had disliked from their very first meeting. It would be a pleasure to see such a one get his comeuppance.

At the appointed hour Devlin made his way to the salon of arms. He had discovered the salon earlier in the week, during his restless wanderings. It had been empty then, and he had spent a few moments marveling that so much expensive glass should be put to such a purpose.

The arms room was designed as a rectangle within a rectangle. The center rectangle was fifty paces in length and twenty paces in width, and its wooden floor was lightly dusted with fine white sand. Stone pillars linked together by finely wrought iron chains separated this practice court from the observation gallery that formed the perimeter of the room. Light streamed in from windows set high up in one wall, adding to the brilliance of the torches mounted on the pillars. All four walls were paneled with glass mirrors to twice the height of a man.

But he had not reckoned on the full effect. Now, with the room filled with richly dressed courtiers, the mirrors multiplied their reflections over and over, till he was nearly dizzy. From a corner of his eye he spied movement and turned suddenly, only to realize that he had been startled by the reflections of those who stood across the room.

Devlin turned left, and began to circulate around the room, receiving a few curious glances as people recognized the uniform of the Chosen One. But as he had expected, the forthcoming spectacle outweighed the novelty of his presence. Helping himself to a goblet of straw-colored wine from the tray of a passing servant, he continued his circuit. Snatches of conversation came to his ears.

“And that is why Lady Helga has repudiated the marriage—”

“No, no, that was his father. The son has never—”

“A petty noble from Myrkan. No one of importance. I daresay the court would never have noticed if he was gone.”

At this Devlin pricked up his ears, realizing his recent errand was the topic of discussion. Turning his head, he identified the speaker as a plump elderly noblewoman, in conversation with a middle-aged man. The crowd swirled around him, and he discreetly edged nearer.

“And how humiliating to be rescued from an innkeeper. Not that I haven’t had an encounter or two with an amorous inn-wife myself. But never one where I required rescuing,” the nobleman said with a snicker.

“Baldur, you miss my point,” the noblewoman said, tapping her companion’s arm for emphasis. “It is we who are humiliated. The man is a foreigner. A commoner, fit only for public brawling. I would not have him as a servant, and yet now we must call him my lord, and give him the precedence accorded to the Chosen One. What was Captain Drakken thinking? He should never have been allowed to petition the Gods. In the old King’s day this would never have happened. Someone should remind our King that Captain Drakken takes too much on herself.”

“Lady Vendela, if you were still a King’s councilor, I am sure this outrage would never have happened. But perhaps there is a way to turn this to our advantage. Surely after this debacle, the King will see how foolish this has become, and agree there is no need for the post of Chosen One.”

Lady Vendela muttered something too low for Devlin to hear. Was she agreeing with this Baldur? He ventured a step closer, but the courtiers who had screened his view chose to move on, and suddenly he was in clear view of the pair.

Baldur caught sight of him first and whispered in the ear of Lady Vendela, who turned to look at Devlin. Devlin returned her glare steadily, and her face turned pale with anger or perhaps shame. After a long moment, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Silver bells rang, and at that signal, the courtiers began to gather around the perimeter of the practice area. Devlin positioned himself near the center of the bottom end, with his right side against a pillar. The space to his left was empty.

For the first time he noticed that three chairs had been set up at the top of the square. As the silver bells rang again, King Olafur appeared and took his place in the center seat. A young girl came and sat on his right, while a tall man dressed in a dark green brocaded robe took the seat to his left.

He recognized the foreigner as Count Magaharan, the Ambassador from Selvarat, who had been an honored guest at the last court dinner. The girl must be Princess Ragenilda, the King’s only child and heir. From this distance it was hard to read expressions, but he got the impression of a solemn child.

Duke Gerhard then stepped into the square. “On behalf of our noble King Olafur, I bid you welcome. And we thank Count Magaharan for allowing his personal guards to participate in this exhibition of martial skills.”

The Count rose and bowed to those assembled, who applauded softly in recognition of his contribution to the afternoon’s entertainment.

Duke Gerhard stepped out of the square, and was replaced by a woman wearing the blue uniform of the Royal Army. “The first match will be between Vidkun of Jorsk and Teodoro of Selvarat, using the light swords.”

The two combatants entered the square, bowed to the King and his guests, then turned to face each other. The dueling mistress stepped back a few paces, but remained in the square so she could observe the action.

The combatants drew their swords and saluted each other.

“Begin,” the dueling mistress ordered.

The swordsmen began to circle around each other, their long slender swords flashing as they probed for an opening. Each parry was countered by a block, so smoothly that they might have been performing an elaborate dance.

“Only second-rank swordsmen,” he heard someone complain. “It will be ages before the skilled fighters take the floor.”

Around him, the courtiers began to drift away from the practice square, far more intent on resuming their conversations or seeking out acquaintances than they were in watching the duel. But Devlin remained, fascinated by the spectacle. He had seen sword practice many times before, but never had he seen anyone use swords of this type. At least two handspans longer than the broadsword with which he was familiar, the swords were incredibly thin and flexible. Light enough that the swordsmen could perform complex patterns with dazzling speed, and yet resilient enough that when the swords crashed together, they did not break.

He ached to get his hands on one of them, to see how it was made. How did they sharpen the edge without weakening the mettle? Or was the edge only sharpened for part of its length? Perhaps it was merely the point that was lethal, for the fighters’ tactics seemed focused on pointfirst lunges rather than on the heavy killing stroke of a broadsword.

“Third point! Selvarat!” The dueling mistress called out, pointing to the foreign challenger.

The fighters broke apart. The foreign challenger raised his sword in victory while the Jorskman lowered his sword and bowed low in acknowledgment of his defeat.

A faint scattering of applause was heard as the fighters exited the square. The next pair, two women carrying short swords and round shields, took their places.

Devlin felt his attention begin to wane, as the short sword was nothing new to him. He watched for a few moments. The fighters were very good, but they lacked the indefinable spark of greatness. Cerrie could have defeated either of them without breaking a sweat.

It was interesting that the officials and duelists were from the Royal Army, which drew its officers from the ranks of the nobility, rather than from the City Guard, which was based on merit, and open to all. Did the King favor the Royal Army over the Guard? Perhaps that explained some of the remarks he had overheard earlier.

Or was it simply that Duke Gerhard was head of the Royal Army and had chosen his own to compete this day? How could Devlin tell what was significant and what was not in the morass of court politics and ancient loyalties? The members of the court had spent their lives learning the game of power, forming allegiances and learning whom they could trust and whom they should fear.

What Devlin needed was an impartial guide to the court, someone who could explain its factions. But whom could he trust? Captain Drakken had her own concerns and goals, which would color any advice she gave. And yet there were few others who would deign to exchange greetings with him, let alone trust him enough to exchange confidences about the other members of the court.

There was naught to do but see what he could learn on his own. Devlin turned away from the square and began to make his way through the crowd.

“Chosen One! Devlish Rockfist, or whatever your name is.”

He turned, and saw Master Dreng standing near the mirrored wall. The court magician had a glass of red wine in one hand, and with the other he gestured imperiously for Devlin to approach.

Devlin remained where he was, ignoring the gesture. He still remembered the day of the Choosing Ceremony, and the role the mage had played. In other circumstances, a mage of such skill would inspire respect and a healthy touch of fear, but Devlin felt only anger as he contemplated the man who had used his craft to place the loathsome Geas upon him.

Seeming to realize that Devlin had no intention of coming at his call, Master Dreng excused himself from his companions and approached.

“Chosen One.”

“Mage,” Devlin said flatly.

“I must congratulate you on your survival, although you have cost me another wager.” The mage’s tone was light, but he inspected Devlin from head to foot, as if he was trying to divine the secret of Devlin’s survival.

And perhaps he could. He was a master mage, after all. Who knew what he could do? Devlin repressed a shudder at the thought.

“I regret if my survival distresses you,” he said. “I will try to be more considerate in the future.”

Master Dreng blinked. “I believe you are mocking me.”

“No doubt an unusual experience. But there is a first time for everything,” Duke Gerhard said, as he joined them. “After all, who would have thought that one of the Caerfolk would be Chosen? What other new wonders will there be under the sun? Perhaps pigs will fly, or horses begin to sing.”

The back of his neck prickled, and Devlin felt his muscles tense. Something about the King’s Champion made him uneasy. Perhaps it was the way his cold green eyes be-lied his seemingly affable smile. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to regard Devlin as a nuisance, someone whose presence was unworthy of his notice. Or it could be simply Devlin’s own ingrained dislike for the man who led the Royal Army. After all, the troops that garrisoned Duncaer called this man General, and followed his bidding.

“The report of your adventure in Astavard has reached even my ears,” Duke Gerhard said. “What a formidable test of skill that was. An old woman, and two beardless young men? You are lucky you escaped with your life.”

Devlin felt his anger rise. What did this posturing noble know of fighting for one’s life? All of his battles had been fought on the sands of the practice floor. “The inn-wife and her family murdered over three dozen innocent travelers. What I did was justice. No more and no less.”

“Of course,” Duke Gerhard said, but his tone was disbelieving.

“And as for skill, there is a world of difference between a pretty duel and a fight for one’s life. I would match my skill against anyone’s on the killing floor,” he declared rashly. Even as he said the words, he knew they were a hollow boast. His skills were no match for those of a master swordsman.