Hammer Of God (7 page)

Surprised, she halted by the guest chair and gripped its carved wooden back. She hadn't expected him to understand that. “Yes. Sometimes.” She let out a shaky breath. “Helfred, take your time travelling to the dukes. Don't be sluggardly but…don't hurry, either. I need some little breathing space, so Zandakar can school me in meeting and defeating these men with their longswords.”

He nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty. And as I travel I'll say a goodly prayer, that Zandakar's schooling achieves its end.” Steel flashed in his eyes again. “These dukes have been disobedient long enough.”

“Wei!” Zandakar shouted. “Rhian hushla, you wish to die?”

Sweat-soaked and panting in the mid-afternoon sun, stippled with blood on her cheek and throat and on her arms where Zandakar's longsword had nicked her flesh to make a point, Rhian held up a hand, halting their hotas.

Zandakar glowered at her, barely out of breath. She glowered back, gasping for air.

I hate him. How I hate him. He'd never held a longsword until the day before yesterday and yet he wields it like he burst from his mother's womb brandishing the thing.

“What?” she demanded. Her right arm ached ferociously; the shortsword he and Alasdair had chosen for her from the armoury – and why was I not included in that decision? – had more than twice the length of the dagger she was used to and felt horribly unwieldy. I'll never be able to fight with this. God, I've signed my own death warrant. “What did I do wrong this time?”

They were sparring in the castle's tiltyard, next to the stables, where once her brothers and her father had crossed swords in training, never thinking a sword would be needed for war. She'd sparred here too, but only with a light foil. Well-bred young ladies had no need for hammered steel.

Or so they thought. My, how times change.

Zandakar reached out and slapped her left flank with the flat of his blade. Even through huntsman's leathers the blow hurt. She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a wince.

“Rhian put weight wrong, put weight forward,” he said. “Weight on back foot, hushla. So you dance hota like this.” With effortless grace he leapt straight up in the air and flipped his tall body over and backwards. Even as his right foot touched the ground his left leg caught her hard behind the knees so she fell flat-backed to the ground. Before the air had escaped her lungs in a wheezing groan his sword-tip was pressed into the base of her throat. “Zho?”

“Zho,” she said, glaring, and looked sideways to where Adric and a handful of courtiers and the soldiers who guarded Zandakar were dangled over the tiltyard fence. It was politic to let them linger, watching her, watching Zandakar, but she still didn't like it.

Zandakar stepped back, withdrawing his sword, and she flipped to her feet. Every muscle in her body was screaming.

“Rhian put weight forward, invite dukes to kill her,” he said. His blue eyes burned with frustration.

“I know that!” she snarled. “But this shortsword, the weight throws my balance off. I'm used to a dagger, you know I am. I've only just learned to dance the hotas with a knife, Zandakar, don't bully me because—”

He slapped her face. “Tcha! Hatz'i'tuk! Rhian wei—”

Cheek burning she whirled, her shortsword extended, her body moving to block his.

“Stand down, Sergeant!” she commanded. “And your men.”

Rigert halted three paces distant, his own sword out and death in his eyes. His two subordinates crowded behind him, just as keen to see Zandakar spitted.

“Majesty, he assaulted you!”

“No, he did not,” she said. “We're training. It's his way.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I was in the wrong, and should've kept my mouth shut. Yatzhay, Zandakar.”

Baffled, Rigert stared at her. “Majesty…Majesty, he should not be so close to you with a naked blade.”

“No? Then how would you suggest he trains me, Sergeant? By writing me helpful notes and throwing them at my feet as I cross swords with the dukes?”

Rigert didn't care for her sarcasm. Lips thinned, eyes resentful, he put back his shoulders. “His Majesty has charged me—”

“I have charged you, Sergeant,” she snapped. How long, God, how long, before they see the crown first and my sex last? “I've made it clear you'll not interfere without my express invitation. Must I find another sergeant who can follow my commands?”

Slowly Rigert's sword-point dipped towards the ground. “No, Your Majesty.”

She nodded. “Good. Then remove to your post, unless you're after a haircut…or worse.” She turned her back on him, letting him know she took obedience for granted, and met Zandakar's unblinking gaze. His anger had faded. Now he looked at her with grim amusement.

“We dance now, zho?”

She nodded again. “Zho. We dance.”

This time she didn't fail. She kept her weight back, she flipped herself up and over with the shortsword balanced and even managed to touch its point to his heart. His teeth flashed, smiling, and when he cuffed her again it was with pleased approval.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

Running with fresh sweat, her muscles pleading for mercy, she turned. “Who hails me?”

One of the castle message boys, his brown eyes astonished in his thin, freckled face. There were so many boys like him; they leapt about the place like fleas. Neat in castle livery, blue velvet banded with black, a flat-brimmed blue cap on his close-cropped head, he panted to a halt before her, flourished a bow and clasped his hands behind his back. His wide-eyed gaze kept darting past her to Zandakar.

“Majesty,” he said in his young boy's piping voice, “and it pleases the king to say that word is come from the prolate. You would do the king great honour to meet with him and your council for to discuss these important matters of state.”

Rhian smiled. Dear God, what a mouthful. He looks too young to understand a half of it. “Thank you—”

A tide of red obliterated the boy's freckles. “Nosher, Majesty.” It came out a strangled whisper.

“Nosher?” She laughed. “That's the name you were born with?”

“No, Majesty. Me mam, she calls me Gib.”

“Well, Gib, that's a message well delivered,” she said. “Off you go now. Mind your duties.” As the boy scuttled out of the tiltyard she looked over at Adric. “Your Grace! It seems we're needed in privy council. I'll see you within. Do not tarry for me.” Adric nodded and withdrew, the courtiers following, and she turned to Zandakar. “That's it for today. I'm sorry, this summons doubtless means you'll be penned in your chamber until tomorrow. Come sunrise we'll dance again.”

He shrugged. “Rhian hushla. Rhian say.”

“Thank you for your training, Zandakar. I will be better tomorrow. Sergeant Rigert!”

Rigert came running. “Majesty?”

“Escort Zandakar to his apartments.”

He bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And, Rigert?” She smiled, not comfortably. “Let him not trip or slip or accidentally hit his face on a fist between here and the castle. What is done here is done on my command.”

Rigert looked down. “Yes, Majesty.”

She hurried to the council chamber, not bothering to pause to make a swift toilet. Let her council see her sweaty, bloody, dressed in battered leathers with a shortsword at her hip. Let them lose as swiftly as possible their comfortable idea of what womanly meant.

Though they support me whole-heartedly, still they have a lot to learn.

Alasdair's eyebrows shot up when he saw her, but to his credit he made no comment. Edward, though, so old-fashioned, so chivalrous, couldn't help himself. “Majesty. Let us send for the physick! This is wrong, this is monstrous wrong, that you should be wounded unto bleeding!”

“Heed the Duke of Morvell,” said Rudi. “And do reconsider this martial fervour.” He peered more closely. “Your cheek is bruised.”

“Zandakar struck her,” said Adric, making mischief. “So hard I thought Rigert was like to spit him on the spot.”

Ignoring him, taking her seat, she looked at Alasdair. “I deserved it. What's amiss? What has Helfred said?”

Alasdair was displeased, she could see that in his eyes. But he didn't task her, knowing to hold his tongue until they were private. Instead he looked at Ven'Cedwin, patiently standing behind a chair. In the venerable's ink-stained hand was a half-sheet of parchment.

“That's from Helfred? Let me see it.”

“Majesty,” said Ven'Cedwin, and gave her the letter.

It was addressed to her, but clearly Alasdair had read it. She didn't mind. It seemed a small thing, to give him access to state letters. Eased, she thought, the constant sting of her precedence. Helfred had written the missive himself, she'd know his self-conscious penmanship anywhere. She read it swiftly as her council sat at the table.

Kyrin and Damwin were informed of her decree. Both were furious and refused to reveal their intent, but he was certain they would obey and come to Kingseat Castle to face judicial combat. She had, he assured her, emphatically pricked their hot ducal pride. Which was of course precisely as she'd intended. One way or the other the dukes would be prostrate before her.

In obeisance or in death. The choice will be theirs.

He had been forced to make changes in both venerable houses, Helfred continued. Alas for the weakness of avaricious men who had long forgotten where their true loyalties belonged. But that was Church business and she need not concern herself. He was returning to Kingseat with the Court Ecclesiastica so they might preside over the upcoming business with the dukes.

“I see by your expression, Majesty, the dukes haven't come to their senses,” said Rudi. “A pity.”

She laid Helfred's letter carefully on the table. “A great pity, Rudi.”

“Majesty,” said Alasdair, his eyes eloquent, his voice scrupulously noncommittal. “We have five days until Tassifer's Feast.”

Oh God. Five days. Could Zandakar teach her enough to survive a double duel in only five more days, when so much else in the kingdom claimed her attention?

I should've said the Fast of Wilmot. That would've given me four extra days. In nine days I could learn almost twice as much, be twice as ready for judicial combat.

But that would give Mijak an extra four days, when she didn't know how close its warriors were or how soon their sails would appear on her horizon.

They could appear tomorrow. We could be lost so soon.

Except she refused to believe that. If Mijak appeared tomorrow, defeat was inevitable. Why then would God have chosen her if that was the case?

We have time. I have time. I have to believe that.

“Five days, yes,” she said, nodding. “They will suffice.”

“It's not likely Damwin and Kyrin will change their minds at the last gasp,” said Edward. “Stupid, stubborn fools that they are. Where shall you hold the judicial combat?”

“Here,” she said. “In the castle grounds.”

“Witnesses?” asked Rudi. “Aside from ourselves and the Court Ecclesiastica, that is.”

“Duke Ludo will arrive from Linfoi in the next day or two,” said Alasdair. “And I believe the leaders of Ethrea's venerable houses and clericas are also summoned.”

Ven'Cedwin glanced up from his swift note-taking. “That is correct, Your Majesty,” he murmured. “His Eminence saw to their notification before he departed.”

“Prominent townsfolk should also attend,” said Edward. “Representatives of the greater families in the other duchies. Perhaps even a smattering of the common people. If this is to be done, it cannot be done in secret.”

Rhian stirred. “Nor can it be treated like a public entertainment. If I must judicially slaughter these men I'd prefer it be done in a sober, serious fashion.”

“I doubt Edward's suggesting sideshows and food-sellers,” said Alasdair. “But he's right that this cannot be done circumspect, either. Judicial combat is lawful. These dukes are in the wrong. If we attempt to hide the proceedings we risk giving the impression we're somehow shamed by our actions.”

He was right. She just wished he wasn't. She nodded. “A fair point.”

Edward cleared his throat. “And what of the ambassadors? What of Emperor Han?”

“What of them?” she said, staring. “Domestic Ethrean matters are Ethrea's concern. There's no need for them to attend the proceedings. They'll hear about them, and that will suffice.”

Edward and Rudi exchanged troubled glances. “Forgive me, Majesty, but I don't think it will,” said Rudi.

“There is…talk,” Edward said, uncomfortable. “Servants chatter to servants, word reaches our ears. Not every ambassadorial comment remains private.”

“Or flattering?” she added. Edward opened his mouth to reply, but she shook her head. “No, don't bother, I can guess the kind of things they've been saying.”

“They have scant respect for women rulers, Majesty,” said Adric, clearly his father's confidant and eager to assert his meagre authority. “It's hard to believe they'll tell their masters to follow you into battle. Not unless they've seen with their own eyes that you're not frightened of blood.”

She felt her fingers try to clench. I might not like him overmuch, but it doesn't mean he can't be right. She wanted to shout, Emperor Han will follow me. Emperor Han knows who I am in this. He'll champion my cause. But what was the use? She couldn't ask Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai to speak for her. Ethrea could never once be seen as the emperor's lapdog. If she was to convince the ambassadors to convince their masters that she was fit to take the lead in the fight against Mijak, perhaps Edward and the others were right. Perhaps the ambassadors should be invited to witness the judicial combat.

But how little do I care for the idea of asking the world into Ethrea's kitchen, so it might see how we bake our cakes.

“Rudi, I take it you agree with Edward? You think Han and the ambassadors should be invited as witnesses?”

He nodded. “Reluctantly, yes.”

“Adric?”

“Certainly! Once they've seen—”

“Thank you.” She looked at Alasdair. “And you?”

His eyes were apologetic. “I wish I could say no, but…”

“I see.” She stood. “Gentlemen, I stink like a cowherd. While I bathe I'll consider your suggestion. If I can bring myself to agree I'll send word to let you know. In the meantime please continue with your planning of the…event…and I'll hear your thoughts tomorrow.”

She left them to their organising, and closed the chamber door behind her.

God help me. God help me. Will this get any easier?

Since she had no intention of conducting further public business, after her bath Rhian dressed in one of her old blue linen gowns. With its sleeves unlaced and set aside she sat on her bed to dab some of Ursa's fierce ointment on her swordcuts. When Alasdair at last returned from the privy council chamber and found her cursing under her breath, he plucked the jar of ointment from her fingers.