Captain Talinko frowned. "I appreciate that you have a crime to explain to His Majesty, even if that explanation is less than complete, but I have duties I must see to. Gentlemen," he said with a nod and left.
Constable Drogan said, "Tal, I've seen you play cards and you're a good enough bluffer, but I've been a constable for the better part of twenty years, and I can tell when a man is lying. You really have no idea who's behind this, do you?"
"By the gods, Dennis, I do not. I'm barely twenty years old, and I've travelled a bit, so it's hard to imagine I've made an enemy in that time who would stage such an elaborate assassination."
"I don't think that's what it was," said Drogan. "After thinking about it some more, I think it was more of a test."
"A test?"
"Someone wanted to see just how good you were, and sent someone better than anyone you were likely to meet here at the tourney."
"Better?" said Tal. "The winner here is considered the best in the world."
"Don't let that vanity sweep you away if you win, Tal." Drogan put his hand on Tal's arm and started walking him towards the door. "You need to get ready for tonight. We'll talk as we walk.
"Look, you may be the best of the bunch who chose to walk into that building and start whacking away at each other, but the Izmali are just one of a dozen different bunches who spend every day in their life learning how to kill people." They moved aside as a pair of servants carried a long table back towards the Captain's conference room. "There may be half a dozen soldiers scattered from here to the Sunset Isles who are better than anyone on this island but who couldn't gain leave of their lords and masters to come here to compete. There are probably men your equal who can't be bothered to travel here and waste their time, no matter the prize. I'm sure there are brilliant swordsmen the world over who have never heard of Roldem, let alone the Masters' Court, or this contest.
"If you win, don't take the title of 'world's finest swordsman' seriously. It could get you killed."
They reached the far end of the hall. "You're through there," Drogan said, indicating the door. "You'll find a salon where you can rest, be massaged, eat, sleep, whatever you need until you're called." He put out his hand and shook Tal's. "Good luck, tonight."
As the Constable turned to leave, Tal said, "Dennis?"
"Yes?" The Constable paused.
"Am I under suspicion for anything?"
Dennis smiled. "Unless you're paying a prince's ransom to have someone try to kill you, in order to impress the ladies, I can't see how you'd be under suspicion for this bloody nonsense." Then the smile faded. "As for anything else, I'm always suspicious, my friend. Of everybody."
He turned and left Tal alone in the hall. Tal weighed the Constable's words and decided that at least for the next hour or so he needed to put all this nonsense out of his mind. For while there was nothing remotely whimsical about the situation, it made no sense whatsoever.
Tal waited to be summoned for the final match. The room assigned to him was sumptuous, with all types of refreshments from a light broth to a full ham, fresh fruit to cakes and other sweets. Wine, ale and fresh water had been placed in pitchers on the board, and two servants waited nearby for any other need he might have. There was a bed if he wanted a quick nap.
Tal sat on the bed while Pasko hovered over the refreshments, nibbling at this and that. Magnus appeared through a door from the servants' wing, took one look at the servants and said, "Leave us, please, for a few minutes."
The two servants looked to Tal who nodded, and then quickly departed. When they were gone, Tal said, "How did you get into the palace?"
Magnus smiled, a hint of self-satisfaction on his lips. "If I want to go somewhere, it takes a great deal more than a few guards at the door to keep me out."
Tal shrugged, conceding the point. "Then I suppose the appropriate question is, what brings you here so unexpectedly?"
"I've just spoken to our agents in Kesh. The assassin was a member of a particularly obscure sect of Izmali, but we're attempting to see what we can discover about them."
Tal didn't ask how Magnus had spoken to agents thousands of miles away, assuming that the magician must have some far-speaking magic or just used his powers to take himself there and come back. "What I'm trying to puzzle out is if they will try again, or if this was some sort of test which I passed."
"We won't know unless they try to kill you again," said Magnus.
"I think it's a test of some sort," said Pasko. "If they'd wanted you dead, m'lord, they'd have found a lot of easier ways, as I said before. I think someone out there is trying to take your measure."
Tal sat back on the bed with his back against the wall. He picked up a pillow and put it behind himself to get more comfortable. "So then the question becomes, who measures me and why?"
"Two possibilities spring to mind," said Magnus. "Whoever sent those death-dancers to kill me might have decided to take an interest in whoever foiled them."
Tal said, "But how would they know it was me? I mean, we were all on the island, and I was taken back to the estate at once. It could have been any number of people on the island who ruined their attack."
"The fastest way to end up dead, m'lord, is to underestimate our enemies. They are devious beyond understanding and I'm certain they have as many agents out working as we do, if not more."
"You think there are spies on Sorcerer's Isle?"
"Not there, but in other places where they can get intelligence about some of the things what transpires on the island," answered Magnus. "The farther removed from my parents we are, the less secure we are; that's a fact of life for those of us in service to them.
"You've been out from under their direct care for more than three years now, Tal, and over that time someone may have discovered just enough clues to determine that you were the one to foil the attempt on my life."
"Revenge is unlikely if I understand anything about the nature of the conflict you've only hinted at Magnus."
"True," Magnus agreed. "But removing a dangerous opponent does make sense. Tal, they are always seeking to weaken us, to thwart any attempt we might make to gain an advantage, much the same as we do, so if they can identify one of our agents they are likely to do whatever they can to remove him."
"That still doesn't explain why they should try to kill me when I'm the least vulnerable, in front of hundreds of witnesses . . ." Tal waved his hand in frustration. "It just doesn't make sense."
"It makes sense if someone is trying to send my father a message."
"What message?" Tal asked.
"That none of his agents is safe, anywhere, at any time."
Tal pondered that and then said, "You said there were two possibilities. What's the other?"
"Someone wants to recruit you."
"Who?"
"We'll know if you're offered a position, won't we?"
"You think someone went to all that trouble to see if I'm worth hiring?"
"Some of the people you'll encounter along the way, m'lord," said Pasko, as he finished eating a slice of pungent cheese, "are capable of almost anything." He sat back against the table, and picked up a slice of onion, which he daubed with mustard as he spoke. "You're a dangerous man, all things being equal. Someone might want a great swordsman in his service, but only if he's both a fine duellist and a deadly fighter. That surprise this afternoon showed you were both."
"True," said Magnus. "The Conclave and our enemies are not the only people with resources, wealth and a desire to bring talent into service." Magnus glanced over to where Pasko was eating the mustard-covered onion and said, "How can you stand that?"
"It's wonderful, after the cheese," Pasko said around a full mouth. "Wash it down with some good white wine . . ." He made a gesture with his thumb and fingers together, rolled his eyes, then closed them and said, "Simply wonderful."
Tal said, "I appreciate food as well as the next man, Pasko, but I think I'm inclined to agree with Magnus on this one."
"Try it, m'lord." Pasko grabbed a plate, put on it a slice of onion and a slice of cheese next to each other, then spread mustard on the onion. He picked up a cup of wine and crossed to stand before Tal. "First a bit of the cheese, then the onion, then the wine."
Tal bit the cheese and found it a strong, hard cheese, and when he bit into the onion, discovered the mustard was especially hot. As his eyes began to water, he gulped the wine down. When he could speak he said, "Not bad, but I think you need to get used to it."
Magnus barked a short laugh. "I must be off. I have to speak with Father. I'll be back to watch the contest."
"It's less than an hour," said Pasko.
"I'll be back." Magnus gripped his staff and suddenly he was gone. There was a light inrush of air and a small popping sound and then nothing.
"That's very dramatic," said Tal.
"That's one very dangerous young man," said Pasko. "No one talks about it, but he may be more powerful than his father, some day."
"Some day someone will have to tell me all about that family," said Tal. As Pasko started to say something, Tal held up his hand and said, "But not today. Right now I want to rest for half an hour, and get focused. I've had enough distractions to last a lifetime, and in less than an hour I've got to face a man for the championship."
As he settled back on the bed, his head propped up on a pillow, Tal added, "And I've got to work out how I'm going to kill the bastard without getting myself shot full of arrows and crossbow bolts."
Pasko paused in lifting another slice of cheese and onion to his mouth and watched Tal as he closed his eyes. Then he slowly put the food in his mouth and bit off a chunk. Nodding, he thought to himself that the mustard was indeed a bit on the hot side.
Tal stood before the King, his eyes fixed ahead. The Master of Ceremonies was droning on, obviously relishing the opportunity to bore the assembled nobility and influential commoners with the entire story of how the tournament of the Masters' Court had begun.
Tal resisted the urge to glance to his left and look at Campaneal. He expected the officer of the Duke of Olasko's guards would be standing still, eyes forward, as Tal's were.
Finally the history lesson was over, and the Master of Ceremonies said, "Your majesty, before you stand the two finest combatants in the world, each eager to prove their worth before your august presence. May I present Lieutenant George Campaneal, in service to your cousin, the Duke of Olasko."
The Lieutenant bowed to the King.
Then the official announced, "May I present Talwin Hawkins, Squire of Morgan River and Bellcastle, Baronet of Silverlake, in service to his grace, the Duke of Yabon."
Tal bowed to the King.
"Gentlemen," said the Master of Ceremonies. "You have acquitted yourself in admirable fashion, achieving success in the most demanding competition in skill-at-arms, and now one of you will be named the greatest swordsman in the world. You have been made aware of the rules, and should either of you wish to retire from this contest now, no fault will be laid at your feet." He glanced at each man to see if either wished to withdraw; but neither man acknowledged the question.
"Very well, then, let the contest begin."
The senior master from the Masters' Court, who had held the office nearly thirty years, walked slowly to the centre of the area designated for the contest. He motioned for the two men to approach, took Tal by the wrist and moved him slightly to his left, then did the same by moving Campaneal to the right. "Turn and face me!" he barked, his voice still strong. "Bring no dishonour upon yourself or this court," he demanded of them.
Tal sneaked a glimpse up at the gallery above the court and saw that there were armed bowmen and crossbowmen at the ready.
The Master had the grace not to make mention of their presence. "Upon my command, commence the contest, and may the gods grant you strength and honour."
Tal turned to Campaneal, who bowed to him. Tal managed the slightest inclination of his head, not wishing to show any courtesy to this murderer.
Suddenly the command was given, and Campaneal moved straight at Tal, his broadsword held aloft, and then suddenly it was moving in a snap blow to the side of Tal's body. Tal flipped his wrist, bringing his blade point-down to his left to block the blow, then spun to his right. It was an unexpected move and for a brief instant his back was exposed, but by the time Campaneal could recover and turn, Tal was unleashing a blow of his own, one that should have taken Campaneal in the left shoulder.
But the seasoned swordsman from Olasko squatted slightly, and the blade passed harmlessly over his shoulder, missing it by a bare inch. Tal had to step back, for fear his momentum would turn him so his back was again exposed.
Now that the two opponents had exchanged their first blows, they circled one another, both moving to the left, away from the other's blade. Tal measured his opponent: Campaneal was nearly as fast as the Keshian assassin, but he more than made up for his slightly slower attack by being far more practised in the longsword. He carried a perfectly balanced weapon and knew how to execute a complex combination of blows, feints and ripostes.
Every attack Tal made was met and answered, and several times it was only Tal's almost supernatural reactions that saved him from losing. Within minutes, both men were panting for breath and drenched in sweat.
The cheering, the urging-on of the combatants, and all the shouted remarks faded, then died away off completely as the contest wore on. At last, the court sat silently, without even the softest murmur or whisper, as all those gathered watched every move the two combatants made. People held their breath and even tried to refrain from blinking, less they miss the sudden resolution that was sure to come.
Tal felt the pressure mount, for Campaneal was easily the finest swordsman he had ever faced. He was cunning and refused to fall into any pattern of moves Tal could discern and, as the moments wore on, he felt his chances of winning slipping away. Tal also felt the need to find the perfect attack, the one that could be slightly off and deliver a killing blow that looked accidental. But as minutes slipped by and fatigue started to creep into arms and legs, Tal realized it would be very unlikely that he would have the opportunity to kill this man, and he might even be denied the pleasure of winning the bout.
Then Tal saw something. He watched the Lieutenant flip his sword as he swung at Tal's offside, then pull the blade around and try to come back from Tal's right side as Tal's blade was moving the other way. Tal had seen that move before.
Minutes dragged by, and for long periods the two opponents moved away from one another, circling and trying to catch their breath as they looked for an opening. Tal decided to take a risk before he was too tired to execute the difficult move.
He started a rather clumsy overhead blow, twisting his wrist so the blow came from over his own left shoulder in a downward arc aimed at Campaneal's right shoulder. Then he slowly turned his wrist, as if attempting a cut beneath Campaneal's elbow at the man's briefly-exposed ribs as he brought his own sword up to block the high attack.
Campaneal saw the opening, and instead of continuing to block high, he thrust his blade forward, attempting to take Tal in the right shoulder.
Tal let his momentum carry him forward, until he was bent over, legs spread wide, his body twisting to the left, the sword on the floor with the point now facing his own right boot. Rather than pull back, he kept going until his right knee touched the floor as Campaneal's sword point jabbed through empty air.
As the startled Lieutenant realized he had missed his mark and started to pull back his blade, Tal twisted his wrist and stabbed upward with the point of his own blade, taking the Lieutenant in the groin.
Campaneal let out a grunt of pain and collapsed to the floor, clutching his groin, as blood seeped through his fingers. Tal stood up and stepped back, while the crowd sat in stunned silence.
It had been a foolish, dangerous move; but it had worked. The crowd exploded into applause and cheering as Tal moved back another step away from his opponent.
The senior master approached and put his hand on Tal's shoulder, signifying that he had won. Tal made a display of crossing to stand over Campaneal and offering him a hand so that he could rise. The Lieutenant lay in agony, his face a contorted mask of pain, and Tal paused, then turned and said, "Someone should send for a healer. I fear the wound is deeper than I intended."
Two soldiers in the garb of the Duchy of Olasko hurried to Campaneal's side and attempted to render him aid. At last, the King's healer appeared. He examined the wound quickly, then ordered the Lieutenant carried to a nearby room to be tended.
Servants hurried to clean up the blood on the floor and within minutes everything in the chamber was restored to order.
Tal barely listened to the praise heaped upon him by the King and the Master of the Court. He nodded and smiled when appropriate and accepted their approbation. When the King finally handed him the golden sword, a small replica of the original prize presented to Count Versi Dango two hundred years previously, Tal bowed and spoke a few words of appreciation.
But the entire time he wondered how deep that cut had been.
Pasko escorted him back to the room he had used before. There he found a hot tub of water waiting and he allowed himself the luxury of falling across the bed and letting Pasko pull his boots off.
"I almost lost," Tal said.
"Yes," Pasko replied, "but you didn't. He was wearing you down; you're a fit lad and a strong one, but he's a seasoned soldier and he's had years of campaigns and real wars to toughen him which you haven't. That was his edge. Your edge was your willingness to risk everything on a foolish move. But it worked."
"Yes, it worked," said Tal. "I almost lost because I kept trying to find a way to kill him, and almost too late I realized I had barely enough left to have a chance to win."
"Well, done is done." Pasko put the boots down. "Now, get cleaned up, for there's a gala already underway and you're the guest of honour."
Tal got into the tub and felt the warmth seep into his muscles. "To think as a boy I thought the cold lake a treat," he muttered.
There came a knock at the door. Pasko crossed the room to answer it. He spoke briefly and then opened the door wide. Half a dozen pages entered, carrying clothing fit for a king. The most senior page said, "His majesty sends you greetings, Squire, and wishes you to accept these garments as a humble token of his appreciation and delight at your victory. His majesty awaits your appearance in the main hall."
"Thank you," said Tal, rising and taking a towel from Pasko. "Tell his majesty I am overwhelmed with gratitude, and I shall be along shortly."