overmannered, and completely indifferent when it came to just about everything. This Kaloo was like a elichй that shouldn't exist, a living representation of the idealized Duladen noble.
Kaloo finished his introductions and moved on to a dramatic retelling of his arrival story. Roial took it all in with a smile; the duke had done lots of business with Dulas, and apparently knew that the best way to deal with them was to smile and nod occasionally.
One of the women handed Kaloo a cup. He smiled his thanks and downed the wine in a single gulp, never breaking his narrative as he immediately brought his hand back into the conversation. Dulas didn't just talk with their mouths, they used their entire bodies as part of the storytelling experience. Silks and feathers fluttered as Kaloo described his surprise at finding King Iadon dead and a new king on the throne.
'Perhaps my lord would care to join us,' Sarene said. interrupting Kaloowhich was often the only way to enter a conversation with a Dula.
Kaloo blinked in surprise. 'Join you?' he asked hesitantly, his flow of words stopping for a brief moment. Sarene could sense a break in character as he reoriented himself. She was becoming increasingly certain that this man was not who he claimed. Fortunately, her mind had just alighted on a method to test him.
'Of course, my lord,' Sarene said. 'Duladen citizens are said to be the finest fencers in all of the land-better, even, than Jaadorians. I am certain the ladies here would be much intrigued to see a true master at work.'
'I am very thankful at the offer, Your Gracious Highness,' Kaloo began. 'but I am hardly dressed-'
'We wiIl make it a quick bout, my lord,' Sarene said. picking up her bag and sliding out her two finest syres- the ones with sharpened points rather than simple balls. She whipped one through the air expertly as she smiled at the Dula.
'All right,' the Dula said, tossing aside his hat. 'Let us have a bout, then.'
Sarene stopped, trying to judge whether he was bluffing. She hadn't intended to actually fight him; otherwise she wouldn't have chosen the dangerous blades. She considered for a moment, and then, with a casual shrug, tossed him one of the weapons. If he was bluffing, then she intended to call him in a very embarrassing-and potentially painful-way.
Kaloo pulled off his bright turquoise jacket, revealing the ruffled green shirt underneath; then, surprisingly, he fell into a fencing stance, his hand raised behind him, the tip of his syre raised offensively.
'All right,' Sarene said, then attacked.
Kaloo jumped backward at the onslaught, twirling around the stunned Duke Roial as he parried Sarene's blows. There were several startled cries from the women as Sarene pushed through them, snapping her blade at the offending Dula. Soon she emerged into the sunlight, jumping off the wooden dais and landing barefoot in the soft grass.
As shocked as they were at the impropriety of the battle, the women made certain not to miss a single blow. Sarene could see them following as she and Kaloo moved out into the flat courtyard at the center of Roial's gardens.
The Dula was surprisingly good, but he was no master. He spent too much time parrying her attacks, obviously unable to do much but defend. If he truly was a member of the Duladen aristocracy, then he was one of their poorer fencers. Sarene had met a few citizens who were worse than she, but on average three out of four could defeat her.
Kaloo abandoned his air of apathy, concentrating solely on keeping Sarene's syre from slicing him apart. They moved all the way across the courtyard, Kaloo retreating a few steps with each new exchange. He seemed surprised when he stepped onto brick instead of grass, arriving at the fountain centerpiece of Roial's gardens.
Sarene advanced more vigorously as Kaloo stumbled up onto the brick deck. She forced him back until his thigh struck the edge of the fountain itself. There was nowhere else for him to go-or so she thought. She watched with surprise as the Dula leapt into the water. With a kick of his leg, he sent a splash in her direction, then leapt out of the fountain to her right.
Sarene's syre pierced the water as Kaloo passed through the air beside her. She felt the tip of her blade strike something soft. and the nobleman let out a quiet. almost unnoticeable, yelp of pain. Sarene spun, raising her blade to strike again, but Kaloo was on his knee, his syre stuck point-first into the soft earth. He held up a bright yellow flower to Sarene.
'Ah, my lady,' he said in a dramatic voice. 'You have found my secret-never have I been able to face a beautiful woman in combat. My heart melts, my knees shake. and my sword refuses to strike.' He bowed his head, proffering the flower. The collected women behind him sighed dreamily.
Sarene lowered her sword uncertainly. Where had he gotten the flower? With a sigh, she accepted the gift. They both knew that his excuse was nothing more than a sneaky method of escaping embarrassment-but Sarene had to respect his cleverness. He had not only managed to avoid looking like a fool, but had impressed the women with his courtly sense of romance at the same time.
Sarene studied the man closely, searching for a wound. She'd been certain her blade had scratched him on the face as he jumped out of the fountain, but there was no sign of a hit. Uncertain, she looked down at the tip of her syre. There was no blood on it. She must have missed after all.
The women clapped at the show, and they began to urge the dandy back toward the pavilion. As he left, Kaloo looked back at her and smiled-not the silly, foppish smile he had used before, but a more knowing, sly smile. A smile she found strikingly familiar for some reason. He performed another one of his ridiculous bows, then allowed himself to be led away.
CHAPTER 51
The market's tents were a bright burst of color in the center of the city.
Hrathen walked among them, noting the unsold wares and empty streets
with dissatisfaction. Many of the merchants were from the East, and they had spent a great deal of money shipping their cargoes to Arelon for the spring market. If they failed to sell their goods, the losses would be a financial blow from which they might never recover.
Most of the merchants. displaying dark Fjordell colorings, bowed their heads respectfully at his passing. Hrathen had been away so long-first in Duladel, then in Arelon-that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be treated with proper deference. Even as they bowed their heads, Hrathen could see something in these merchants' eyes. An edginess. They had planned for this market for months, their wares and passage purchased long before King Iadon's death. Even with the upheaval, they had no choice but to try and sell what they could.
Hrathen's cloak billowed behind him as he toured the market, his armor clinking comfortably with each step. He displayed a confidence he didn't feel, trying to give the merchants some measure of security. Things were not well, not at all. His hurried call via Seon to Wyrn had come too late: Telrii's message had already arrived. Fortunately, Wyrn had displayed only slight anger at Telrii's presumptuousness.
Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never-of course-name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen's subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he'd tossed Hrathen out, the king still
resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.
The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelish nobility's confused state. Suddenly. they weren't certain if it were better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not-so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed. and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii's decision.
It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade. cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert.
Yet, despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelish nobility weren't really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough.
Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side. The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke:
