Brooding. Degraded by tumbling with a common servant. 'Farfalla,' he muttered, a touch of hatred in his voice.
It was her fault. She it was who had bred him to his station. And who had, shortly after his recovery from the river-fever, encouraged him to make an arrangement with Bizzie. Lust will out somehow, Farfalla had said – pointing out that Selzirk's whores were rich with venereal diseases.
'Amantha,' said Sarazin, treasuring the name of his princess.
Was he really in love? He hoped so. After all, there was no other genuine princess on the horizon. So if he was not in love with this one, then he was in trouble.
He touched his limpness. Dank thing smelling, now, of woman.
Why is it this?' he said, in a voice which was almost a moan. This which rules us?'
Love, thought Sarazin, should not be so physical. So vulgar. Smells and slurpings. Stickiness of skin against skin. Wet exudate aftermath. -Music. I wish for a love like music. Maybe he could make a poem out of that.
Attempting to do just that, Sarazin sat up late, trying to pen lines which would body forth his regret for his possession of a body, and enshrine in deathless verse his wish to be made out of music. He was still hard at it towards midnight, when Bizzie came to him again. 'Still awake?' she said. 'I thought you might be.'
'It's no use,' he said. 'Apart from anything else, I've no more silver.'
'Goodwill's got a value of its own,' she said. 'And my husband's out late again with his darts team. Come on, love, shove over.'
She did her best, as ever. And his flesh, as always, could not deny its nature.
That night, Sarazin dreamed he possessed Amantha. His dream was so real, so intense, so certain, that, on waking, he was ready to dare her scorn again. His chance came when he was sent to escort the noble guests, who were going hawking for the day.
It was the very end of summer: hot, dry and dusty. Soon, autumn rains would cool the weather. But, for the moment, the heat and dust were almost unendurable. They were favoured with very little sport, for shooting birds was a standard child's pastime in the Harvest Plains, so little was left for royal hunters.
When far from Selzirk, Sarazin again tried Amantha's temper, riding up alongside his princess so he could pro- position her. 'Sweetest charm,' he began. 'Forget it,' said Amantha. You haven't even heard me out!' 'I know what you want to talk about. About tupping.' 'About marriage!' protested Sarazin. 'The substance,' said Amantha, 'is the same.'
'What's your objection?' said Sarazin. 'Do you wish to be virgin forever?'
'You know my objection already,' said Amantha. 'You are not of the Favoured Blood, and never will be.' Meaning he was not royal.
At which point Sarazin realised Tarkal had ridden up beside him. 'Are you troubling my sister?' said Tarkal.
While Sarazin was still trying to think of a diplomatic reply, Tarkal grabbed him by the collar then raked his horse with his spurs. The horse reared. Sarazin was hauled from the saddle and flung to the dust. He landed heavily. Looking up, he saw Tarkal staring down at him from horse-height. 'Peonl' said Tarkal. 'How dare you proposition my sister?' Thus spoke Tarkal. Then spat. Accurately.
Sarazin wiped saliva from his face. Slowly. He hoisted himself from the ground. It hurt to move, but nothing was broken. 'Does it demand satisfaction?' asked Tarkal.
'I have gutted dung-eating pigs before,' said Sarazin. 'I already know the colour of their offal.'
'Now I demand satisfaction!' said Tarkal. You have the choice of weapons, of course.' Sarazin hesitated. 'Do you deny me satisfaction?' said Tarkal.
'Are you a coward?' asked Amantha, her scorn de- nouncing him as exactly that.
They began riding round and round him, their horses kicking up dust which infiltrated his nose. Sarazin tried hard not to sneeze, because that would have been undig- nified. Some dust got in his eyes, which began watering furiously. 'He's crying!' said Tarkal. 'I am not!' shouted Sarazin.
'Of course you are,' jeered Tarkal. You're scared. You're a coward. Crying like a baby!' 'There's dust in my eyes,' protested Sarazin.
'Heroes fight and cowards run,' said Tarkal. 'Heroes fight and cowards run.'
He made a chant from the words, like a big child taunt- ing a smaller. His companions joined him in the chant. 'I'll fight then!' shouted Sarazin. Amantha laughed.
'Did I hear aright?' she said. 'I thought I heard it say it will fight.' 'I will fight!' said Sarazin. 'With what weapons?' said Tarkal. 'Swords, of course,' said Sarazin. 'Swords and shields.'
The reply came naturally, for these were the weapons ne used when training with Thodric Jarl. Training for battle. Training for war.
'You mean to fight with shields?' said Tarkal, incred- ulously. What kind of daffing is this?'
'Swords and shields,' said Sarazin. 'I can bear the weight, even if you cannot.' 'He means it,' said someone. And there was a titter of poorly suppressed laughter. 'Shields, then,' said Tarkal.
And grabbed the reins of Sarazin's horse, and galloped away.
'Hey!' shouted Sarazin. 'Hey! Hey! Come backl' Laughing, they jaunted away with a jingle of sharps and spurs. Sarazin was left to walk back to Selzirk. Which he did. Counting the paces. With every step, he added details to Tarkal's death.
CHAPTER TEN Come, daemon of war, enchant my sword, That dead as daddock may my enemies fall, Their uninhabited bodies sprawl To fields where carrion crows May glutton their blood as potage. I will be a hero, And wage to war forever in foreign fields: For my mother-in-law guards the gates of my return.
– Saba Yavendar, 'Hero Talk'
When Thodric Jarl heard of the duel, he cursed Sarazin for a fool. Jarl, the Rovac warrior who had taught Sarazin weaponwork during his long captivity in Voice, knew full well that Farfalla's son was unready for combat. Oh, he had exchanged cuts in duels in Voice, for sure. But that was mere sport undertaken for the sake of scars. This was a matter of death. 'Still,' said Jarl, 'what's done is done.'
After making formal arrangements for the fight – which would take place on the morrow's dawn on the palace battlements – Jarl worked Sarazin hard, thinking fatigue better than fear.
'I'll be wrecked by tomorrow,' said Sarazin at one stage, drenched with sweat from sparring. You're young,' said Jarl. You'll live.'
Jarl, being the war-wise veteran that he was, thought it best to deny Sarazin the leisure that would allow fear to unman him. Wine and women he saw as equally dangerous before a fight, for they comfort, pleasure and relax, mellow- ing the world – whereas battle thrives on bone-cold hatred.
'We have but an evening,' said Jarl. 'That's no time at all. Concentrate! Think combat!'
With Jarl setting the pace, they practised. Not with the dance-light rapiers with which Sarazin had duelled in Voice, but with war weapons of Stokos steel. Strong blades, light enough to be wielded with one hand but heavy enough to cleave through leather and bone. Swords built for endurance in war, blade and tang forged from a single piece of firelight steel, free from weak points such as welds and rivets. While Sarazin's blade was a gift from Lord Regan, Jarl had won his own on a battlefield.
'Likely your nobleman knows no shieldwork,' said Jarl. 'He won't be used to the weight, or trained for it.'
Why?' said Sarazin. 'Surely Tarkal has his place in Chenameg's army.'
'Chenameg has no army,' said Thodric Jarl. 'So Tarkal has never trained for war. So how will he fight?'
'Duelling style. In and out. In and out.' 'Yes. Quick as a frog after flies. What will his feet be doing?'
'Quickwork also' said Sarazin. 'In and out, in time with his blade.'
'Right! So watch. Wait. Brunt him with the shield. Let him exhaust himself. Then, when you get a good chance, strike. Hard! But not at his head, mind. Nor at his shield. Strike for his sword.' 'Why?'
'Likely as not, he'll bear a flimsy Chenameg duelling sword. I've seen no firelight steel with this embassy. Since they do no soldiering in Chenameg, all the stuff of local make is designed for fashion.' 'But sharp regardless,' said Sarazin.
'Sharp, yes, but weak. Likely blade will be riveted to the hilt. That's weakness. Sword against sword, you can likely break him.'
'If I'm going to try that,' said Sarazin. 'I don't think I'll use Lord Regan's gift. I'll use my second-best sword.
