“Quickly! Oh Quickly” came a sickly sweet cry a short distance ahead. It was Maiden Roywynn, and there was Jael chasing at her heels. “Next is Dancing Bear Bazuso! We have to hurry or—oh, why did I eat all those prune cakes!”
“Here, my lady. This one doesn’t seem so awful,” said Leonhardt, leading Charlotte toward the cleanest of the privies. Trey did not envy the girl. Unlike those built for the lodge, these were no better than oversized coffins with chamber pots.
Praise the Lord for aqueducts, mused Gildmane just as the lynching tree sigil caught the corner of his eye. Harold Blackheart was waiting outside the privies for his ward as well. He had yet to spot either Trey or Jael, but the captain was curious what would happen when he did. Trey had heard the banter in the yard and Leonhardt’s complaints, but nothing so far proved an actionable offense. So Gildmane climbed quietly from atop his horse and led it behind a crowded sweets stall. From there he watched.
Harold’s head swiveled slowly, yawning like a pig, his fat cheeks squeezing his droopy eyes scanning the fairgrounds. Half a minute passed. He glanced at Jael, spat at his boots, glanced toward the privies, then at Jael again before he finally made a move. Chin held high, looking sideways down his rotund nose, he called her to. “Oi, Leonhardt!”
She ignored him.
“Leonhardt!” he said, discomfort plain on his face. “Oi, listen! I’ve got something to say to you!”
Still, Jael refused to acknowledge her fellow squire. She was looking nervous herself, fingers rapping her scabbard as Blackheart approached with a face of agitation.
Thumbs in his belt, he confronted her. “Look here, you sour lass. I know you don’t got so much wax in your ears that you can’t hear me speaking to you. I ran into some of the invalid aspirants who’ve been hanging around for the fair. We got to talking and you came up, and I thought I ought to tell you what they thought of you getting in where they failed.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” was the first thing out of Jael’s mouth. Second was spit on Blackheart’s boots. A few fair-goers saw and formed into a loose circle, not that the squires noticed. They were too caught in their bickering to see anything aside from the worst in the other. Leonhardt continued, “Why don’t you go find your aberrant friends and tell them? That’s how you three get off, right? You pretend one of you is me and the other two mock, taking turns using the third like a woman.”
Gildmane winced from his hiding place. Clever, though you could use a little more tact than that, he thought, then thought again. Or mayhap a bludgeon is the right tool for the job.
“Will you listen to me, you stupid lass?” Blackheart spat, his temper rising. “I’m trying to tell you—” He stopped himself short, “No, you what? Fuck what they said about you. If this is the way it’s going to be, you can forget it. Sir Godfrey was right. You’re nothing but an up jumped, entitled slut.”
“Lady Leonhardt!” cried Charlotte from inside the privy. “is everything alright?”
Jael glared at Harold. “No need to worry yourself, my lady. It’s only an ass making a lot of noise.”
“Mouthy bitch,” uttered Blackheart, reaching passed his sword for the cane tucked into his belt, drawing out three feet of knobbed blackthorn wood. “One day that tongue of yours is going to get someone killed. If I was back home, I’d crack some sense into you. But that wouldn’t work, would it?” He snorted, spat to side, and continued, “No, it wouldn’t. So I’m just going to prove it to you. Let’s see what you think after your lass takes a tumble.” He stole for the privies.
Jael lunged in front of him, hand on her hilt as she dared him to test her.
Gildmane crept closer.
Harold swung from the roof. Leonhardt brought her own weapon to bear—a rising cut crossing between them, parrying the cane so her point lay level with the Black Brother’s heart. That’s when Trey noticed the surrounding crowd thickening. Some were jeering, some applauding, others gawking like they were players; but this had become a serious game. Another swing, another parry, and again she had him at sword point—this time at the neck.
There were cheers as Jael smiled to the crowd. “Careful, Blackheart. My father taught me how to kill a man in maille.”
“What happening? Lady Leonhardt?” cried Charlotte, and Jael glanced toward her ward. The Harold, red with rage, grabbed the tip of her sword and bared his own. Not until the captain spoke did he realize it was over.
Gildmane burst through the crowd and roared, “Harold Blackheart!”
The raged squire froze like a ghost possessed him. Everything pink went white, and he shivered, trembled, looked at the naked steel in his hand and dropped it in the mud. “Sir. I didn’t mean—”
“Quiet!” Trey boomed. “I saw the whole thing: you attacked your fellow squire, broke your orders, and broke your oath in front of half a hundred witnesses.” The captain paused for the crowd to assimilate his suggestion, allow it to alter what they saw as if it had exactly happened then
