fixed wings, vortices curled off my wingtips so I left two spiral trails.
The dueling ground is inside a large amphitheater with high, half-timbered walls topped by flagpoles. The fog had not yet smothered them but it rose up the outside like water climbing around a sinking ship-the oval building looked as if it was sliding down into the invisible earth.
Four floodlights stood at the edges of the amphitheater, on ten-meter-high iron scaffolds. I circled the nearest floodlight, feet dangling, and settled onto its metal housing. I shook wisps of fog from my wings and pulled them around me, stood cloaked in long feathers.
The shade was very hot. I shuffled to the front and perched on the edge. The only noise was the oil lamps’ hissing. Above and around, all was dark-but the pitch below was bathed in light. Two figures in the center were swiping at each other with rapier and dagger.
There was Gio Serein, the Circle’s Swordsman. When I was growing up in Hacilith, he was the immortal with the biggest fan club. Every child who wielded a stick pretended to be Serein and plenty of teenagers had aspirations to fight him. This could only be a Challenge. I peered closer to see who could possibly go a round with him. It was a young Awian lad, who kept his stubby dark wings folded so as not to present a target. His flight feathers were clipped in zigzags, the current fashion, making them lighter. Short brown hair was shaved at the sides and stuck up in sweaty spikes on top. For agility, he wore only a shirt and breeches. His sweat-patched shirt was fyrd-issue, dark blue of the Tanager Select infantry. He wore a glove on his left hand, grasping the rapier hilt. He moved as if he was made of springs.
Serein had his knuckles upward and thumb on his rapier blade to make strong wrist blows. The stranger caught one on his dagger, thrust it wide, went in underneath with dagger and rapier. Serein struck back, low, with a cry.
The newcomer swept it aside, made a feint to the face, jabbing twice, and again Serein gave ground, keenly aware of his body’s position. Then he ran in and scuffed up some sawdust with his leather pump. The Awian was wise to that trick; he parried the thrust. Metal slid over metal with a grinding swish.
I glanced up and the size of the crowd held my attention. The twenty-tier-high banked stands were crammed to capacity and more people arrived every minute, blowing out their lanterns, shoving a path down the walkways to sit on the steps and lean against the posts. Gazing around, I couldn’t see any space where I could join them.
Directly opposite was a canopied box with the best view of the ground. The Emperor San was seated on a chair in the center, watching the two fighters impassively and completely without expression. One thin hand rested on his knees, the other was curled on the arm-rest. His face was shadowed by the gold awning, thin magisterial features framed by white hair that hung loose to his shoulders. If San was out of the Throne Room this must be really important. I folded my wings neatly so the tips crossed at my back, and bowed my head in case he was watching.
On the Emperor’s left, Tornado, the Castle’s Strongman, was so big he filled that side of the box. He peered out from under the awning that bulged over his head. On his right, Mist, the Sailor, stood with a great big grin on her face, her hands on wide hips under a white cashmere jumper. Rayne, the Doctor, sat with her assistants on a bench at the side of the ground, ready to intervene if anything went wrong. I recognized many of my fellow immortals scattered through the crowd, all intent on the duelists. Well, I thought, it wouldn’t be a new year if Serein didn’t have another Challenger, but usually his supporters in the crowd bellowed and cheered and hissed. This time there was a breathlessness in the air.
The duelists walked in a circle, marshaling their strength. Watching tensely. Both had their sword tips horizontal in third guard, daggers in their right hands held out straight to the right side. Footprints turned the sand dark in a ring where they trod. They must have been at it for ages; their clothes were wet and the sand was damp with sweat.
Serein thrust, knees flexed. The Awian traversed sideways and Serein’s swept hilt nearly caught on his tightly taped sleeve. They never lost eye contact; I knew what that was like. Head up and body in balance, keep all the moves in your peripheral vision no matter how bright the steel is, cutting around your head.
Serein made his slicing arc too wide. The Awian jabbed at his stomach. Serein was forced back. The Awian jumped forward, thrust sword arm and leg out, aimed for the hamstring behind Serein’s knee. Serein parried but his blade sloped. The Awian’s rapier glanced off, he directed it to Serein’s calf. Serein moved away fast. Top move! Yes! Eat your heart out, Serein! I bounced up and down on the floodlight housing until the whole thing shuddered.
Sorry.
They set to circling again, obviously exhausted but trying to see what chinks might open in each other’s guard. They tried to spot any recurring foibles, to predict and use them. They were perfectly synchronized, reading the timing from each other’s eyes. Seeing through the feints. Every time Serein sought a way to break out, the newcomer was with him, close like a shadow through every strategy.
Serein shifted into second guard, spun the dagger so the blade was below his hand, took a swipe across the Awian’s face. Crash, crash! They moved apart. Serein has spent his life studying the art of killing. Why hasn’t he won yet? His footprints on the sand traced out one of his geometrical charts. He was using every trick he knew and he was getting nowhere.
Some people climbed up on the roof and lit the last floodlight. If the duelists registered the white glare intensify, they didn’t react. They concentrated on thrust and parry, leaned in with both hands at once, dagger blocking rapier. A spray of sweat drops flew from Serein’s fair hair as he flicked it back.
My floodlight was a good vantage point. Moreover, being half Rhydanne I could see movements faster than the flatlanders can, so I saw Serein’s cuts; to the other spectators they must be a blur. This was Serein slowed by fatigue. I knew how impossibly fast he moves when fresh, because he’s beaten me black and blue with a buttoned rapier before now.
Serein was two meters tall, his substantial arms were hard with tired muscle. He bared teeth in a snarl as he screamed at himself inwardly: Concentrate! Even at this distance I could read the frustration in his pale eyes: Why won’t you yield? Why can’t I hit you? He kept turning hatred into big, angry slashes that his opponent just leafed aside with dagger, his rapier in front narrowing the angle of attack. They were both as good as it was physically possible to be. The outcome depended on who would slip up first, or simply stop, ground down by exhaustion. Perhaps Serein was slightly more cautious than the boy, because he had more to lose.
Serein made two crown cuts to the boy’s head, lunged for his feet. The boy tried to catch the blade in his dagger quillions, missed.
This kid has been around, I decided. He fights like an immortal. I had been flying on my own for days and my whole body was alert to their moves. I had been in remote Darkling, which made me conscious of the crowd.
There was the Archer. Lightning stood closest to the duelists, leaning on the crush barrier staring raptly at them. A wide Micawater-blue scarf was draped around his shoulders and a quiver of white-flighted arrows at his hip. He has the physique of a cast-bronze statue. The willpower of one, too, and to be honest their sense of humor as well. This century he is less glacial than usual, because he has been enlivened by another hopeless love affair. It was easy to see him; the surrounding crowd kept a respectful distance. Though they all stood shoulder-to- shoulder, Lightning was on his own.
I swept off my perch with my wings held right back, down to the edge of the pitch and landed neatly next to him. “Who’s the Challenger?”
Lightning smiled without turning. “Welcome back, Jant. How was the road from Scree?”
“Very foggy. Who is he?”
“That young man is Wrenn, a career soldier from Summerday. He left the Queen’s guard and made his formal Challenge to Serein last week.”
“Is that why the Emperor called me back?”
Lightning looked at me for the first time. “No. Don’t mention it in public-San has work for us. I was also recalled, and I am not at all happy about it, since I had to leave my betrothed’s side.”
(Lightning is the only person I know who still puts the e in betrothed.)
“Wrenn looks like a fyrd captain.”
