Conspicuous by his absence was Rolf Thelemite, who was spending that morning in his bed in the infirmary, dead to the world as a consequences of his over-indulgences of the night before.
On arriving at Enskandalon Square, Guest Gulkan did not address his father, but instead ignored him entirely as he stripped off his furs and began practicing some swordstrokes. It was immediately obvious to the Witchlord Onosh that Guest Gulkan had been training intensely while encamped by the Yolantarath. But it was also painfully obvious to Lord Onosh – and to most other onlookers – that the boy's improvements fell far short of making him battle-worthy against such a formidable opponent as Jarl.
We must remember that Guest Gulkan was still a boy of 14, and though his stature could be mistaken for that of a man, he was a very child in his folly when he thought to match himself against the battle-hardened brutality of a grown man a full ten years older that himself.
When Guest was done with his swordpractice, he at last turned to his father and grinned.
Then the Witchlord Onosh saw that his son Guest had no plans of dying that day, but instead thought he would hack down Thodric Jarl and walk from that place in triumph. Unfortunately the young Guest Gulkan had become over-confident in battle through his success in killing bandits – poor wretches who were usually half- starved and often half-mad and leprous into the bargain. His over-confidence had been boosted by the marked improvement he had lately made through his training.
'Father,' said Eljuk Zala, tugging at the Witchlord's sleeve to win his attention.
'Eljuk,' said Lord Onosh, acknowledging the presence of his favorite son.
'He thinks he can win, doesn't he?' said Eljuk.
'It would seem so from the grin,' said Lord Onosh.
The Witchlord's voice was measured. It was not easy for him to stand here waiting for a Rovac warrior to come forth to hack down his son. But one does not win an empire through softness of spirit, nor can an empire be held by one who fears to do the hard things, or to have them done on his account.
'But,' said Eljuk, 'but he's going to die. Isn't he?'
'We are all of us going to die,' said Lord Onosh. 'The only question is, when.'
'I – I don't want Guest to die,' said Eljuk.
The plaintive tone of Eljuk's voice made Lord Onosh turn and look at him. The Witchlord's scrutiny revealed to him a surprising fact: Eljuk had been crying.
'You really want him to live?' said Lord Onosh.
'But of course,' said Eljuk, as if it was obvious. 'Of course I want him to live. What else would I want?'
The innocence of that response almost made Lord Onosh weep.
As Lord Onosh knew full well, if Guest survived this day of testing then he must necessarily and inevitably kill his brother Eljuk. Guest had the will to power and the bloody resolution necessary to seize and hold an empire, whereas Eljuk -
Poor Eljuk.
'You've never denied me before,' said Eljuk.
'No,' said Lord Onosh. 'I haven't.'
Lord Onosh had never been able to deny the boy anything. Not since he had sentenced the boy to die.
Character shows itself early, and when Eljuk had been but a small boy his father had seen that Eljuk would never be emperor.
He was too conciliatory, too sentimental and far too selfeffacing. Whereas Guest had a will to power and a violence to match it, and hence could definitely be emperor, though in all probability a bad one.
Possibly: a very bad one.
When Lord Onosh had realized the strength and ferocity of Guest Gulkan's bloody temper, he had seen that everything possible must be done to postpone the boy's ascension to the imperial throne, in the hope that the passage of years would mature him and mellow him. So Lord Onosh had named Eljuk as his heir, thus dooming Eljuk to die. It is one of the invariable rules of human affairs that power always ends up in the hands of those who want it most; and so, since Eljuk had the misfortune to lack all taste for dominance, it was a foregone conclusion that he would inevitably be murdered, if not by his brother then by some other.
Eljuk might – might! – have survived as ruler of some trifling little peacetime principality where he could have been played as a puppet by wise and remorseless councilors. But life amongst the Yarglat did not facilitate charades of puppetry. In seeking to rule the Yarglat, Eljuk must surely die, and Eljuk -
Eljuk did not realize that he had been sentenced to death, and that was the measure of his folly, a measure of his total unsuitability to hold the throne.
'Eljuk,' said Lord Onosh, 'when I am dead… '
'May you never die,' said Eljuk piously.
'Birth is death,' said Lord Onosh harshly. 'As I was born, so must I die. Then – Eljuk, when I'm dead, there won't be anyone to stand between you and the world.'
'There'll be Guest,' said Eljuk.
'Guest, yes,' said Lord Onosh. 'So what if – Eljuk, brothers quarrel. Two brothers, one kingdom. The story plays a thousand times in history. It never has a happy ending.'
There was a stir amongst those gathered in Enskandalon Square. Thodric Jarl had arrived.
'Save Guest,' said Eljuk. 'Then – then write it down for me.
Don't tell him, but write it down. Write that – that I asked you.
Then when I'm emperor I'll show him what you wrote. Then he'll know I saved him. A debt, you see.'
Lord Onosh doubted very seriously that any such posthumous revelation would could for much when an empire was at stake.
Still.
What else could he do?
Eljuk would never be able to hold the empire. He was too… too innocent. Too nice. Whereas Guest… well, Guest was a fool, a brash and ignorant over-confident fool. He drank too much, kept bad company, piled up gambling debts, was rude to powerful people such as Bao Gahai, and according to Sken-Pitilkin's account he was a scholar of truly grotesque incompetence.
But despite all these defects the young Weaponmaster had demonstrated a ruthless resolution that his brother Eljuk lacked.
He had set his heart on hacking down Thodric Jarl; he had trained for the purpose; he had avoided all temptation to escape from the duel by bribery; and here he was today, bent on consummating his folly.
Lord Onosh summoned Sken-Pitilkin with a finger and made his wishes known.
'My lord,' said Sken-Pitilkin, once he understood what his emperor wanted.
'You won't do it?' said Lord Onosh, detecting a note of resentful resistance in Sken-Pitilkin's voice.
'My lord, this – this boy Guest, he's, in his impetuosity he pitched a book to a chamber-pot.'
'It was your book, I suppose,' said Lord Onosh, suppressing his extreme irritation at finding his tame wizard bothering him with such a triviality on such an occasion.
'It was, my lord. It was – '
'Give me your bill and I'll pay it,' said Lord Onosh.
At which Sken-Pitilkin gave up all hope of making the Witchlord Onosh understand the gravity of Guest Gulkan's crime.
For the book which had fallen to the chamber pot had been a book of geography; and ancient; and stocked full of wisdom; and decorated in its margins with a multitude of irregular verbs; and it had been ruined entirely by its drenching, and was quite irreplaceable, for gold would not serve as its replacement, no, nor ivory either, nor silver, nor any measure of shimmering silks and unbroken hymens.
'My lord,' said Sken-Pitilkin remotely. 'I hear, and to hear is to obey.'
'Good, good,' said Lord Onosh testily. 'Then get on with it!'
Thus commanded, Sken-Pitilkin positioned himself near the fighters, and prepared to put his powers of levitation to work.
This he did discretely, without anyone in the audience realizing what was happening. So, when combat was joined, Thodric Jarl's feet were hooked from under him by the arts of Sken-Pitilkin's magic, and down went Jarl in the snow and slush. Guest Gulkan promptly tried to hack off Jarl's head, whereupon Sken-Pitilkin secured the sideways deflection of the Weaponmaster's sword, ensuring that it did but hack a bloodline in Jarl's gray-haired
