Jezal treated the guards to their daily share of indifference, trotted through the tunnel and up the long ramp into the fortress, then turned towards the courtyard where Marshal Varuz would be waiting. All the while, Ardee was rubbing up against the back of his mind.
It was hardly as though he had nothing else to think about. The Contest was close now, very close. Soon he would fight before the cheering crowds, his family and friends among them. It might make his reputation… or sink it. He should have been lying awake at night, tense and sweating, worrying endlessly about forms, and training, and steels. And yet somehow that wasn’t what he thought about in bed.
Then there was a war on. It was easy to forget, here in the sunny lanes of the Agriont, that Angland had been invaded by hordes of slavering barbarians. He would be going north soon, to lead his company in battle. There, surely, was a thought to keep a man occupied. Was not war a deadly business? He could be hurt, or scarred, or killed even. Jezal tried to conjure up the twisting, twitching, painted face of Fenris the Feared. Legions of screaming savages descending upon the Agriont. It was a terrible business alright, a dangerous and frightening business.
Hmmm.
Ardee came from Angland. What if, say, she were to fall into the hands of the Northmen? Jezal would rush to her rescue, of course. She would not be hurt. Well, not badly. Perhaps her clothes a little torn, like so? No doubt she would be frightened, grateful. He would be obliged to comfort her, of course. She might even faint? He might have to carry her, her head pressed against his shoulder. He might have to lay her down and loosen her clothes. Their lips might touch, just brush gently, hers might part a little, then…
Jezal stumbled in the road. There was a pleasant swelling building in his crotch. Pleasant, but hardly compatible with a brisk run. He was nearly at the courtyard now, and this would never do at fencing practice. He glanced desperately around for a distraction, and nearly choked on his tongue. Major West was standing by the wall, dressed to fence and watching him approach with an unusually grim expression. For an instant, Jezal wondered if his friend might be able to tell what he had been thinking. He swallowed guiltily, felt the blood rushing to his face. West couldn’t know, he couldn’t. But he was most unhappy about something.
“Luthar,” he grunted.
“West.” Jezal stared down at his shoes. They had not been getting on too well since West joined Lord Marshal Burr’s staff. Jezal tried to be happy for him, but could not escape the feeling that he was better qualified for the post. He had excellent blood after all, whether he had experience in the field or not. Then Ardee was still lurking between them, that unpleasant and needless warning. Everyone knew that West had been first through the breach at Ulrioch. Everyone knew that he had the devil of a temper. That had always seemed exciting to Jezal, until he got on the wrong end of it.
“Varuz is waiting.” West unfolded his arms and strode off towards the archway, “and he’s not alone.”
“Not alone?”
“The Marshal feels you need to get used to an audience.”
Jezal frowned. “I’m surprised anyone cares in the present climate, what with the war and all.”
“You’d be surprised. Fighting and fencing and all things martial are very much the flavour. Everyone’s wearing a sword these days, even if they’ve never drawn one in their lives. There’s an absolute fever about the Contest, believe me.”
Jezal blinked as they passed into the bright courtyard. A stand of temporary seating had been hastily erected along one wall, packed from one end to the other with people, three score or more.
“And here he is!” shouted Marshal Varuz. There was a ripple of polite applause. Jezal felt himself grinning— there were some very important people in amongst the crowd. He spotted Marovia, the Lord High Justice, stroking his long beard. Lord Isher was not far away from him, looking slightly bored. Crown Prince Ladisla himself was lounging on the front row, shining in a shirt of gossamer chain-mail and clapping enthusiastically. The people on the benches behind had to lean over to see round the waving plume on his magnificent hat.
Varuz handed Jezal his steels, still beaming. “Don’t you dare make me look a fool!” he hissed. Jezal coughed nervously, looking up at the rows of expectant people. His heart sank. Inquisitor Glokta’s toothless grin leered at him from the crowd, and on the row behind him… Ardee West. She was wearing an expression that she never had in his daydreams: one third sullen, one third accusing, one third simply bored. He glanced away, staring toward the opposite wall, inwardly cursing his own cowardice. He seemed unable to meet anyone’s eye these days.
“This bout will be fought with half-edged steels!” thundered the Lord Marshal. “The best of three touches!” West already had his swords drawn and was making his way to the circle, marked out with white chalk in the carefully shaved grass. Jezal’s heart was hammering loud as he fumbled his own steels out of their sheaths, acutely aware of all those eyes upon him. He took his mark opposite West, pushing his feet cautiously into the grass. West raised his steels, Jezal did the same. They faced each other for a moment, motionless.
“Begin!” shouted Varuz.
It quickly became clear that West had no mind to roll over for him. He came on with more than his usual ferocity, harrying Jezal with a flurry of heavy cuts, their steels clashing and scraping rapidly together. He gave ground, still uncomfortable under the watchful eyes of all those people, damned important people some of them, but as West pushed him back towards the edge of the circle, his nerves began to fade, his training took over. He ducked away, making room for himself, parrying the cuts with left and right, dodging and dancing, too fast to catch.
The people faded, even Ardee was gone. The blades moved by themselves, back and forth, up and down. There was no need for him to look at them. He turned his attention to Wests eyes, watched them flicker from the ground to the steels to Jezal’s dancing feet, trying to guess his intentions.
He felt the lunge coming even before it was begun. He feinted one way then turned the other, slipping smoothly round behind West as he blundered past. It was a simple matter for him to apply his foot to the seat of his opponent’s trousers and shove him out of the circle.
“A touch!” shouted Marshal Varuz.
There was a ripple of laughter as the Major sprawled on his face. “A touch on the arse!” guffawed the Crown Prince, his plume waving back and forth with merriment. “One to Captain Luthar!” West didn’t look half so intimidating with his face in the dirt. Jezal gave a little bow to the audience, risked a smile in Ardee’s direction as he rose. He was disappointed to see she wasn’t even looking at him. She was watching her brother struggle in the dust with a faint, cruel grin.
West got slowly to his feet. “A good touch,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he stepped back into the circle. Jezal took his own mark, barely able to suppress his smile.
“Begin!” shouted Varuz.
West came on strongly again, but Jezal was warming to his task now. The sounds of the audience muttered and swelled as he danced this way and that. He began to work the odd flourish into his movements, and the onlookers responded, “oohs” and “aahs” floating up as he flicked West’s efforts away. He had never fenced so well, never moved so smoothly. The bigger man was starting to tire a little, the snap was going out of his cuts. Their long steels clashed together, scraped. Jezal twisted his right wrist and tore West’s blade from his fingers, stepped in and slashed at him with his left.
“Gah!” West winced and dropped his short steel, hopping away and grabbing his forearm. A few drops of blood pattered across the ground.
“Two to nothing!” shouted Varuz.
The Crown Prince jumped up, his hat tumbling off, delighted by the sight of blood. “Excellent!” he squawked, “capital!” Others joined him on their feet, clapping loudly. Jezal basked in their approval, smiling wide, every muscle tingling with happiness. He understood now what he had been training for.
“Well fought, Jezal,” muttered West, a trickle of blood running down his forearm. “You’ve got too good for me.”
“Sorry about the cut.” Jezal grinned. He wasn’t sorry in the least.
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” West strode away, frowning and holding his wrist. Nobody paid much attention to his exit, Jezal least of all. Sporting events are all about the winners.
Lord Marovia was the first to get up from the benches and offer his congratulations. “What a promising young man,” he said, smiling warmly at Jezal, “but do you think he can beat Bremer dan Gorst?”
Varuz gave Jezal a fatherly clap on the shoulder. “I’m sure he can beat anyone, on the right day.”
“Hmm. Have you seen Gorst fence?”
“No, though I hear he is most impressive.”
