cursing, and the Styrian smiled at him and flourished his steels.
“A touch to Master Filio!” bellowed the referee. “That’s two each!” There was some scattered clapping as Filio strutted back to the contestant’s enclosure with an irritating smile across his face. “Slippery bastard,” Jezal hissed to himself as he followed. He should have seen that lunge coming. He had been careless, and he knew it.
“Two apiece?” hissed Varuz, as Jezal flopped down into his chair, breathing hard. “Two apiece? Against this nobody? He’s not even from the Union!”
Jezal knew better than to point out that Westport was supposed to be a part of the Union these days. He knew what Varuz meant, and so did everyone else in the arena. The man was an outsider as far as they were concerned. He grabbed the cloth from Wests outstretched hands and wiped his sweaty face. Five touches was a long match, but Filio looked far from exhausted. He was springing up and down on his toes as Jezal glanced across, nodding his head to the noisy Styrian advice spilling from his trainer.
“You can beat him!” West murmured, as he handed Jezal the water bottle. “You can beat him, and then it’s the final.” The final. That meant Gorst. Jezal wasn’t entirely sure he wanted any of that.
But Varuz was in no doubt. “Just damn well beat him!” hissed the Marshal, as Jezal took a swig from the bottle, swilled it round in his mouth. “Just beat him!” Jezal spat half out into the bucket and swallowed the rest. Just beat him. Easy to say, but he was a devious bastard, this Styrian.
“You can do it!” said West again, rubbing Jezal’s shoulder. “You’ve come this far!”
“Kill him! Just kill him!” Marshal Varuz stared into Jezal’s eyes “Are you a nobody, Captain Luthar? Did I waste my time on you? Or are you somebody? Eh? Now’s the time to decide!”
“Gentlemen, please!” called the referee, “the deciding touch!”
Jezal blew out hard, took his steels from West, got to his feet. He could hear Filio’s trainer shouting encouragements over the swelling noise of the crowd. “Just kill him!” shouted Varuz one last time, then Jezal was off on his way to the circle.
The deciding touch. The decider. In so many ways. Whether Jezal would be in the final or not. Whether he would be somebody or not. He was tired though, very tired. He had been fencing solidly for nearly half an hour, in the heat, and that takes it out of you. He was sweating again already. He could feel it leaking out of his face in big drops.
He moved towards his mark. A bit of chalk on some dry grass. Filio was standing there waiting, still smiling, anticipating his triumph. The little shit. If Gorst could club those others around the circle, then surely Jezal could grind this fool’s face in the turf. He squeezed the grips of his steels and concentrated on that nauseating little smile. He wished for a moment that the steels weren’t blunted, until it occurred to him that he might be the one who got stabbed.
“Begin!”
Jezal sorted through his cards, shuffling them this way and that in his hands, barely even looking at the symbols on them, barely caring whether he kept them out of sight of the others.
“I’ll raise you ten,” said Kaspa, sliding some coins across the table with a look that said… oh, something probably, Jezal didn’t care what, he really wasn’t concentrating. There was a lengthy pause.
“It’s your bet, Jezal,” grumbled Jalenhorm.
“It is? Oh, er…” He scanned across the meaningless symbols, unable to take any of it too seriously. “Erm, oh… I’ll fold.” He tossed the cards on to the table. He was down today, well down, for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long. Ever probably. He was too busy thinking about Ardee: wondering how he could bed her without doing either one of them lasting harm, most particularly without his being killed by West. He was still no closer to an answer, unfortunately.
Kaspa swept up the coins, smiling broadly at his most unlikely victory. “So that was well fought today, Jezal. A close one, but you came through, eh?”
“Uh,” said Jezal. He took his pipe from the table.
“I swear, I thought he had you for a minute there, but then,” and he snapped his fingers under Brint’s nose, “just like that! Knocked him right over. The crowd loved it! I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself, I swear!”
“Do you reckon you can beat Gorst?” asked Jalenhorm.
“Uh.” Jezal shrugged, lighting the pipe and leaning back in his chair, looking up at the grey sky and sucking on the stem.
“You seem pretty calm about it all,” said Brint.
“Uh.”
The three officers glanced at each other, disappointed by the failure of their chosen topic. Kaspa picked another. “Have you fellows seen the Princess Terez yet?”
Brint and Jalenhorm sighed and gasped, then the three of them prattled their gormless appreciation of the woman. “Have I seen her? Have I ever!”
“They call her the jewel of Talins!”
“The rumours didn’t lie where she’s concerned!”
“I hear the marriage to Prince Ladisla is a fixed thing.”
“The lucky bastard!” And so on.
Jezal stayed where he was, sat back in his chair, blowing smoke at the sky. He wasn’t so sure about Terez, from the little he’d seen. Beautiful from a distance, no doubt, but he imagined that her face would feel like glass to the touch: cold, hard and brittle. Nothing like Ardee’s…
“Still,” Jalenhorm was spouting, “I have to say, Kaspa, my heart still belongs to your cousin Ariss. Give me a Union girl any day over one of these foreigners.”
“Give you her money, you mean,” murmured Jezal, head still tipped back.
“No!” complained the big man. “She’s a perfect lady! Sweet, demure, well-bred. Ah!” Jezal smiled to himself. If Terez was cold glass, then Ariss was a dead fish. Kissing her would be like kissing an old rag, he imagined: limp and tedious. She couldn’t kiss the way Ardee did. No one could…
“Well, they’re both of them beauties, no doubt,” Brint was blathering, “fine women to dream about, if dreams are all you’re after…” He leaned forward to a conspiratorial distance, smirking shiftily round as though he had something secret and exciting to say. The other two edged their chairs forward, but Jezal stayed where he was. He had no interest at all in hearing about whatever whore that idiot was bedding.
“Have you met West’s sister?” murmured Brint. Jezal’s every muscle stiffened. “She’s not the equal of those two of course, but she’s really quite pretty in a common sort of way and… I think she’d be willing.” Brint licked his lips and nudged Jalenhorm in the ribs. The big man grinned guiltily like a schoolboy at a dirty joke. “Oh yes, she strikes me as the willing type.” Kaspa giggled. Jezal put his pipe down on the table, noticing that his hand was trembling slightly. The other was gripping the arm of his chair so hard that his knuckles were white.
“I do declare,” said Brint, “if I didn’t think the Major would stick me with his sword, I’d be tempted to stick his sister with mine, eh?” Jalenhorm spluttered with laughter. Jezal felt one of his eyes twitching as Brint turned his smirk towards him. “Well, Jezal, what do you think? You’ve met her, haven’t you?”
“What do I think?” His voice seemed to come from a terribly long way away as he stared at those three grinning faces. “I think you should watch your mouth, you son of a fucking whore.”
He was on his feet now, teeth gritted so tight together they felt like they might crack apart. The three smiles blinked and faded. Jezal felt Kaspa’s hand on his arm. “Come on, he only meant—”
Jezal ripped his arm away, seized the edge of the table and flung it over. Coins, cards, bottles, glasses, flew through the air and spilled out across the grass. He had his sword in his other hand, still sheathed luckily, leaning right down over Brint, spraying spit in his face. “Now you fucking listen to me, you little bastard!” he snarled, “I hear anything more like that, anything, and you won’t have to worry about West!” He pressed the grip of his steel into Brint’s chest. “I’ll carve you like a fucking chicken!”
The three men stared up at him, aghast, their mouths wide open, their astonishment at this sudden display of violence equalled only by Jezal’s own.
“But—” said Jalenhorm.
“What?” screamed Jezal, seizing a fistful of the big man’s jacket and dragging him half out of his chair. “What d’you fucking say?”
“Nothing,” he squeaked, his hands raised, “nothing.” Jezal let him drop. The fury was draining fast. He had
