into trouble, we can’t and won’t fetch you out.’
Suddenly he was gone. There was a slight intake of air where Magnus had stood and the room went silent.
Tal reached out and took his wine cup and muttered, ‘I hate that he always has to have the last word.’
Tal awoke feeling a little disoriented. He had only had one cup of wine the night before during his conversation with Magnus. The day had been uneventful, a somewhat leisurely ride down the mountain and through the city to the palace. But he hadn’t slept well, and wondered if his restless night was due to the choice that now confronted him.
Kaspar was in his debt; so how was Tal to take service with him and not look overly anxious? His idea of killing Prince Matthew and having Kaspar intercede to protect him now seemed eminently plausible; Magnus was correct: Tal’s status as Champion of the Masters’ Court gained him many privileges, but what were the obligations? Tal pondered that for a moment.
He knew he could manipulate any number of social situations where Prince Matthew would be forced to call him out for a duel. Someone would insist it be to first blood and Tal could ‘accidentally’ kill him; unfortunate, but these things happen. Ironically, Tal considered, they happen to me a lot, actually. No, that wouldn’t do, for a duel would be about honour and while the King might never again allow him in the palace …
A brawl perhaps? Matthew had an appetite for some of the seedier bordellos and gaming halls in the city. He went ‘in disguise’, despite the fact everyone knew him and he used his position to great advantage.
Tal discarded the idea; not public enough.
There was no easy way to kill him in such a way as to land in that magic place between being forgiven and being beheaded. And even if he did land in that magical place, and Kaspar interceded on his behalf, that would settle Kaspar’s debt. Tal liked having that debt.
No, he decided as he arose, he wouldn’t kill Prince Matthew. Another idea came to him. He sat back and thought about it, and decided he had not considered his own role closely enough. There might just be a way to make himself persona non grata in Roldem. He could keep himself off the headsman’s block yet seemingly have no social future left in Roldem. At which point it would seem as if he had no choice to but take service with the Duke.
‘Pasko,’ he called and a moment later Amafi entered the room. ‘Magnificence, may I serve?’ he asked in the language of the Isles.
‘Where’s Pasko?’ he asked, motioning for his trousers.
The former assassin handed them to Tal. ‘He went to the morning market, Magnificence, shopping for food. What may I do for you?’
Tal considered this, and then said, ‘I guess now is as good a time as any for you to learn to be a valet.’
‘Valet? Magnificence, I do not know the word.’
Tal had forgotten he was speaking Roldemish, a language in which Amafi could barely keep up. ‘Il cameriere personate,’ said Tal in the Quegan language.
‘Ah, a manservant,’ said Amafi in the Ring’s Tongue, as the language of the Isles was known. ‘I have spent some time among men of breeding, Magnificence, so it will be of little matter to learn your needs. But what of Pasko?’
‘Pasko will be leaving us soon, I’m afraid.’ Tal sat and pulled on his boots. ‘It’s a family matter, and he must return to his father’s side up north in Latagore.’
Amafi didn’t ask for any details. He just said, ‘Then I shall endeavour to match him in caring for your comfort.’
‘We still need to work on your Roldemish,’ said Tal, falling back into that language. ‘I’m for the Masters’ Court. Wait here for Pasko, then tell him to begin to acquaint you with my routines. He will explain as he goes. Become like his shadow for a while and observe. Ask questions if they do not disturb me or any in my company, otherwise keep them until the two of you are alone.
‘Tell him to meet me at Remarga’s at midday and bring fresh clothing. Then I will dine at … Baldwin’s, outside along the Grand Canal, then some afternoon cards at Depanov’s. I’ll return here to change into something more appropriate for supper.’
‘Yes, Magnificence.’
Tal put on the same shirt he had worn the day before, and threw a casual jacket across one shoulder as he grabbed his sword. ‘Now, find something to do until Pasko gets back and I’ll see the two of you at noon.’
‘Yes, Magnificence,’ Amafi repeated.
Tal left the apartment and hurried down the stairs. He fastened his sword around his waist and kept the jacket over his shoulder. It was a warm day and he had elected to forgo a hat. As he worked his way along the streets to the Masters’ Court, he pondered just how much damage he could do to a royal without getting himself into too much trouble.
The morning sun, a warm breeze off the ocean, the memory of the Lady Natalia’s enthusiastic lovemaking – all combined to put Tal into a wonderful frame of mind. By the time he reached the Masters’ Court he had a plan as to how to humiliate a royal without getting hung, and had convinced himself it might even turn out to be fun.
A week later, the gallery was full as Tal walked onto the floor of the Masters’ Court. With the return of the Greatest Swordsman in the World, observing practices and bouts had become the favoured pastime of a large number of young women in the capital. Many noble daughters and a significant number of young wives found reason to take pause during their day’s shopping to indulge their new-found interest in the sword.
He had been practising every day for a week since returning from the hunt, and waiting for his opportunity to confront Prince Matthew. He had finally realized the Prince was waiting until he departed to appear at Masters’ Court every second day. Tal judged that the vain prince didn’t wish to share the attention of those at the Masters’ Court with the Champion. So this day, Tal began his practice sessions in the late afternoon, rather than the morning, as was his habit.
Tal was saluted by every member on the floor, including the instructors, in recognition of his achievement. Today Vassily Turkov was acting as Master of the Floor, head instructor, and arbiter of any dispute. Other instructors worked with students in all corners of the massive hall, but the Master of the Floor supervised the bouts at the centre.
The floor of the court was of inlaid wood, arranged in a complex pattern that after a brief study revealed itself to be a clever series of boundaries between various practice areas. The floor was surrounded by massive columns of hand-polished wood supporting the ornate high ceiling. Tal glanced up and saw that the ceiling had been repainted, white with gold leaf over embossed garlands and wreaths which surrounded large skylights. Galleries ran along one wall between the columns, while the other wall boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping the entire hall brilliantly lit.
Vassily came and took Tal’s hand. ‘When you didn’t appear this morning, I thought perhaps you’d given yourself a day of rest, Squire.’ He glanced at the crowded gallery and said, ‘If this continues, we may have to put up those temporary seats again.’ During the Masters’ Champion Tournament, temporary seating had been erected in front of the windows, to accommodate as many onlookers as possible.
Tal smiled. ‘I just came to practise, Master.’
The older man smiled and nodded. ‘Then I shall find you an opponent.’ He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: ‘Anatoli, you are first!’
Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out, ‘Rapiers! Three points to the victor!’
Both men wore heavily-padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury. They advanced and faced one another.