Pattern (36 page)

‘What the hell do you think you're playing at?' Eyvind whispered noisily in his ear. ‘Are you out of your mind, or do you just enjoy hurting people?'

Poldarn looked up sharply. ‘What?'

Eyvind stared at him; incomprehension staring at incomprehension, an optical effect like the well-known juxtaposition of two facing mirrors. Then he sighed. ‘Right,' he said, ‘I guess it's probably my fault, somebody's fault, anyhow. You weren't to know – you can't see things unless people tell you out loud. The point is, it's not meant to be serious. It's a game. The idea is, you let everybody beat you at sports, to show what a good sort you are, and in return they go easy on you in the fighting events; nobody gets beaten up, and we all have a nice drink afterwards. You're treating it like it's a battle to the death.'

‘But that's not fair,' Poldarn objected, trying to keep his cool but failing. ‘They
weren't
going easy on me, far from it. And I've got the bruises to prove it.'

‘Yes, they were.'

And, now that Poldarn thought about it, yes, they had been, until he'd lost his rag and made a fight of it in the wrestling. His first few opponents in that event had bruised his pride but not his bones; they'd taken extreme care to throw him gently, which he'd taken for a patronising display of superior skill rather than a logical reluctance to incapacitate a member of the workforce. It was only when he'd taken to throwing them in return – not to mention kicking and elbow-slamming and various other over-effective techniques – that they'd hurt him at all, and that was purely self-defence on their part, though as it turned out his skill had been superior to theirs and their moves hadn't worked terribly well. By the time they'd got to the quarterstaff, they'd got wise to the change in rules and objectives, but all the same they'd only fought seriously because he'd started it and they didn't want to get hurt. Once again, it had so happened that he was better at bashing with a long pole than they were; and now here he was feeling all smug because he'd contrived to turn a cheerful burlesque into a ferocious battle. Magnificent, he thought, and me all over. But none of this would've happened if only they'd filled me in on the plot beforehand . . .

‘So what should I do now?' Poldarn asked plaintively. ‘Should I back off and let them beat me?'

Eyvind shook his head. ‘Not if you want to come out of this alive,' he replied. ‘For better or worse you've turned this into a real contest – also, you've shown them you're unnaturally good at anything to do with weapons and fighting. You can bet that they'll all be wanting to be the one to teach you a lesson, so you'd better watch yourself. Bloody hell,' he added, sighing deeply, ‘you couldn't have made a worse mess of it if you'd tried. If you want my opinion, the only thing you can do is make absolutely sure you win; it'll be a sort of statement of intent that you mean to be – well, a different sort of head of house, leading from the front, the strong man, that sort of thing. It's not what they're used to, but at least they'll be able to understand what you're trying to do, instead of just standing there wondering why the hell you're beating shit out of your friends.'

‘All right,' Poldarn replied. ‘I'll give it a try – at least, that's assuming I can. What's left?'

‘Single-stick and the home game,' Eyvind replied.

Poldarn shook his head. ‘I don't know what that means,' he said.

Eyvind muttered something under his breath. ‘Fine,' he said. ‘Look, single-stick is like sword-fighting, but instead of a sword you've got a wooden rod, thick as your thumb, and the object is to land a blow that draws blood – just a little, mind, so for crying out loud don't go killing anybody. No hitting below the waist, no thrusting, and if the other man says “Hold”, you
stop
. You got that?'

‘I think so,' Poldarn replied. ‘Put like that, it doesn't sound a bit like real swordfighting. I suppose you're all terribly good at it and practise all the time?'

Eyvind nodded. ‘It's a very popular game,' he replied. ‘Why do you think it's saved till the end of the show? Well, almost the end. And you're right, it's not in the least like real fighting with swords, it's all in the wrist and fingers. Oh God,' he added, glancing over his shoulder, ‘they're ready for you. Just try and remember, this
isn't
a battle – don't go raving mad.'

‘Right.'

‘And make bloody sure you win,' Eyvind added, as Poldarn dragged himself unwillingly to his feet, ‘or else they'll flay you alive. Got that?'

Poldarn's ankle was a little better, but he was painfully aware that he was limping, dragging his feet, and that anything like proper footwork was out of the question. A pity, that, because his instincts told him that mock swordfighting with bits of stick was probably more about footwork than anything else. As for Eyvind's parting advice, it seemed to boil down to
beat them to a pulp but don't hurt anybody
. And that, as Asburn would say, was all there was to it.

Piece of cake.

In the event, it came surprisingly easily to him, probably because his movements were so limited. As a result he was effectively limited to a solid but hostile defence; block three times, then counter just enough to drive his opponents back out of his space, his circle. (Now that was a familiar concept, something Poldarn knew he'd known a lot about once upon a time; he could remember having committed it to memory, but he couldn't remember it now.) Since there was no need for a proper attack, for moves that would give him scope to swing his arm hard and fast enough to slice meat and smash bone, there was nothing to be gained from taking the offensive; smart, stinging little backfoot ripostes, elegantly timed, were more likely to achieve the desired effect than big scything cuts and wraps, even if he'd been in any fit state to attempt them. Furthermore, his opponents were working on a new and to them unfamiliar agenda; they were more interested in hurting him than they were in winning, in a discipline where the techniques for causing real injury and those designed to produce formal victory were not only different but largely incompatible. The result was that they ended up fighting like they were expecting him to fight, while he quite effectively reinvented the gentle art of single-stick and performed it both elegantly and effectively. Accordingly he won all seven bouts quickly and without inflicting any damage beyond the required slight graze. Crazy, Poldarn thought; they're trying to be me and I'm succeeding at being them, making a rather better job of it than they are.

‘How am I doing?' he muttered furtively to Eyvind, after the last challenger had retired in search of spider's web and a dock leaf. ‘Look, I didn't kill anybody.'

‘Not bad,' Eyvind replied, though he was clearly not happy about something. ‘Where the hell did you learn single-stick like that?'

‘I was just asking myself the same question,' Poldarn admitted. ‘Maybe I was good at it when I was a kid, before I went away.'

But Eyvind shook his head. ‘You didn't learn any of that stuff round here,' he replied. ‘I've been fighting sticks since I was five, and I know every move in the game. Never saw anything like it in my life.'

‘Oh,' Poldarn said. ‘Then I guess I was just making it up as I went along.'

‘Don't buy that, either,' Eyvind grumbled. ‘You've obviously done this before, but Polden only knows where. Must've been over there, in the Empire. It's like a completely different game, only it works for how we do it, too. I figure you must've been pretty serious about it, though. Some of those moves looked like they took a lot of practice to get right.'

‘I wouldn't know,' Poldarn replied. ‘Look, when you feel like it, I can teach them to you if you like.'

‘Thanks,' Eyvind replied, ‘but I'd rather not. I don't think folks would take kindly to stuff like that.' He was frowning slightly, like a religious man who thinks he's just heard a blasphemy but can't quite work out what it was. ‘I wouldn't go around pulling any more stunts like that if I were you, either. People can be very funny about things like that.'

Poldarn shrugged. ‘Well, all right,' he said. ‘Actually, I can't say the game appeals to me very much. Anything where you're likely to get hit isn't really my idea of a good time.'

That didn't seem to carry much weight with Eyvind, who looked away and changed the subject.

‘The last event shouldn't be a problem,' he said. ‘There isn't really much scope for hurting anybody in the home game, unless you happen to let go of the stick. Make sure you dry your hands before you start. In fact, rubbing a bit of sawdust on your palms might be an idea.'

‘I meant to ask you about that,' Poldarn interrupted. ‘This home game. What is it, exactly?'

Maybe Eyvind sighed a little, or maybe it was just Poldarn's imagination. ‘Oh, it's quite simple. You and the other man stand facing each other, and you're both wearing a sash – any bit of old cloth, really – with a wooden sword stuck through it. It's supposed to be a proper carved job, but we generally just use a bit of old roofing lath, something like that. Anyhow, the game is to see who can draw the fastest; there's a referee watching in case it's not immediately obvious, but usually you can tell. It's called the home game because it used to be really popular back in the old country, apparently, before we left the Empire and came here. Sound familiar?'

Poldarn didn't reply straight away. ‘No,' he said, ‘but it sounds to me a bit like the swordmonks.'

‘Same sort of thing,' Eyvind said. ‘That's probably where it came from originally. Anyway, it ought to be perfectly harmless. Just don't go mad, you don't have to win this one. And make sure the stick doesn't slip, like I told you. All right?'

Poldarn nodded. ‘I should be able to manage that.'

For the first time since the games began, Eyvind smiled at him. ‘Be particularly careful,' he said, ‘when it's you against me. I can't speak for the others, of course, but if you let go the stick and it smacks me in the face, I'll break both your arms.'

‘Well, of course,' Poldarn said. ‘Look, are you sure you're all right to take part, with your hands all burnt like that?'

Eyvind laughed. ‘Listen,' he said, ‘I may not be good at much, but there's nobody in these parts who can touch me at the home game, even if I've got both hands tied behind my back. Not that I'm trying to put you off or anything,' he added innocently, ‘just thought you ought to know that, is all.'

‘We'll see about that,' Poldarn replied, grinning. ‘You know, I won't be sorry when all this is over. I feel like I've just had a barn fall on me.'

‘Really?' Eyvind said. ‘Is that because of the fighting and stuff, or did you have a rough night?'

Poldarn sighed. ‘If only,' he said. ‘There, I think that means they're ready. Do I need to get something to use as a sash?'

He needn't have worried about that; Rannwey had one ready for him, a real sash rather than a strip of old sacking, with two silk tassels and a cord strap for a scabbard. Not made locally, that's for sure, he thought as he tied it on, I wonder how old it is? He was also given a proper wooden sword, remarkably similar in weight and feel to the steel version he'd been issued with during his time with Falx Roisin. It felt uncomfortably natural riding at his waist; he felt exposed by it, as if it was a dirty mark on a white shirt.

As Poldarn settled himself for the first bout, he thought about what Eyvind had said. No need to win this event in the interests of self-preservation; and it'd probably be smart to lose anyhow, so as not to leave the spectators with an impression of him as ferociously competitive. Anything like that, he felt sure, was probably frowned on in this community, and he'd done enough damage already on that score. Accordingly, he resolved to make a conscious effort to lose, assuming he wasn't hopelessly outclassed anyway.

Colsceg was the referee. Poldarn was expecting him to say something or give a signal for the start, but apparently that wasn't how the game worked, because his opponent drew quite unexpectedly, while Colsceg was busy talking to someone on the edge of the group. Even so, he'd have had trouble at all beating the draw, if he hadn't made a conscious effort not to. It felt quite extraordinary to miss the beat like that, and his hand shook so much he was sure that the spectators must have seen.

(Besides, he told himself, even if they hadn't been watching his hands, they'd surely noticed him shake all over, as his instincts tried their very best to override the conscious decision he'd made, like a dog pulling hard against its chain as a cat or a rabbit goes by. But, if they saw, nobody hissed or threw anything, so he could at least assure himself, without being rudely contradicted, that he'd managed to get away with it. Just as well they couldn't read his mind, though; otherwise he'd be wasting his time trying to deceive them.)

Poldarn managed to lose seven bouts. Once he'd got the hang of it, he found it relatively simple, mainly because his opponents were so slow and obvious about it that they didn't register in his mind as a threat. He was relieved to see that the eighth competitor was Eyvind, with his bandaged hands. Losing convincingly to someone who had to have his sash tied for him would be something of a challenge, but he reckoned he could handle it; after all, it looked as though he'd have plenty of time.

‘Remember,' Eyvind hissed at him as they walked into the middle together, ‘don't go raving mad. You're doing all right.'

‘Thanks,' Poldarn replied. ‘At least it's nearly over.'

Eyvind too had a proper sash, presumably his own – interesting, that he'd brought it with him from home, along with a finely carved oak dummy sword; presumably he practised every day, to keep his hand in, even when he was away from home. ‘Leave it to me,' Eyvind added, as they reached the centre of the ring. ‘You won't have to fake it, just follow me. All right?'