Swordpoint (2 page)

Perhaps he might see her again soon, in better circumstances -only to renew the acquaintance, of course; his current lover's possessiveness he found exciting, and was not yet ready to give up.

Finally, they returned to the more interesting question of whether Lord Horn had had anything to do with the fighting in his gardens. Michael was able to say sagely, 'Well, I hope the suggestion will not get back to Horn's ears. He's liable to become offended and hire himself another swordsman to take care of the rumour-mongers.'

The duchess's fine eyebrows rose in twin arcs. 'Oh? Are you intimately acquainted with the gentleman and his habits?'

'No, madam,' he answered, covering his discomfort at her challenge with a show of surprise. 'But I know him to fee a gentleman; I do not think he would readily brook the suggestion that he had intentionally set two swordsmen against one, whether in private quarrel or to please his guests.'

'Well, you're probably right there,' she conceded; 'whether he actually did so or not. Horn has been so careful of his reputation these last few years - he'd probably deny stealing honey if his fingers were caught in the jar. He was much more agreeable when he still had something to occupy his time.'

'Surely he is as busy now as any nobleman?' Lady Halliday asked, sure she was missing some vital connection. Lydia Godwin said nothing, but scowled at her knuckles.

'Of course,' Diane said generously, 'you were not yet come to the city then, Mary. Dear, how gossip will trip us up! You will not know that some years past Lord Horn was the reigning beauty. He managed to capture the eyes of Lord Galing, God rest him, who was at the time gaining power in the Council, but didn't quite know what to do with it all. Horn told him. They were a strong combination for a while, Horn with his ambition, and Galing with his talent. I feared - along with my husband, of course - that Galing would be made Chancellor. But Galing died, not a moment too soon, and Horn's influence has faded. I'm sure it galls him. It's probably why he insists on giving such showy parties. His star has definitely fallen: he lacks the coin for further extravagant purchases. Not, of course, that Lord Halliday would wish for any distracting influence!'

Mary Halliday smiled prettily, her colour reflecting the rose ribbons on her cap. Lady Godwin looked up and said a trifle brusquely, 'Why is it, Diane, that you seem to know the single most unpleasant story about everyone in the city?'

'I suppose,' she answered blithely, 'because there are so many unpleasant people. How right you are to stay at Amberleigh, my dear.'

In despair Michael thought: If they start on about the family again, I shall fall off my chair. He said, 'I've been thinking, actually, about Karleigh.' The duchess favoured him with her attention. Her eyes were the frosty silver of winter clouds. He fell a delicate shiver as they brushed over him.

'You are quite sure, then,' she said, in a low, melodious voice, 'that it was the duke who hired Lynch?' It was as though she had said something quite different, for his ears alone. His lips wen lightly parted; and at last he saw, looking at her, his own beauty reflected there. But before he could answer, his mother cried, 'Of course it was Karleigh! Why else would he leave town first thing this morning, making no excuses to anyone - unless he left a note for Horn apologising for the use his garden was put to...'

'Not his style,' observed the duchess.

'Then it is clear', Lady Godwin said triumphantly, 'that he had to get out of the city. His man lost the fight! And St Vier may still be in the pay of his opponent. If Karleigh stayed, he might have to keep hiring other swordsmen to go up against St Vier, until he ran out of money, or talent. And then he'd be up against St Vier himself - and then, you know, he'd surely be dead. The duke doesn't know any more of swordplay than Michael, I'm sure.'

'But I am sure', the duchess said, again with that strange double-edged tone, 'that Lord Michael would know what to do with it if he did.'

Something fluttered at the base of his spine. Resolutely he took control-of the conversation. He turned directly to the duchess speaking assertively, summoning all the confidence of a man used to having his opinions heeded. 'As a matter of fact, madam, I an not sure that the Duke of Karleigh hired Lynch. I was wondering whether it were not just as likely that he had hired St Vier instead.'

'Oh, Michael,' said his mother impatiently. 'Then why would Karleigh have left town when his man won!'

'Because he was still afraid of the person who did hire Lynch.'

'Interesting,' said the duchess. Her silvery eyes seemed to grow bigger, like a cat's. 'And not altogether impossible. Your son, Lydia, would seem to have a far more complex grasp of the situation than any of us.'

Her eyes had turned from him, and the mocking disdain was back in her voice. But he had had her for a moment - had her interest, had her seeing him entirely. He wondered what he had done to lose her.

The door to the morning room opened, and a tall, broad-framed man came in unannounced. A sense of exertion and the outdoors hung about him: his dark hair was ruffled all over his head, and his handsome face was high-coloured by the wind. Unlike Michael, with his tight-fitting, pastel costume, this man wore loose, dark clothes, with mud-splashed boots up to his thighs.

Mary Halliday's face transformed with brightness when she saw him. Being a good hostess and a well-mannered woman, she stayed seated amongst her guests; but her bright eyes never left her husband.

Basil, Lord Halliday, Crescent Chancellor of the Council of Lords, bowed to his wife's company, a smile creasing his weathered face.

She spoke to him formally. 'My lord! We did not expect you back so soon as this.'

His smile deepened with mischief and affection. 'I know,' he answered, coming to kiss both her hands. 'I came home directly, before even going to report to Ferris. I should have remembered that you'd have company.'

'Company is delighted to see you,' said the Duchess Tremontaine, 'although I'm sure Lady Halliday is more so. She wouldn't admit it, but I believe the thought of you riding out to Helm-sleigh alone to face a cordon of rebellious weavers unsettled her equilibrium.'

Halliday laughed. 'I was hardly alone. I took a troop of City Guard with me to impress them.'

His wife caught his eyes, asking seriously, 'How did it go?'

'Well enough,' he answered her. 'They have some legitimate complaints. Foreign wool has been driving prices down, and the new tax is hard on the smaller communes. I'll have to take it up with my lord Ferris. I'll tell you all about it, but not till afterward, or the Dragon Chancellor will be annoyed for not having been the first to hear.'

Lady Halliday frowned. 'I still think Ferris should have gone instead. The Exchequer is his concern.'

He sent her a brief glance of warning before saying lightly, 'Not at all! What is a mere Dragon Chancellor when compared with the head of the entire Council of Lords? This way they were flattered, and felt that enough attention was being paid to them. Now, when I send Chris Nevilleson out to take a full report, they'll be nice to him. I think the matter should be settled soon.'

'Well, I should think so!' said Lady Godwin. 'Imagine some pack of weavers raising their shuttles against a Council order.'

Michael laughed, thinking of his friend riding out to Helm-sleigh on one of his fine horses. 'Poor Chris! Why do you assign him all the most unpleasant tasks, my lord?'

'He volunteers. I believe he wishes to be of service.'

'He adores you, Basil,' Lady Halliday said brightly. Michael Godwin raised his eyebrows, and the colour rushed into her face. 'Oh, no! I mean... he admires Lord Halliday... his work...'

'Anyone would,' said the duchess comfortably. 'I adore him myself. And if I wished to advance to any political power, I should most certainly station myself at his side.' Her friend smiled gratefully at her over the rim of the chocolate cup behind which she had taken refuge. And Michael felt, in consternation, that he had just been measured and found wanting. 'In fact,' the duchess continued blithely, 'I have been grieving over how seldom I see him - or any of you - when not surrounded by other admirers. Let us all dine together privately a few weeks from today. You have heard of Steele's fireworks? He's sending them off over the river to celebrate his birthday. It promises to be quite a show. Of course I told him it was the wrong time of year, but he said he couldn't change his birthday to suit the weather, and he has always been uncommonly fond of fireworks. They will entertain the populace, and give the rest of us something to do. So we're all to dust off our summer barges and go out on the river and enjoy ourselves. Mine will certainly hold us all, and I believe my cook can put together a tolerable picnic; if we all dress up warmly it won't be so bad.' She turned her charming smile on Basil Halliday. 'I shall invite Lord Ferris, my lord, only if you two promise not to spend the whole evening talking politics. ... and Chris Nevilleson and his sister, I think. Perhaps I had better include a few other young men, to ensure that Lord Michael has someone to talk to.'

Michael's flush of embarrassment lasted through the chatter of thanks. He was able to cover it by straightening his hose. A fall of lace cuff brushed his cheek as the duchess stood by his mother saying, 'Oh, Lydia, what a shame, to have to leave town so soon! I hope Lord Michael will be able to represent you at my picnic?' He stopped before he could begin to stammer something out, and simply rose and offered her his seat by his mother. She sank into it with a willow's grace, and looked up at him, smiling. 'You will come, will you not, my lord?'

Michael squared his shoulders, sharply aware of the close fit of his jacket, the hang of his sleeves. Her offered hand lay on his like a featherweight, soft, white and elusively perfumed. He was careful only to brush it with his lips. 'Your servant, madam,' he murmured, looking straight up into her eyes.

'Such manners.' The duchess returned the look. 'What a delightful young man. I shall expect you, then.'

Chapter III

Richard St Vier, the swordsman, awoke later that day, in the middle of the afternoon. The house was quiet and the room was cold. He got up and dressed quickly, not bothering to light the bedroom fire.

He stepped softly into the other room, knowing which floorboards were likely to creak. He saw the top of Alec's head, nestled into a burlap-covered chaise longue he was fond of because it had griffins' heads carved into the armrests. Alec had built up the fire and drawn the chair up close to it. Richard thought Alec might be asleep; but then he saw Alec's shoulder shift and heard the crackle of paper as he turned the pages of a book.

Richard limbered up against the wall for awhile, then took up a blunt-tipped practice sword and began to attack the chipped plaster wall with it, striking up and down an imaginary line with steady, rhythmic precision. There was a counterattack from the other side of the wall: three blows from a heavy fist caused their remaining flakes of paint to tremble.

'Will you shut that racket up!’ a voice demanded through the wall.

Richard put his sword down in disgust. 'Hell,' he said, 'they're home.'

'Why don't you kill them?' the man in the chair asked lazily.

'What for? Marie'd only replace them with some more. She needs the rent money. At least this bunch doesn't have babies.'

'True.' One long leg and then another swung out from the chaise to plant themselves on the floor. 'It's mid-afternoon. The snow has stopped. Let's go out.'

Richard looked at him. 'Anywhere special?'

'The Old Market', said Alec, 'might be entertaining. If you're still in the mood, after those other two.'

Richard got a heavier sword, and buckled it on. Alec's ideas of 'entertaining’ were violent. His blood began to race, not unpleasantly. People had learned not to bother him; now they must learn the same about Alec. He followed him into the winter air, which was cold and sharp like a hunting morning.

The streets of Riverside were mostly deserted at this time of day, and a thick snow-cover muffled what sounds there were. The oldest houses were built so close together that their eaves almost touched across the street, eaves elaborately carved, throwing shadows onto the last flakes of painted coats of arms on the walls below them. No modern carriage could pass between the houses of Riverside; its people walked, and hid in the twisting byways, and the Watch never followed them there. The nobles drove their well-sprung carriages along the broad, sunlit avenues of the upper city, leaving their ancestors' houses to whomever chose to occupy them. Most would be surprised to know how many still held deeds to Riverside houses; and few would be eager to collect the rent.

Alec sniffed the air. 'Bread. Someone's baking bread.'

'Are you hungry?'

'I'm always hungry.' The young man pulled his scholar's robe tighter around him. Alec was tall, and a little too thin, with none of the swordsman's well-sprung grace. With the layers of clothes he had piled on underneath the robe, he looked like a badly wrapped package. 'Hungry and cold. It's what I came to Riverside for. I got tired of the luxurious splendour of University life. The magnificent meals, the roaring fires in the comfy lecture halls-----'A gust of wind whipped powdered snow off a roof and

into their faces. Alec cursed with a student's elaborate fluency. 'What a stupid place to live! No wonder anyone with any sense left here long ago. The streets are a perfect wind-tunnel between the two rivers. It's like asking to be put in cold-storage___I hope they're paying you soon for that idiotic duel, because we're almost out of wood and my fingers are turning blue as it is.'

'They're paying me,' Richard answered comfortably. 'I can pick up the money tomorrow, and buy wood on the way home.' Alec had been complaining of the cold since the first ground-frost. He kept their rooms hotter than Richard ever had, and still shivered and wrapped himself in blankets all day. Whatever part of the country he came from, it was probably not the northern mountains, and not the house of a poor man. All evidence so far of Alec's past was circumstantial: things like the fire, and the accent, and his inability to fight, all spoke nobility. But at the same time he had no money, no known people or title, and the University gown hung on his slumped shoulders as though it belonged there. The University was for poor scholars, or clever men hoping to better themselves and acquire posts as secretaries or tutors to the nobility.

Richard said, 'Anyway, I thought you won lots of money off Rodge the other night, dicing."

'I did.' Alec loosed one edge of his cloak to make sweeping gestures with his right hand. 'He won it back from me next night. In fact I owe him money; it's why we're not going to Rosalie's.'

'It's all right; he knows I'm good for it.'

'He cheats,' Alec said. 'They all cheat. I don't know how you can cheat with straight dice, but as soon as I find out I'm going to get rich off Rodge and all his smelly little friends.'

'Don't,' said Richard. 'That's for these types, not for you. You don't have to cheat, you're a gentleman.'

As soon as it was out he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. He could feel Alec's tension, almost taste the blue coldness of the air between them. But Alec only said, 'A gentleman, Richard? What nonsense. I'm just a poor student who was stupid enough to spend time with my books when I could have been out drinking and learning how to load dice.'

'Well,' St Vier said equably, 'you're certainly making up for it now.'

'Aren't I just.' Alec smiled with grim pleasure.

The Old Market wasn't old, nor was it properly a market. A square of once-elegant houses had been gutted at the ground floor, so that each house opened at the front. The effect was like a series of little boxed stage sets, each containing a fire and a group of Riversiders crowded around it, their hands stuffed under their armpits or held out to the fire, engaged in what could only loosely be termed marketing: a little dicing, a little flirting, drinking, and trying to sell each other stolen objects, shifting from foot to foot in the cold.

In front of one of them Alec suddenly stopped. 'Here,' he said. 'Let's go in here.'

There was nothing to distinguish this one from any of the others. Richard followed him to the fire. Alec's movements were languid, with a studied grace that the swordsman's eye recognised as the burden of feverish tension held in check. Other people noticed it too, though what they made of it was hard to say. Riverside was used to odd-looking people with odd moods. The woman nearest Alec moved nervously away, yielding her proximity to the fire. Across it a short man with a rag twisted around his sandy hair looked up from casting dice.

'Well, look who's here,' he said in a soft whine. 'Master Scholar.' A long gleam of metal slid from his side to his hand. 'I thought I told you last night I didn't want to see your face again.'

'Stupid face,' Alec corrected with airy condescension. 'You said you didn't want to see my stupid face around here again.' Someone giggled nervously. People had edged away from the dicer with the drawn sword. Without turning his head the man reached his free hand behind him and caught a small, pretty woman's wrist. He reeled her in to his side like a fish on a line, and held her there, fondling one breast. His eyes above her head dared anyone to react.

'That's good,' Alec said with lofty sarcasm. 'I used to know a man who could name any card you pulled from the deck without looking.

'That's good.' The man mimicked his accent. 'Is that what they teach you at University, scholar, card tricks?'

The muscles tautened around Alec's mouth. 'They don't teach anyone anything at University. I had to learn to recognise people with duckshit for brains all by myself. But I think I'm pretty good at it, don't you?'

The girl squeaked when her captor's arm crushed her bosom. 'You're going to be gone', he growled at Alec, 'by the time I count three.' Spit flecked the corner of his mouth.

Behind them the voices were murmuring, 'Six says he's gone by two... by three... Six says he stays...."

Alec stood where he was, his head cocked back, considering the other down the length of his nose. 'One,' the man counted. 'Two.'

'Move, you stupid clown!' someone cried. 'Brent'll kill you!'

'But I have to stay and help him,' Alec said with polite surprise. 'You can see he's stuck for the next one. It's "three,"' he told him kindly. 'The one after "two".'

Brent flung the girl aside. 'Draw,' he growled, 'if you've got a sword.'

The thin man in the scholar's robe raised his eyebrows. 'What if I haven't?'

'Well.' Brent came slowly around the fire with a swordsman's sure step. 'That would be a shame.'

He was halfway to the scholar when a bystander spoke up.

'My fight,' he said clearly, so everyone heard.

Brent looked him over. Another swordsman. Harder to kill, but better for his reputation. 'Fine,' he purred in his insinuating whine. 'I'll take care of you first, and then finish off Mister Scholar, here.'

Richard slung his cloak around one arm. A woman near him looked at his face and gasped, 'St Vier!' Now the word was out; people were jostling to see; bets were changing. Even as they pressed back to the walls to give the fighters room, the spectators were agitating; a few slipped out to fetch friends to watch the fight. Newcomers crowded across the open house-front.

Richard ignored them all. He was aware of Alec, safe to one side, his eyes wide and bright, his posture negligent.

'There's your third for today,' Alec said pleasantly.

'Kill him.'

Richard began as he usually did, running his opponent through some simple attacks, parrying the counterattack almost absently. It did give the other the chance to assess him as well, but usually that only served to unnerve them. Brent was quick, with a good swordsman's sixth sense for what was coming next; but his defence was seriously weaker on the left, poor fool. Enough practice on some good drills could have got him over that. Richard pretended he hadn't noticed, and played to his right.

Aware that he was being tested, Brent tried to turn the fight so that he led the attack. Richard didn't let him. It flustered Brent; trying harder to gain control, he began to rush his counters, as though by coming in fast enough he could surprise St Vier into defence.

The swords were clashing rapidly now. It was the kind of fight spectators liked best: lots of relentless follow-through, without too much deliberation before each new series of moves. The woman Brent had been holding watched, cursing slowly and methodically under her breath, her fingers knotted together.

Others were louder, calling encouragement, bets and enlightened commentary, filling each other in on the background of the fight.

Through his shield of concentration Richard heard the voices, though not the words they spoke. As the fight went on and he absorbed Brent's habits, he began to see not a personality but a set of obstructions to be removed. His fighting became less playful, more single-minded.

It was the one thing knowledgeable spectators faulted him for: once he knew a man he seldom played him out in a show of technique, preferring to finish him off straightway.

Twice Richard passed up the chance to touch Brent's left arm. He wasn't interested in flesh wounds now. Other swordsmen might have made the cut for the advantage it would have given them; but the hallmark of St Vier's reputation was his ability to kill with one clean death wound. Brent knew he was fighting for his life. Even the onlookers were silent now, listening to the panting men's breath, the scrape of their boots and the clang of their swords. Over the heavy silence, Alec's voice drawled clearly, 'Didn't take long to scare him, did it? Told you I could spot them.'

Brent froze. Richard beat hard on his blade, to remind him of where he was. Brent's parry was fierce; he nearly touched St Vier's thigh countering, and Richard had to step back. His heel struck rock. He found he was backed against one of the stones surrounding the fire.

He hadn't meant to lose that much ground; Alec had distracted him as well. He was already so hot he didn't feel the flames; but he was determined to preserve his boots. He dug in his back heel, and exchanged swordplay with Brent with his arm alone. He applied force, and nearly twisted the sword out of the other man's grasp. Brent paused, preparing another attack, watching him carefully for his. Richard came in blatantly low on the left, and when Brent moved to his defence St Vier came up over his arm and pierced his throat.

There was a flash of blue as the sword was pulled from the wound. Brent had stiffened bolt upright; now he toppled forward, his severed windpipe wheezing with gushing blood and air.

Alec's face was pale, without expression. He looked down at the dying man long and hard, as though burning the sight into his eyes.

Amid the excitement of the fight's consummation, Richard stepped outside to clean his sword, whirling it swiftly in the air so that the blood flew off its surface and onto the snow.

One man came up to Alec. 'That was some fight,' he said friendlily. 'You rig it?'

'Yes.'

He indicated the swordsman outside. 'You going to tell me that young fellow's really St Vier?'

'Yes.'

Alec seemed numbed by the fight, the fever that had driven him sated by the death of his opponent, drugged now to a sluggish peace. But when St Vier came back in he spoke in his usual sardonic tones: 'Congratulations. I'll pay you when I'm rich.'

There was still one more thing to be done, and Richard did it. 'Never mind,' he said clearly, for those nearby to hear. 'They should know to leave you alone.'

He crossed to Alec by the fire, but a tiny woman, the one Brent had held, planted herself in front of him. Her eyes were red, her face pale and blotchy.

She stared up at the swordsman and began to stutter furiously.

'What is it?' he asked.

'You owe me!' she exploded at last. 'Thhh-that man's ddd-dead and where'll I find another?'

'The same place you found him, I expect.'

'What'll I do for mm-money?'

Richard looked her up and down, from her painted eyes to gaudy stockings, and shrugged. She turned her shoulder in toward his chest and blinked up at him. 'I'm nice,' she squeaked. 'I'd work for you.'