Servant of the Crown

  “Why?”

  “It limbers the muscles before a fight.”

  “You look ridiculous.”

  “I’ll look more ridiculous with blood on this jacket.”

  Tamas pursed his lips. He couldn’t very well argue with that logic. He watched as a pair of figures ducked through the arched entryway to the courtyard. Lord Vendril had arrived. He wore a fine, loose-fitting fencing jacket and tight pants, and he carried his sword on his hip. His second was a broad-shouldered man with skin several shades darker than Tamas, hinting at Deliv ancestry.

  “What are your terms?” Tamas asked Erika.

  Erika sniffed. “I suppose you’d argue if I said ‘to the death?’”

  “I would.”

  “A pity. First blood, then, even if I won’t be able to carve his name into his chest.”

  Tamas coughed into his hand.

  Erika sighed. “You have no sense of humor, do you, Captain?”

  “Very little, my lady.” Tamas was about to comment on how little use a sense of humor was when dealing with the nobility but instead just added, “I’m a military man.”

  “We’ll have to change that.”

  “I wouldn’t give up the military for the world, my lady.”

  “I meant your sense of humor, Captain.”

  “I see.” Little chance of that, he thought. Aloud, he said, “Lord Vendril is waiting, my lady.”

  “Let him wait.”

  Tamas couldn’t help but crack a smile. Against his better judgment, he liked this woman. She flirted with levity, but there was something ruthless about her floating just beneath the surface. “Would you like to give him the chance to apologize?”

  “Pit, no. He called me a whore. No one gets away with that. My grandfather would have me flayed.” She finally seemed satisfied with her stretches and looked toward Lord Vendril, who stood watching her with a curl to his lip. “He’s been there long enough. Let’s get on with this.”

  Tamas met Lord Vendril’s second in the middle of the courtyard. The man’s face seemed set in a perpetual scowl.

  “My lady proposes the duel go until first blood,” Tamas said.

  Lord Vendril’s second responded, “And my lord wouldn’t have it any other way. He doesn’t want to be forced to do more damage to that pretty face than he has to.”

  “My lady doesn’t consider him worth the time.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before the second looked away. “We are agreed?” he mumbled.

  “We’re agreed,” Tamas confirmed.

  Tamas returned to Erika and gave her a nod. She drew her small sword and handed the scabbard to Tamas, giving a few theatrical flourishes. Tamas had a pang of doubt, wondering if she’d ever actually experienced anything more than a bit of light sword play. If she embarrassed herself here, he would be forced to step in and take things further with Lord Vendril.

  “Tell me, Tamas, are you any good with a sword?”

  Tamas felt goose bumps on the back of his neck when she said his name. “Only moderately. I prefer to kill with a pistol or a rifle.”

  “And in close quarters you wield a sword like a butcher, is that correct?” She made a tut-tutting sound with her tongue. “Adran swordplay is so … primitive.” She didn’t wait for his answer, proceeding to the center of the courtyard where she faced Lord Vendril and raised her hilt to her face in a Kez salute, then fell into a loose, almost careless stance.

  Her confidence made her seem so much older. Regardless, Tamas’s worry deepened. Was she not taking this seriously? She was young, but she was the heir to a duchy. Surely she would have been taught the rules to this sort of game. Blood would be spilled.

  Vendril attacked first. He stepped forward swiftly, the point of his sword flicking forward. Erika parried the attack. And then the one that followed. And then another.

  Within moments she seemed to have fallen into a pattern of deflections, not offering a single attack of her own. Tamas cursed her silently, willing her to go on the offensive. What the pit was she playing at?

  Vendril changed up his tactics, feinting and pulling back, ducking and moving. He went through half a dozen basic fencing moves while Erika parried every single one.

  Slowly, Erika increased the speed of her parries. It was so gradual that Tamas might have missed it, but there were soon openings in Vendril’s attacks during which Erika could have easily counter-attacked. But she did not follow through.

  Tamas could see a bead of sweat on her brow. Was she afraid of winning? he wondered. He’d heard of duelists overcome with that fear. As silly as it sounded, some people did not have the constitution to draw blood.

  In the blink of an eye, he almost missed her riposte. Vendril’s sword was slapped aside violently and his middle exposed. Her blade darted forward, slashing, and Vendril gave a startled yelp. He stumbled backward and landed on his elbows. Lady Erika just stood above him, bloodied tip of her sword hovering over his chest.

  “If you call me a whore again,” she said, “You won’t have to worry about how you spell your name. My honor is satisfied. Now get out of my sight.”

  Vendril was helped to his feet by his second, and the two men fled from the courtyard.

  Tamas offered Erika a handkerchief with which to clean her sword. “You only spelled the first three letters,” he said.

  “His name was too long. Sorry to disappoint.” Erika wiped her sword then took back her scabbard.

  “I’m not disappointed at all. That was …”

  “Exciting?” she asked.

  “Impressive,” he finished. “Where did you learn to fence like that?”

  “I had a very good teacher.” Erika’s smile faltered for just a moment, then returned. “Tell me, from the eye of a military man, what did you think?”

  Tamas hesitated. He’d gotten into trouble before being honest with nobles, even when he thought he was giving them a compliment. “You’re extraordinarily fast. I’m no expert in fencing, but I am somewhat skilled in drawing blood. With the right training, you’ll be an unrivaled killer. But I think you should have finished it quicker.”

  “I was learning his tells. His cadence.”

  “All for a show of bravado.”

  “You don’t approve.” She tilted her head to one side.

  “I don’t. I don’t believe in toying with my prey.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows raised in mock shock. “You don’t? Tell me, Captain, what is a duel for?”

  “To settle a matter of honor.”

  “And to send a message. He’ll remember me. His second will remember me.”

  “Perhaps not in the way you’d like.”

  “When you blew off Captain Linz’s ear a few weeks ago, what message were you trying to send?”

  She knew about that? Tamas wondered. “I don’t see how …”

  “By taking off his earlobe, you were telling him that you could have made a canal out of his skull, but he wasn’t worth your time. Am I wrong?”

  Tamas watched her carefully, once more thinking that there was far more to this woman than met the eye. He thought he should be uncomfortable having his expectations challenged in such a way, but found that he rather enjoyed it. “No.”

  “I thought not. Dueling is not just about blood or honor. It’s about the message. Don’t they teach you anything in Adro?”

  “I’ve never had a fencing instructor, beyond the odd military sergeant with some talent. I could never afford one.” Tamas grimaced, reminded once again at the gulf between them. Erika, talented as she was, was a noble’s daughter. She had everything she could possibly want. She did not need to struggle for her future.

  Tamas’s entire career was on the line because of a duel.

  “That won’t be a problem anymore,” Erika said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She leaned forward, her face suddenly earnest. “Take me on as your student! I’ll pay you handsomely.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.” Tamas bristled at
the mention of money. His captain’s salary went toward a great many things, stretching him thin, but he was finally at a place in life he did not have to rely on anyone’s generosity. Nor would he.

  “Please.” Erika reached out to touch his hand, and he stepped backward. “You said before, ‘with the right training.’ You meant as a powder mage, didn’t you?”

  “No.” He could hear his tone, formal and gruff, and could see that it angered her. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I won’t do it. It would be a danger to you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  There it was. That noble arrogance again. “I do. It’ll also be a danger to myself. It would risk everything I’ve worked for. The royal cabal would like nothing better than an excuse …” Tamas trailed off. “I’ve said too much.”

  Erika stepped forward, inside Tamas’s guard, her face twisted in a scowl. “Do you fear them?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “I know your reputation. I’m looking in your eyes, Captain Tamas. You are not the sort of man to fear anything. Nor do you care one bit for the life or reputation of a member of the nobility. You shouldn’t care what happens to me. You should relish a chance to train a new powder mage, to spit in the face of the Privileged cabal. So why don’t you?”

  Tamas was saved from having to answer by the sound of hoof beats outside the walls of the courtyard. He glanced toward the gate, only to see a messenger in the colors of the king’s personal guard stride inside.

  “Captain Tamas,” the woman barked.

  “I am he.”

  “You have a summons from the king.”

  Tamas felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. He took a letter from the messenger and ran his finger over the royal seal. Opening it with his thumb, he read the contents.

  “What is it?” Erika asked.

  “I’ve been ordered back to Adopest. The king himself wants to see me in four days!”

  Tamas rode his horse up the hill to Skyline Palace.

  The immense home of the royal family and their cabal of Privileged sorcerers sat high above Adopest, its myriad of twinkling lanterns visible on this clear night even from the far side of the city. The building itself covered more ground than ten city blocks, while the grounds spread out over two thousand acres.

  Tamas’s credentials and the royal summons were checked at the base of the hill, then once again at the top by the king’s royal guard. The carbine, which he kept in his saddle by habit, was confiscated along with his pistol but he was left his sword.

  He continued up the gravel drive, marveling at the palace yard. Decorative walls crisscrossed the property, dividing the gardens and manicured lawns into a maze that would fool the best of memories. The splash of running fountains followed him constantly. At one point he stopped to wait while a pair of trainers led two tame cave lions across the drive.

  By the time he reached the front gate of the palace it was after dark and the wind had picked up, blowing his greatcoat to one side, as frigid a breeze as any in the northern oceans.

  He gave his horse over to a groom and noted that in his entire ride up the drive he had not once gone unobserved. The royal guard were everywhere in their somber gray uniforms and plumed bearskin hats.

  Tamas was led through the mighty silver-plated doors of the palace and into the grand foyer, where he was asked to surrender his sword. Then he was led upstairs, down hallways with high, vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers, until he reached the personal quarters of the royal family.

  Tamas’s disquiet grew. The late hour of his audience seemed strange. The king normally dealt with all of his business during the day. What could he possibly want from Tamas that couldn’t be dealt with in the throne room?

  The servant leading Tamas stopped suddenly at a pair of double doors at the end of a hallway and pulled on a corded rope. Tamas thought he heard a distant gong. A moment later, the door was opened by a young woman.

  One of the royal concubines, Tamas suspected, though she wore a modest servant’s dress. She gestured him inside, down a dark corridor, and then into a bedchamber as large as most houses.

  Manhouch XI, better known to most as the Iron King, was not an imposing man. He sat beside a fire, hunched over in his chair, one finger held to his temple and his eyes downcast. He was of medium height with light brown hair and hard, slightly almond-shaped eyes. Thanks to cabal sorceries that kept his mind and body young, he hadn’t aged a day since Tamas had last seen him on a parade ground in Gurla eight years prior. His exact age was not public knowledge, but he was said to be in his seventies.

  Tamas fell to one knee. “Your majesty.”

  There was no answer. With his own eyes fixed to the floor, Tamas couldn’t tell if the Iron King was even looking at him. He stayed that way for at least a minute before clearing his throat. “Your majesty,” he said again.

  “I heard you the first time,” the king responded. If his body belonged to a younger man, his voice certainly did not. It was guttural from years of pipe smoking and carried the weariness of time, along with the tone of inconvenienced peevishness that only old men could master.

  Tamas swallowed hard, daring not to look up.

  “You can stand,” the king said, sighing.

  Tamas got to his feet and stood at attention. The Iron King, he could now see, was reading a book tucked into the furs on his lap. He flipped a page slowly, tilting his knee up slightly so as to see the page better.

  “You summoned me, your majesty?” Tamas ventured.

  “Very astute. Certainly earned the rank of captain there, didn’t you?” The king continued to read.

  “I like to think so, your majesty.”

  The silence stretched on for several minutes. Tamas kept his face forward but examined the king in the light of the flames. Was there something wrong with him? Was the monarch’s mind slipping in his old age?

  “Your grace,” Tamas finally said, “May I ask why you’ve summoned me?”

  The king turned another page, staring intently down the end of his nose. “Don’t get your belt in a knot, Captain. You’re only here because I need you to be present for a short time.”

  “May I ask why, your majesty?”

  The king finally looked up, drumming his fingers on his book. He peered at Tamas as if examining him for the first time. “So you’re the one who led the charge at Herone, eh?”

  “I am, my lord.”

  “You scaled a wall and slaughtered a gun crew on your own after every one of your unit had been killed. And they made you a second lieutenant for it.”

  “Your majesty gave me the promotion yourself.”

  The king sighed again, as if this were a great inconvenience. His eyes took on a faraway look. “That’s right. I remember now. Pit, I pin so many medals on young fools, they ought to give me a medal. You’re also a powder mage.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Tamas did not answer it.

  The king lifted a pocket watch from the table beside him. “You may stay here for another ten minutes and then leave. Nothing further is required of you.”

  “Your majesty?”

  “As I said, nothing further.” The tone brooked no argument.

  Tamas stood and waited, counting in his head while the Iron King read. When he reached six hundred, he coughed politely into his hand.

  “That’s right,” the king said without looking up. “You may go.”

  “Your majesty?”

  The king glanced up. His eyes narrowed at Tamas. “What is it?”

  “If I may be so bold,” Tamas said, trying to speak quickly while maintaining a measured tone. “My lord, I’ve been falsely accused of cheating in a duel. It will prevent me from going on the next Gurlish campaign. If you could speak to the generals or to the magistrate on my behalf, I would be forever in your debt.”

  The king harrumphed. “Yes. Yes you would. You think a king would speak on behalf of a commoner? I’ll give you credit for ambition, young man.”

  “Your majesty?” Tama
s’s heart fell.

  “No, of course not. Get out.”

  Tamas hurried from the king’s chambers, unwilling to push his luck any further, his heart hammering in his chest. Had he really been so rash as to ask the king of Adro for a favor? Outside, the servant waited to lead him back to the main foyer.

  Tamas turned his mind from his faux pas and to the reason for his summons. The king had said nothing of import, barely even speaking to him. He had brought Tamas all the way up from Budwiel for what? Some kind of a whim? To see him stand and sweat?

  Tamas had just buckled his sword back on in the foyer when he heard footsteps hurrying toward him across the marble floors. He turned, wondering if perhaps he’d been summoned back for the real reason of his visit.

  The man that halted a dozen paces from Tamas was vaguely familiar. He had a barrel chest, wide shoulders, and a white mane of hair that flowed freely about the collar of his shirt. He could not have been less than fifty, and he stood with one hand planted threateningly on the hilt of his sword.

  “Captain Tamas,” the man boomed.

  “I am he.” Tamas responded warily. Everything about the man spoke of imminent violence. He glanced toward the royal guard stationed in the foyer, but they ignored him.

  “Then you are a bloody fool,” the man said.

  “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I would suggest you watch your damned mouth.” Tamas didn’t care that he was in the palace. He would not be insulted by a stranger.

  The man drew himself up. “I am the Duke of Linz.”

  Tamas reined in his budding anger. Captain Linz’s father. Of course he looked familiar. “I know your son.”

  “You know him?” Duke Linz said, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. “Who the bloody pit do you think you are? I’ll not have some common upstart insult my son. You challenge him, and then you shoot his ear, as if you’re showing off!”

  “If it were within my station, I would challenge you right now,” Tamas said quietly. His fingers inched toward his sword, wondering if anyone would defend him in a court of law if he was forced to defend himself here, now. Not that he’d win anyway. Duke Linz was well known to be a fine swordsman.

  “It’s not within your station, nor was challenging my son.”