Steph Swainston - No Present Like Time

I thought for a while. “You can Challenge him in a year’s time, that’s a rule of the Castle.”

“Challenge him as a mortal? Try to regain my title from him? Damn! I still don’t understand the move he made. He tricked me with an unorthodox caper,” Gio spat contemptuously. “No one will want to be instructed in my method now, the techniques I spent my life recording. My school will empty like the court of Rachiswater and then what will I do for a living?”

“Having been in the Circle will bring you fame enough,” I said in a conciliatory tone.

“Fame as a has-been.” Gio pointed the foil, working himself up. “Why did I ever aspire to such a corrupt little world? Wrenn killed me in that duel! All right-so I might die forty years from now of old age, but he has killed me. Ruined by a non-fraternity fighter, opportunist, someone who never studied! A coarse recruit from a frontier town who wasn’t even listed in the top five hundred swordsmen. He never competed in the annual tournaments. I hadn’t even heard of the insane kid before he turned up!”

Gio did not realize how hidebound he had become over four centuries. He had systematized the art of fencing and relied so much on his perfect knowledge that Wrenn’s irrational move confused him completely. Immortals who are afraid to risk their lives are as useless against the Insects as those who become lazy or overconfident, solitary or debauched. San’s rules for the Circle are wise; fresh blood will take our place if long life causes us to lose our edge.

“You’ve gained a year and you can try again.”

“A year for what? A year to practice?” He gestured at a wall-chart of footprints coding positions for rapier exercises. “To shape up, lose weight, gain stamina?” He bent a sinewy arm until the long muscles knotted.

I took Gio’s point that clearly he was in the best fitness and still got beaten, but none of us could know what effect the following year of renown and a six-month sea voyage might have on Wrenn’s condition. The Castle has lost all Gio’s knowledge now, replacing him with someone who is expert but inexperienced. It struck me as wasteful; I wished they could all be saved. I wondered why the Emperor refused to widen the Circle to accommodate more warriors; we would never pose a threat to San because we would never accumulate enough experience to be as wise as him.

I said, “Gio, the Empire needs you too. We don’t want to lose you.”

“The Castle’s already rejected me. Though I devoted my entire life to its service…I defended Hacilith in the last swarm.” His voice was drained of its usual energy. He would take days to recover from such an intense fight. “I felt the Circle dropping me. I knelt down and couldn’t get up. You bastards. But now I don’t feel much different, I suppose because I’m only twelve hours older. I think mortals feel like they’re twenty-one years old all their life, though their body gets slower and then they die. I’ll provoke a few duels before I die, though. I’m going to send a few of them ahead of me.”

Gio picked up his predecessor’s book, Treatise on the Art of Fencing, and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “What happened to the Serein before me? When I displaced him from the Circle he went mad and hung himself.” A downward twist of his lips showed what he thought of a Swordsman committing suicide. He spun the book through the air and swore when a servant ducked and it hardly clipped him.

Lightning said, “We are nowhere near restoring Awia and people already gripe about the necessary austerity. We need your imagination, not to mention your leadership.”

“Saker Micawater, what the rich fuck do I care about Awia now?”

Serein Wrenn, in his fyrd fatigues, hurried into view down the corridor. He made as if to enter the room but Lightning spread his blond wings across the doorway. The youth blinked at him, bewildered.

At the sight of Wrenn, Gio leapt to his feet, the foil loose in his right hand. Wrenn swept his rapier from its scabbard. Great. Now I was trapped between the best and second-best swordsmen in the world.

“No!” said Lightning. “You may not fight.”

I took the knife from my boot and pressed the button for the blade.

Gio eyed me. “Nice. A Rhydanne with a flick-knife.”

Lightning said, “Put it away, Jant.”

“If you think I’m afraid to keep dueling, you’re wrong,” Wrenn called.

“Every single year until one of us is dead,” Gio spat.

“You were wide open with that moulinet. You bloody deserved it!”

Lightning repeated, “You may meet in twelve months. You may not fight now.”

“Step aside, Archer.”

Lightning stared at Gio, arms folded and wings spread.

Wrenn stretched out in a broad ward stance, an action that seemed to say: come on, stab me in the chest.

Gio shook with fury. “I swear, Archer, get out of my way! Or I’ll cut every tendon in your bow arm! I’ll have my title back within an hour!”

“Honor demands a respite.”

“I’m mortal, I’m going to die anyway! Where’s the honor in that? I’ve nothing to lose!”

Wrenn watched guardedly through the gap between Lightning and myself. He was calm, in control, just as I am aware of every centimeter of my body when I prepare to fly.

Gio flourished the foil. “I’ll die famous by running you both through!”

“Jant,” Lightning said eventually. “It looks like we need Tornado’s help to close this situation. Go to his room and fetch him; quickly, please.”

I hesitated.

“I can skewer you all on one blade!”

I nodded, ducked past and sprinted away. Gio watched until I reached the stairs and then he threw his foil aside. He pushed past Lightning and Wrenn, head up and haughty eyes averted. I stepped out of his way; he descended the staircase and walked out swinging his arms, across the wet grass of the quadrangle toward the Dace Gate and the Castle’s stables.

Lightning exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “God,” he said. “Such a worthy adversary.”

MEMO

To: Tern

From: Jant. You know, your husband. Tall, cheekbones, black wings…Yes, that one.

Tern, darling

Where are you? I wanted to say goodbye. The Stormy Petrel sails Friday-Mist has ordered us straight to Awndyn and I doubt I will be coming back. It is bound to sink, and I shall drown. Or be lost, becalmed, and starve. Besides, the sea nourishes monsters far worse than Insects. If you feel the Circle break, think of me, and open the letter I left with Rayne.

NB I borrowed a thousand pounds from the Wrought Restoration Fund. Hope you don’t mind. If we return in six months’ time, I’ll make enough money to pay it back with curios from “Ata’s Island.” Love you. Goodbye.

Jant.

A shower of sleet fell at dawn, covering the stable courtyard with lumpy, slushy ice. Shallow puddles in its gutters looked gray as laundry water. Darker clouds smeared in the overcast sky above the large square forecourt. The sparrows that infested the eaves and stalls shouted out a dawn chorus. Warm air steamed from three pairs of thoroughbred horses harnessed to a gleaming coach. Lightning’s carriage was waiting to carry him and Wrenn to Awndyn. It would take them three days to reach the coast, so they had planned to spend the first night at Eske manor, enjoying the hospitality of Cariama Eske.

There was a clock tower on an arch above the main gate. I landed in front of its peacock-blue dial, which showed eight A.M., and watched Wrenn and Lightning sheltering from the rain inside the nearest stable while their belongings were loaded onto the coach. Mist had said we could bring no more than one sea chest each, but my rucksack and Wrenn’s small knapsack were so meager-since I travel light and Wrenn was poor-that Lightning allowed himself more luggage.