Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“This bout will be fought with half-edged steels!” thundered the Lord Marshal. “The best of three touches!” West already had his swords drawn and was making his way to the circle, marked out with white chalk in the carefully shaved grass. Jezal’s heart was hammering loud as he fumbled his own steels out of their sheaths, acutely aware of all those eyes upon him. He took his mark opposite West, pushing his feet cautiously into the grass. West raised his steels, Jezal did the same. They faced each other for a moment, motionless.

“Begin!” shouted Varuz.

It quickly became clear that West had no mind to roll over for him. He came on with more than his usual ferocity, harrying Jezal with a flurry of heavy cuts, their steels clashing and scraping rapidly together. He gave ground, still uncomfortable under the watchful eyes of all those people, damned important people some of them, but as West pushed him back towards the edge of the circle, his nerves began to fade, his training took over. He ducked away, making room for himself, parrying the cuts with left and right, dodging and dancing, too fast to catch.

The people faded, even Ardee was gone. The blades moved by themselves, back and forth, up and down. There was no need for him to look at them. He turned his attention to Wests eyes, watched them flicker from the ground to the steels to Jezal’s dancing feet, trying to guess his intentions.

He felt the lunge coming even before it was begun. He feinted one way then turned the other, slipping smoothly round behind West as he blundered past. It was a simple matter for him to apply his foot to the seat of his opponent’s trousers and shove him out of the circle.

“A touch!” shouted Marshal Varuz.

There was a ripple of laughter as the Major sprawled on his face. “A touch on the arse!” guffawed the Crown Prince, his plume waving back and forth with merriment. “One to Captain Luthar!” West didn’t look half so intimidating with his face in the dirt. Jezal gave a little bow to the audience, risked a smile in Ardee’s direction as he rose. He was disappointed to see she wasn’t even looking at him. She was watching her brother struggle in the dust with a faint, cruel grin.

West got slowly to his feet. “A good touch,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he stepped back into the circle. Jezal took his own mark, barely able to suppress his smile.

“Begin!” shouted Varuz.

West came on strongly again, but Jezal was warming to his task now. The sounds of the audience muttered and swelled as he danced this way and that. He began to work the odd flourish into his movements, and the onlookers responded, “oohs” and “aahs” floating up as he flicked West’s efforts away. He had never fenced so well, never moved so smoothly. The bigger man was starting to tire a little, the snap was going out of his cuts. Their long steels clashed together, scraped. Jezal twisted his right wrist and tore West’s blade from his fingers, stepped in and slashed at him with his left.

“Gah!” West winced and dropped his short steel, hopping away and grabbing his forearm. A few drops of blood pattered across the ground.

“Two to nothing!” shouted Varuz.

The Crown Prince jumped up, his hat tumbling off, delighted by the sight of blood. “Excellent!” he squawked, “capital!” Others joined him on their feet, clapping loudly. Jezal basked in their approval, smiling wide, every muscle tingling with happiness. He understood now what he had been training for.

“Well fought, Jezal,” muttered West, a trickle of blood running down his forearm. “You’ve got too good for me.”

“Sorry about the cut.” Jezal grinned. He wasn’t sorry in the least.

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” West strode away, frowning and holding his wrist. Nobody paid much attention to his exit, Jezal least of all. Sporting events are all about the winners.

Lord Marovia was the first to get up from the benches and offer his congratulations. “What a promising young man,” he said, smiling warmly at Jezal, “but do you think he can beat Bremer dan Gorst?”

Varuz gave Jezal a fatherly clap on the shoulder. “I’m sure he can beat anyone, on the right day.”

“Hmm. Have you seen Gorst fence?”

“No, though I hear he is most impressive.”

“Oh, indeed—he is a devil.” The High Justice raised his bushy eyebrows. “I look forward to seeing them meet. Have you ever considered a career in the law, Captain Luthar?”

Jezal was taken by surprise. “Er, no, your Worship, that is… I am a soldier.”

“Of course you are. But battles and so forth can play hell with the nerves. If you should ever change your mind, perhaps I might have a place for you. I can always find a use for promising men.”

“Er, thank you.”

“Until the Contest then. Good luck, Captain,” he threw over his shoulder as he shuffled away. The implication was that he thought Jezal would need a great deal of it. His Highness Prince Ladisla was more optimistic.

“You’re my man, Luthar!” he shouted, poking the air with his fingers as though they were fencing steels. “I’m going to double my bet on you!”

Jezal bowed obsequiously. “Your Highness is too kind.”

“You’re my man! A soldier! A fencing man should fight for his country, eh, Varuz? Why isn’t this Gorst a soldier?”

“I believe he is, your Highness,” said the Lord Marshal gently. “He is a kinsman of Lord Brock, and serves with his personal guard.”

“Oh.” The Prince seemed confused for a moment, but soon perked up. “But you’re my man!” he shouted at Jezal, poking once more with his fingers, the feather on his hat waving this way and that. “You’re the man for me!” He danced off towards the archway, decorative chain-mail gleaming.

“Very impressive.” Jezal whipped round, took an ungainly step back. Glokta, leering at him from his blind side. For a cripple, he had an uncanny knack of sneaking up on a man. “What a happy chance for everyone that you didn’t give it up after all.”

“I never had any intention of doing so,” snapped Jezal frostily.

Glokta sucked at his gums. “If you say so, Captain.”

“I do.” Jezal turned rudely away, hoping that he never had occasion to speak to the loathsome man again. He found himself staring straight into Ardee’s face, no more than a foot away.

“Gah,” he stammered, stepping back again.

“Jezal,” she said, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Er…” He glanced nervously around. Glokta was shambling away. West was long gone. Varuz was busy holding forth to Lord Isher and a few others still remaining in the courtyard. They were unobserved. He had to speak to her. He ought to tell her straight out that he could not see her anymore. He owed her that much. “Er…”

“Nothing to say to me?”

“Er…” He turned swiftly on his heel and walked away, his shoulders prickling with shame.

The tedium of guard duty at the south gate seemed, after all that unexpected excitement, almost a mercy. Jezal was quite looking forward to standing idly by, watching people file in and out of the Agriont, listening to Lieutenant Kaspa’s mindless babble. At least, he was until he got there.

Kaspa and the usual complement of armoured soldiers were clustered around the outer gates, where the old bridge across the moat passed between the two massive, white rendered towers of the gatehouse. As Jezal marched down to the end of the long tunnel he saw that there was someone with them. A small, harassed-looking fellow wearing spectacles. Jezal recognised him vaguely. Morrow he was called, some crony of the Lord Chamberlain. He had no reason to be here.

“Captain Luthar, what a happy chance!” Jezal jumped. It was that lunatic, Sulfur, sitting cross-legged on the ground behind him, his back against the sheer wall of the gatehouse.