K Parker: Colours in the Steel

When the order came he was ready, and just as well. The other man was quick and obviously strong; the trick would be to stay alive for the first half-minute, and then for the three minutes after that. The first thrust came high, and wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He was forced to parry high, and the weight behind the other man’s sword was almost too much for him to deflect with only the strength of his arm and wrist. He managed it somehow, but he had to step one back and two right, opening his chest; no chance of a counterthrust. The next attack, predictably, was low, but none the less awkward for being what he’d expected. Two quick steps right got him out of the way, but his guard was still too high, and a cut to his unprotected right knee would have settled the matter.

Fortunately, his opponent went for another high thrust. Two steps back gave Loredan the room to parry forehand, his bodyweight behind the blade to push the other man’s sword wide right; then he dropped his wrist for a short jab, more of a heavy push with the wrist turned over, straight for the stomach. The other man stepped back, but not quickly enough; the point of the sword went in maybe half an inch before Loredan snatched it out and, taking the risk of a cut across his right shoulder, threw himself down and forward for a sprawling lunge. His knee and left hand hit the ground together and he felt a twinge of pain as a ligament protested. The other man parried wildly, deflecting the thrust but not far enough, so that the first nine inches of the blade sliced into his right hip. Good work so far; but probably not good enough. Not yet, at least.

Loredan, kneeling on the ground, pushed hard with his left hand and leg to regain his feet; but his left knee didn’t seem to work – cramp, of all the wretched ways to die! But the other man was too preoccupied with the sight of his own blood to notice Loredan’s difficulties, and he somehow managed to force himself vertical on his right leg and fall back into a ragged imitation of a guard. Not a good time to try moving his feet; he’d fall over as sure as day. Everything depended on the other man, and how well he was able to handle being hurt. Waiting for him to move, Loredan cursed all shipping cases, all actions based on the laws of contract and all tall blond fencers ten years his junior. A lot of cursing to get through in less than a heartbeat, but speed is something that comes with long practice.

Mercifully, the other man seemed to have lost his nerve. Instead of lunging, as Loredan would have done in his position, he rocked back and went for a sideways slash at elbow level; as effective a way of killing yourself, Loredan reflected as he turned the blow neatly aside and leant into the inevitable lunge, as jumping off a high tower. He felt the point of the blade encounter bone, saw it bend-

– and snap, clean as the stem of a wine glass, ten inches or so from the point. Disgusted, he turned the thrust into a short-arm cut, wrist power alone, that slit the other man’s throat as neatly as a sheet of parchment. There was a clatter as his sword fell – that extravagant, ill-fated Tarmont; never could see the point in buying new – and a soft wheeze as the other man tried to draw breath down a throat that wasn’t there any more. And lots of blood, of course, and the usual heavy thump as he hit the ground.

Damn all shipping cases.

The judge rapped with his little hammer and gave judgement, rather superfluously, for the defendant. A round of applause from the spectators – somewhat muted, it had been a very short fight with no really memorable strokeplay – followed by the shuffling of feet, the resumption of interrupted conversations, some laughter, a sneeze at the back. The other man’s clerk gathered up his papers, tucked them under his arm, in no hurry to reach his clients at the back of the gallery. Athli had picked up the Tarmont – Loredan’s property now, by ancient custom; worth ten times his fee but its value wouldn’t buy another Guelan, even if he could find one. An unsatisfactory day, except that he was still alive.

‘What happened to you?’ Athli asked. ‘I thought you’d had it there for a moment.’

‘Cramp,’ Loredan replied. He wanted to retrieve the front end of his blade, but he wasn’t keen to get that close to the body. There’d be blood everywhere as soon as he pulled it free, and he wasn’t in the mood. ‘Look at that,’ he muttered, staring at the broken sword in his hand. ‘Looks like I’ve just acquired one very expensive carving knife.’

‘I told you that thing had had its day,’ Athli said. ‘If you’d sold it, like I said-’

She held out the velvet bag, and he dropped the hilt-end in. She tied the cord and stowed it in the kitbag. ‘How’s the knee?’

‘Better, but it’ll need resting for a week or so. When’s our next one?’

‘Four weeks,’ said Athli, ‘and it’s a divorce, so it ought to be all right. I’ll let them know, though, just in case they want to instruct someone else.’

Loredan nodded. Divorce, being an ecclesiastical jurisdiction, wasn’t supposed to be to the death, although death didn’t invalidate the judgement if it turned out that way. Nevertheless, it was only fair to warn the client if you were carrying an injury, particularly in a case where substantial marriage settlements were riding on the issue.

‘I could always cut it down, I suppose,’ Loredan mused. He was aware that he was hobbling, and the distance to the courtroom door seemed much longer than usual. ‘Short blades are quite fashionable in some courts at the moment.’

‘Not that short,’ Athli said. ‘Have it ground down for a second dagger. You could do with a spare.’

‘Sacrilege.’ A couple of porters were carrying the other man away, a sack thrown over him so as not to distress the public. ‘Talking of which, since when have I been doing divorce work?’

‘Since you started having trouble with your knee.’ Athli looked up at him, frowning slightly. ‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but have you given any thought to when you’re going to retire?’

‘As soon as I can afford to,’ Loredan replied, feeling something bitter in his throat. ‘Or when they make me a judge.’

‘I thought you’d say that,’ Athli said.

Punctual as the mailcoach, the shakes came after the second bottle, just as he was about to open the third. Without saying anything, he handed it to his clerk.

‘You ought to go easy on this stuff,’ she observed, filling his cup. ‘For one thing, it’s expensive.’

Loredan scowled at the distorted image of himself reflected in the cup’s polished side. ‘Tradition,’ he replied. ‘It’s a mark of respect.’ He remembered something. ‘Did we buy his clerk a drink?’ he asked. Athli nodded.

There were quite a few spectators from the court in the taproom, and several of them were nudging each other and pointing. Loredan didn’t like that much; on the other hand, there was always a chance of picking up work in the tavern immediately after a hearing. He’d got the Khevren brothers that way, and the cinnamon-merchants’ cartel. Several of the leading families sent men to all the hearings on the lookout for good advocates, usually bright lads talented enough to survive but still young enough to be cheap. Ten-year men were well enough known to potential clients, but there was the risk of pricing yourself out of the market; and lowering the fee was as good as admitting you were past it. The same went for taking divorce work; for a ten-year man, tantamount to a confession of decrepitude, loss of nerve or both. It’d be different, Loredan reflected, if I was getting better as I get older. But I’m not.

‘Well,’ Athli was saying, ‘you’ve done the easy part. Now I’ve got to get the Dromosil boys to pay up.’