David Coe: The Horsemen's Gambit

To this day, descendants of the other families that came from Deraqor still saw the Onjaefs as their leaders, and they still hoped that someday the families of Deraqor would reclaim the city for the sovereignties. In the eyes of the sovereign and most of those who lived elsewhere in Stelpana, the Onjaef clan was disgraced, a family in exile, the vanquished stewards of a lost city. Only here in Qalsyn, where Maisaak was seen by some as a strong but capricious ruler, and Jenoe was revered by so many for his prowess with a blade and his easy manner, would anyone even stop to wonder if a rivalry existed between the two men.

When Tirnya emerged from the stone doorway, her father ended his conversations and walked toward her, a sympathetic smile on his lips. He was still youthful, despite the fact that he no longer considered himself young enough to fight in battle tournaments. His brown hair and beard were unmarked by grey, and he remained trim and muscular, an imposing figure on the battlefield as well as in the city streets. Reaching her, he put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

"You fought well," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, fearing that she might start crying again. He wouldn't have tolerated that-a warrior shed tears for lost comrades and fallen leaders, not for matches lost in the arena. He had made that clear to her years ago.

"Not well enough," she managed to say.

He pulled back and made her look him in the eye. "Yes," he said. "Well enough. Everyone in the boxes knew that you had the tournament won, that you could have bloodied him as he lay on the ground. The rest is…" He waved his hand vaguely. "The rest means nothing."

Only a father could say such a thing.

"It means nothing that Enly won?" she asked. "It means nothing that I'm going to have another scar on my face?"

"You're right," he said. "That will mean something. If nothing else, it'll mean that your mother will have a new reason to berate me for ever teaching you to hold a sword."

Tirnya smiled, but only briefly. "What are they saying about me?"

"Who?"

She shrugged. "Everyone. Your men. The people in the boxes. Enly."

"You think I've spoken to Enly?"

"Of course not," she said. "But the rest of them. Come now, Father. You know what I'm asking."

"They're saying that you should have won. Some of them mean it kindly; others don't."

"The ones who don't-"

He shook his head. "You shouldn't trouble yourself about them."

"What are they saying, Father?"

Jenoe ran a hand through his hair, and wound up rubbing the back of his neck. "They're saying that you made… that you made a womanly choice."

"Womanly!" she repeated, her voice rising. "Womanly?"

"I think they mean-"

"I know what they mean!" Tirnya said. "I was weak. I took pity on him when I just should have won."

"They're wrong," Jenoe told her.

"Are they?"

"Yes. What you did was honorable, not weak. Had you struck at Enly as he lay on his back, they'd be calling you a snake and worse." He laughed mirthlessly and gave a small shake of his head. "I know it didn't seem this way at the time, but Enly's fall was the worst thing that could have happened for you, and the best that he could have hoped for. Had I not seen it all with my own eyes, I might have thought that he stumbled intentionally."

"He wouldn't do that."

"I know. But still, it gave him a respite from your attack. It changed everything about the match."

"I can only imagine what they're saying about him," Tirnya said, her voice low.

"I don't think he could care less what anyone other than his father is saying."

She frowned. "I imagine his father had quite a lot to say."

Jenoe grinned. "Yes, well be thankful your father is such a kind, reasonable man. Because a more exacting teacher might want to know what you were thinking in your third match, when you fought with your sword in your off hand, and the dagger in your right."

"It worked, didn't it? Craevis had probably never seen anyone do such a thing before."

"You might well have lost, taking such a risk."

Tirnya shook her head. "Not to him. You saw how easily I won. Admit it, Father: It was a fine idea, and it worked perfectly."

Her father laughed and shook his head. "He did look confused, didn't he?"

"By the time he understood what I had done, and why all my attacks seemed so different, he was already bleeding."

"Speaking of bleeding," Jenoe said, his brow creasing as he examined her wound.

Tirnya pulled away. "I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are. It looks like a clean cut. The healer saw you?"

"Yes, Father."

"Fine, then. I won't mention it again. You're going to the Swift Water?"

She'd forgotten. Each year, after the tournament ended, the lord governor hosted a supper at the largest tavern in the city, the Swift Water Inn. Nearly all the combatants went-it wasn't often that anyone offered free food and ale for as long as one could eat and drink-and usually Maisaak himself put in an appearance. As one of the lord governor's captains, Tirnya was expected to attend; as one who had fought in the final match, her absence would have been conspicuous. She wanted only to go home and sleep, but that would have to wait.

"Yes," she said, the word coming out as a sigh. "I'm going." After a brief hesitation, she asked, "Are you?"

Tirnya knew the answer already. Jenoe hadn't gone to the supper since his last year as champion, although as a marshal in the army and a former winner of the tournament he had every right to attend. Others of lower rank-men who had never set foot in the ring-showed up every year and drank themselves into a stupor. But Maisaak hated him, and Jenoe knew it. The lord governor tolerated him as marshal because he and every other person in Qalsyn understood that no one in the city, perhaps in all the land, was more suited to command than Jenoe. But this was another matter.

"No," he said, his smile fleeting and forced. "I should be getting home to your mother. She'll want to hear all about your matches."

Tirnya looked away. "Then she should come herself."

"She doesn't like to watch you fight," he said. "You know that. It frightens her."

"It doesn't frighten you."

"I don't love you as much." He grinned, to soften the gibe. Not that it was necessary; they both knew it wasn't true. "I've been through enough tournaments," he said a moment later. "I understand the risks and the strategies. To your mother it just looks… dangerous. But she would have been proud of you today. She will be, when I tell her about it."

"All right," Tirnya said, not wanting to talk about this. "I'll see you later."

Before she could walk away, Jenoe caught her hand and raised it to his lips. "I'm proud of you," he told her. "You should be proud, too."

She smiled. "Thank you, Father." She kissed his cheek, and walked away.

By the time she reached the Swift Water, the sun had almost set, and long black shadows stretched across the city streets, darkening the stone facades of homes and shops. The door to the tavern was open, and raucous laughter from within spilled out into the lane, along with the scent of roasting meat and musty ale. Tirnya wouldn't be the only woman there-a few had entered the tournament this year, though she was the only one to have gotten beyond the sixth set of matches. But in all ways that mattered, she would be awash in a sea of loud, arrogant men. Her mother would have laughed had she known how much Tirnya dreaded this. "You see?" Zira would have said. "If you had listened to me, and concerned yourself less with swordplay and more with the finer crafts, you'd be home now, resting comfortably with a cup of wine." Too late for that, by more years than she cared to count.

Steeling herself with a long breath, Tirnya stepped inside.