Raymond Feist - King of Foxes

‘Tell him to meet me at Remarga’s at midday and bring fresh clothing. Then I will dine at … Baldwin’s, outside along the Grand Canal, then some afternoon cards at Depanov’s. I’ll return here to change into something more appropriate for supper.’

‘Yes, Magnificence.’

Tal put on the same shirt he had worn the day before, and threw a casual jacket across one shoulder as he grabbed his sword. ‘Now, find something to do until Pasko gets back and I’ll see the two of you at noon.’

‘Yes, Magnificence,’ Amafi repeated.

Tal left the apartment and hurried down the stairs. He fastened his sword around his waist and kept the jacket over his shoulder. It was a warm day and he had elected to forgo a hat. As he worked his way along the streets to the Masters’ Court, he pondered just how much damage he could do to a royal without getting himself into too much trouble.

The morning sun, a warm breeze off the ocean, the memory of the Lady Natalia’s enthusiastic lovemaking – all combined to put Tal into a wonderful frame of mind. By the time he reached the Masters’ Court he had a plan as to how to humiliate a royal without getting hung, and had convinced himself it might even turn out to be fun.

A week later, the gallery was full as Tal walked onto the floor of the Masters’ Court. With the return of the Greatest Swordsman in the World, observing practices and bouts had become the favoured pastime of a large number of young women in the capital. Many noble daughters and a significant number of young wives found reason to take pause during their day’s shopping to indulge their new-found interest in the sword.

He had been practising every day for a week since returning from the hunt, and waiting for his opportunity to confront Prince Matthew. He had finally realized the Prince was waiting until he departed to appear at Masters’ Court every second day. Tal judged that the vain prince didn’t wish to share the attention of those at the Masters’ Court with the Champion. So this day, Tal began his practice sessions in the late afternoon, rather than the morning, as was his habit.

Tal was saluted by every member on the floor, including the instructors, in recognition of his achievement. Today Vassily Turkov was acting as Master of the Floor, head instructor, and arbiter of any dispute. Other instructors worked with students in all corners of the massive hall, but the Master of the Floor supervised the bouts at the centre.

The floor of the court was of inlaid wood, arranged in a complex pattern that after a brief study revealed itself to be a clever series of boundaries between various practice areas. The floor was surrounded by massive columns of hand-polished wood supporting the ornate high ceiling. Tal glanced up and saw that the ceiling had been repainted, white with gold leaf over embossed garlands and wreaths which surrounded large skylights. Galleries ran along one wall between the columns, while the other wall boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping the entire hall brilliantly lit.

Vassily came and took Tal’s hand. ‘When you didn’t appear this morning, I thought perhaps you’d given yourself a day of rest, Squire.’ He glanced at the crowded gallery and said, ‘If this continues, we may have to put up those temporary seats again.’ During the Masters’ Champion Tournament, temporary seating had been erected in front of the windows, to accommodate as many onlookers as possible.

Tal smiled. ‘I just came to practise, Master.’

The older man smiled and nodded. ‘Then I shall find you an opponent.’ He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: ‘Anatoli, you are first!’

Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out, ‘Rapiers! Three points to the victor!’

Both men wore heavily-padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury. They advanced and faced one another.

The Master came to stand between them, holding out his sword. Each combatant raised his own weapon, touched it to the Master’s and held it in place. Then the Master pulled his weapon away and the contest began.

Tal had been duelling during his nearly year-long stay in Salador. The Court of Blades was no match for the Masters’ Court in terms of the number of quality opponents, but there were enough good swordsmen there to keep Tal sharp.

He had needed the time, for on Sorcerer’s Isle there was only Caleb to spar with, and he had been absent a great deal of the time, out on one mission or another for his parents. And while he was the best hunter and archer Tal knew, Caleb’s blade-work left room for improvement.

Before then, Tal had been with mercenaries, and most of the niceties of the duelling floor were lost on them. They were not looking to perfect swordcraft as an art, but rather as a means of survival, and Tal was fairly certain the Masters of the Court would look dimly upon his using kicks to the groin, eye gouging, and ear biting as part of his sparring regime. Tal realized that many of the young men who would spend years of their lives here in the Masters’ Court would never have to use their blades in anger. Such was the life of a young noble in the civilized bosom of Roldem.

Young Anatoli was quickly dispatched, for he was sound at basic swordsmanship but lacked any particular gift. Three other young men were also quickly disposed of, and Tal elected to leave the floor.

Rather than heading straight for the changing room, he went to a table at the end of the hall which was laden with refreshments. A crystal bowl stood in the centre, filled with water and floating slices of lemons. Tal had come to appreciate the drink after getting used to its tartness. Fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries and smoked meats rested on trays. Bottles of ale and wine were also there for those who had finished with the day’s practices. Tal took a cup of lemon-water from a servant, then picked up a slice of apple to nibble on while he surveyed the room.

One of the court’s many servants stood next to Tal, busily restocking each dish so that the presentation always looked fresh. He calculated the expense and considered how costly it must be to operate the Masters’ Court. Any nobleman was free to use the court for the furtherance of the art of the blade. Commoners with gold could use it for a not-inconsiderable fee, and many chose to do so, for political reasons. Otherwise, the entire cost of operating this palatial undertaking was borne by the Crown.

For an idle moment, Tal wondered just how much wealth King Carol commanded. He called up from memory a book he had read on the life of the Krondorian trader Rupert Avery, and reconsidered how exaggerated the various sums mentioned by the self-aggrandizing fellow really were. Sitting alone in his little hut on Sorcerer’s Isle, Talon of the Silver Hawk had thought those figures must have been inflated to bolster the author’s claim of importance in the history of the Kingdom. But now that he considered how vast the palace of Roldem was, and just the cost of operating this court alone, not to mention the funding of Roldem’s navy, Tal realized just how naive Talon had been. From somewhere in his memory came the phrase, ‘It’s good to be king’, and despite not being able to remember which of his teachers had uttered it, Talon was inclined to agree.

For a brief instant he thought he was on the edge of understanding Duke Kaspar’s greed for power.

Then he saw another large party enter the floor and without needing a second glance, he knew Prince Matthew had arrived. Tal reconsidered his plan again, as he had countless times since he had dreamed it up the week before. Fresh from his heroics in saving the Duke and with the King’s approval he now stood the best chance of making it work without ending up on the headsman’s block, or being discreetly dumped into the harbour.