The Lords of the Crimson River Part 4

"You do not know what those plans are, though?"

"No."

"Then I cannot tell you. But I can swear by my own honor and blood, that what I am asking of you is nothing against Duke Cyron or Lord Alsin. Is that enough?"

"It's enough to make me keep silent about your bargain, even if I don't accept it. Now-what do you want?"

"You are looking for a sword with a point, aren't you?"

Blade decided telling the truth was the best course of action. "Yes. Or at least one which will take a point."

"I thought so. I have read of such swords in the days of the Kingdoms, but no one makes them or uses them now. I will not tell anyone of your plan, even if you refuse my bargain. Believe me, Orric is no friend to me or-" He broke off in the way Blade now knew too well.

Blade sighed. "Will you please tell me what you want? If you can help me, well and good. If you can't, I have a good deal more I must do before this afternoon."

"I will give you all my knowledge of the swords here. I will also lead you to a blacksmith who will work on your chosen sword and keep his mouth shut. In return, you will teach me the art of fighting with a pointed sword. With my hand, I cannot use a regular broadsword and shield. But I could use a small shield and a sword with a point."

Blade looked Chenosh over carefully. He was thinner than most of the Lords, but he seemed to have plenty of well-toned muscle. They'd have to work out a few times before he could be sure, but Chenosh might be the kind of tough, wiry- "I will not come to your bed, Lord Blade, even if you are a man for men. That would be against my honor and that of the Duchy of Nainan. If you look at me again that way I shall have to tell my grandfather."

Blade mentally counted to ten, then to twenty. By the time he'd finished counting, he could speak quietly. "I was not looking at you with desire. I was looking at you to see if you were the kind of swordsman who could learn to use speed in place of strength. Not everyone can do that, and I would not give you any false hopes."

Chenosh turned even redder than before, and looked at the floor. Blade waited until his face returned to its normal color and he could say, "I am sorry, Lord Blade. I have heard too many of the wrong words, so I have come to expect them even where they do not come. Around you, perhaps I will learn to listen."

"You'd better, if you want my teaching to be any good to you," said Blade flatly. Then he smiled. "I do think you will make a good fencer, or at least one worth teaching. I accept your bargain. Now it's my turn to listen while you show me swords."

Chenosh swallowed and began to point out possibly useful weapons, although it was a while before his voice was completely steady again.

The sun was still high when Blade stepped out into the castle courtyard for the duel. It was hot, with the castle walls shutting off every last breath of wind. The crowd in and around the courtyard made it even hotter. Every bit of wall; every window, and every square foot of ground except the s.p.a.ce he and Orric would need for fighting was packed. Blade saw jugs of wine pa.s.sing around, and in the shade of the wall a few people were already lying sprawled, overcome by the heat or the wine.

Half a dozen of Alsin's chosen Lords were keeping the fighting square clear with drawn swords. The square was no more than thirty feet on aside, but that didn't bother Blade. He would need room only while he was testing Orric's reach and speed, and learning if he had any bad habits or serious weaknesses. After that he wouldn't need much room or much time either, to finish the fight one way or another.

In some Dimensions Blade would have tried to exhaust an opponent of Orric's size and strength until he slowed down. In this Dimension that was considered unlordly, almost cowardly. On the other hand, any trick which still required the courage to stand up to your opponent was all right.

Blade advanced to the center of the fighting square and raised his sword in salute to the crowd around him. The gesture drew a buzz of approving comment. He listened carefully for any remarks about his sword but heard none. The disguise on the point seemed to be working.

It had taken the blacksmith two hours to grind the point on the sword, and another hour to shape the lead foil hiding it. The foil also gave the sword the same balance it had originally, so Blade didn't have to take extra time practicing. The sword still had most of its edge, so if Orric's armor offered him no openings for thrusts, he still had a usable broadsword.

In addition to his sword Blade carried a round shield of wood covered with leather, and the combat knife he had brought with him from Home Dimension. He wore the usual open-faced helmet, plate greaves over leather breeches, and his wire loinguard. His borrowed mail coat only came down to mid-thigh, but it let him move freely. Worn over a leather vest and a quilted arming doublet, the armor already had him sweating heavily, but the undergarments were necessary to keep Orric's blows from driving the rings of the mail into his flesh.

The buzz and mutter of voices swelled as the head of Blade's opponent appeared above the crowd. He pushed his way through to the square, other people making a path for him as fast as they could. Orric wore a longer mail coat but no greaves. He carried a shield and broadsword, and had a double-bitted battle-ax slung across his back. Blade was delighted to see the ax. It confirmed Orric's reputation for liking to make spectacular kills. If he could be tempted into using the ax, a two-handed weapon which gave him little defensive power...

Two can play at the game of spectacular kills, my friend Orric.

Duke Cyron stepped into the fighting square. His highpitched voice rose as he proclaimed the lawfulness of the duel, the names of the opponents, the rules and conditions, and much else that Blade already knew. He kept his face straight and stared at Orric, who was doing a little shuffling dance and waving his sword as the Duke spoke. He was also staring at Blade with naked hatred.

At last Alsin stepped into the square, holding a spear high, and the Duke stepped out. Alsin held the spear out between the two men, and Orric stopped dancing and stepped back. Blade wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand, then raised his shield and laid his sword across the top of it.

"In the name of the Father of the River, Duke Cyron, and the lordly tradition of honorable combat-Lord Blade and Lord Orric, laaaay on!" Alsin sprinted for the edge of the square as the two fighters charged each other.

Orric began striking the moment Blade was in range, and he wasn't trying to test his opponent; he was trying to kill. Each blow crashed against Blade's shield with bone-jarring strength. Orric didn't seem interested in learning his opponent's weaknesses and strengths. He was too confident of his own superiority.

Blade knew that sort of confidence was usually a weakness, and he was an expert at taking advantage of it. Still, Orric was. .h.i.tting so hard that if many blows did get through Blade's defenses, Blade might be in serious trouble. So he settled down to fight a defensive battle, receiving each blow on his shield, taking the time to learn Orric's other weaknesses.

He quickly learned that the man didn't seem to have any, apart from being a trifle slow. That wasn't likely to give Blade much advantage, since Orric was not only a foot taller but was long-armed even for his height. He had too much of an edge in reach to let Blade get inside his guard without being badly hit on his way back out.

So the duel settled down to an endurance contest, to see which would fail first-Orric's sword arm or Blade's shield. It was hard to tell, although everyone around the square kept shouting guesses. At least Blade didn't hear anyone criticizing him for his ability to stand on the defensive.

Around and around the fighters went, kicking up the dust and rotten straw, tramping the exposed ground hard as stone. Blade saw his opponent's leggings turning dark and felt his own arming doublet getting as soggy as if he'd fished it out of a river.

Once he thought Orric was slowing down and tried a cut at his left knee. The lead-sheathed tip of his sword gouged the sweat-darkened leather. A bare point might have done damage. Orric's reply was so fast and so hard that for a moment Blade lost feeling in his shield arm. He hastily backed clear and kept Orric's sword in play with his own until his shield arm was fit again. Sparks flew each time the two swords crossed, but Orric seemed to take this new technique in his stride. Blade hoped his sword wouldn't lose its edge, strength, or concealing foil tip.

The fight went on until Blade saw shadows creeping across the courtyard. The sun was beginning to set, and light conditions would soon become uncertain. That would give an advantage to Orric, who knew the ground better than Blade. Orric was definitely losing more speed now, but still not enough to offset his longer reach. He'd gambled on a quick victory, but he hadn't risked more than he could afford to lose. The crowd was almost silent now, except for an occasional shout or hiss of breath. Once Blade heard clearly: "No one's stood this long against Orric since he was twenty."

Blade wasn't sure how much longer he could stand. His shield arm seemed to be weighted with lead, and his shield was almost useless. The leather covering hung in strips where it wasn't ripped completely off, exposing bare wood. When Orric's sword smashed into the wood now, splinters flew off hard enough to sting Blade's skin. He laughed grimly at the thought of losing the fight and his life because a splinter hit him in the eye!

The shield wasn't going to last much longer, and when it broke, Orric would almost certainly switch to his ax. If Blade could get rid of the shield at a time of his own choosing, he'd have more control over what followed. He moved forward and to the left, almost jumping in spite of his weary legs. Orric's sword slashed down, sinking into the top of his shield, cutting halfway down to Blade's Arm. At the same moment Blade reached out as far as he could and slashed Orric's left leg.

Orric shouted, more in surprise than pain, although the wound was deep enough to bleed freely. All around the square the cry rose: "First blood, first blood to Blade! First blood!"

Alsin stepped forward and shouted for silence. "Blade has first blood," he said briskly to Orric. "Do you wish to yield, as is your right?"

Orric shook his head and growled something Blade didn't catch. Seeing the expression on the man's face, there was no need to hear his words. Blade shrugged his useless shield off his left arm, flexed some life back into the muscles, and drew his knife. Except for his sword arm, there was no longer any part of his body which didn't feel drained and sore. Even his head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, and his mouth was full of hot sand.

Then Orric dropped his shield, unslung his ax, and charged.

The ax leaped high and flashed down three times, each time so fast that Blade barely got clear. He knew if that ax ever struck, he'd be dead. But Orric's leg wound was now visibly slowing his footwork, as the ground at his feet turned into red mud. Blade stepped out of range, and raised both sword and knife in what looked like a salute. With a deft movement of his left hand, he thrust the knife point in under the lead foil covering and stripped it free of the sword. The fading sunlight caught the polished metal of the sharpened sword point, but no one seemed to notice.

Certainly Orric didn't. He swung his ax again as his opponent closed. This time Blade went down on one knee as he came within reach. His left hand thrust the knife upward, striking at Orric's armpit, drawing his attention, and diverting the ax swing. The ax handle glanced off Blade's helmet and bruised his shoulder, while the deadly steel head sank deep into the ground. For a second Orric and his weapon seemed to form a single frozen statue. That was enough for Blade to thrust his sword up into Orric's unprotected chin. The sharp point vanished into the flesh, and with all his strength behind it, shot straight up into the brain.

A gurgle came out of Orric's open mouth, then a spray of blood. His eyes stared wildly, then the life went out of them. Another moment and his limbs received their last message from his destroyed brain. He fell backward so violently he jerked the sword out of Blade's hand, landed with a thud and a clang of armor, and lay still, a pool of blood widening around his head. Blade retrieved his sword, raised it in salute, and stepped back from the body.

Chenosh was the first of the crowd to move. He dashed up with a bucket of water, and Blade s.n.a.t.c.hed it as if it were the only thing standing between him and sudden death. Half of it went down his throat so fast he nearly choked. Then he poured the other half all over his face and down his neck.

"Blade!" said Chenosh. "Your armor! It will rust!"

Blade looked blankly at him, fighting back the urge to laugh. He suspected that if he started laughing, he might not be able to stop.

No one heard Alsin's voice announcing the end of the duel, Orric's death, Blade's victory, and the proof of Lord Gennar's accusation. Lord Alsin swore afterward, however, that he had said everything he was supposed to, and everyone believed him. Everyone also saw seven Lords push out of the crowd, gather around Orric's body, then lift it in their arms and bear it away. Chenosh's face hardened at the sight and he said loudly enough for Blade to hear: "That is open defiance of my grandfather. I do not think we have seen the last of Orric's work today. He is the sort of man who will go on biting, like a dead snake."

Blade wasn't paying any attention to the boy. Miera was stepping forward, her face even paler than before and her mouth working. Both her grandfather and Alsin were watching her, but neither of them made a move to stop her. For a moment Blade thought she was going to walk all the way into his arms, but she had more sense. She stopped just out of reach, threw back her head, and smiled. The smile was the most amazing combination of total innocence and complete sensuality he'd ever seen on a woman's face.

Then he couldn't see anything except a sea of heads, hats, and helmets, as a dozen Lords rushed to him and lifted him on their shoulders. All around, people were shouting his name, and as his bearers carried him toward the hall, the people in the windows above began to throw scarves and flowers.

Chapter 10.

Blade could have spent the next few weeks going to one feast after another, being fed and wined and plied with women and praise. Defeating Orric made him for the moment the most popular man in the Duchy of Nainan, except among Orric's allies. These were lying low for the moment, although Duke Cyron, Marshal Alsin, and Blade were all sure they would be heard from again.

Meanwhile, Blade found many ways of spending his time.

There was giving Lord Chenosh fencing lessons.

It was an unusually cool morning for early summer along the Crimson River, and the gray sky promised rain later in the day. Blade and Chenosh rode out to the practice field. Not for the first time, Blade noticed how well the youth handled his horse with only one good hand.

Blade also remembered Chenosh's words the first time he praised the young Lord for his skill in riding.

"It seemed to me that because I could not fight I had to do everything else better than anyone else. I do not know if I could have done this if my father had lived. He always felt that a crippled son and a proud daughter who'd killed her mother in being born were a sign of the Fathers' anger. He showed us the bitterness he could not show toward the Fathers: "Fortunately, he died when Miera and I were young enough for my grandfather to heal some of the wounds. My grandfather thinks his son's death was bad luck, but I do not. When I come to rule Nainan, I will be very young, but I will be a better Duke than I would have been if I'd endured my father for another twenty years."

They dismounted where their previous fencing bouts had already worn the gra.s.s away and packed the earth hard. They went through their warming-up exercises, then pulled on mail coats and the special fencing helmets with visors. Blade didn't expect these new helmets to become popular for war in a Dimension without archery. All he wanted was to keep himself or Chenosh from accidentally losing an eye.

They spent an hour doing exercises, then rested and talked. After that they fought three free-style matches. As usual Blade won all three, but his margin of victory was shrinking steadily.

"You're going to score your first victory before long," he told Chenosh when they were wiping off the sweat afterward. "My longer reach already does as much for me as my skill."

Chenosh frowned. "You mean that?"

"I haven't any reason to flatter you, Chenosh. So don't bristle as if I was one of your grandfather's courtiers. How long do you think I would live if you got yourself killed by believing my false praise? I value my own skin as much as any honorable Lord can do!"

Chenosh laughed. "Blade, I am beginning to believe that you are really as honest as you say you are." The pleasure left his face. "I wish-I wish my father had been like you, Blade. If he had been, both Miera and I..."

Blade found himself unable to look an eighteen-year-old boy in the face. It struck him that if he'd led a more normal life in Home Dimension, he might by now very well have a son not much younger than Chenosh. He'd fathered children in a good many Dimensions and even knew the fate of one of them-Rikard, who might still be ruling the land called Tharn. None of this was quite the same as being able to raise, teach, and send out into the world a child of his own.

"Well," he said. "The Fathers send each of us where they will. The only thing we can do is the best we can wherever they send us. You've certainly lived your life that way, and I've tried to do the same. Perhaps that's what draws us together."

"Perhaps," said Chenosh. Then, seeing Blade's embarra.s.sment, he changed the subject. If he was going to fight without a shield or with only a small one, what about special armor for his right arm? A piece of heavy plate extending from the elbow down to the wrist would make it harder for an opponent to draw blood. It would also balance the sword in his left hand, and perhaps even let him use his right arm as a weapon. The arm itself was sound enough; it was only the hand which was crippled.

By the time they'd mounted their horses and were riding back to Castle Ranit, Blade was so interested in this new subject that he'd forgotten the embarra.s.sing moment in the field.

Then there were dinners with Miera.

Sometimes Chenosh joined his sister, sometimes there was only the girl herself with her nurse as chaperone.

It was after dinner one evening, and they were nibbling salted nuts and drinking beer. Wine was the more lordly drink, but Miera preferred beer. They talked of the day's news and events.

"What have you heard about the Captain of the Duke's Guard?" asked Miera.

"Only the same thing everyone's heard. He fell from his horse last night and smashed one leg so badly he may never walk right again."

"Have you heard that he was drunk?"

"Are you telling me or asking me?" replied Blade, with a grin. He enjoyed these verbal games with Miera, even though he knew they were considered highly improper for an unmarried woman. However, Miera didn't care a fig for propriety, and for once her grandfather and Marshal Alsin seemed willing to let her have her own way.

"Asking," she said. "By all the stories I've heard he was a fine rider, too good to fall unless he was drunk."

"I haven't heard that he was drunk, either," said Blade cautiously. He was aware of the nurse at the other end of the table, well within hearing. He was also aware of his desire to go on treating Miera like a human being, instead of the way the Lords of this land were expected to treat even the best-born women. "It was raining a little," he added. "The road might have been wet, and he was riding fast the way he always did."

"Yes. It might have been wet." A man would have to be deaf not to hear the skepticism in Miera's voice. Then she smiled, her familiar mixture of innocence and sensuality. "I will not press you to tell me what you could not even if you knew it. You have already told me more than anyone except my brother would tell a woman." She reached a hand across the table and rested two fingers lightly on Blade's wrist. Then she jerked the hand back, as they both heard the nurse hissing like an indignant snake.

Finally, there was getting a Feathered One of his own.

Blade wasn't sure he needed or wanted one, but he seemed to be the only person who thought that. Everyone else a.s.sumed that a Lord of his qualities would want his own Feathered One. Even Miera joined her voice to the chorus, one of the few times he'd heard her agree with her grandfather and Alsin in public.

So finally Blade rode off to the ancient castle where the Duchy's Feathered Ones were bred and trained. The castle was the original seat of the Dukes of Nainan, turned over to the Masters of the Feathers when Castle Ranit was finished a century ago.

Since the Duke hadn't appointed a new Master to replace Orric, the place was in charge of Romiss, the Breeder. Romiss was not a Lord by rank, but unlike other non-Lords Blade had met in Nainan, he paid a Lord no unnecessary deference or servility. He knew he was a master of a skilled and demanding craft, and in the matter of choosing Feathered Ones he considered himself the equal of any Lord or even the Duke himself.

"This place is not what it was," said Romiss at once. "I'll say nothing against you for killing Orric. That was Lords' business. But the Duke's going to have to put someone in his place. I'll thank you to say as much the next time you have his ear."

"Orric knew his job, I understand." Blade wanted to draw Romiss into talking about his late master. He wasn't the sort to talk freely, and so far the Duke saw no reason to have him imprisoned and tortured. But if he accidentally dropped a hint here and there...

Romiss did most of the talking as the two men toured the castle. Each Feathered One had a little open wooden cage hung on the wall of a room in the castle. Each room had food, water, and sanitary facilities for its twenty or thirty Feathered Ones. There was also a hospital with a trained veterinarian for sick or pregnant monkeys, a nursery for the young ones, and even a cemetery out in the courtyard for those who died in the castle. Feathered Ones who died in the service of Lords were usually granted elaborately decorated little tombs.

With all the lecturing Romiss did, Blade didn't learn much about his late Master Orric, and nothing about the legend of the Feathered Ones and the meteorite. More immediately important, he didn't learn a thing about how to choose his own Feathered One. Should he go "eeeny-meeny-miny-mo," look at pedigree, take one home on a trial basis, or simply wait until that mysterious "telepathic link" established itself-if it ever did.

They were climbing the stairs from the hospital when they heard a sudden yip-yip-yip from the head of the stairs. The door flew open and a bucket, several brooms, and four Feathered Ones came crashing, rattling, and squeaking down the stairs. Romiss let out an oath and Blade got ready to fend the little beasts off with the flat of his sword. Sometimes they got out of their rooms and into the wine, then they could be hard to handle.

One of the Feathered Ones was noticeably larger than the other three, but had the most ragged feathers Blade had ever seen. As the monkeys reached the foot of the stairs, the other three turned on the large one. He promptly kicked one opponent in the face, pulled a handful of feathers out of a second one's head, then dashed back up the stairs. His opponents followed. With a tremendous leap the big monkey hurled himself into the air and landed on the highest spot in sight: Richard Blade's shoulder.

Romiss swore again. "That's Raggedy, the little-! He's never found a master, and for some reason he doesn't get along with his mates. They'd have killed him a long time ago if it wasn't for his being so good at escaping. Usually he gets out alone, but this time the other three must have been expecting something like that. So they followed him."

Romiss seemed to be casually a.s.suming a rather high degree of intelligence in the Feathered Ones. Blade decided to play along with him. "Do you think the word about Raggedy is getting around?"

Romiss scratched his s.h.a.ggy gray head. "Hope not," he said after a moment. "Then he won't last long. Kinder to take him out and kill him now."

At those words Raggedy's feathers bristled as much as they could, his eyes narrowed to slits, and his mouth opened to display all his yellow teeth. It looked to Blade very much as if he'd understood the words!

"Does he have any other vices besides escaping?" he asked.

Romiss shook his head. "Not that I know of, although it'll be awhile before he makes any sort of a show, with his feathers-You aren't going to take him, are you?"

"Why not?"

"The Duke wouldn't like you being given a Feathered One who couldn't-"

"Why don't we let the Duke speak for himself, my friend? He told me only to come and find a Feathered One who suited me. I think this one will suit me." Unspoken was Blade's thought: He's lived alone, too. We should understand each other.

Romiss swallowed, looked at Blade, then at Raggedy, then shrugged. "He's yours, then. You'll be paying, of course, and the papers-"

"The Duke will be taking care of all that," said Blade, absentmindedly scratching the Feathered One's head. The monkey resented the liberty, and showed it by nipping Blade's left ear.

"Ouch! Cheeky little b.u.g.g.e.r, aren't you? In fact I think that's going to be your new name. From now on you're Cheeky."

"That's not a lordly name, Lord Blade. I hate to remind you of something like this, but-"