Kings of Clonmel (38 page)

It was hot inside the tent. The sun had been beating down on it and the flap had been closed, trapping the hot, stuffy air inside. He turned, meaning to tie back the canvas door flap and let some fresh air in, when he realized that he hadn’t checked the screened-off privy. He crossed the tent now and jerked the screen back, knife ready in case he needed to lunge.

Empty.

He let out a long pent-up breath and resheathed the saxe. Then he busied himself tying back the door flap and opening a ventilation panel at the rear of the tent. A breeze of cooler air swept in, and the interior temperature quickly began to fall. The stuffiness was dispelled as well.

Halt and Horace arrived, the former carrying Horace’s sword, helmet and the battered, crumpled shield. He tossed it into a corner.

“You won’t be needing that again,” Halt said. He looked a question at Will and the young Ranger shook his head. Nothing suspicious to report. Although Halt’s remark about the shield reminded him that he should check the straps and fittings on Horace’s reserve shield before the next combat.

Horace sank back on the lounge, sighing as his bruised muscles came in contact with the cushions, and glanced longingly at the jug on the table.

“Pour me a drink, would you, Will?” he said. “I’m parched.”

His dry mouth and throat were caused by nervous tension and fear as much as exertion, he knew. And Horace wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had felt fear while he was fighting Killeen. He leaned back, his eyes closed, and heard the soft tinkle of ice as Will poured.

“ That sounds good,” he said. “Make it a big one.”

He drank the tumbler in one long draft, then nodded as Will offered the jug for a refill. This time, he sipped at the cold water more slowly, enjoying the sensation of the liquid sliding down his dry throat. Gradually, he began to relax.

“How long till I face Gerard?” he asked Halt.

“You’ve got over an hour,” the Ranger told him. “Why don’t you get out of that armor, lie back and relax for a while?”

Horace went to rise, groaning softly as he did so.“Good idea. But I should check my sword’s edge first,” he said.

Halt gently stopped him. “Will can do that.”

Horace smiled gratefully as Will moved to take the sword and check it. Normally, Horace would have insisted on doing the task himself. Will and Halt were the only people he trusted to do it for him.

“Thanks, Will.”

“Let’s get that mail shirt off you,” Halt said, and helped pull the long, heavy garment over his head. The mail shirt had a light chamois leather liner, now stained and damp with sweat. Halt turned it inside out and draped it across the arms rack, moving the latter so that it was just inside the doorway, catching the cross breeze.

“Now rest. We’ll take care of things. I’ll wake you in plenty of time for a massage to get the kinks out,” Halt said. Horace nodded, and lay back with a contented sigh. It was nice, he thought, to have attendants to fuss over him.

“I think I could get used to this Sunrise Warrior thing,” he said, smiling.

He could hear the gentle rasping sound as Will put an extra-sharp edge on his sword. There had been one slight nick in the blade, where it had caught against Killeen’s shield, and the young Ranger set himself to remove it. The sound was oddly relaxing, Horace thought. Then he drifted off to sleep.

 

Halt woke him after half an hour. Horace’s muscles were stiff and aching, so at Halt’s bidding, he rolled over onto his stomach and let Halt work on them. The Ranger’s strong fingers dug and probed expertly into the muscle and tissue, loosening knots and easing the tension, stimulating blood flow back to the bruised, strained parts of his body. It was painful, but strangely enjoyable, he thought.

The short nap had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish. He shrugged to himself. That often happened if you slept during the day. Once he started moving and got some fresh air in his lungs, he’d be fine.

He swung his legs off the lounge and sat, head down for a few seconds. Then he shook himself. Will looked at him curiously.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He’d watched over Horace while he slept, his saxe knife drawn and lying ready across his knees.

Horace looked at the weapon and grinned sleepily. “Planning on chopping vegetables?” he asked, then answering his friend’s question, “I’m just a bit foggy, that’s all.”

Halt looked at him, a small light of concern in his eyes. “You’re sure?” he said, and Horace smiled, shaking off the torpor that seemed to have claimed him.

“I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t sleep during the day, really. Pass me that mail shirt, will you?”

The chamois lining had dried in the breeze, and he pulled it on over his head as he sat on the edge of the lounge. Then he stood to let it fall to its full length, just above his knees. As he did so, he swayed and had to grasp the back of the lounge to steady himself.

Both the Rangers watched him with growing concern. He smiled at them.

“I’m fine, I tell you. I’ll walk it off.”

He took the clean surcoat that Will offered and pulled it on over the mail shirt.

Halt glanced outside. The area around the food and drink stalls was becoming less crowded as the spectators made their way back to their seats. Horace and Gerard would be called to the arena in the next ten minutes. He decided that Horace was probably right. A bit of fresh air and exercise would see him right.

“Let’s head up there now. The stewards will have to examine your sword again anyway,” he said, coming to a decision. In fact, the entire preamble to the combat would be repeated. It was a bore, Halt thought, but it was part of the formal ceremonial ritual attached to trial by combat.

Halt and Will gathered Horace’s helmet, his spare shield and his sword. Will refastened the tent flaps and they walked alongside Horace, flanking him as he made his way back to the combat ground. The dwindling crowd at the stalls made way for them, showing deference to the Sunrise Warrior. He had already become a popular figure among the people of Dun Kilty. The spectacular way he had dispatched Killeen had caught their collective imagination.

Halt watched the young warrior carefully as they approached the weapons table set in front of the King’s enclosure. He let go a small sigh of relief as he saw Horace’s stride was firm and unfaltering. Then his heart missed a beat as the young man leaned down to him and said, in a conversational tone and without any outward sign of concern:

“Halt, we have a problem. I can’t focus my eyes.”

The three of them stopped. Halt’s mind raced and he glanced instantly to where Tennyson was sitting, surrounded by his cronies. There were three purple-clad figures with him now, but as he watched, Tennyson leaned over and spoke to one of them. The Genovesan nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

In that moment, Halt knew what had happened. He spoke urgently to Will.

“Will! Get that water jug in the tent! It’s been drugged! Don’t let anyone interfere with it!”

He saw a moment of confusion in Will’s eyes, then dawning comprehension. If the water had been drugged, they’d need to keep it safe to prove the fact.

Will spun on his heel and darted away.

Horace jogged Halt’s arm. “Let’s keep moving,” he said.

Halt turned to him. In spite of the urgency in Horace’s tone, an observer would have thought they were simply discussing unimportant matters.

“We’ll call for a postponement,” he said. “You can’t fight if you can’t see.”

But Horace shook his head. “Tennyson will never accept that. If we withdraw, he’ll claim victory. Unless we can prove that they’ve broken the rules.”

“Well, of course they’ve broken the rules! They’ve drugged you!”

“But can we prove it? Even if we prove that the water’s drugged, can we prove they did it? I’ll have to keep going for now, Halt.”

“Horace, you can’t fight if you can’t see!” Halt repeated. His voice was strained now. He should never have gotten Horace into this, he told himself bitterly.

“I can see, Halt. I just can’t focus,” Horace told him, with the ghost of a smile. “Now let’s go. The scrutineers are waiting.”

THE PURPLE-CLOAKED FIGURE SLID EASILY THROUGH THE LAST-MINUTE customers around the food and drink vending stalls. As he approached the tall white pavilion, he slowed his pace a little, glancing left and right to see if there was anybody watching him.

But he saw no sign of surveillance and walked directly to the entrance. As before, the tent flaps were fastened on the outside, which meant there could be nobody in the tent. Quickly, his strong fingers undid the knots. As the last one fell loose, he resisted the temptation to look around. Such an action would only appear furtive, he knew. Far better to simply walk in as if he had every right to be here.

He slipped the dagger from the scabbard under his left arm—it never hurt to take precautions—and stepped quickly into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back into place.

He let out a pent-up breath, relaxing. There was nobody inside, and the water jug stood on the table where he had last seen it. Quickly, he crossed to the table, picked up the jug and poured its contents onto the ground, watching in satisfaction as the drugged water soaked into the dirt.

“And that’s the end of the evidence,” he said softly, in a satisfied voice, a second before something heavy and hard crashed into his head, behind the ear, and everything went black.

“So you say,” Will said. He resheathed his saxe knife, satisfied that the Genovesan was unconscious. He rolled the man over on his back and searched him quickly, disarming him as he did so. He glanced curiously at the crossbow that had been slung over the man’s shoulder. It was a graceless weapon, he thought, heavy and utilitarian. He tossed it to one side and resumed searching the unconscious man. There was a dagger in his belt, another in each of his boots and one strapped to his right calf. He also found the empty scabbard under the man’s left arm. He whistled softly.

“Planning on starting a war?” he asked. The Genovesan, naturally, made no reply.

Will dug into his belt pouch and produced thumb and ankle cuffs. He quickly secured the man’s hands in front of him and trussed his ankles, leaving enough slack so he would be able to hobble awkwardly, but not run.

Will sat back on his heels, thinking quickly. They needed proof, he knew. He’d arrived a few seconds before the Genovesan, approaching from the opposite side and entering by cutting through the canvas at the rear corner, where the privy was positioned. That way, the outer knots on the door were left undisturbed. Yet he had arrived a second too late, emerging from the privy and slamming the brass pommel of his saxe just behind the man’s ear.

There was something in the back of his mind—something that would help him connect the Genovesan with the drugged water. Then he had it. When he had poured the glass for Horace, he had heard the tinkle of ice. Yet the ice he’d placed in the water should have melted long ago. The Genovesan must have replenished it, and there was only one place he could have done so.

He looked at the man, saw that he was still unconscious and hurried outside the tent. One of Sean’s marshals, tasked with keeping an eye on the pavilion—as well as watching for the inevitable pickpockets who’d be working the crowd—was strolling nearby. He turned and approached quickly as Will hailed him.

“Keep an eye on him,” Will said, jerking his thumb at the unconscious Genovesan inside the pavilion. The marshal’s eyes widened at the sight, but he recognized Will as one of the Sunrise Warrior’s retainers and nodded agreement.

“I’ll be back,” Will told him, and hurried toward the drink stalls.

There was one stall selling ice. It was where Will had bought his supply previously and, presumably, where the Genovesan had done the same. Ice was a rare commodity. It would have been cut in large blocks, high in the mountains during winter, then packed in straw and brought down to be stored deep in a cool cellar somewhere. The vendor looked up as Will approached. Initially, he’d been reluctant to sell some of his ice without selling a drink as well, but the young man had paid well. He nodded a greeting.

“Will it be more ice for you, your honor?” he asked. But Will cut him off abruptly.

“Come with me,” he said. “Right away.”

Will was young and fresh faced, but there was an unmistakable air of authority about him, and it never occurred to the ice vendor to argue. He called to his wife to mind the stall and hurried to follow the fast-moving figure in the gray-green cloak. As they entered the pavilion, his eyes also goggled at the sight of the unconscious man lying bound on the grass.

“Did he buy ice from you?” he demanded, and the man nodded instantly.

“He did, your honor. Said it was for the mighty Sunrise Warrior.” He glanced around the tent, and his eye fell on the water jug. “Fetched it in that jug, as I recall,” he added, wondering what this was all about. Then, making sure that he couldn’t be blamed for anything, he volunteered more information.

“He was watching earlier when you bought the ice. I assumed he was with you.”

So that was it. Will guessed that the Genovesan, when he had drugged the water, had added ice so that the chill would mask the taste. Or simply make the water more appealing. Yet he would hardly have done so if he hadn’t known there was already ice in the jug. He looked at the marshal and the vendor. In the background, he could hear cheering welling up from the arena and realized that too much time had passed while he had been occupied with this problem. The formalities must be over, and Horace would be preparing to face the giant islander.

He looked at the two men.

“Come with me!” he ordered. He recovered his bow from behind the privy screen and gestured at the Genovesan, now stirring groggily. “And give me a hand with him!”

As he and the marshal dragged the bleary-eyed assassin to his feet, he heard the single note of a trumpet. The combat had started.