The Starfollowers of Coramonde (3 page)

“So we have
put aside trade, fishnets and tally sheets, to take up the cutlass and the
torch. What help we may render you against the Masters, you shall have. We mean
to see all enemies swept from the sea, nothing less.”

The
Ku-Mor-Mai
thanked Gale-Baiter. Brodur escorted him out. Conversations around the table
were subdued, more lip movement than sound. Van Duyn, who’d expected
reinforcements for the Highlands Province, saw that things would not go that
way.

When Brodur
came back, Lord Hightower was with him. Gil happened to be looking their way,
noticing that the aide held himself stiffly, without expression.

Hightower
lowered himself into the chair reserved for him. He was of heroic frame,
deep-chested, thick-armed. His dense beard and long mustachios and hair were
white with age, hanging like snow on a mountain against his black hauberk. At
his side was his great-sword, bigger than any other man would presume to carry,
but they’d seen him ply it like a rapier. Past his eightieth year, he was the
last pureblood of a gifted line. Like his ancestors, he’d been permitted to go into
his age with undiminished vitality. He inclined his head to the
Ku-Mor-Mai.

Springbuck
welcomed him formally, then ticked off salient points of the meeting on his
fingers. “The Druids and their wildmen are in our northernmost regions;
Freegate is beset by raids and depredations; the Mariners have suffered the
worst defeat in their history. Combat flares too, I am told, away in Veganá, at
the southern tip of the Crescent Lands, but of that we ken little.”

Katya said,
“If you are leading to war against Salamá, it would be no easy undertaking. And
will not our enemies consume our lands in our absence?”

“That is
precisely why these attacks occur, I should say,” Andre stated, “and why we
must plan to send our vengeance south. Do you take it that Salamá simply wants
new territory, or a few more subjects? I do not. They contrive to make it
dangerous for us to prosecute war against them, for one motive.
They need
time.
They have some design of their own, that brooks no interference. They
give us our own preoccupations, so our alliance is pulled into fragments. Thus,
they insure an uninterrupted span for themselves.”

Katya
inquired, “To what end?”

“I cannot
divine its nature yet,” the wizard shot back, “but something is taking shape in
that dire city, of more peril than all these other incursions. The Masters
decreed this screen, hiding larger danger in the south; in Shardishku-Salamá.”

“The people
of Coramonde—those who still support me—will want more proof than that,”
Springbuck said dubiously.

Andre
responded carefully. “It is my hope and belief that they shall have
confirmation, plain and unmistakable, in the correct moment. Other forces are
in conflict here besides mere nations.”

Reacher, head
hung in thought, made up his mind. “Andre deCourteney is the font of wisdom in
opposing Bey and his Masters. Let us plan in concert our response to the strife
he promises.”

“Tomorrow,”
Springbuck concurred, “we begin.” He grinned. “And there is one more
pronouncement. In times as precarious as these, it has been the custom of the
Ku-Mor-Mai
to select a Warlord, for first officer in all matters military, I advance
Hightower as Warlord over Coramonde, his authority issuing directly from my
own.”

The old man
sputtered thanks. “Honeyed words are not my aptitude. My gratitude I will
evince by service.” He reddened at their applause.

The session
ended. Gil avoided talking to the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
sore at himself for time
wasted looking for Bey. That his temper had become so fragile worried him; he
didn’t want to discuss errors.

Ferrian of
the Horseblooded stopped him in the corridor. The burly, one-time
Champion-at-arms had made a remarkable recovery from the wound, suffered in the
fight for the throne room, that had cost him his right arm. He was more
inward-turning now. He beckoned Gil aside and pointed to where Captain Brodur
took notes from Springbuck’s instructions.

“Do you know
him?”

“Uh, he’s the
guy who used to be one of—” Her name came with difficulty, even now. “One of
Duskwind’s agents, right? Tried to help her save Springbuck, back when Bey was
going to have him killed?”

“Aye, and
knows the palace-fortress and the city, and can tell you who reported to Bey,
and carried out his commands. You are so intent on locating the sorcerer that
I’d wondered if you shouldn’t speak to him.”

Gil checked
the idea over, scratching the dark smear of powderburn on his cheek
absentmindedly. “Good thinking. Not here though; Springbuck’s already had
enough of my Bey-hunt.”

“Brodur
drills at the fields every morning, at about the sixth hour. That would,
perhaps, be the place.”

“Got it.” He
yawned, jaw cracking. Things were moving again; maybe he could sleep. “I’m
headed back for the rack. See you tomorrow.”

He’d taken
less than four steps when a hulking form blocked his way, hissing loudly. The
thing, nearly seven feet tall, was reptilian, covered with a thick,
green-scaled hide. Knifelike fangs curved from its jaws, and its heavy tail was
encased in caudal armor of spikes and sharp-edged flanges. At its back was
slung a greatsword even larger than Hightower’s.

Gil goggled,
then composed himself. “Oh, hey, Kisst-Haa. Hi.”

The
reptile-man’s fearsome head dipped once in reply; he had no speech but his own
sibilant tongue. Gil had forgotten that Kisst-Haa was in Earthfast, having come
along on the raid on the throne room. That must be one of the reasons Reacher
had come, the American concluded—to take his faithful bodyguard home with him.

Reacher’s
keen ears had picked out Kisst-Haa’s hiss. The King appeared, Van Duyn and the
Snow Leopardess with him. It occurred to Gil, eyeing the reptile-man more
closely, that the thing that made him more human than animal was his eyes. They
were manlike, expressive, with whites, yellow irises and tiny dots of pupil.
But it was weird to see the diminutive Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach trade
glad hugs with the monster, who rumbled happily.

Gil shook
hands perfunctorily with Van Duyn, clasped forearms with Katya, then with her
brother. Reacher became grave. “Duskwind was given every honor,” he assured
Gil, “and her ashes lie with her family’s. Her kinsmen wished you to know
that—”

The American
broke away, shaking his head. “No, Reacher. It’s fine, I’m sure, whatever, but
no more, please.” He brushed past Kisst-Haa. “I have to go. Got an early date
on the drill field.”

The next
morning, he put on soft, close-fitting blouse and pants and his Browning. He
also strapped on the sword left behind by his friend Dunstan the Berserker,
who’d been abducted by Yardiff Bey.
Just like the Froggy goin’ courtin’,
he thought, settling the weapons. Reacher had inadvertently evoked a ghost, and
Gil had only salvaged a few hours’ sleep.

Knights and
other fighting men sweated and strained in rigorous rehearsal. They’d left
their finery at home, using older armor and accouterments for practice.

They swung
swords at pells, tilted at quintains, hurled javelins, launched arrows, hefted
axes. They feinted slyly with knives and toppled each other with dented
shields. Dust rose, feet shuffled; man-nets were cast, like sinews of clouds,
to bag or miss their quarry. There were wounds and other injuries, mostly among
overzealous younger men.

Gil spotted
Ferrian to one side, a distant look in his eyes. Gil had seen the rugged
Horseblooded fight like a devil during the raid on the throne room. Now he
stood apart, longing to be among the warriors again.

Ferrian
noticed him, eyeing the Browning in its shoulder holster, and the sword of
Dunstan. “Why bear a blade, when you have that, ah, gun?”

Gil resettled
the holster. “See, there aren’t many rounds left for it, or the Mauser either.
High-speed nine-millimeter ammo doesn’t grow on trees; I’d better be ready when
the last shot goes.”

Ferrian, not
much older than the American but a veteran of uncounted duels, agreed wryly,
“Wisdom indeed.”

“Where’s
Brodur?”

“I was just
watching him. See there, yes, where men are come together to fence with light
blades in the new fashion? Brodur is there, in gray hose.”

“Got him now.
Who’s he talking to there, Gale-whatshisname?”

“Gale-Baiter,
the Mariner envoy, yes. The seaman has been dueling, with lesser opponents for
the most part, and wagering heavily. Brodur’s decided to try his luck. He is
quite the betting man himself, you know; he insists no respectable gentleman
can live on his pay alone.”

Gale-Baiter
was bigger, burlier than a fencer should be, whipping a heavy cavalry rapier
through the air, expounding swordcraft. Brodur, long hair braided and fastened
out of his way, paid close heed. He was compact, had a short-cropped beard and
was smooth in movement.

The two
observers couldn’t hear what was being said—some difference of opinion over a
fine point. With swords at hand, the theoretical discussion didn’t last long.
Gil could picture it, some lofty remark like, “Sir, if you are so very
accomplished, you would perhaps vouchsafe a demonstration?”

Bets were
going down right and left as the two squared off. Four judges were selected,
and a president of the match, from the onlookers. The contestants placed
themselves on the
piste,
held up dulled swords in their right hands to
salute, and began.

They felt one
another out, their dialogue of blades sporadic. Brodur showed an inclination to
retreat, so Gale-Baiter tried a sudden fléche. Brodur, with less skill than Gil
would have expected from a money fencer, managed a firm, blocking parry-in-retreat.
But he failed to advance into an attack. He didn’t seem to be toying with the
Mariner or taking it easy, but in the next few moments the envoy pressed him
sharply. The bigger man carried Brodur’s blade from a high line to a low in
bind, barely failing to hit in opposition to the blade.

The interplay
became more rapid. Gale-Baiter indulged in flourishes, stamping his foot,
striking Brodur’s weapon with repeated beats and calling for him to come, fence
boldly, show heart. Brodur stayed calm, counterattacked, and the jury followed
the action along the
piste.
The younger man was quick, but not as
confident as he should have been. Gale-Baiter began using vigorous stop- and
time-thrusts. Brodur made a false attack and his lunge drew the Mariner out in
parry-riposte. Brodur parried, hit on the counter-riposte so quickly that Gil
missed it. Both judges watching Gale-Baiter spotted it, though. The president
analyzed the phrase and gave the match to Brodur.

Ferrian and
Gil went over. Gale-Baiter was disputing the decision. “Come, sir,” he
blustered to the president, “did you not see the man cover his target-parts
with his shoulder? What swordsmanship is in that?”

The
president, a dignified master-of-arms, held himself rigidly. “There was no
covering, my Lord. We but officiated the duel as we saw it fought, well and
fairly.”

The Mariner
flushed. He whirled on Brodur, who was toweling his face. “You, sir; admit it!
You touched me lucky, and not within the rules. Let us see who’s best two times
out of three!”

Brodur
regarded the Mariner with a grin. “Beg pardon, my Lord Envoy, but shall we go
from there to three of five? I should be delighted to teach you how it is done,
but alas, I lack the time.” He extended his palm. “My winnings, please.”

Interesting
shade of heliotrope,
thought Gil, watching Gale-Baiter’s face.

“Pestilence
take your money, Brodur! You fight only for gold, then? Would it interest you
if the bet were tenfold? Or did you beat me by guile and luck alone? Or are you
afraid?”

Brodur balled
his hands, compressing the towel. “If I beat you once, my Lord, I can do it
twice. A man who can ignore your jigging and squawking could beat you every
time and, if I may say so, with either hand.”

“So? Done!
Jury to their places, please. Tenfold’s the bet, and if you can defeat me with
either hand, let me see you do it with your left.”

Brodur looked
around embarrassedly, a sense of error in his face. He stepped hesitantly to
his end of the
piste,
taking his sword in his left hand.

“I thought
Brodur was a sharpie,” Gil said to Ferrian.

The big
Horseblooded laughed. “Nay, now, you are always and ever the one for private
jests, eh? This time you must wait.”

Gale-Baiter
and Brodur crossed points again. This time there was little hesitation. The
Mariner advanced confidently, saying, “Now
I
shall instruct
you!”

Brodur
stopped the attack with a perfect stop-thrust, easily avoiding the double-hit.
Gale-Baiter tried for a bind. Brodur passed his point underneath the envoy’s
with surgical precision and met him with arm extended, point still in line.
Gale-Baiter elected to retreat out of fencing distance, to ascertain just what
was happening to him. Brodur attacked-in-advance into scoring range, pressed,
and hit punctually on the redoublement, one fluid moment.

Neither man
bothered to glance at the judges. Brodur lowered his weapon. Gale-Baiter held
his up for a moment, staring at the younger man. Then, with a snort, he took
his blade through an exacting salute. He motioned to two men at the sideline,
his attendants. One was a red-bearded bear of a man, the other an apple-cheeked
little guy with sandy curls. The smaller one dashed to hand Brodur a jingling
purse. Gale-Baiter, spinning his heel, left without a word. Gil stopped the
aide.

“I heard you
used to work for the Lady Duskwind.”

Captain
Brodur eyed him for a moment. “That is essentially correct. How is it of
interest to you?”