Ravenheart (17 page)

Chain had had enough. Rising from his seat, he wandered across to one of the select dining areas. The red-cloaked steward bowed as he entered. “I think the kilts will remember your visit, sir,” he said.

Chain nodded and moved inside. A young woman brought him a goblet of crushed apple juice, and Chain walked through to the rear, where several benches had been set close to an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. He saw the young white-haired officer—Mulgrave, was it?—talking to several stewards and beyond him a black-garbed, hawk-eyed nobleman in conversation with the fat red-caped bishop. Chain cursed inwardly and was about to swing away when the bishop saw him.

“My dear man,” he boomed. “Do join us. Let me introduce you to our Moidart.”

The fighter approached them, towering over both men. He bowed to the Moidart, and their eyes met. Chain felt something cold touch his blood. This, he knew instinctively, was a dangerous man.

“I am honored to meet you, my lord.”

“I trust you will ensure that this nonsense ends well,” said the Moidart. The bishop’s face was flushed with embarrassment.

“How should it end, sir?” countered Chain.

“It should never have begun, sir,” the Moidart told him. “It is foolishness in the extreme. But at close of day the arm raised in victory must be Varlish. You understand this? Anything else would be … perilous. For all concerned.

“It is merely an entertainment for our people,” put in the bishop. “There is no peril, my lord.”

“You are an idiot. You explain it to him, fighter. Tell him the danger.”

Chain looked into the bishop’s eyes. The man was frightened. “Even the strongest fighters, the finest champions, can be caught by a lucky punch which scrambles their brains. Or they can meet a man who just won’t quit. Or they could slip on a blood-covered board just as their opponent throws a wild blow. Nothing is certain.”

“But … but … Gorain said he could defeat any clansman.”

“In theory he should do just that,” said Chain.

“If he does lose,” said the Moidart, “you will destroy the man who beats him.”

“I am here to fight an exhibition bout, my lord. If Gorain should lose—which is extremely unlikely—the man who beats him will have fought five or six times today. He will be in no condition to face me.”

“Then you will have little difficulty in crushing him,” said the Moidart. “The consequences of any alternative outcome will be severe.” The Moidart walked away without another word, the bishop trailing after him.

Chain was angry now, though he did not allow it to show. Leaving his drink untouched, he left the area and walked out into the crowd. Everywhere he went people smiled and waved; some even bowed as he passed.

He did not return to the raised dais but wandered instead into the clan area. There no one bowed, but he felt eyes upon him. Coming north had been a huge mistake. He had lost his protégé and was now caught in the middle of a potential crisis.

“You don’t look so tough,” said a voice. Chain glanced to his right and saw a burly highlander wearing a ragged kilt and a long cloak. The man was holding a jug and was swaying slightly.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Chain said mildly.

Two stewards moved in swiftly, grabbing the man. Chain realized they had been following him. “Let him go. Now!” said Chain. “We were having a conversation.”

“Sir, we are instructed—”

“Leave him and go about your business. I do not need an escort.”

The men stood for a moment, then released the highlander. “Now, I thank you for your concern, boys, but leave me be.”

The two stewards seemed uncertain, but they left and returned to the Varlish field.

The drunken highlander swore at Chain. “Always need backup, don’t you?”

“Certainly seems that way,” Chain told him. The fighter moved on. Another bout was under way in one of the mud circles. He paused to watch. A huge one-eyed man was fighting. His opponent was younger, with good shoulders and a long reach. The two circled for a few moments, then the young man moved in swiftly, feinting with a left and then throwing a right. It was a good move. The one-eyed man swayed away and delivered a chopping left that exploded against the younger man’s jaw. His legs gave way, and he pitched to the ground.

“Grymauch! Grymauch!” chanted the crowd. The one-eyed man raised his arms and bowed to them. Then he saw Chain.

“Would you like a little lesson, Varlish!” he called.

“Perhaps later. That was a good blow.”

“The … Pannone … hammer,” said the man. Chain noted the hesitation. So did the crowd, and they laughed.

“You need to look to your comrade,” said Chain. “I fear he is drowning in the mud.”

The fighter glanced down, then dropped to his knees, rolling the unconscious man to his back. It was true. His mouth and nostrils were caked with mud. The one-eyed man wiped it away, and the stricken fighter suddenly gasped for breath.

Chain walked on, stopping by a stall selling trinkets. They were cheap, mostly of copper or bronze, but one or two shone with silver. As he was looking at the jewelry, a man came alongside him. He saw that it was Mulgrave.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sir?” asked the white-haired young officer.

“I like to see the sun shine. Are you now escorting me?”

“It would be … unfortunate to suffer an incident on a feast day. There is a good deal of strong drink available everywhere, and a riot could ensue if a drunken highlander were to attack the Varlish champion.”

“Let us walk awhile,” said Chain.

“It will be my pleasure, especially if we walk back to the Varlish fields.”

“As you say, Captain.” The two men crossed the field and went through the entry channel. “What is going on here?” asked Chain as they paused by a small wood at the northern tip of the Varlish field.

“In what way?”

“This absurd need to crush the highlanders’ spirit.”

Mulgrave sighed. “You are asking the wrong man to justify it. However, I will try to explain it. It is, you will hear, a historical problem. You are from the far south. You have no idea of the festering hatreds in these mountains. Old men still remember the rebellions, the clans sweeping down upon townsfolk and farmers, the savagery and the bloodshed. The clans do not forget the days—not so distant—when soldiers raided their settlements, killing their wives and children. The fear among our own people is that if pride is allowed to seep back into clan mentality, they will rise again. This is why the Moidart is angry about the tournament. Is Gorain going to win it?”

“He should,” said Chain.

“He’d better,” said Mulgrave. “The Moidart does not suffer disappointment lightly.”

“I would guess that.”

The sun shone brightly for much of the afternoon. Gaise Macon, riding the palomino, won the first of the equestrian events, the twelve jumps. His victory was received with great acclaim from the citizens, though Gaise himself seemed less than ecstatic. Captain Mulgrave won the saber event, lopping eleven “heads.” Gaise finished fourth in that event and seemed far more pleased than he had with his own victory.

As they groomed their mounts, Mulgrave asked him about it. The young man put aside his brush. “I won because the last rider’s horse balked at the water jump.”

“I saw.”

“Did you also see that the rider intentionally balked?”

“I did,” agreed Mulgrave.

“So it was not a win at all. The rider allowed the Moidart’s son to claim the crown.”

“I am glad you spotted it,” said Mulgrave. “Many men would not have. It was done skillfully, and I doubt many in the crowd noticed it. However, there were some fine riders today, and second place—which you won fairly—is a matter for pride.”

“Why did he do it, Mulgrave?”

“You do not really need to ask that, sir. Your father is not a forgiving man, and the rider was one of his officers. I expect that he feared retribution.”

“A sad state of affairs,” muttered Gaise. “But understandable, I suppose. Have you seen Gorain yet?”

“I have. Most accomplished. A fine example of Varlish manhood.”

“Who is he fighting next?” asked Gaise.

“I understand it is a blacksmith from the Pinance’s region. Last year’s champion. I believe his name is Badraig.”

“Yes, I saw him last year. Big man, very powerful. What about the other semifinal?”

“I do not know the result, sir. They were fighting while we were competing in the sabers. A one-eyed man was taking part.”

*  *  *

By late afternoon Kaelin had still not found Chara Ward, and he was growing irritated. There were thousands of people in the fields now, and trying to hunt down one girl was like seeking a single leaf in an autumn forest. At one stage he had even lost touch with Banny, finding him by accident as he sought the latrine area.

Kaelin watched Jaim Grymauch win his semifinal in a fight that lasted only a few minutes, congratulated his uncle, then once more sought out Chara. Had he had any sense, he would have shouted out a meeting place to her as she vanished into the Varlish area. He and Banny wandered through the various stalls close to the fighting circles, then angled out toward the cattle markets. “Why would she be there?” asked Banny. “Her relatives are not herders.”

“She won’t be, but it is higher ground,” Kaelin told him. “We’ll be able to see better.”

As they walked, they heard a sudden roar from the Varlish field. Kaelin glanced back. From there he could see the small figures in the wooden circle. One man was down. Attendants were gathering around him. Banny, whose eyes were not strong, asked: “Is it the Varlish?” Kaelin shook his head. Gorain was standing, hands on hips. Then he pulled a towel from his belt and wiped his face. Moments later another roar went up. “What are they cheering for now?” asked Banny. “The fight is over.”

“I don’t know, Banny. I’m not there, am I?”

“Sorry, Kaelin. Hey, there’s Tay. Maybe he knows where Chara went.”

Kaelin saw the stocky figure of Taybard Jaekel making his way up the hill. Crowds were swirling around below, groups of people gathering and speaking in an animated fashion. They saw Taybard stop and listen, then the young Varlish began to climb once more. Kaelin did not want to have to talk to him. He was still nonplussed over the fight and had no wish to find himself in another disagreement. And yet he needed to know. With a soft curse he moved to intercept the youth. Taybard
glanced up as he saw him. He neither scowled nor smiled but stood still, his eyes wary.

“Have you seen Chara?” asked Kaelin.

“No. Bindoe said he wanted to talk to her and told me to go away. I lost them in the crowd then.”

“Why is everyone gathering below?” asked Banny.

“Gorain killed Badraig. Broke his neck.”

“That’s what the Varlish swine were cheering,” hissed Kaelin.

“Aye,” Taybard Jaekel said sadly. “That’s what the swine were cheering. Makes you sick, doesn’t it?” With that he walked away.

“Your uncle fights him next,” said Banny.

Kaelin was staring after Taybard Jaekel. The youth was heading out through the gates toward Old Hills and home.

“What did you say?”

“Grymauch fights him next.”

“Aye.” Kaelin was less worried than he had been. Grymauch had fought four times, and not one bout had lasted long. He had a swelling on the cheekbone under his empty left socket and a few bruises on his upper body, but he had emerged triumphant. Kaelin could no longer imagine any man thrashing him. He glanced again at the forlorn figure of Taybard Jaekel. On impulse Kaelin ran after him, calling out as he ran. Taybard stopped and waited.

“If you want a fight, I’m not in the mood,” Taybard said as Kaelin paused before him.

“I don’t want a fight, Tay. But the feast is only an hour away. It would be a shame to miss it. Why don’t you come with Banny and me?”

“You want a Varlish at your feast?”

“Whisht, man, you’re an Old Hills neighbor. We’ll watch Grymauch whip the southerner and then eat till our bellies swell.”

Taybard stood silently, his mind racing. He wanted to apologize to Kaelin for the fight. He wanted to say how sorry he was that men cheered when a highlander died in the circle.
He wanted to tell him about the Wyrd and about his jealousy concerning Chara. He looked into Kaelin’s dark eyes.

“Aye, I could eat,” he said.

And the three youths walked back to the clan fields.

6