The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (49 page)

‘To come in,’ Soren replied, smiling. He pushed back his cloak to reveal the hilts of his blades and the purse at his belt. The eyes stared at them for a moment and then the inspection slot shut. The door opened and the man who owned the eyes gestured for Soren to enter.

‘This way, sir, the bar is down the stairs. I hope you enjoy your evening,’ he said, smiling to reveal a set of filthy teeth.

Soren walked in and made his way down the steps. As he went, the sounds of raucous shouts and the clashing of steel became audible with increasing volume.

He came to the end of the steps and out into a large cellar room. It was lit with large mage lamps and despite the subterranean location, it was very bright. There was a small bar with a disinterested tender to the left, and a large crowd of men gathered in front of him. He couldn’t see beyond them, but from the noise it was obvious to him what was going on. He walked to the bar.

‘Who do I need to speak to?’ Soren asked.

The bartender took one look at the hilts of his blades and nodded to a man standing quietly to one side of the crowd. Soren made his way over.

‘The barman said to speak to you,’ said Soren.

‘Did he now. And why did he do that?’ the man replied.

‘I’m here to duel.’

‘Are you now.’ He appraised Soren with a little more interest and his eyes drifted down to the hilts of his blades. ‘Well, are you ready to go tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, what’s your name?’ the man asked.

‘Soren.’

The man looked at him questioningly, expecting more. ‘Just Soren then,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I am Mateo. Are you a banneret?’

‘Does it matter?’ Soren asked.

‘Well, the bookmaker will need to know one way or the other. I have no objections to putting a normal person into the duels, but obviously your chances for victory are significantly smaller if you’re not,’ Mateo replied.

‘Yes, I am a banneret,’ Soren said.

‘Good. I’ll put you in at the end. So until then, relax, enjoy the duels, place a bet or two, and I’ll call on you when it’s time.’

He watched the next few duels with interest. The competitors were older men for the most part, many carrying that air of men who have seen war, as well as carrying the scars that come with it, although these could have been the dividends of a life on the underground duelling scene he supposed. That was the major difference between the clubs and the arena, sharp blades and three blood drawing wounds here compared to dulled edges and three touches in the arena, where blood was occasional and not a requirement. ‘To the death’ was rarely seen in the arena, but on occasion it was known to happen. Here it was no problem if one of the blood drawing wounds resulted in death. In fact, killing was actively encouraged. Bets would be placed not just on the result of the duel, but if would be won by blood or death.

They fought on a strip of black, painted on the floor and affectionately known as the ‘black carpet’. It was twenty paces or so long, and only a few paces wide. The restricted space would take a little adjustment, but Soren didn’t foresee it as being a problem. He wondered what the penalty would be for stepping off the carpet, as no one seemed to break the rule. Perhaps it was the duellist’s last vestige of honour in a life that had reached the lowest ebb that made them adhere to this one rule, but it seemed to be the only one that there was.

Punching, elbows and knees were all part and parcel of the black carpet. That didn’t bother Soren though. He had always found the formal duelling at the Academy restrictive and stuffy, the strict rules being a poor reflection of real fighting. This would be far closer to the reality of combat, which was fitting, as it was quite likely that someone would die on the black carpet that night.

‘You’re next. Are you ready?’ Mateo asked.

‘Yes,’ Soren replied, as he removed his cloak. He was wearing the neat black fighting doublet and britches he had on earlier in the day, which were perfectly suited for fighting. They had been purchased while he was still under the patronage of Amero, so were of particularly fine quality, and perfectly tailored for him. They were clearly expensive and Soren could see that questioning expression on Mateo’s face again. It was not uncommon for bored young aristocrats to find their way onto the black carpet in search of a little excitement. It was less common for them to be of a level of skill high enough to win.

Soren drew his sword and dagger and took off his sword belt. He handed the belt and cloak to Mateo. ‘Would you mind holding these for me while I fight?’

‘Not at all,’ Mateo said, taking the items and gesturing for Soren to make his way to the carpet. He focussed his mind on trying to enhance the Gift. This did nothing. He tried to mingle his concentration on his upcoming duel with what he should try next. He stepped onto the black paint, which had some sort of grit mixed through it to increase grip. It would restrict sliding movements, but when he saw the dried blood present on it from the earlier bouts, he realised it was designed to prevent slipping on wet blood. The choice of the colour black was also obvious. It was to hide the bloodstains.

His opponent was much older, with close-cropped grey hair and a few days’ worth of stubble. His clothes were functional but of a lesser quality than Soren’s and his face bore a number of fine pink scars. The man took his guard in a workmanlike fashion and Mateo shouted for them to begin.

His opponent shuffled forward quite smoothly, but from the start Soren could see that his technique was less polished and less disciplined than freshly graduated swordsmen. That did not mean he would not be a dangerous opponent however, perhaps quite the opposite.

He tried to imagine everything in the room covered in the blue glow, hoping that if he pictured it hard enough, it would actually appear. He tried to imagine it enveloping him, filling him with warmth and energy. And then, like a deep breath of cool, fresh air, it appeared. It was around everything, the mage lamps, the crowd, his opponent. Almost as suddenly as it had appeared, it went, but the effect remained. It felt as though his heart had slowed, while his limbs felt light and energized. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade into the distance and his opponent seemed to slow.

He smiled at his success. If he could do it once, he could do it again.

The man attacked with three strikes that followed one another with reasonable fluidity, but which Soren parried with both sword and dagger, their blades clashing and sparking, much to the delight of the on-looking crowd. His counter attack was almost as instantaneous as his decision to make it. Soren countered with a thrust of his sword. It flashed in the lamplight three times, its tip contacting with flesh without interruption from the man’s sword or dagger. The crowd gasped, and Soren stepped back to survey his handiwork. What he saw shocked him.

He had intended to cut the man three times in that attack; just enough to draw blood from three wounds and end the duel, but no more. Unlike in more formal duels, on the black carpet a duel was not re-set after a scoring touch. It continued on uninterrupted until there was a victor. The man had dropped to his knees in an ever increasing pool of his own blood. His clothes were rent in three places, each revealing a perfectly executed killing strike.

Killing the man did not bother him in the least; any man who came before his blade was either there by choice or by necessity. What shocked him was that on this occasion he had only intended to wound the man. His skill was such that his sword should have carried out his intentions perfectly. At what stage had he lost that control? It was the incident with Contanto’s nephew all over again.

A clap on his back pulled him from his thoughts.

‘You certainly like to make a big first impression. Faco there was a fine blade, but you made him look like he’d never held a sword in his life before. You do know that only three draws of blood are needed to win?’ asked Mateo. He paused for a second, but when no response appeared forthcoming, he continued. ‘Your prize purse is ten crowns. If you want to come this way I will settle with you.’

He led Soren over to a table in the corner with a strongbox on it. Two large men stood nearby, and eyed Soren apprehensively. They were clearly there to guard it, but after having seen Soren fight, he could see in their eyes that they doubted their ability to stop him should he choose to take it.

Mateo pulled a stool from under the table and sat. ‘Please, sit. Can I get you a drink?’

Before Soren could answer Mateo had called to the barman to bring a bottle of wine. Soren sat on a stool opposite him. Mateo took a small key from his jacket pocket and opened the strongbox. He took a leather pouch and placed it on the table in front of Soren, the coins within clinking quietly.

‘Ten crowns and your things are just there. One of the boys will clean your blades for you if you wish, but you bannerets always seem to want to take care of that kind of thing for yourselves. Can we expect to see you here again?’ Mateo asked.

Soren took the purse from the table and pocketed it. He thought it would be wise to appear to need the money more than he did; at the very least it would keep Mateo guessing as to his reasons for being there. He didn’t want the man to know more about him than was absolutely necessary.

‘Perhaps,’ Soren replied. ‘But ten crowns is not enough.’

Mateo smiled wolfishly. ‘Well, now that we know what you are capable of, we can weigh the odds accordingly. I can assure you that the purses will only get larger, particularly if you can repeat that kind of performance.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Soren replied.

‘Excellent. When can I expect you then?’

‘The night after tomorrow,’ Soren said, before getting up and leaving. He felt dirty when he exited out onto the street, but he couldn’t deny the thrill that the duel had given him. Measuring himself and his skill against another man and to prove himself better was addictive. More importantly, he had finally learned how to call on his gift whenever he chose. He was an urchin from the gutter and now he felt as though there was not a man who could stand before him. He pulled his cloak up over his head and walked briskly out into the darkness.

C h a p t e r   4 9

A MAN OF NO MORALS

T
anto dal Trevison was an Elector Count. While Spiro and Contanto were both at least equally as powerful in their own ways, they were self-made men. Dal Trevison had been born to his power and wealth, and while no more powerful or dangerous than the other two men, killing a noble had altogether more dangerous connotations. It was breaking the unwritten rule of the city; only noblemen could kill other noblemen, which they often did in duels of honour. The assassination of any noble would draw attention. The assassination of one so powerful as dal Trevison would draw a great deal of it.

Dal Trevison had visited a brothel on every evening that Soren had followed him. It was not an unusual thing for aristocrats to visit prostitutes and no one would give the fact a second thought, but Soren would have expected a man with dal Trevison’s wealth to keep a mistress, or even a personal harem, rather than to use normal brothels. They were all very high-class brothels, but brothels nonetheless. It made him want to get the job over with quickly, nauseating him to think that some night he might follow the man to Alessandra’s apartments in Oldtown.

As with the others, Tanto dal Trevison kept a personal bodyguard with him. His bodyguards would be of a different calibre to those employed by the others though. A man of dal Trevison’s position attracted a large number of court followers. He would have lesser nobles and the younger sons of greater nobles joining his retinue in the hope of advancement. He would also be a man who would, like Amero dal Moreno, sponsor promising young fighters at the Academy. What it meant was that his bodyguards would certainly be bannerets, and most likely very good ones.