King of Foxes (25 page)

Another man, an officer in the Duke’s guard named Dumont, laughed, and said, “And getting out of Roldem must have been good for your health.” He had been one of Tal’s regular gambling opponents when he had lived in Salador; he was, if not a friend, then an amiable acquaintance.

Tal feigned a wince at the remark, but then smiled, and said, “There is that.”

Squire John’s expression as he dealt the cards indicated that he didn’t understand, and Dumont said, “Our friend here managed to publicly humiliate Prince Matthew of Roldem in such a way that it was unlikely he’d ever be invited back to the palace for a gala.”

“Really?” said another man at the table, a shipper named Vestla. “Tell us about it.”

Tal picked up his cards, looked at them, then threw down his hand. “Nothing to draw to.” He sat back and said, “I’d rather not.”

Dumont said, “What I heard was that our friend reduced the Prince to tears in public on the floor of the Masters’ Court. Literally spanked him with the flat of his sword, he did.”

The men at the table laughed and Dumont added,

“I’ve met the Prince once, and I’ll wager not a few of _______________

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those watching were silently saying ‘bravo’ to you, Squire, for humbling that lout.”

Tal shrugged. “I’ve been traveling. What’s the news?”

The others laughed as they made their bets. Dumont said, “Well, enough. We’ll drop the story of your bout with the Prince. As for news, not much. Old Duke Duncan rules wisely. His son Laurie is a chap who is well regarded by all, and will be a good ruler in his own right someday. We are at peace with Great Kesh, and last time I heard, the Western Realm was quiet, so it is a time for soldiers like myself to grow lazy and fat.” He put down his cards and said, “Three nines.”

No one could beat the hand, so Dumont pulled in the coins. “Oh, and Duke Rodoski of Roldem will be visiting for the Midwinter Festival.”

Tal feigned surprise. “Varian’s coming to visit the Duke?”

“An old friend?” asked Ruben.

“An acquaintance from the Masters’ Court.”

“Given your contretemps in Roldem with the Prince,”

said Dumont, “don’t expect to be invited to the Duke’s gala.”

“I wouldn’t, normally,” said Tal, as the cards were dealt again.

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Tal,” said Dumont.

“When last we met you were merely a minor squire from the west.
Very
minor,” he added, and the others laughed.

“But now you are Champion of the Masters’ Court, and that is no mean thing.”

Tal picked up his cards and organized them. The bet was made, and he replaced two of them. “Well, perhaps some other time I’ll earn the pleasure of an introduction to His Grace, Duke Duncan, but for the moment, I’m content to spend Midwinter’s Day crawling from one tavern to the next in search of a convivial wench or two.”

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The others laughed. “Well said.” Tal won the hand, and Dumont declared, “I must get back to the castle. I have duty in the morning.” He glanced at Squire John.

The boy rose, saying, “I as well. Good night, gentlemen.”

Tal turned to the other three men. “Shall we continue?”

Ruben stood up. “I’ve lost enough for one night, Tal.

It was good to meet you.”

The other players also left, and Tal rose. There was another game in the corner, with an open chair, but he felt he had played enough cards for the night. There were other games as well, dice and the wheel, but he felt he couldn’t raise the enthusiasm for them. The goal of his visit had been achieved; while Dumont might mention him to only a few at the Duke’s castle, young Squire John was almost certain to tell everyone he had gambled with the Champion of the Masters’ Court.

Tal had drunk little that night, sipping at his drink and watching other players succumb to drunkenness. But he felt the need for one more before leaving. He glanced to the far corner of the room where Amafi stood silently, holding the same flagon of ale he had nursed throughout the night. Tal had insisted that when he was gambling, the bodyguard should keep his distance. Tal needed to know who watched him, and Amafi was his second set of eyes.

Tal ordered a brandy from Darkmoor, and sipped it.

The pungent, bittersweet liquor warmed as it went down.

As he stood silent, he felt the dark emotions that had overwhelmed him earlier that night rise up again, and he used every mental trick taught him at Sorcerer’s Isle to fend them off. Then he pushed away his unfinished brandy and went to the door.

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Outside, he glanced around and judged that it was six hours or less to dawn. He walked slowly, waiting for Amafi to catch up with him.

He heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind and turned. But instead of his manservant, he saw a figure in black clothing leaping at him, dagger drawn.

Tal’s almost unnatural reflexes were all that saved him.

He stepped aside just enough so that the blade missed, and he was borne down to the ground, grappling with his assailant.

Tal gripped the man’s right hand with his left while he reached down to his own belt. The man’s body kept Tal from reaching his dagger, so Tal reached up and clawed at the man’s eyes.

The man pulled his head back, grunting in pain, then suddenly he stiffened, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he went limp.

Tal saw Amafi standing above the now-dead assassin.

Amafi used the man’s cloak to wipe his blade clean, and asked, “Magnificence, are you all right?”

“Fine, but feeling like a fool. I heard him behind me and assumed it was you.”

“I saw him leave an unfinished drink at the gambling hall, Magnificence, as soon as you did, so I knew he was up to no good.”

Tal knelt by the man and examined him. He was slender, with unremarkable features, wearing a black tunic, grey trousers, and cloak. He carried nothing to identify him; no purse and no jewelry, just a sword and dagger.

“Who was he?” wondered Amafi.

Tal motioned for his manservant to accompany him.

“Let us away before someone else comes by. I do not want to spend the night talking to the Sheriff of Salador.”

As they turned a corner and hurried away, Tal said, _______________

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“The important question isn’t who he was, but rather, who sent him.”

Amafi said, “You have enemies, Magnificence.”

Tal nodded. “I do.”

They hurried back to the house, and every step of the way Tal realized he was feeling something new. He was feeling what it was like to be hunted.

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TWELVE

BETRAYAL

Tal lunged.

He struck his opponent easily, and the crowd in the galley applauded. He saluted his opponent, then the Master of the Floor.

The House of Blades was a modest establishment compared to the Masters’ Court in Roldem. Instead of dominating an entire city block, it was a single building of some size, but it lacked the complex of rooms, had no bath, and offered few of the amenities seen in Roldem. It was not subsidized by the King of the Isles or the Duke of Salador, but rather had come about as a private club for noblemen seeking to hone their skills. While frontier nobles and garrison soldiers had ample opportunity to train under the watchful eye of a swordmaster, those nobles of the court in cities such as Salador were often left to their own devices when it came to the art of the blade. Mem-

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bership was not inexpensive, but Tal, as Champion of the Masters’ Court, had been invited as a guest and granted full privileges as long as he resided in Salador. It was a canny move, Tal conceded to Amafi when he got the invitation, for his attendance sparked a renewed interest in membership among the younger nobles and sons of wealthy commoners.

And as had been the case in Roldem, many daughters of wealthy families and young girls of noble birth now found watching dueling practice to be a fascinating pastime. His first visit to Salador, while mastering the role of squire, Tal had been merely a young noble of promise.

Now he was famous, or infamous if the story of his affront to Prince Matthew was known, and the dashing young squire from the west was considered among the more eli-gible of the young courtiers in the city.

He had made his one obligatory journey to the Duke’s castle, a relic of ancient days, large and drafty, despite many attempts to refurbish and modernize the place. The present Duke, Duncan, a distant cousin to the King, was a bright-eyed man in his late sixties, who welcomed the young squire to the city and offered him any help he might need, all the while communicating that it would be in poor taste for Tal to ask for anything.

The Duke’s son, Laurie, stood next to his father, quietly amused by the entire affair. Tal had caught a glimpse of the young man on a couple of occasions. Unlike some noble sons, he didn’t appear to waste his time and energy on too much drinking, women, or gambling. On one occasion, Laurie had been escorting a young woman of unusual beauty—later, Tal had discovered she was the daughter of a nobleman in service to the Duke of Krondor—and the other time, he had been quietly gambling for modest stakes at one of the better establishments _______________

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in the city, again with the same young woman at his side.

The young lady was rumored to become the next Duchess of Salador. Tal had never seen Laurie touch a drink besides water. City gossip labeled the next Duke of Salador a modest young man of quick wit, ample skills, and a steady nature. The only remarkable quality he possessed was an unusual gift for music, as he played several instruments and sang with a strong, pleasant voice, talents in-herited from his great-grandfather, according to city lore.

Tal wished that circumstances permitted him a better chance for acquainting himself with the young man, but it seemed unlikely. Laurie appeared the sort who would steer clear of notorious acquaintanceships.

Tal crossed to where Amafi waited with a towel and clean tunic, and said, “Well done, Magnificence.”

“Thank you, Amafi.”

It had been almost a month since the attack outside Ruthia’s Palace, and so far there had been no repeat of the attempt. Amafi had some contacts in the city and had tried to discover the name of the assailant, which might lead to discovering who paid him. So far he had discovered nothing.

Tal’s life since then had been a constant cycle of working out at the House of Blades, dining at the better establishments in the city—though he ate at home often, given Lucien’s talent—accepting invitations to various social gatherings and festivities, gambling, and spending time with a variety of charming ladies of rank.

As he paused to consider what to do next, leave for the day or try one more bout, a stir in the crowd heralded the arrival of someone else of note. Tal watched with interest as half a dozen ducal guards entered, followed by a retinue of courtiers, then Duke Varian Rodoski. For a brief instant, Tal felt self-conscious. He had considered the pos-

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sibility that the Duke and he would encounter each other, but had not anticipated it might be in a location similar to the place of where Tal had humiliated the Duke’s cousin, Prince Matthew.

The Duke was a young man, no more than thirty-five years of age, and darkly handsome; he had reputedly been quite the rogue with the ladies until his marriage to a noblewoman of Kesh seven years ago. An unfortunate riding accident had widowed the Duke two years previously, and he genuinely mourned the loss of his wife. Now, according to gossip, his only vice was an occasional gambling binge, wagering on horses or watching Guild League Football. Otherwise, he was a devoted father to his two children, a daughter of six and a son of four years.

He was dressed for swordwork, wearing the traditional heavily padded jacket, tight leggings, and slippers, and he was carrying a rapier. At his side a servant held his dueling helm, a metal basket that protected the face and neck from accidental cuts.

The Duke caught sight of Tal and nodded; then as if thinking of something, he walked toward him. When he was a short distance away, he stuck out his hand in greeting. “Squire. It’s been a while.”

Tal was taken off guard, but after a moment’s hesitation, he took the Duke’s hand, bowing slightly. “Your Grace. Yes, it has.”

The Duke had a face that looked untouched by guile or pretense. He leaned over to whisper, “You know, not everyone in the family was angered by how you humbled Matthew. The only thing I wonder was why someone didn’t do it sooner. He can be an unbearable prig one minute and an excruciating bore the next. He’s as annoying as a fly in the pudding. Did him good to have his bottom thumped. His mother should have done so years _______________

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ago.” Then he paused, and smiled at Tal. “Sir, would you care to engage me in a bout?”

Tal smiled back. “You’re serious, Your Grace?”

“As serious as a kick in the rump, Squire.”

Tal nodded, grinning. “It will be my honor, Your Grace.”

The Duke said, “Just don’t thump me the way you did Matthew, and we’ll get on famously.”

“My word, Your Grace,” said Tal.

They took to the floor and the crowd immediately started a low buzz of conversation. The two men squared off, and the Master of the Floor said, “Gentlemen, first to three touches.”

The match was almost predictable, given that Tal was a vastly superior swordsman to the Duke. But he refused to take several openings, and allowed the Duke to work on his technique. At last the match was over, and the Duke said, “Well done, Squire. Your generosity is most appreciated.”

As they walked to where servants waited to help them off with their padded jackets and provide towels, Tal answered, “My pleasure, Your Grace. Besides the fact that I regret my intemperate outburst with your cousin, you are an experienced swordsman. Should your duties in office not have put such excessive demands on your time, I suspect you might have been one of the better opponents I would have faced at the Masters’ Court.”