“He’s the best fighting man in Tharn,” Sar Malthor said. “A few years ago no one could touch him. Today, before Cullendor came to my hand, I could have given him a battle. Tomorrow I may defeat him.”

  “Right is on your side.”

  “Right is on the side of the better warrior. There have been many times when inept virtue has been slaughtered by experienced vice,” Sar Malthor replied soberly. “But now with this blade in my hand I do indeed believe that virtue may have some reward; for by any judgment I am more virtuous than Sar Virra of Valthi.”

  I went to bed that night with the warm inner feeling that comes with having done well.

  The next day Sar Malthor went through an hour drill with Cullendor and satisfactorily sheared and pierced mail until his face wore a look of happy accomplishment. “With this blade, I think I could challenge Tharn himself,” he said.

  “I wish I knew what you meant by Tharn,” I said. “To me it is like living in a country called God, inhabited by people called God, whose principal deity is called God, and the culture hero who unified the land was named God. It’s confusing.”

  “Perhaps so, but you have it right, I think. Actually, a Tharn never thinks of Tharn as Tharn, or confuses him with Tharn. It’s easy enough to identify each.”

  “Providing you are born with the knowledge,” I sighed. “At any rate, I hope that your activities don’t get back to Sar Virra. You put on quite a show this morning.”

  “The yard was screened off with canvas and guarded by my men. It was safe.”

  “Are you sure Sar Virra hasn’t bought some of your men?”

  “I’ve never given it a thought.”

  “Well, it’s too late now to give it one. We’re closing the pasture gate after the zocca have strayed if Sar Virra has an informer in his pay. Have you given orders for your men to remain in camp tonight?”

  “Of course not. Other than the regular guard, there’s no one in camp. They’ve all gone to the city.”

  “What was the name of that friend of yours we met on the road? Sar Ferdinand?”

  “You mean Sar Fernand of Alora?”

  “That’s the man. How is he?”

  “Poorly. He passed the trials of mind but failed the trial of body. He tried for Jadna Region and met a man who knew how to use a sword. He will recover, I think.”

  “I think we should visit him and give him aid and comfort,” I said. “The best possible thing you and the Lady Alwys could do is to visit Sar Fernand and comfort him.”

  “I do not think he wishes to be comforted. He nearly lost his left arm, and will be in much pain.”

  “You will probably be in more if you stay here, and so will I. Let us depart at once with our wives and remove temptation from Sar Virra’s path.”

  “Oh, I see.” Sar Malthor was thoughtful. “Warn,” he said at last, “you have a sneaky and suspicious mind.”

  “When my friend is a sword stroke away from being Provincal, and when the Provincal is someone like Sar Virra, I have every right to be suspicious.”

  “Very well, then; we shall leave at once.”

  “Quietly, with no word of destination where anyone can hear. We go in silence and tell no one of our going.”

  We had a miserable evening. Sar Fernand’s arm proved to be a flesh wound and we had to sit through a blow by blow recounting of the battle and how through ill luck, Sar Fernand’s parry failed to deflect his opponent’s blade.

  Finally the evening drew to a close. We accepted Sar Fernand’s invitation to stay the night; or rather I accepted with such alacrity that the others had, perforce, to agree.

  We rode back to the Lothain camp the next morning. It was a shambles. Two men were dead, four more wounded. The other four of the camp guard were unhurt. Tents were down, goods were trampled and burned. Poor Jorn would never make another sword. A spear had caught him in the chest. Laid out on the ground were four dead raiders. All were dressed in rough clothing without livery. One was a tall gray man I had seen before. A crossbow bolt had struck him in the neck. Lorn the seneschal would do no more secret work for his master, Sar Virra. Jorn and Lorn—how odd, I thought, that two with such like names should be killed at the same time.

  Sar Malthor was appalled and enraged. “This passes all bounds,” he swore. “I shall have the conjer’s head,” he sputtered.

  I shuddered. Why is it that cliches are the same everywhere? Possibly these might be fresh to Sar Malthor, but I didn’t think so. They came too easily. “Let’s burn our dead,” I said, “and take the bodies of the raiders to Sar Vostek. He might like to have some concrete evidence if his master decides to hang Sar Virra.”

  “But how might he keep them for the Tarnas?”

  “Pack them in a cask of wine. Sar Vostek, I understand, has plenty.”

  Sar Malthor laughed. “I’ll even furnish the wine and send it to the old zocca as a gift.”

  “Do that, but meanwhile you have a date with Sar Virra and we’d better get an armed escort to ride with you. And incidentally, you will be in full armor with your visor closed when we enter Zamal. No assassin is going to kill you to smooth Virra’s path. Martha and I will be with you,” I added. “You may need our weapons on your side.”

  “I hope not, but do as you must. I will not try to stop you.”

  “You couldn’t if you tried. You’re a nice guy Sar Malthor, but this is a situation where nice guys have no business. We’ll keep an eye out for trouble, and maybe it won’t get close to you.”

  Nothing happened, but all the way to the arena I was on the lookout. We saw Sar Malthor safely to the entrance of the arena and then pushed our way toward the stands.

  “Look for a place high up, with a good field of fire,” I said to Martha. “I wouldn’t put it past Virra to spot an archer or two in the crowd. Keep an eye open.”

  “It’s a good thing these folk haven’t invented gunpowder yet,” she said. “It would be impossible to see a pistol.”

  I took my kelly from beneath my jerkin, set the aperture on needle and the intensity on full, and sat with it held loosely in my lap. I didn’t want to kill anyone except the one I was aiming at, but I did want to kill him.

  There was a stir of movement at the edge of the area, and a herald dressed in the bright green tabard of his profession walked to the center of the arena.

  “Hear me, Tharns all!” he shouted. His voice had the peculiarly penetrant quality common to heralds. It carried easily across the rows of seats. “Comes now to the test of battle the noble lords Sar Malthor of Lothain and Sar Virra of Valthi to lay their case before the ultimate court of arms and the will of Tharn.”

  Two men in armor, carrying long swords over their shoulders, stepped into the arena from opposite sides.

  The herald turned to the warrior in yellow. “Do you, Sar Virra wish to continue this quarrel?” The armed figure nodded—a jerky motion of the helmet—like a mechanical doll. The herald then turned to the one in red, repeated the question and received the same reply.

  “There being no reconciliation,” the herald announced, “the battle will be joined.” He retreated to the edge of the arena.

  The two men saluted each other with a complex ritual of flashing blades. From somewhere near the, arena a trumpet brayed, the crowd roared and Sar Malthor struck! Cullendor whistled downward in a fierce two handed cut that Sar Virra barely parried, and for a moment the warrior in yellow retreated from the vicious attack of his smaller opponent. Bright blood stained the gray iron of Virra’s sleeve where one of Sar Malthor’s cuts had slipped past his guard. The crowd was silent, stunned at this unexpected turn of events.

  A trumpet brayed and both warriors lowered their blades.

  “Are you satisfied, Sar Malthor?” the herald shouted.

  The red warrior shook his head.

  “And you, Sar Virra?”

  The yellow shook his head.

  “Battle will again be joined!”

  This time Sar Virra was ready and Sar Malthor’s stroke was met by a parry of such power that the clang of steel meeting driven steel could be heard to the topmost tiers of the stadium.

  A howl of delight came from the spectators.

  The long blades whirled and clashed as the metal figures danced an odd and deadly, step around the arena. Now it was Sar Virra who pressed the attack and Sar Malthor who gave ground. Relentlessly Sar Virra pursued htm with vicious cuts that were barely parried or avoided. Blood seeped from beneath Sar Malthor’s mail, and again the trumpet brayed.

  Again neither warrior signified that he was willing to quit, and in a moment both were back again at their deadly game.

  What was motivating Sar Malthor? Why didn’t he remember what he had tried in the tiltyard. Even I could see that it was going badly for Sar Malthor. He was backing off, retreating from the hail of blows that rained on him without interruption. The roar of the crowd was deafening. It had a predatory note that made the short hairs at the nape of my neck stand erect, and the skin tingle. My hand closed around the grip of my kelly. A Tharn sitting beside me was leaning forward, eyes fixed on the swordplay. One blast and Sar Virra would be finished. But my finger didn’t close on the firing stud. Sar Malthor had ceased retreating and was attacking, forcing the bigger man to give ground. The crowd was silent and tense as the initiative once more shifted to the challenger.

  “It’s about over,” the Tharn said as his intent gaze relaxed for a moment. This is the last gasp. Sar Virra has him now.”

  “Sar Malthor looks stronger,” I said.

  “Look now! Here it comes!” the Tharn said. “Sar Virra is taking the play away from him.” The man’s eyes again riveted on the arena.

  Sar Virra had come to life. Sar Malthor’s attack was held, parried and smashed back with crashing sledgehammer blows that staggered the smaller man and drove him backwards. A stroke, half-parried, turned Sar Virra’s blade sideways. With scarcely diminished force the broad blade glanced off Sar Malthor’s helmet, staggering him. I lifted the kelly as the big man stepped in, his sword a gleaming arc in the sunlight. But the blow never landed. Sar Malthor thrust! The blade caught Sar Virra in the midriff and the grunt of exploding air could be heard clear up to where we sat. The big man wilted, the inner force that had kept him going evaporated as the point entered his belly and bulged the mail at his back!

  Sar Virra staggered. His sword arm sagged.

  “Tharn! What’s this?” the Tharn beside me exclaimed. “What happened?”

  I thought triumphantly that it was the Judgment of God.

  Sar Malthor jerked his sword from Sar Virra’s body and moved in for the kill. A crashing stroke drove Sar Virra to his knees. A second, falling true upon the yellow helmet bit into the iron. Sar Malthor wrenched the blade free as Sar Virra pitched forward, his face buried in the sand, his helmet red with blood.

  The crowd gasped as Sar Malthor heaved his sword up and brought it down in a whistling arc that ended on the mailed neck of Sar Virra before the trumpets could sound! No armor could withstand that blow. The head of Sar Virra, cut cleanly from his shoulders, lay in the arena! Judgment! Judgment of Tharn!

  Bedlam filled the stands after the final moment of stunned silence. Cheers and whistles mounted to a thundering ear-splitting crescendo as Sar Malthor lifted Cullendor in a gesture of triumph.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sar Malthor immediately laid claim to the Province of Valthi, and since no one was eager to face him in combat after his defeat of Sar Virra, Sar Malthor was judged to have properly succeeded Sar Virra. He was enfeoffed in an elaborate ceremony attended by the Tarnas, the Lord Templar of Zamal, and most of the lords of the Tarnas’s Council.

  I was a little surprised by the Tarnas. He was hardly past adulthood, a big, muscular, smooth-faced youth, with eyes that knew too much and saw too much. I am accomplished in the Sorovkin technique of muscle reading, yet I was unable to read the Tarnas, so perfect was his facial and body control. No wonder this young man was Tarnas. If this was the standard for kingship, Sar Malthor would be hard put to achieve it. Outside of George Gordon Bennett, I had never met a man who affected me so powerfully.

  After the Tarnas had presented him with the yellow Galring plume, the mace and the gauntlets of his rank, Sar Malthor was officially pronounced Provincal of Valthi, suzerain of four regions and twenty-four demesnes, lord of the free cities of Zamal and Horthal, and member of the Tarnas’s Grand Council. That was a lot of authority and titles. In fact it was overwhelming.

  “What do I do with all this, Warn?” Sar Malthor asked as he paced up and down his rooms in the city hall of Zamal. “Where do I start?”

  “With Sar Virra’s administrative machinery, of course. You have to use your predecessor’s men until you can replace them with your own. Some you will not want to replace since they are loyal to whoever is in power. Some you will replace at once; people like Lorn, for instance, and those who were sycophants and lackeys. But I’m sure you know enough good men to fill their positions.”

  “I know one at least,” Sar Malthor said. “You will be my seneschal.”

  “I like the title of Executive Assistant better, or perhaps Executive Associate.”

  “Those words are not in our language. You will have to be content with seneschal or reeve. The powers are, I think, the same. You act for me and in my name on all matters I do not wish to handle, or which I have delegated to you.” He smiled. “When I go fishing or hunting you are the Provincal.”

  “That’s more than I want,” I said, “but there is one position I need.”

  “You may have it.”

  “Now wait a minute; you haven’t heard what it is.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’s treasurer—keeper of the purse, levyer of taxes, collector of fines, imposts and excises, controller of all funds save those you will need for your court and your soldiery. I want full control of the excess money.”

  “Why not? As long as it’s excess you may have it. But I had not thought you to be a miser like Virra.”

  “I’m not. I simply want this province to become the greatest and best in Tharn. I want it to be an example. I want it to be the model for all others, and that will take money. The state will have to initiate the reforms.”

  “Why?”

  I almost told him the truth right then. Possibly it would have been better if I had. For then he might have turned me down; and I would have had to take other measures— ones that didn’t involve what was essentially a betrayal of trust. But he didn’t press me, and I didn’t tell him I wanted a thousand sentars of copper and the technology to turn it into one hundred percent pure copper and the industry to draw it into miles of fourteen-gauge wire.

  So I answered him with half-truths. “Pride, I suppose,” I shrugged, “for it is no small thing to be the friend of ; Provincal. It is a greater thing to have that Provincal in feald, although I feel that your oath was discharged long since.”

  Sar Malthor shook his head. “Not so; for you have brought me to this place that I could never have reached myself. It was your tutoring and your weapon that brought me here.”

  I didn’t deny that the sword was my idea. If he knew it was mine and was not upset, I was content. “But it was you who passed the trials and slew Sar Virra,” I said.

  “I knew it!” Sar Malthor exclaimed. “I knew Cullendor was your doing. Old Jorn I knew for years. He was a good smith, but a new idea never entered his head unless someone placed it there.”

  “You cannot prove it,” I said smugly. “Jorn is dead.”

  “Nevertheless, I know, and that is another debt you have laid upon me.”

  The entire population of the castle turned out to receive Sar Malthor. Together with the guild officials, merchants and companies that had come to the trials, plus the crowd of townsmen who always gathered to see a parade, it made quite a show. The route stretched from the Tarnas’s tent outside the walls to the inner bailey at the castle; and down that corridor lined with people, Sar Malthor and his company from Lothain rode to take over the leadership of Valthi Province.

  “Now let us take our new home,” Sar Malthor said as his jesset stepped onto the causeway. We rode upward, crossing the new drawbridge that replaced the one Martha had destroyed.

  He turned to me as we rode into the donjon. “Thanks to you, Warn, this has come to me.”

  Othvar, the castellan, welcomed us as we dismounted in the donjon. He was an old soldier, old enough to have served under several Provincals. The fact that he had survived and gained in rank meant one of two things, either that he was an opportunist, or was loyal to his job and to whatever authority was in power. I could not fault him if the second were true.

  “Now what is our immediate business, Warn?” Sar Malthor asked.

  A look of complete comprehension creased Othvar’s face. I could have laughed at the speed with which he divined where the power lay at the moment, and where the administrative authority would be, at least for awhile.

  “May I suggest that you visit your quarters, my lord,” Othvar interrupted. “It would be well if you became acquainted with the domestic staff.”

  “A good idea,” Sar Malthor agreed.

  “And Othvar,” I added, “I shall want the apartments directly above Sar Malthor, that I may be close at hand if he needs me.”

  “See to it, Othvar,” Sar Malthor said.

  “Aye, my lord,” Othvar said. His voice answered Sar Malthor, but his eyes were on me. I nodded and he smiled faintly. There was no word spoken, but Othvar knew, and would act accordingly.

  Sar Virra’s quarters had been completely refurnished and the private door to the aerie was discreetly hidden behind an arras. I wondered who was in charge of the aerie since Gerd had deserted to Sar Tami of Jartan, and I mentioned it to Sar Malthor as Martha, Lady Alwys, Sar Malthor and myself were at dinner.

  “It might be well to find out,” Sar Malthor said. “It’s been a week since Gerd brought news of Kyri Vanatra and Sar Virra’s private games to Sar Tami. Surely he made some provision for their keep.”

  “He could have killed the lot of them,” I said.

 

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