The Telastrian Song
Author: Duncan M. Hamilton
Date: 2014-06-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Politics; Adventure; Science Fiction
Description: The final part of the Society of the Sword Trilogy. A remote farm and meagre crops are a far cry from Ostenheim and the life of a banneret, but they are not far enough. For Soren to be free of Amero, there is only one answer. In Ostenheim, Duke Amero presides over a war-weary population and an empty treasury, but still he hungers for more. An Intelligencier uncovers the disturbing resurgence of sorcery in the city, while an avaricious colleague sees the chance to prove his worth to the Duke. Enemies and allies emerge from unexpected places, as Soren must face his former patron and idol for a f
Publisher: Createspace

The Frontier Lord

Previously published as The Marcher Lord

Duncan M Hamilton

Contents

Also by Duncan M. Hamilton

1.
The Journey

2.
Mirabay, Jewel of the West

3.
The Court of Mirabaya

4.
The Audience

5.
The Altercation

6.
The Palace Garden

7.
The Second Day

8.
The Surprise

9.
The Dirty Blade

10.
The Garden of the White Lilies

11.
The Dragon Fang Inn

12.
The Insult

13.
The Cloister of Sint Gerol

14.
The Note

15.
The Audience

16.
Homeward Bound

Untitled

About the Author

Copyright

Also by Duncan M. Hamilton

The Society of the Sword Trilogy

The Tattered Banner

The Huntsman’s Amulet

The Telastrian Song

The First Blade of Ostia

The Swordsman of Tanosa

1

The Journey

‘Andalon looked along the arrow and carefully tracked the beast across the sky before loosing. There was only one spot where something so small as an arrow could harm it, and Andalon had only one left. He held his breath and released his fingers. The bow jumped in his hand with a loud thrum, and the arrow whistled away into the sky.’ Borodin paused with his tale for a moment to guide his horse around a large rock that had rolled out onto the road.

‘He shielded his eyes with his hand and watched the arrow’s flight, until it was blotted out by the great hulking mass of the dragon. So fixed was it on destroying the village with its fiery breath that it didn’t notice a speck as small as Andalon, or the even smaller speck of his arrow.

‘The first the beast knew of Andalon, or his arrow, was when it struck the soft fleshy part where the dragon’s wing met its shoulder. It screeched in pain and anger as its wing failed and its lazy flight of devastation ended. In the blink of an eye, it was tumbling to the ground, and Andalon was galloping toward where it would fall as quickly as his horse would carry him.’

‘You’ve told me this one before, Father,’ Rolf said in his broad Marchland’s brogue.

‘I know,’ Borodin said.

‘Hundred times, at least.’

‘I know. You’ve never complained before though.’

‘Not complaining now,’ Rolf said. He had been barely old enough to walk the first time his mother told him a story of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. Nineteen years on, the stories still brought a smile to his face when his father launched into one. There was comfort to be found in them, a reminder of a safe place and a warm fire. He had heard them all, many times over, but would never tire of them.

‘Just wondering if you’ve any other ones? Any I haven’t heard before?’

Borodin shrugged, and gently discouraged his horse from nibbling at the hedges lining the narrow track they rode along. ‘You’ve heard all of the tales I have to tell,’ he said. ‘A hundred times at least, as you say. I learned all the ones I know from your mother.’

‘Why aren’t there any new ones?’ Rolf said. ‘The Silver Circle still exist, don’t they?’ There was a hint of anxiety in Rolf’s voice.

‘Yes. At least they did the last time I was at court.’

Rolf relaxed. He had idolised them for so long, to think they were gone when he was finally going to Mirabay—capital of Mirabaya, home of the King and the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle—would have been too great a disappointment to bear. ‘And they’ll be in the city when we get there, won’t they?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

Rolf smiled. He very much wanted to meet one.

They continued on in silence for a time. On such a long journey, it was both exhausting and impossible to keep conversation going the whole time.

‘If they still exist, I wonder why there aren’t any new stories,’ Rolf said.

Borodin shrugged. ‘The land’s been at peace for a very long time. Difficult to do heroic things when there’s no warring to be made.’

‘We’re at war on the Marches near on every month,’ Rolf said.

‘What we’re at isn’t what those great chevaliers would consider war. The King requires me to keep his borders safe, which means fighting with the raiders and reavers and whatever else the Szavarians choose to throw at us, but that doesn’t make what we do war.’

‘Seems like war to me,’ Rolf said.

‘When you’ve seen sixty thousand men face each other across a muddy field, a few hundred angry Szavarians don’t seem quite so big a thing. “Skirmishing” might be the word.’

‘Making war wasn’t the only thing the Chevaliers did, though,’ Rolf said.

‘No, it wasn’t, but the world isn’t as wild a place as it was when the Circle first came to be. All the dragons and demons and great, fearsome beasts have been vanquished or driven off to places so far away they might as well no longer exist.’

Rolf nodded, but said nothing, instead allowing his mind to drift back to tales of the Silver Circle, and the names of the great heroes who had made up their ranks. Andalon, who had defeated the dragon in his father’s story. He was as skilled with a lyre as he was with a sword. Valdamar, the Blade of the Morning Mist. He fought with two swords, and came from a distant province, like Rolf did. Rolf had never heard how he came by his sobriquet. It didn’t seem to have warranted a story of its own, which had always struck him as odd. Nonetheless, he was the favourite of most of the young men at home. Tall, dark, and mysterious, he was the favourite of most of the girls as well.

Rolf’s favourite was Ixten, however. He was big, strong, and indomitable; the type of man who was more use on the battlefield than in a city duel. Rolf was the only one who favoured Ixten. There was nothing about him to inspire much fame, but he was honest and good and always tried his hardest. In every one of their adventures, he was the heart and soul of their fellowship, the great rock upon which their great deeds were constructed.

Rolf was not big, but he was fast. Considering the others, it was odd that he had chosen as his favourite the one he was least able to emulate. Andalon might have been a better choice for him, although Rolf could not play the lyre. He had often considered trying to learn—the girls always seemed to favour the lads who could strum a chord or hold a note—but the demands on a marcher lord were many, and there was never the time.

When Borodin said he had to travel to court, Rolf had decided there was no way he would be left behind. The last time his father had gone, Rolf had been far too young. Now he would not let the chance pass to see where the great swordsmen of the Silver Circle had laughed, and eaten, and drank, and prepared for their acts of valour, and where the current men of their ranks still did the same. They epitomised all that was good and fine in the world. Rolf was determined to see them with his own eyes, and would not hear anything to the contrary.

When his father had finally relented, the other young men around the castle had been jealous of him. His mother had given them all lessons when they were boys, had thrilled them with tales of the Silver Circle. They had all loved the stories, and it was a love that never left them. When they grew from boys into men, they had even entertained notions of having their own Silver Circle out there on the March.

They could never agree on a name. It had led to more than one fight, but the memory of those arguments brought a smile to Rolf’s face. ‘Silver’ sounded too grand for a bunch of young cavaliers out on the marches. ‘Gold’ was even farther beyond them, with their many-times-repaired armour and old weapons. ‘Steel’ or ‘iron’ seemed to be setting their ambitions too low. The name was only the first problem, however. As with the lyre, there was never the time for anything more than a few stolen moments of idealistic daydreams.

When he returned to the March, he would know the names of all the current members of the Silver Circle, and he would have a dozen tales of their bravery that none of them had ever heard before. What was more, he would have met those brave men in person. It was a silly, childish notion—he was a man full grown now—but he loved it all the same.

‘Gonna finish the story?’ Rolf said.

‘I thought you’d heard it before?’

Rolf shrugged.

‘I’m only sorry I don’t tell them as well as your mother,’ Borodin said.

‘No one tells them as well as Mum did.’

‘It was her bard’s blood. It runs strong through the generations.’ They rode in silence for a few moments. Borodin cleared his throat. ‘When Andalon reached the fallen dragon, it was far from dead…’

2

Mirabay, Jewel of the West

Rolf had been told many times how beautiful Mirabay was, but that did not prepare him for his first glimpse of the Jewel of the West. It was a city of glowing white, capped with slates of blue-grey. Tall, turreted walls enclosed a mass of spires, towers, palaces, bell towers, and the homes of thousands upon thousands of Mirabayans. It was also home to the Silver Circle.

Borodin stopped his horse when they crested the hill that gave Rolf his first view of the capital, and waited silently as his son drank it all in, his mouth agape.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Rolf said.

‘Aye, it is,’ Borodin said.

Rolf raised an eyebrow. It was rare his father’s polished accent let in a hint of the Marches. Borodin had been a page at court, then a student at the Academy. He was very much the city man when he returned to the March to inherit from his father, Rolf’s grandfather, and his accent had never given in to the Marcher brogue, unlike Rolf’s. His mother had always said Rolf’s accent was as thick as March mud, but then again, he had not the benefit of an Academy education.

‘From here at least,’ Borodin added.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Nothing at all.’ His father smiled and gave him a knowing look.

They continued on their way, both eager for their long journey to be at its end. The March of the Western Reach was a long way from Mirabay. The thought of a warm bed, a roof over his head, and a hot meal had Rolf licking his lips by the time they reached the city gates.

Guards in shining silver breastplates stood by the open gate, a gaping, shadowy maw in the white stone walls. At first Rolf thought they might be men of the Silver Circle, but felt foolish as soon as the idea entered his head. This duty would be far too lowly for men of such great renown.

They rode through the cavernous opening in the wall, and into a city bursting with life. People, animals, noise. Rolf had never seen so many in one place before. His horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbled street. The only place in the March that was cobbled was the courtyard outside of their old, rambling castle.

Nobody paid them much attention, other than to get out of the way of their horses. They all seemed so busy, as though they had many more important things to be doing. It was a stark contrast to the approach taken in the March, where life danced to a slower beat.

‘So many, Father,’ Rolf said.

‘And there are plenty more. Tens of thousands here. Too many if you ask me. Always feels so cramped after the Marches.’

Rolf realised that it did. The buildings lining the streets were tall and blocked out most of the sky. He could only see as far as the next turn on the street. At home he could see to where the land met the sky in every direction. Now that it was brought to his attention, it felt confining.

They continued on; his father knew the way. In the March, everyone Rolf passed would doff their hat or bid him good day. Here, it was as though he was no more than an obstacle to avoid. No one looked him in the eye. No one even cast him a curious glance. It seemed that he was nothing more than one more stranger in a city of strangers.

A fleeting glance down a side street showed Rolf a man being beaten by three others. No one intervened to stop it, no one tried to help the unfortunate victim. Rolf looked to his father. No chevalier of the Silver Circle would stand by and allow such an affront to justice to go unpunished, but in their absence, the duty fell to good men. Borodin saw the direction of his gaze and shook his head.

‘Men are best advised to mind their business in the city. Never does any good to meddle in the problems of others.’

Rolf looked at him wide-eyed, but obeyed his instruction. He could not quite believe what his father had said. It ran contrary to everything he had taught Rolf over the years. Perhaps it was an isolated instance. Perhaps he had merely borne witness to a rare occurrence.

There were so many new and interesting things to see in the city that he was quickly distracted from the unpleasantness. They passed a colourful market where fruits that were a rare treat in the March were stocked in such abundance they seemed limitless. If anything, the market was busier and noisier than the rest of the town. It was exciting merely to pass through a hub of such vibrant energy. He made a note to return there for a proper look around if the time permitted.

Their tour of the city ended beneath a sign that read ‘The Dragon Fang Inn.’ It seemed suitable that they would stay there. The Dragon Fang was a mountain peak visible from the March. It was deep inside Szavaria, but on a clear day its snow-capped peak did not seem so far away. In the days when the Silver Circle first ventured forth, the Fang was still home to dragons. The thought made him long for the great open spaces, the grasslands that stretched to the horizon in all directions but west, where the Fang and great forests proclaimed the wild, brutal mysteries of Szavaria.

They dismounted, happily handing their horses over to a stable boy, gladdened by the conclusion of their outward journey. On the morrow, they would visit court, and Rolf might finally realise his lifelong dream of meeting a chevalier of the Silver Circle in the flesh.

3

The Court of Mirabaya

The King’s palace was the stuff of children’s stories and dreams. Built of white stone, it was perched on top of a steep, forested hill at the edge of the city. Standing out against the green that surrounded it, it looked like a diamond topping a bowl of emeralds. There were high gables and half a dozen slender towers topped with conical roofs, all of the blue-grey slate that capped the rest of the city. Rolf felt every inch the ignorant bumpkin as he looked on its magnificence, fanciful ideas of beautiful princesses and brave knights racing through his mind. This place represented what they defended on the March, and it made Rolf feel enormously proud.

A steep pathway led up to the palace gates, although Rolf spotted a wooden elevator that projected out from the palace wall, reserved, he presumed, for the King’s convenience. Despite both being men of action, Rolf and his father were out of breath by the time they reached the top of the pathway. The week spent in the saddle had taken its toll on their legs.

‘Who approaches the palace of the King?’ said one of the silver-plated guards by the great double doors.

Chevaliers of the Circle? Rolf wondered. This close to the King, it was possible. More likely than the guards at the city gate, but still not very. The Circle were his last line of defence. His very finest; the men who faced danger no one else could.

‘Borodin dal Oudin, Lord of the Western March, and his son, Rolf,’ his father said.

He had said it in what Rolf called his command voice. Rolf had been practising his own ever since his voice had turned. It was far from perfect, certainly not as impressive as his father’s, but it had served him well enough.

‘Pass, Borodin dal Oudin, Lord of the Western March.’

They opened the doors, giving Rolf his first glimpse inside the King’s palace. A long, barrel-vaulted hall stretched deep into the palace. The floor was a pattern of marble tiles polished to a high sheen, the ceiling frescoed with scenes that Rolf was certain must have come from the tales of the Circle. Here a man standing triumphant over a slain dragon, there a man standing on a bridge, bravely facing down an army that desired to cross. So it continued, a new scene every few paces, such that Rolf had an ache in his neck by the time they reached the next set of doors at the hall’s end.

The next room had a ceiling of dizzying height, and two great staircases of white marble on its flanks. There were more people there: servants in liveried uniforms, nobles in the finest silks, guards in shining breastplates. The Circle? Probably not. Servants busily went about their tasks and finely dressed people passed in and out of another set of doors at the far end. Rolf knew immediately that they led to the King’s audience hall. That was where he would see a chevalier of the Circle. Even seeing the King felt secondary by comparison.

Rolf felt his heart race as they crossed the hall and approached the doors.

‘Remember to mind your manners,’ Borodin said. ‘All those things your mother taught you? They’re important now. More important than anything else. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not a child, Father. I know how to behave.’

‘Court can be an overwhelming place. Just reminding you to be careful.’

4

The Audience

Borodin bade Rolf wait near the door when they went into the audience hall. He went to talk to an official, leaving Rolf to take in the spectacle before him.

The hall was a heaving mass of people dressed in an array of colours so vibrant and varied that it was almost overwhelming to the eyes. He was drab and shabby by comparison, despite being dressed in the very best clothes he owned. No one took any notice of him, or his attire, but it was little consolation. When he met a chevalier, his appearance would shame him.

It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the front of the hall; the throne and the King were completely hidden from view. Unable to help himself, Rolf stretched and strained in an effort to get a better view. If the chevaliers were anywhere, they would be up at the front, somewhere close to the King. Someone cast him a sideways glance, but Rolf ignored it. Despite his efforts, he could see nothing beyond all the people between him and the throne.

There were many other things to see, however. Of beauty, there was more than Rolf had ever seen. Every woman looked as though she was carved from alabaster, and every man looked as though he was hewn from granite. Rolf had never given much thought to his appearance before arriving in that room. He had already held his dress in contempt, now he felt inclined to do the same for his looks. He wondered what those gathered in the hall thought of two Marcher lords, coarse by the necessity of the lives they lived, unrefined due to their distance from culture. He wondered if they thought of them at all.

Rolf didn’t notice his father return to his side.

‘I’ve let them know we’re here,’ Borodin said.

Rolf wasn’t sure who the ‘them’ his father referred to were, but that was not his most pressing question.

‘Did you see them?’ There could be no doubting of whom he referred to.

‘It’s hard to say,’ Borodin said. ‘They don’t form part of the Royal Guard. They could be here. They’d be dressed just the same as ordinary lords. No way of knowing.’

Rolf didn’t see how a chevalier of the Silver Circle could ever seem as an ordinary lord. He looked around the crowd to see if there was anyone who might fit his mental image of what they should look like. He saw no one. What he did see was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

She had smouldering eyes and perfectly formed lips. Her dark blonde hair was pulled tightly back into a bun and a small tricorn hat, decorated with a small golden rose at each corner and a white feather, sat perched on her head at a rakish angle. She wore the same look of faint disinterest adopted by everyone else, but made a better job of it. A man slightly shorter than her linked his arm with hers. Rolf was not given to pangs of envy, but in that moment he could not think of anyone luckier than that man, nor anyone he would rather be.

Rolf wondered what it took to win a woman like that. Great titles? Great wealth? Great looks? Rolf had a little of each, but not so much as to be impressive. He gave the man a closer look. He was not so young as he might have liked a casual glance to suggest. There was something unnatural about his hair, but it took Rolf a moment to realise that it was dyed. There was something about his skin, too. He was wearing tinted creams to conceal wrinkles that were only apparent on close inspection. In the March, only women used such things, and Rolf had to stifle a snigger. Even so, to win the affection of such a woman, hair dye and face cream did not seem like so great a burden.

Rolf didn’t waste another moment on the man, returning his gaze instead to the beauty that had made him entirely forget about the Silver Circle, and his childish fascination with them. Even in a room filled with so much beauty, she put everyone around her to shame. Rolf had never felt so small in his entire life. One look at her took the breath from his lungs.

The man turned his head, too quickly for Rolf to look away. The direction of his gaze was all too apparent, and the man cast him a look so filthy Rolf felt as though someone had spat in his face. He returned his gaze to the front of the throne room, and tried to ignore the hateful stare being directed at him.

‘How long will we have to wait?’ Rolf said to his father, feeling his skin crawl beneath the withering gaze.

‘Who knows?’ Borodin said. ‘An hour? A morning? A week? The court moves at its own pace, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.’

* * *

Minutes stretched to hours, and the sunlight that had entered the left-hand windows of the throne room when they arrived had long since been shining with dwindling strength through those on the right. The crowd had diminished as the day wore on, while Rolf and his father had stood patiently, moving slowly toward the front, until Rolf was able to see the man on the throne.

It came as a stunning disappointment. The King was of middle-age, which in the March meant at his prime. He was the Master of the Silver Circle, but how could such a man lead them, or even hold himself in their company? He was fat. A double chin rolled over his filigreed collar, and the buttons of his doublet strained to hold across his gut.

As Rolf watched the activity at the throne, his sympathy for the King grew. His job was a tedious one, stuck in a gilded chair from dawn until dusk listening to the petitions of his subjects. Perhaps he was being as true to his duty as the chevaliers always were to theirs?

The beautiful woman had left the room at around noon, much to Rolf’s disappointment. It was tempered by his pleasure at the departure of her companion, who had continued to cast Rolf foul looks.

‘Marquis Borodin, Lord of the Western March.’

Rolf was in a stupor by the time he heard his father’s name being called. Borodin did not need to be asked a second time, and approached the throne, with Rolf dropping in behind him.

‘Your Majesty,’ Borodin said, bowing low.

Rolf followed his father’s lead, remembering the day in the distant past when his mother had spent a full morning showing him how to bow properly.

‘We are pleased to see you at court,’ the King said.

Borodin opened his mouth to speak, but the King held up a hand to stop him, and beckoned to his official to approach with the other. They conferred in whispers for a moment before the King got up and left. Borodin’s reaction was one of unmasked surprise, and Rolf didn’t know what to make of it. They had waited all day, and now, just when they finally got their audience with the King, he left. It was Rolf’s first time at court, so he didn’t know if that type of thing was normal. Judging from his father’s reaction, however, that did not appear to be the case.

‘His Highness has many other pressing matters to attend to,’ the official said. ‘I am his Seneschal, Poncet, and can help you with any of your queries.’

‘I sent letters ahead of our arrival,’ Borodin said. ‘I outlined the situation on the Western March in some detail.’

‘I am familiar with them,’ the Seneschal said. ‘I understand from them that there are growing tensions in the region.’

‘There is a succession dispute in the Voivodeship of Vastapol that is reaching its conclusion.’

The Seneschal smiled. ‘Happily the machinations of Szavarian nobility are beyond my remit.’

‘I understand that,’ Borodin said. ‘However, when one of the contenders takes the throne, the first thing he will do is make a show of strength. That will undoubtedly be directed at the March.’

The Seneschal’s face lost all of its previous mirth. ‘An invasion?’

‘Nothing so severe, I think,’ Borodin said. ‘An armed incursion of a larger size than usual would be more likely. He will seek to take some territory, pillage and devastate everything else. The type of ravaging that will take a decade to recover from. Not accounting for the lost territory.’

‘I see,’ the Seneschal said. ‘That is why the King grants territories such as the March to competent men like yourself. Your family have held the border secure for generations.’ He smiled. ‘Is the task proving too burdensome?’

‘Not at all, Seneschal,’ Borodin said. ‘However, to properly prepare for this will be expensive. I need to double my standing force. That means recruiting, training and equipping, or hiring mercenaries, which will be even more expensive in the short term. Then I will need to improve defensive works and watchtowers.’

‘The province you have been given should be more than adequate to finance the defence of the Marches. There are already too many demands on the Royal Purse—’

‘I’m not asking for money,’ Borodin said. ‘Only exemption from taxes for two years.’

The Seneschal shook his head. ‘It is not crown policy to exempt any province from taxation. If His Majesty were to exempt you, why not the next lord, and the next? No. It’s out of the question. If that is all?’

Rolf expected his father to press the matter further, but he merely smiled.

‘I thank you for your time, Seneschal.’

The Seneschal smiled in a way that made it clear it was time to leave.

5

The Altercation

‘Is that it?’ Rolf said. He knew how much stress the trouble across the border had been causing his father. What had played out in the throne room seemed to Rolf to be a complete disaster. ‘What do we do now? Go home?’

‘No. Not yet. Nothing that could be done in a day is achieved in a week at court. I didn’t really expect to get anywhere today, but it was worth a try. To get what I want, I will have to find someone of influence who needs something I have. Then, perhaps, we can return home. You will be seeing more of court. I hope it isn’t too much to your distaste.’

Rolf thought of the beautiful woman again. ‘Far from it,’ he said.

They stopped in the great hallway outside the throne room, and his father scratched his chin for a moment. ‘I’ll call on some old friends in the morning to get the ball rolling.’ Something caught his eye. ‘Wait here a moment, I see someone I want to talk with.’ He jogged after a man who was walking out of the hall, leaving Rolf to his own devices.

Rolf looked around the room, taking in the features and the artwork, of which there was a great deal. Art was scarce on the Marches, unless a couple of crossed rapiers hanging on the wall counted as art. The beautiful woman and her companion were there, engaged in conversation with a group of finely dressed courtiers. Rolf’s eyes lingered on her briefly, that momentary glimpse feeling like a cool drink on a long, hot day.

‘You there! Boy!’

It was not until Rolf saw her companion walking toward him with thunder in his face that he realised ‘boy’ referred to him.

‘See something you liked, did you?’

‘Me? I beg your pardon, sir,’ Rolf said, thinking of his mother’s lessons.

‘You don’t have it, boy. Now answer me. Did you see something you liked?’

Rolf felt a tingle of anger dance across his skin. A few admiring glances that the woman in question had not even noticed hardly warranted the man’s indignation. He found it difficult to do anything other than stare at the man’s hair, which was of an entirely uniform colour, and betrayed not even a hint of grey.

‘I’m not a boy, and you’ve no reason to take umbrage wi’ me,’ Rolf said.

‘Umbrage. Ha! And that accent? Where does that come from? The middle of a swamp?’

‘I’m from the Western March,’ Rolf said.

The woman and the others in the group were watching. She raised an eyebrow when she heard him mention the March.

‘The Marches? A bloody bumpkin! You come tramping through here like a pig with no concept of what passes for manners. Best stay in your sty. That’s the proper place for the likes of you.’

‘You call me a pig, and then question my sense of manners?’ Rolf’s blood was starting to boil.

‘What’s going on here?’ Borodin said, reappearing at Rolf’s side.

‘This young pup has caused me insult. That’s what’s going on here. And you? Who are you?’

‘I’m the Marquis of the Western March.’

‘Another bloody bumpkin.’ The man turned and shouted back to his friends. ‘It’s another bloody bumpkin!’

They tittered, but Rolf noticed the beautiful woman remained silent. Perhaps she was embarrassed by the fuss being caused on her behalf.

The man returned his gaze to Rolf. ‘I’ll have an apology from you, boy.’

‘I apologise,’ Rolf said, before his father, whose building anger was evident, had the chance to intervene, ‘for seeing your daughter. Perhaps you should keep her locked in a tower if a glimpse of her causes you such mortal injury.’

‘My daughter?’ I may have forgiven your wandering eye, but that insult I will not allow to stand. Satisfaction. I demand it. Now.’

Rolf was the first to admit that there were many things at court of which he was ignorant. The demand for satisfaction was not one of them.

‘You’ll ‘ave it,’ Rolf said, hearing his father’s groan. ‘Whenever you choose, I shall make myself available.’

‘There is no time like the present, puppy.’

Rolf’s heart accelerated at the renewed insult, but the chance to address it was at hand. He had been tightly clutching the handle of his sword ever since the altercation began, so he did not have to reassure himself of its presence. He realised that all those surrounding them had turned to watch the altercation. He looked to his father, his expression as apologetic as he could make it, but there was nothing left to do but fight. To try otherwise would be to shame them both.

6

The Palace Garden

The man—Rolf had still not learned his name—led them, and the small group of spectators who had gathered to witness the spectacle, to the palace garden. It was a beautiful space of ornamental hedges, fountains, and fine white gravel paths. Beds of flowers liberally splashed colour throughout. Everything was so perfectly manicured that the scene looked more like one of the paintings inside the palace, rather than a real garden. It was peaceful and serene, and Rolf knew that in only a few moments it would be anything but.

‘I can’t say I expected to be standing as your second within a day of arriving in the capital,’ Borodin said.

Rolf shrugged, not knowing what to say. It felt lonely, the two of them standing at one end of the garden, while the man stood with a large group of people at the far end. Rolf wondered what his mother would have thought. His first visit to court, and he was fighting a duel within hours of arriving. His father had hoped it would be a good learning experience, dealing with its intricacies being an occasional, and seemingly unpleasant, part of a marquis’s responsibilities. He could feel the nerves build in his stomach. He had not fought a duel before, and his knowledge of them came entirely from stories. He wanted to ask his father, but was afraid of looking naive. What were these men of the city capable of? They must fight duels on an almost daily basis. It would be as common a thing as getting out of bed for this gentleman.

A man approached from the group at the far end of the garden.

‘Banneret Pierre-Louis Valair at your service. I’m serving as Banneret Charlot’s second this evening. To whom do I have the honour?’

‘Lord Borodin, Marquis of the Western March.’

Valair bowed his head. ‘My Lord. And Banneret Charlot’s adversary?’

‘My son, Lord Rolf,’ Borodin said.

‘Now to the unpleasant part,’ Valair said. ‘Banneret Charlot feels so aggrieved that he desires the duel to be fought without restriction.’

The colour paled from Borodin’s face. ‘He means to kill you,’ he said under his breath. It was intended for Rolf alone, but Valair heard him.

‘Now, now, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Valair said. ‘The duel will continue until the aggrieved party, Banneret Charlot, is satisfied that the insult is expunged. That does not necessarily require a mortal strike.’

‘You know it does,’ Borodin said.

Rolf’s stomach twisted.

Valair shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but did not respond.

Rolf had been called a pig, a pup, and a boy. He did not see how Charlot’s grievance could be greater, nor the satisfaction he desired so severe. All Rolf had done was look admiringly at his companion once or twice, and point out the significant and obvious difference in their ages.

‘You referred to your son as “Lord Rolf”. Does that mean to say that he’s not a Banneret? That he hasn’t been to the Academy?’

‘He has not,’ Borodin said.

Rolf cringed at being talked about like he was not there. If anything, it made him more eager to get on with the duel.

‘That poses something of a problem,’ Valair said. ‘We can’t have Banneret Charlot being seen as cold blooded.’

‘No, we certainly wouldn’t want that,’ Borodin said, with as much irony as Rolf had ever heard in his voice.

‘Allow me to go back and discuss it with him,’ Valair said. ‘I will see if I can convince him to accept an apology.’

He was gone before Rolf had a chance to stop him. By that point, he was feeling very aggrieved himself. He was further irritated by the way Valair treated him like an incompetent because he had not been to the Academy. He had been preparing to go when his mother fell ill. With his father constantly patrolling the border, as he was required to do, it fell to Rolf to care for her.

The Academy was in Mirabay, a very long way from the March. None of Rolf’s friends were going, and so far away, it was never something that featured heavily in his life. In any event, no Szavarian hussar cared about fancy titles when he was carving you in two. Three, four, or even five years in classrooms and training halls had struck Rolf as a waste of time. When balanced against his mother’s ill health, the choice had been an easy one to make.

Competition for places was fierce, and there was only a brief window of opportunity for Rolf to start there. Once it passed, the chance was gone forever. It had barely occupied him at the time, and it had not featured in his thoughts since. It was a distant irrelevance. Until that moment.

He stood in silence with his father until Valair returned. He tried to focus on the beautiful marble sculptures on the fountain in the garden’s centre.

‘Banneret Charlot is willing to forego the duel in favour of an apology.’

‘That’s very gracious of Banneret Charlot,’ Rolf said, heaping on every measure of mannerly speech and comportment he could muster. He was more nervous than he had ever been before, but he had never backed down from an insult or a threat. He didn’t mean to start there, in the city, where the first impression he made would likely follow him for the rest of his life. The Silver Circle would prefer death to a life of shame. He swallowed hard. ‘I will accept his apology, but will require one for m’father also. His insults extended to m’family name and standing.’

Valair let out a laugh before gathering his composure. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘It is Banneret Charlot who requires the apology.’

‘Then he’s as much a fool as he looks,’ Rolf said.

Valair opened and closed his mouth, then again, but words appeared to escape him. Eventually he found his tongue. ‘Banneret Charlot will be with you presently.’ With that, he turned and walked briskly toward the gathering at the other end of the garden.

‘Your pride will see our house extinguished,’ Borodin said. ‘If your mother were alive, she’d flay me for allowing things to get this far.’

‘And she’d ha’ done the same for making me back out and look a coward.’

‘Don’t make me regret allowing this to proceed,’ Borodin said.

‘I won’t, Father. I promise. He’s half the height of a hussar, and twice the width.’ Rolf wasn’t nearly as confident as he tried to sound. The only duel he had ever fought was with a willow switch.

Borodin laughed long, giving the serene, but tense evening a welcome levity. The air had grown ever more fragrant as the sun dropped in the sky. It was half obscured by the horizon then, and standing atop the palace’s hill made him feel like he was towering over it. The light was warm and orange, and the surroundings so beautiful Rolf felt robbed of the enthusiasm to fight for his life. It seemed an easier thing to do when the land was harsh and unforgiving.

Banneret Charlot broke away from his companions and strode toward Rolf, his chest puffed out, the blade of his rapier swishing through the scented evening air. Valair followed him. Rolf walked forward to meet them, his nervous father following close behind.

‘This is the last opportunity for an apology to settle this matter, my Lord,’ Valair said.

‘I believe my son has made his position on that clear,’ Borodin said.

‘Very well,’ Valair said. ‘The rules as prescribed by Standard Code of Duelling. I assume your son is familiar with them?’

‘I am,’ Rolf said. He might not have enjoyed the benefits of an Academy education, but he was a nobleman, and all noblemen knew the rules of duelling, even if they had not experienced them first-hand.

‘When you are both ready, we shall begin,’ Valair said.

Banneret Charlot took a step back and worked his way through several stretching movements while Rolf remained still, as strong a look of disdain on his face as he could manage. When Charlot was done, he nodded to Valair and took his guard.

Valair looked to Rolf, who finally drew his rapier, and nodded also.

‘Begin,’ Valair said.

Charlot came at Rolf right away. He stamped forward with each thrust. The tip of his rapier moved smoothly and precisely. Rolf moved back from him, rather than trying to parry. It appeared to be as Rolf had feared. Charlot was no novice.

Finally they clashed blades, Rolf forced to parry an aggressive thrust that would have cut right through him had it proceeded unopposed. There was a chorus of cheering from Charlot’s end of the garden.

‘Show him what for, Charlot!’ someone shouted.

‘Send him back to his swamp in a box!’ shouted another.

It was warm, and sweat had formed on Rolf’s brow. It was far hotter than on the March, where cooling breezes blew down from the mountains in the west, and he was not used to it. Charlot saw the beads gathering at Rolf’s eyebrows and smiled. He attacked again, his thrusts aggressive and punchy. Rolf rushed backward, swatting them to the side. His sword felt awkward in his hand, and the wire-wrapped handle was already chafing the sweaty skin on his hand—he had foregone gloves due to the evening’s warmth.

He had never before fought an opponent with a rapier for real. He had held them many times, chased about the halls of his father’s castle swishing one through the air on more occasions than he could count, but he never had cause to use one in a fight. This was the city, where men were bred to the rapier. He was a Marcher lad, where gentlemen were few, duels were rare, and swords had to be heavy enough to deal with armour. He had allowed his pride to walk him into trouble.

Charlot pressed his attack on. He swept his blade high, then low, then thrust it with pinpoint precision, but Rolf was never to be found. The blade moved so quickly Rolf almost had trouble keeping up, so keeping out of its way seemed the best choice. He began to wish he had spent more time practising with his rapier, but after his opportunity to go to the Academy had come and gone, there seemed little point.

On the March they used heavier blades. Fashion being fashion, the hilts and guards were the same, but a thicker, heavier blade was mounted and counterbalanced with a weightier pommel. Heavier meant slower and his light-bladed court rapier felt odd. It seemed like a toy, like the wooden switches he and the other lads had used in training.

Rolf had been using the heavier weapon ever since his father took him on his first border patrol. That had been the week after his mother had died, the week after he was supposed to go to the Academy, the week after his seventeenth birthday. It was the week he had first killed a man. He had added a dozen more before that week had ended.

Charlot seemed to grow exasperated at the fact he had not ended the duel in the first few thrusts. He threw in a deep lunge, which Rolf parried. Their blades shrieked against one another, sparks dancing from the contacting edges. A sword was a sword, and it was easier to go from heavy to light than the other way around. It had just taken him a little time to adapt to the differences.

Rolf laughed. There was far more art to it all than cutting down Szavarian raiders on the Marches. In such a beautiful place, their dance must have looked a very fine thing indeed. He feared he would never be an artist, but in battle, the result was all that mattered.

Charlot looked surprised by Rolf’s sudden mirth. Might he think it the mania of a man resigned to his imminent demise? He moved back slowly, sweat starting to form on his brow also. The sweat’s dark tint betrayed the dye in his hair and would likely blind him should it break through his eyebrows, but for now his eyes were alert, his guard perfect. He was a very polished swordsman and Rolf admired him for it. Polish impressed people—beautiful women most importantly—but polish counted for little when trying to kill a man, and Rolf had killed a great many. Though he was barely nineteen, he expected there were few men with as much blood on their hands as on his. Such was the life of a lord of the Marches. Even a young one.

Pig, puppy, boy. Bumpkin. Rolf laughed again and struck. He regretted that his thrust was not so elegant as Charlot’s, his form not so refined. It would not impress any of the ladies gathered at the far end of the garden, but it was faster, stronger, truer. Charlot was already stuck with the blade when his attempt at a parry bounced off it.

He let out a loud gasp, and suddenly he looked very old—every day of his years and more. The expensive dye and face cream counted for little when the life was draining from a hole in his chest.

Rolf pulled his blade free and walked back toward his father. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the blade as he walked. It flexed in his hand as he wiped it with too much force—one duel alone was not enough to change all of his old habits. He had no concern for Charlot, or a dying strike. On the Marches, you got one chance to land a killing blow. If it did not land true, you were the one who ended up dead. Charlot had his chance to walk away and did not take it. Marcher or not, no nobleman could accept being spoken to the way Charlot had spoken to him. Rolf had heard the tales of court, the tales of the Silver Circle. Duels were fought, men were killed. On this day it was over a glimpse of a beautiful woman, a barrel-full of insults, and a fatally erroneous preconception. Bumpkin. Rolf had never even heard the word before that day, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

As Rolf and his father walked from the garden, he wondered if any of the Silver Circle had fought a duel there, over some woman of great beauty, or some mortal insult to honour. It gave him a sense of fraternity, and he again wondered where they might be.

7

The Second Day

Borodin ordered Rolf to remain in the inn the following morning. There was always a reaction to a fatal duel, he said, and it was best to remain out of sight until that reaction had blown over. It had been legally fought, but Charlot’s friends might seek vengeance, and though unafraid, Rolf and his father had more important reasons for being in the city.

Rolf was not much of a reader—he had always preferred to be told his stories—and there was little by way of entertainment to be found in his room. He tried to pass the time sitting at the window watching the world go by on the busy street below him.

The excited fascination with which he had first greeted all the new sights and sounds seemed to have deserted him. It was nothing more than ordinary people doing ordinary things, albeit in a beautiful, intriguing place. Hours passed, and he wondered how his father was faring. He had friends in the city, and Rolf had to assume some of them would be of influence.

More hours passed and Rolf wished that he could go out and explore the city. He sat with his hands and chin resting on the window frame, but no longer paid any attention to the people below. Not a single thing of interest had happened since he started his vigil early that morning. People walked up the street, people walked down the street. Occasionally someone dropped something.

He let his mind drift. It went to stories of the Silver Circle, as it always did. Whether sitting in an inn in Mirabay, only paces from where they were based, or sitting by a ditch in the driving rain somewhere beyond the border, the Circle was always what he dreamed of. In some small way he believed that the life he lived allowed their ideal to flourish, and he could not understand why he had yet to see a trace of them in the city, or hear their name mentioned. He did not even know who he could ask. Perhaps one of his father’s friends could help?

Rolf was asleep, still leaning on the window frame, when his father came in.

‘I’ve an audience in the morning,’ Borodin said, a hint of triumph in his voice. ‘Let’s go out for something to eat. There’s a tavern nearby that serves the best food in the city.’

‘The other… thing?’

‘That? Not to worry. There was some talk about it, but you conducted yourself perfectly so there’s no need for concern. I dare say that gentlemen at court will think twice before calling anyone a bumpkin again.’

Rolf smiled uncomfortably. Now that his anger at the insult had subsided, he felt the incident had sullied his introduction to Mirabay and the Royal Court. It was supposed to be a beautiful place, far from the brutality of the March. Had he brought some of that brutality with him? Perhaps he was indeed a mannerless bumpkin. Should he have apologised and been on his way?

His father waited by the door, not even bothering to take off his cloak. It appeared he meant for them to go for food immediately.

* * *

A cup of wine and a good meal improved Rolf’s spirits considerably, and renewed his determination to find and speak with the chevaliers of the Silver Circle. His experience of the city thus far was unfortunate, but he was certain the good things would present themselves before too long. He would keep himself out of trouble, and make sure the hard ways of the March stayed there.

He laughed and joked with his father as they walked back to the inn. He felt relaxed, and his father’s hope for the following morning was infectious. Rolf realised, as excited as he had been to visit the city, to see how the kingdom truly worked, he was now as eager to return home.

‘Enjoying your visit to the city, gents?’

The accent was unlike any of those Rolf had encountered at court, but he had heard something similar when walking past the market when they arrived at the city.

Rolf and his father stopped, and turned to face the man who had spoken. He was thin, dirty, but with eyes that shone with cunning intelligence. He was a dangerous man, and did not look to be a stupid one.

‘Very much, thank you,’ Borodin said. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’

‘Country gents like you pair probably don’t know how hard life can be in the city, what with all your fresh food, clean air, and open spaces. Thought you might like to make a donation to a man not as fortunate as your good selves.’

Borodin reached into his purse and flipped the man a coin. Even in the gloom, he snatched it from the air.

‘I’ll take the rest of them, too,’ the man said.

‘You’d do well to take your coin and crawl back to whatever gutter you live in,’ Borodin said. His command voice again.

‘What would all my friends do for a coin, then?’ The man smiled, revealing a mouth full of filthy, rotting teeth. Three men stepped out behind him.

Rolf turned to see another half-dozen men step out of the shadows.

Borodin looked around and smiled. ‘You’ve caught me short tonight, gentlemen. Not enough silver to go around. Only steel.’

Rolf had realised where his father was heading, and drew his sword at the same moment. The men rushed at them. Rolf could not quite believe they were so brazen as to attack two noblemen in the middle of the street.

A few cuts and exclamations of pain, and the muggers melted away into the night as quickly as they had appeared. Their opportunistic attack had not met with quite as much success as they might have hoped.

‘That certainly got the blood up,’ Borodin said. ‘Do you still think the city is such a wonderful place? Civilised? Refined? Not so far removed from the March, is it?’

‘At least you can see them comin’ on the March,’ Rolf said. His eyes widened. ‘You’re cut.’

Borodin looked at the rent on his sleeve. He poked at it with a finger and laughed. ‘One of the sneaky bastards nicked me with a blade.’ He laughed again. ‘Still, they took a few more cuts than we did. Let’s get back to the inn. It will be an early start tomorrow. Mayhap we might even be on the road for home by noon!’

8

The Surprise

It was light when Rolf woke. That in itself came as a surprise. Usually his father was up before the roosters announced the dawn, and when he was awake, Rolf did not get to sleep for much longer. He roused himself and dressed, then went to his father’s room. He knocked, but there was no response. His concern growing, he went to the innkeeper and had him open the door.

Borodin was still in bed, tightly wrapped in his bed sheets. His skin was pale, and covered with a sheen of sweat. Rolf held a hand to his forehead. He was hot. Too hot.

‘Father?’ he said. ‘Father?’

Borodin’s eyes opened slowly. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice croaky. ‘What time is it?’

‘Long after dawn.’

‘The audience,’ Borodin said. ‘I have to get ready.’

‘Lie still,’ Rolf said. ‘You’re burning up.’

‘What do you mean?’ Borodin said, his voice confused.

Rolf pulled back the sheet, remembering the cut on his father’s arm from the previous night. It was not a deep cut, and he could see why his father had been so dismissive of it. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought himself. Now, however, it was far more than a cut. It was angry and red, and Rolf could see that it was starting to go bad.

‘I’ll have to fetch a physician,’ Rolf said.

‘Nonsense,’ Borodin said. ‘Let me get dressed, and we’ll go to court. I’ll be fine after some breakfast.’

‘Don’t you dare move,’ Rolf said. ‘That cut needs seeing to. I’ll be back with a physician.’

Borodin put up no further protest, which was as worrying as the angry wound on his arm. Rolf hurried from the inn and was out on the street before he realised he had no idea where to find a physician. He went back inside, but the innkeeper was of little help. Rolf would not allow a quack anywhere near his father.

The only place he could think of was the palace. There was bound to be someone there he could ask. Even a servant would do. He rushed through the streets, not caring who he bumped into. His head was filled with images of his mother on her deathbed. His father’s condition had terrified him, and Rolf was determined not to allow him go the same way.

‘Who approaches the palace of the King?’

Rolf wondered if they ever tired of repeating the same thing over and over every day.

‘Rolf dal Oudin, of the Western March.’

The guards cast each other a look. ‘Pass, Rolf of the Western March.’

Rolf had slowed to a quick walk, but the urge to run was strong. It wasn’t seemly to run in the King’s palace, but that convention wasn’t worth a damn to him at that moment. He worried his haste might seem threatening. Being delayed by the King’s Guard was the last thing Rolf needed.

He spotted a servant cleaning the sculptures in the long hallway.

‘I need a physician,’ Rolf said. ‘Best there is. Who do the dukes and men of wealth use?’

The servant, startled by Rolf’s intensity, shrugged and shook his head.

‘Then find out for me. Hurry!’

The servant nodded and hurried away. Rolf felt bad for being so brusque with him—he was not in the habit of treating those in service ill—but his need was great and time was pressing.

He continued on to the hallway outside the throne room, where he spotted the servant coming toward him with another man.

‘I am Under Butler Dreue. How might I help you, my Lord?’

‘My father’s been taken ill,’ Rolf said. ‘A cut gone bad. I need a good physician.’

‘I’m sorry for your troubles, my Lord. I believe Physician Blavaut is the first choice amongst the nobles of court. He can be found on the Palace Hill Road. He—’

Rolf did not hear what else the Under Butler had to say. As soon as he had the name and address, he headed for the doors as quickly as he could.

* * *

Palace Hill Road was not difficult to find; Rolf had only needed to ask for directions once. It was in the wealthy part of the city, and all the businesses on the street spoke to that wealth: a goldsmith, a silk merchant, a gem cutter, and a physician.

Rolf walked in the door and found himself in a small waiting room occupied by a bored-looking clerk.

‘Good morning, my Lord,’ he said. ‘How may Physician Blavaut be of assistance?’

‘My father,’ Rolf said. ‘He was cut by a dirty blade and the wound’s turned bad.’

‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch the Physician. An out call is ten crowns…’

‘That’s fine,’ Rolf said. ‘Go fetch ‘im.’

A few moments later, the assistant returned carrying a heavy leather bag, followed by a thin man with a mop of hair so grey it was almost white. It seemed dye was not the common fashion.

‘I am Blavaut. My assistant tells me your father has a wound that is turning bad. Where is he?’

Rolf was about to speak when the door opened and a man walked in.

‘Ah, Blavaut, excellent,’ the new arrival said. ‘Her ladyship has a headache and would like you to attend on her at once.’

‘Physician Blavaut is engaged at the moment, my Lord Estiene,’ the assistant said, ‘but he can attend on you when he’s done.’

‘I’m sure whatever it is can wait,’ Lord Estiene said. ‘A silver penny for your trouble, lad.’ He flipped a small coin to Rolf, who made no effort to catch it. It bounced off his chest, and rattled on the floor.

Rolf glared at him. Estiene was tall and slender and carried himself like he had once been a man of action, but had the ruddy, mottled complexion of a man now far too fond of his wines and spirits.

‘Now, now, no need to be surly, lad. The physician will see to your master once he’s attended to your betters. Physician Blavaut? Best not to keep my lady wife waiting.’

‘You’ve already been told that the Physician’s currently engaged. You’d do best to wait your turn.’

‘You’d do best to mind your bloody tongue, you impertinent little turd. You address a peer of the realm, not some grovelling servant.’

‘And you address the son of a marquis, whose treatment you are currently delaying, you arrogant whoreson.’

Estiene paused, taken aback by the revelation that he was not in fact dealing with someone’s servant. His surprise was momentary however, and was replaced by the indignation of being called an arrogant whoreson.

‘Physician Blavaut, you’ll attend to m’father directly.’ Rolf knew that each moment they delayed would allow his condition to worsen, making recovery more difficult.

‘Where are you from, boy?’ Lord Estiene said. ‘I can tell from that thick, ignorant accent that you aren’t from around here, so am willing to forgive your impertinence as not knowing any better. Get out of my sight now, and I’ll forget all about this.’

‘I’m from the Western March, and Physician Blavaut can attend to your wife once he’s seen my father. His need is the greater.’

‘Western March? You’re the one who killed Charlot! I can see only too well how that engagement came about. You’re a mouthy little turd, but I’m told you think yourself quite tasty. Perhaps you are; Charlot was no slouch. Doesn’t excuse your smart mouth, however. I won’t be called a whoreson, not without satisfaction.’

‘I haven’t the time to deal with you now,’ Rolf said. ‘My father’s ill and I’m taking Physician Blavaut with me. You can try to prevent that if you wish, but it won’t end well for you.’

‘Ha! Threats now. You rural nobles really don’t have any idea of manners, do you? Take the Physician, but you’ll attend on me this evening, if you’ve an ounce of honour in your bog-soaked bones.’

Rolf gestured to the door for Physician Blavaut and his assistant. They had both remained uncomfortably silent during the exchange. ‘It would be my singular pleasure to attend on you, Lord Estiene.’ He cringed at the sound of his voice. They were the appropriate words, but in his Marchland’s accent, they sounded clumsy and ignorant.

‘The Garden of the White Lilies, at seven bells. By the fountain.’

Rolf wasted no time in ushering the Physician and his assistant out of the building.

‘And be grateful it’s not my lady wife’s wrath you face,’ Estiene called out after him.

9

The Dirty Blade

Physician Blavaut and his assistant maintained a decorous pace as they walked toward the Dragon Fang Inn, despite Rolf’s efforts to urge them to greater speed. Rolf’s anxiety increased when they reached the inn and climbed the stairs to Borodin’s room. Rolf had been gone far longer than he would have liked. It had taken most of the morning to get Blavaut to the inn, and he prayed the Physician was worth the effort.

His fears were realised when they entered the room. It stank of vomit, and although the assistant recoiled at the smell, Blavaut appeared unmoved. He went to Borodin’s bedside and began his examination. Rolf stood over his shoulder watching, until Blavaut held up his hand.

‘Your fidgeting behind me isn’t going to help matters. Perhaps you’d be better waiting in the parlour downstairs.’

Rolf was reluctant to go, but did not want to distract Blavaut from his work. He did as he was told.

The parlour was empty, which Rolf was grateful for. He was not in the mood for conversation and had already talked himself into one duel that day. He had little desire for another. A cup of wine did nothing to quell his anxiety. He counted the moments until Physician Blavaut and his assistant came down to the parlour.

Rolf stood, eager to hear the diagnosis.

‘I’m sorry,’ Blavaut said. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Rolf said, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘It’s just a bad cut. Put some poultices on it, or whatever you need to do to clean it out.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Blavaut said. ‘Poison is involved.’

‘Poison?’ Rolf said. ‘Why would anyone poison m’father?’ His first thought was that the mugging was staged, a revenge for him killing Charlot.

‘No one intended to poison him, I think,’ Blavaut said. ‘I dare say it was a trace of poison left on the blade from a previous occasion. It’s a potent variety that I’ve encountered on more than a few occasions now. Had the blade been properly coated, your father would not have lasted the night. As it is, I’m afraid he doesn’t have long. The little that got into his blood has already done its damage to his innards. Perhaps if I had gotten to him earlier… I am sorry.’

‘You must be mistaken,’ Rolf said. ‘It was only a scratch.’

‘You’re welcome to seek a second opinion, but I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry if it’s to come in time.’

The blood drained from Rolf’s face.

‘I’ve given him something to hold the fever off until the end. He will be lucid, and there will be little discomfort. You will be able to talk with him. You have my deepest sympathy.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

* * *

‘Can you believe it?’ Borodin said, when Rolf went into the room.

In the time Rolf had been waiting in the parlour, his father’s condition had visibly worsened.

‘It’s a bit of a shock,’ Rolf said.

‘Comes to us all,’ Borodin said. ‘Can’t say I expected it like this, though. Always thought it would be at the end of a Szavarian lance, not vomiting all over myself in bed.’

Rolf didn’t know what to say, so said nothing, and sat in the chair by the bed.

‘There are some things I need to say,’ Borodin said. ‘The first… Put me beside your mother. On the hill looking out toward the Dragon Fang.’

Rolf choked down a sob. ‘Yes, father.’

‘You can rely on Gasson and Rolet. They know what they’re about and will be able to help you through the first few months until you’ve found your feet. Gasson is better when it comes to money matters, but Rolet can turn his hand to pretty much anything else. They’re good men. They’ll do right by you.’

Rolf willed them away, but he could not stop the tears from forming in his eyes.

‘I’d like to be able to tell you to go straight home, but that’s not possible. If the March is to survive, and our house in it, we need those concessions from the crown. You have to do everything you can to get an audience, and win those concessions. The King is the only man who can give them to you. Don’t waste your time with his advisors.’

‘I won’t fail you, Father.’

‘I know you won’t, Rolf. I know.’

And then he was gone. Somewhere across the city, a bell rang six times.

10

The Garden of the White Lilies

‘Banneret of the White, Lord Estiene is willing to take an apology by way of satisfaction for the insult you served him.’

The city gentlemen seemed fond of being apologised to once their tempers had subsided. Rolf stared at Estiene’s second with detachment. He wondered if it was their tempers that deserted them, or their stomach for a fight. The garden was beautiful, and it occupied almost as large a part of his mind as the man standing before him with an expectant smile on his face.

The garden was a mix of finely manicured lawns and thick beds of beautiful white flowers. Lilies didn’t grow on the March. Beauty like that didn’t exist there. The March’s beauty was of a harsh, brutal type, the type that inspired awe rather than admiration. There was a large pond in the centre of the garden where more white flowers sat on broad green leaves, floating lazily on the mirror-still surface. It was the type of place where chevaliers of the Silver Circle might have wooed ladies of great beauty.

The second cleared his throat.

‘Tell Lord Estiene there will be no apology. Tell him m’father is dead, and I hold him to blame.’ Rolf turned and walked back to where he had left his sword belt and the small satchel containing his things.

There was a bottle of water in the satchel, and Rolf took a long swallow from it. It was a warm evening, the gentle breeze like a caress to the skin. He watched the insects buzzing from flower to flower on the pond and wondered what possessed them to go to the trouble. On the far side, Lord Estiene received his message with less than good grace. He was gesticulating and pointing in Rolf’s direction. People surrounded him, finely dressed people. Friends who no doubt thought their evening’s entertainment would be serviced by seeing a rural nobleman embarrassed.

Estiene’s second approached again.

‘We can’t help but notice that you don’t have a second,’ he said. ‘That is most irregular.’

‘I assure you I won’t need someone to take my place,’ Rolf said. ‘I fight my own fights.

‘It wasn’t my intention to suggest that. Our concern is if there are any difficulties with regard to interpreting the result. Simultaneous cuts, and so forth…’

Rolf glared at him. ‘That won’t be an issue. Lord Estiene has brought himself to this garden. If he finds himself lacking of a backbone, that’s not my concern.’

The second made as though he was about to speak, then thought better of it, shut his mouth, and returned to Estiene and his entourage.

There were several minutes of discussion before Lord Estiene finally walked forward, rapier in hand. His second had called him a Banneret of the White, and Rolf was not so ignorant as to mistake the meaning. Not only had he graduated from the Academy, he had been good enough to continue his studies and earn his colours. Just as the beauty of the garden did not move Rolf, neither did the danger Lord Estiene presented.

Estiene, closely followed by his second, arrived at the stretch of lawn before the pond. It was as likely a duelling location as any.

‘Lord Estiene has stated that the first blood will satisfy his honour,’ the second said.

‘His honour, mayhap,’ Rolf said. He walked forward and drew his sword.

Estiene gave a wry smile, as though he was sorry for what he was about to do, as though taking a splash of Rolf’s blood was an act no more challenging than kicking a puppy, and no less palatable.

‘Try not to kill him, Estiene!’ one of the supporters shouted. There was a chorus of laughter. They all held glasses. It did indeed seem that this was their evening’s entertainment.

Lord Estiene shrugged apologetically. Rolf wondered what his friends at home would have thought of this. He thought of his father’s last words, and the importance of the duty that had been left to him.

‘You may begin,’ the second said.

Estiene thrust and followed quickly with another, hopeful of a speedy resolution to the duel. Rolf moved backward with as much disdain as he could muster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone standing watching them. It was a woman, alone. She was clearly not part of Lord Estiene’s group.

Sensing the distraction, Estiene lunged, seeking a cheaply won cut and an end to the duel. Rolf parried the blade away effortlessly, the strength won by hours of using a heavier sword making the slender rapier feel like a toy in his hand.

He stole another glance at the woman. She was wrapped in a travelling coat despite the warmth of the evening. It was the woman who had been with Charlot. No doubt she was there to see the killer of her lover meet a similar fate. Rolf almost felt bad that she would be disappointed. Even had Estiene the stomach for killing, Rolf did not feel pressurised by his attacks. It seemed that Estiene’s only interest was in a little derring-do and a splash of blood on an otherwise pleasant evening.

Rolf thought of his father again, and the hill where his mother had been buried for near-on a decade. The day they had placed her there, Rolf had prayed it would be scores of years before he had to repeat the experience. He had known, even at that young age, that life on the March was unlikely to allow that hope to come to pass, but it was too soon. Sooner than he was ready for, and in the last place he had expected it to happen. He wondered if the delay Lord Estiene had caused made any difference.

Estiene came at him again. Rolf parried and riposted with a neat thrust to the chest. Estiene gasped and dropped to his knees. Rolf pulled his blade free and walked back to his satchel and sword belt. There was a chorus of gasps and exclamations from Estiene’s gathered supporters, but Rolf paid them little heed. He looked to where the woman was standing. She remained there, motionless. He wondered what she thought of it all, what she made of a young country bumpkin who had killed two of the city’s gentlemen, fellows who had no doubt thought of themselves as dashing blades.

There was nothing about Rolf that could be considered dashing. The only affectation to his hair was the string he used to tie it back and keep it out of his face. His moustache was not fashionably styled, and his clothes were far from being of the latest fashion. Such things were of little use on the March, but seemed to be the only thing that counted in the city. He cleaned his sword and sheathed it. By the time he looked up again, the woman was gone, gone with nothing but disappointment to accompany her on her way.

A group had gathered by Estiene’s body, one of them the familiar face of Physician Blavaut, who leaned over the prone form. There was even less to do for Lord Estiene than there had been for Rolf’s father. The only strike worth the effort was a killing one, and for Rolf, that had long been second nature. He would have been dead and rotting on the March years before were that not the case. Rolf knew Estiene was dead before he had hit the ground; he would never have turned his back otherwise.

He saw no need to remain in the garden any longer; there was nothing for him there, and there was nothing to say to Estiene’s second. The duel was fought to the code, and the killing was legal. In the morning he would call on court, demand his audience, and leave the city once and for all. If the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle had an ounce of sense, they would not spend a second longer in that than they had to, and Rolf had no intention of doing differently. He could see why they travelled so far, and sought out such great dangers. Anything to get them out of that city.

11

The Dragon Fang Inn

Rolf picked over his plate of food, but, seeing nothing that remained to his taste, he pushed it away. The cooking was excellent, the sauces sublime, but the raw material—the meat and vegetables—were poor. Things of no substance dressed up to appear far more than they actually were. He had little appetite in any event.

His meal eaten, Rolf stood and headed for his room. There would be no more late nights in front of the fire listening to his father tell stories.

‘My Lord Marquis?’

It took Rolf a moment to realise the voice referred to him. He was the Marquis now, although there would have to be an investiture of some sort, oaths to be sworn. He hoped he would be able to get it all out of the way before he left the city. He had no desire to ever return.

He turned to look, and was left mouth agape when he saw it was the beautiful woman. Dealing with an irate woman was the last thing he needed, so he decided to try to head the situation off before it developed.

‘I apologise for what happened, m’Lady, but your companion’s fate was of his own making. I am sorry, however, for the inconvenience and grief that it must have caused you.’ His accent always sounded its worst when he was trying to be polite.

She smiled, an expression of mirth. ‘I haven’t come for an apology,’ she said.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rolf said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ He couldn’t see what a young man like him could help a woman like her with. She was refined, elegant, perfectly presented. His clothes were his best, but calling his appearance scruffy could not be considered unkind. Even he could not defend his accent compared to the sophisticated tones of the city gentry.

‘Might we sit and talk for a moment?’ she said.

Confused by the purpose of her visit, Rolf gestured to the table he had just vacated.

‘I wanted to offer my condolences,’ she said. ‘I heard that your father died suddenly.’

That she would take an interest in such things was as much a surprise as her being there.

‘Thank you,’ Rolf said. ‘It’s come as a great shock.’

‘He was always a fair man. A good lord,’ she said.

‘You knew ‘im?’

‘Of him,’ she said. ‘I come from the March. From Oudin.’

Surprise was laid upon surprise. Her clothes, hair, jewellery, and makeup were perfect. If an artist were to paint an example of cosmopolitan feminine refinement, it would be this woman. Her accent was as crisp as cut glass. There was not even the faintest hint of a March brogue. How could a woman such as this come from the same town as him?

‘It’s very kind of you to pay your respects,’ Rolf said, enunciating his words carefully, then realising it made him sound like even more of a boor, he returned to his usual speech. ‘Have you lived in the city for long?’

‘Not long enough,’ she said. She smiled, but it seemed tired, forced. ‘Too long, perhaps.’

‘I only ask… your accent—‘

‘S’wha’ever ah choose it to be,’ she said, sounding no different to any of the girls who lived in the village by his father’s castle. It was even thicker than his own. Thicker than March mud. The thought made him smile. What was more, the change took years from her face. Where a moment before, she had been a sophisticated woman of the city, she now seemed barely more than a girl, no older than Rolf.

‘What brought you to the city, my Lord?’ she said.

‘There’s trouble across the border, or there will be soon. We’re here to make sure we have the money to defend the King’s borders.’

‘Have you seen him yet?’ Her accent was once again every syllable that of a city lady, sharp, precise, intimidating.

Rolf humphed but cut it off midway, it being a Marchland affectation, and not suitable for a city parlour. ‘No,’ he said, hoping he hadn’t caused offence. ‘Only one of ‘is officials. Didn’t get us anywhere.’

She nodded thoughtfully.

‘I realise, I don’t even know your name,’ Rolf said. ‘Is there anyone you’d like to be reminded to from home? I could carry back some letters if you’d like.’

‘Ysabeau,’ she said. ‘And thank you, but no. There’s no one there for me now.’

There was silence, uncomfortable silence, and Rolf hoped he had not touched on a tender nerve.

‘Is the bakery still there on Southgate Hill?’ she said after a moment.

‘It is. Although young baker has taken over from his father three years since.’

‘Does he make cream buns as well as his father did?’

‘Better.’

She smiled. ‘I used to pinch them when I was a girl. Old baker was very fat. He could never catch me.’

Rolf laughed. ‘I remember him. You’d be out of luck now. Young baker was a man-at-arms before his father died. Fit as a fiddle.’

‘I’m a quick runner,’ Ysabeau said.

Rolf raised an eyebrow.

‘No, these skirts aren’t the best for running in. Good thing I moved to the city, then,’ she said, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Although I’ve the coin to pay for them these days.’ The smile faded.

‘Do you miss the March?’

‘At times. Life wasn’t easy there.’

‘That’s the March.’

She nodded slowly. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, my Lord. Once again, I’m very sorry to have heard about your father.’

He stood as she did, for once his mother’s lessons on city manners not escaping him.

‘Thank you for calling,’ he said, stumbling over the words. He found himself struggling for something to say that would keep her there, even if only for a moment. ‘If you ever find yourself in the March, please call on the castle. You’ll always find hospitality there.’

‘That’s very kind of you, my Lord. I might just take you up on that.’

Rolf watched her leave, fully aware of the jealous glances he had attracted from every man present for the duration of their conversation. She was a picture of beauty, her dress perfectly cut from silk so fine its price could outfit and feed a dozen men-at-arms. The cockaded hat lent her appearance a mischievous air, but it was not until she was gone that Rolf came to a realisation. There was only one way a young woman from the March with no ties came to wear silks and gems.

12

The Insult

Rolf slept little that night. His family’s hegemony of the March was one thing, and it was every nobleman’s duty to ensure the continuance and prosperity of his house, but it was not Rolf’s entire concern. It was also the duty of a nobleman to ensure the safety and prosperity of their subjects. It was a lesson his father had repeated many times, and Ysabeau’s visit the previous night to pay respect to a good and just lord had reminded him of the fact. If the Szavarian’s crossed the border unopposed, every man would be killed, every woman raped, and every child sold to slavery. There would be no need for the noble house of Oudain, nor would it deserve the lands it held.

He had no idea how he would convince the palace officials to give him an audience with the King, nor what he would say if he was given one. If his father had not been able to manage it, how could he be expected to? He had none of his father’s polish, and he felt guilty at regretting not having gone to the Academy. He had made the right decision to remain at home. It was the only choice.

He dressed quickly and tried to push thoughts of the impossible from his mind. He was a nobleman, and had a right of audience the same as every other peer of the realm. He would persist until he was given an audience. After that, he would have to pray that Divine Fortune smiled on him.

His father’s body was in repose at the local chapel, a quiet place overlooking a pretty garden where the priests could say the words that needed saying, before the body was packed in a cask of brandy for his final journey back to the March.

Before he went to the palace, Rolf had to call on the notary to seal the declarations given by Physician Blavaut and the priest to make his father’s death official, and the path for his accession to the March open. Once sealed, he would deliver the papers to the Seneschal when he was at the palace for his audience. There was no reason for any difficulty over that; the March was his by right of inheritance. It could cause delays, however; could cause his getting an audience to be more difficult; could ultimately doom him to failure.

* * *

Rolf hurried toward the palace. The sun was already high, and he knew how much more difficult it would be to get an audience late in the day. Nobles and commoners alike would have been gathering by the palace doors since before dawn. He had, at least, carried out the tasks he had set himself that morning, and had all the proofs necessary to present the Seneschal, and accede to his father’s seat.

He was given the usual challenge at the gate, but hesitated for a moment before answering. Did he call himself Marquis now? It seemed premature, so he simply named himself as a lord of the March, as he had when he called previously. As before, he was admitted with the dignity befitting his rank, but once inside, he was anonymous once again; a minor noble in a high sea of aristocracy.

As in battle, timidity would get him nowhere. He strode through the crowd, not allowing his gaze to wander either left or right, although he wondered if Ysabeau was there, and if so, with whom. He had neither the time nor the desire to fight another duel that day, so he was as polite as he could be as he pushed his way through the crowd.

The Seneschal’s clerks dealt with the initial requests, and they were efficient in their duty. Rolf’s request—for papers to be inspected by the Seneschal, and for an audience with the King—was quickly heard. The fulfilment would take longer, however. Only those requests deemed to be of sufficient importance would find their way to the ears required to make decisions.

Of his accession, Rolf was confident. It was a formality, and one that required speedy resolution to ensure the efficient management of the kingdom. Of his request, Rolf was far less certain. His father had been a respected man, and one who wielded more than his fair share of influence. His request for an audience had won him no more than an instant of the King’s time, and even then not an ounce of his attention. Rolf wondered what chance he might have, this considered, and felt guilty for entertaining the hope that his father’s death might improve his chances of attracting the King’s notice.

His applications lodged, there was little to do but find a free patch of wall in the crowded hall and wait in the hope that his name might be called.

It was difficult to prevent his eyes from wandering across the gathered crowd. The court was still a thing of fascination for him, and his thoughts ever drifted to the possibility that one, or several, of the men before him might be chevaliers of the Silver Circle. Despite all he had seen in the city, part of him still clung to the ideal that they represented.

As his eyes flicked from face to face, colourful clothes, hats, and decorations, he felt himself yearn more for a glimpse of Ysabeau than someone who fit his image of a Chevalier. She had done well to rise so quickly in the city, although he was confident that she had turned far more influential heads than his own. He wondered at her life, one where her only responsibility was to herself, and her survival in a hostile place. He thought of his castle, his lands, his subjects, the duty the King had placed upon his family, and wondered which of them had it best. When it came down to it, they both owed their livelihood to the service of men more powerful than they were.

* * *

The day wore on, and the crowd thinned. Each time a name was called from the front of the hall, Rolf felt his heart jump with hope, but each time he was disappointed, as someone else made their way forward to have their plea heard. Rolf’s mind continued to wander, dreams of the Silver Circle, with he in their number, and Ysabeau the beautiful woman in need of rescue. It was a foolish daydream, but a pleasant way to pass the hours. He almost missed it when his name was called.

Rolf walked forward and made himself known. He was headed toward the throne when an official diverted him off to one side. It was to be expected; there were formalities to be dealt with first.

‘Rolf dal Oudain, heir apparent to the Western March,’ the Seneschal said, when Rolf arrived at his desk, a dark, ancient looking chunk of wood that was covered with stacks of papers.

‘The very same,’ Rolf said, in what he thought to be the style of the city.

‘I’ve reviewed your papers, and see no reason to prevent your accession.’ He dripped sealing wax onto a piece of parchment and pressed a heavy-looking seal into it. ‘This is your writ of ennoblement.’ He handed the parchment to Rolf. ‘From this moment until your death or attainder you are Marquis Rolf, Lord of the Western March, bound in fealty to His Royal Highness, King Boudain the Ninth, and sworn to defend the Kingdom’s western border until the last breath of your body. Do you so swear?’

‘I swear it,’ Rolf said.

‘Very good,’ the Seneschal said. ‘You may go.’

‘About my audience?’ Rolf said.

The Seneschal gave him a frustrated look. ‘It is my recollection that this matter has already been dealt with.’

‘But not in a satisfactory way,’ Rolf said, irritated by the Seneschal’s patronising tone.

‘Satisfactory to whom?’ the Seneschal said, with a raised eyebrow.

‘To anyone,’ Rolf said. ‘When the Szavarians cross the border, I will likely be killed and my house will come to an end. The King will lose his March and all the revenues that go with it.’

The Seneschal smiled. ‘A compelling argument, but your demesne is sufficient to pay for the border’s defence; it is why the territory is so large. As I already explained to your father, the King’s coffers are not a last resort for noblemen who cannot properly manage their accounts.’

Rolf’s temper flared. ‘I can assure you, I am not here to beg, only to seek an exemption from tax for two years. Every penny of that money will be spent on better securing the King’s borders. I realise all the dandies and fops at court might think the money better spent on wine, and cards, and whores, but on the March we take our responsibilities a little more seriously.’ Rolf could feel the veins pulse in his temple.

‘Are you quite done?’ the Seneschal said.

‘He most certainly is,’ a new voice said.

Rolf turned to look, and received a stinging slap to the face. When his eyes cleared, a tall man stood before him, the feather on his black hat matching his powder blue tunic. He had bags under his eyes, and looked like he favoured late nights over sleep.

‘I’ll have you know I’m neither a fop nor a dandy,’ the man said.

Rolf could taste blood in his mouth. ‘But I notice you make no mention of wine, cards, or whores.’

The man’s eyes bulged, but the slap had stated that nothing Rolf said could make the matter any worse.

‘Is there a place you favour?’ Rolf said, resigned to having to fight his third duel in as many days. How easily these city gentlemen seemed to take offence.

‘The Cloister of Sint Gerol,’ the man said. ‘Would one hour be convenient?’

‘Only if you think you can have your affairs in order by then. As I’ve just discovered, death brings a fair heft of paperwork with it.’

‘Cocky little bumpkin, aren’t you?’ the man said. ‘One hour, and I’ll carve that smile off your face.’

Rolf doffed his hat, and the man walked away, leaving Rolf with a clear view of Ysabeau, who wore an amused expression on her face. Even the dark pools of her eyes could not draw him from his frustrated temper. He shrugged at her, winning the faintest hint of a smile, and looked back at the Seneschal, who regarded him with a weary expression.

‘I hate to be the cause of missed appointments,’ the Seneschal said, ‘but if you force me to call the King’s Guard, I doubt very much if you will be at your liberty in time for your engagement with Lord Gauchier.’ He gestured for Rolf to move away and make room for the next courtier. With no options coming to mind, Rolf walked away, wondering how best to find out where the Cloister of Sint Gerol was.

13

The Cloister of Sint Gerol

There was peace and beauty to all of the places in the city where Rolf had killed. The Palace Gardens were an oasis of serenity at the hectic court. The Garden of the White Lilies provided the same to those not privileged enough to lay eyes on the Palace Garden in a city that never seemed to rest. The Cloister was the first place where Rolf had felt true peace since arriving in Mirabay.

A number of trees cast their shade over the small courtyard surrounded by cloistered walkways. The old stone arches and the buildings beyond them were ruins now, and Rolf wondered what they might once have been. It seemed to be a place of contemplation, so far removed from the harrying pace of the city that it might as well have not existed. A place for men of learning, or the gods, perhaps. It was a shame to spoil that tranquillity with the clash of steel and splash of blood, but spoil it he would.

Lord Gauchier arrived with his party a while after Rolf, their excited voices spoiling the spell that had been cast over the place. It made him feel less guilty of the part he would play in shattering it in the moments to come. Rolf stood from the wall he had been sitting on.

‘Gauchier! That’s him,’ Gauchier’s second said. ‘The fellow that killed Estiene.’

‘Well then, I’m doubly glad to have made his acquaintance,’ Gauchier said. He took off his cloak and threw it to one of his companions. There was pride in the way he displayed the rapier and dagger at his waist.

‘Where’s your second?’ Gauchier said.

‘He doesn’t have the use for one, apparently,’ Gauchier’s second said, before Rolf had time to answer for himself.

‘Bad news for you,’ Gauchier said to his second, but intending for Rolf to hear. ‘You’ll have to deal with the body when I’m done.’ He laughed, and was joined by his companions.

Rolf stood silently with his hands on his hips, watching them. One of the companions held out a small silver cup from which Gauchier took a long drink. He smacked his lips when he finished.

‘Best be to it then,’ Gauchier said. ‘Put some manners on this scruffy little bumpkin.’ He drew his sword and swished it through the air, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he did.

Fine clothes, fine swords, fine words. That was all Rolf had found in Mirabay. He would return to the March in the morning, and make the best of what he had there. Triumph or fail, there was nothing in the city that he wanted, nothing it, nor his King, could offer him. The March was a lonely place, and that was as it should be—the lesson his father had taught him the day his mother had died was that you could never entertain the hope for help when living on the March.

‘Ready, boy?’ Gauchier said.

Rolf drew his sword and unbuckled his sword belt before throwing it to one side. He had no words left to waste on a city nobleman. He took his guard.

‘Do you have any instructions for your body?’ Gauchier said. ‘Any bog you’re particularly fond of that you’d like us to have you thrown into?’

Several of his companions laughed. It was a big city, but even so, Rolf would have thought that his previous performances would be better known, and that Gauchier would conduct himself with a little more caution.

Gauchier pushed the arrogant smile from his face in a gesture that said he had to force himself to take the matter seriously. He beat the blade of his sword against Rolf’s twice. Rolf brushed it aside and lunged. Gauchier’s eyes widened, and his sword fell from his hand. Rolf pulled his blade free and walked toward where his sword belt had landed.

Gauchier was still on his feet, wavering, but he was no longer a threat to Rolf, and he was beyond anyone’s help. There was no more noise coming from Gauchier’s companions. They all stood stock still, all too shocked to react in any way. Rolf was walking past them and out of the cloister before they moved toward Gauchier’s now prone form.

14

The Note

There was little about Rolf’s first visit to Mirabay that he cared to remember. He had killed a great many men in the few years since he had first picked up a real sword, but he only knew three of their names; Charlot, Estiene, Gauchier. That was the memory he would take from Mirabay. That and his father’s death. The name would always leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He wondered how things might have gone differently had he remained at home.

He had risen before dawn, with as strong a desire as he had ever experienced to leave Mirabay. Each act in the process of extracting himself from his bed, doing his ablutions, and dressing felt as though it was taking ten times longer than usual. Were it not a three day ride to the next inn worth stopping at, he would have foregone a hot breakfast as well.

As he fumbled with the buttons on his doublet, his haste lengthening the process, there was a knock at the door. He looked over to see a note being pushed underneath. He stared at it for a moment and felt his gut twist. Since arriving in the city, he had killed three men. Might one of their friends or family think they could succeed where the recently deceased had failed? Killing on the March was a necessity for survival. In the city it seemed an affectation to vanity, and an utter waste of time. However, to walk away from a challenge would be seen as cowardice, and that was something he could not accept. If another city gentleman felt a pressing desire to die, Rolf would see him satisfied.

He picked up the piece of paper, breaking the purple wax and unfolding it as he did.

Be at the Palace by eight bells.

Y

The script was neat and elegant, unmistakably that of a woman. No one in the city knew him, and there was only one person he knew of that would sign a letter with ‘Y’. His heart raced at the thought of her sending him a note requesting that he attend on her. He was curious as to what it might mean, but he was certain of one thing. There was no way he would miss an invitation by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, no matter how strong his desire to leave the city.

* * *

He received the usual challenge when he arrived at the palace, but did not hesitate to call himself ‘Marquis’ this time. Despite his earlier-than-usual arrival, there were already a great many people present. He wondered if their concerns ranked along with the threat of a Szavarian invasion. He had not known what to expect after getting the note, but it had occurred to him that he did not know Ysabeau well, and that she was not only a survivor, but someone who thrived in the city. He had killed three men of influence. Her offering him up on a plate to their families or friends could serve her very well, even if it might not end well for them.

He continued on to the hall, looking for her as he went. He walked into the already-crowded hall, ignored as always, but by the time he had gone a few paces, a murmur of whispers started to develop. It took Rolf a moment to realise the whispers and stares were being directed at him, and he felt far more uncomfortable than he ever had staring down a sword.

A clerk spotted him, and hurried forward.

‘My lord, if you’d like to come this way.’

Rolf nodded and followed. The crowd parted as they moved toward the throne, which Rolf spotted was empty. The clerk continued on around the dais toward a door at the side of the hall. They passed through the door and down the corridor behind it until they reached another door. The clerk opened it, and gestured for Rolf to go in. With hesitation he stepped over the threshold.

Sitting at a large, ornate table drinking a glass of iced orange juice was Ysabeau. Opposite her, doing likewise, was the King.

15

The Audience

Rolf bowed the instant he realised whose presence he was in.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘I apologise. I didn’t expect to be brought before you.’

The King waved for Rolf to stand straight. ‘I’m told there is unrest across the border.’

‘There is, your Highness. The Voivode of Vastapol died several months ago. There’s a succession dispute that’s nearing its end. M’father believed the first thing the new Voivode will do is attack across the border to prove himself.’

‘Will his resources not be exhausted by the succession dispute?’

‘No, Highness, I don’t believe so. The Szavarians favour assassination over war when it comes to local squabbles. They save their soldiers for the likes of us.’ Rolf glanced at Ysabeau in the hope of getting some indication of how he was doing, but her expression gave away nothing. She had risen high indeed to be able to arrange private audiences with the King.

‘As things stand, what will happen when the dispute is over?’ the King said.

‘They’ll start to raid in strength. We won’t have the manpower to stop them everywhere, so villages will be destroyed, resources taken, and populations put to the sword or taken as slaves. Border fortifications will be destroyed, and like as not they’ll build garrisons of their own. By then my manpower will be reduced, and I won’t have the funds to raise more levies. I won’t be able to do anything about the garrisons, and the territory they cover will be lost to us. It’ll take a decade to recover from the devastation. In the worst hit areas, generations.’

The King stroked his beard and stared into nowhere. ‘I see,’ he said absently. After a moment, he spoke again. ‘How long will this perceived threat last?’

‘As long as we are unable to stop it,’ Rolf said. ‘Given the resources to prepare, I’ll be able to prevent them crossing the border, and give them a bloody nose in the process. Do that three or four times and they’ll lose the taste for it. Might even overthrow their Voivode and create another few years of peace while they find themselves a new one.’

The King nodded. ‘Poncet, prepare the papers to exempt the Western March from all Royal Duties for two years hence, then bring them to me to sign.’

The Seneschal had been standing in the shadows the whole time, but Rolf had not noticed him.

‘As you wish, Your Highness,’ the Seneschal said.

‘I understand your father died suddenly, Lord Oudin,’ the King said. ‘You have my deepest condolences.’

‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ Rolf said.

‘Unless there is anything else?’

Rolf bowed, and made to leave, but stopped. ‘One thing, Highness.’

‘Go on?’

‘The Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. I expected to see them when I came to court, but I have not. Do they still exist?’

The King smiled. ‘You have, and they do not. The fraternity has fallen out of fashion in recent years, and there were but three of their number remaining. I’m given to understand you killed them all in duels over the past few days.’

Rolf’s jaw dropped. He saw the corner of Ysabeau’s mouth curl in a wry smile, but he was completely lost for words.

‘Young men as handy with a blade as you are always useful. I wonder if you might consider aiding me in reconstituting the Silver Circle by adding your name to their roster?’

Rolf’s heart raced. An offer to join the Silver Circle was the subject of his most ambitious dreams. It was something he had never thought to be even remotely possible. He closed his mouth and tried to gather his thoughts. The first one that came to him was Charlot’s hair dye, his pathetic concession to vanity. The next was Estiene and the ruddy face borne by those too fond of wine and spirits. Finally it was Gauchier, and the heavy bags under his eyes from too many late nights, doubtless spent whoring or at a card table. Above all, he thought of their arrogance, and the way they had declared him a bumpkin worthy only of contempt the moment they had heard his accent.

They were not the men who had slain dragons, rescued maidens, or had tales told of their deeds. They were not men Rolf would ever be comfortable keeping company with. He preferred the rough sound of his accent, the rough cloth of his clothes, and the harsh landscape of his birthplace. He liked being able to identify an enemy at a glance.

‘Thank you, Highness, but I must decline. My responsibility is to the March and ensuring the border of your Kingdom is held fast. I fear other distractions might impair me in that.’

The King nodded again. ‘Well said. I’m confident the March is in good hands.’

Rolf was not so boorish as to miss the fact that the ensuing silence meant his presence was neither required nor desired. He bowed and backed out of the room the way he had come in.

16

Homeward Bound

As the gloom under the cavernous city gate gave way to sunlight once again, Rolf felt as though a weight was lifted from him. He only noticed it now that the great white walls of Mirabay receded behind him. Being out in the open again, not confined by walls or narrow streets, was a panacea. Were it not for the riderless horse he was leading along beside him, he would have felt optimistic.

He had achieved what he and his father had set out to do, but it felt like a hollow victory. The Szavarians were their enemy, and the battles should be fought on the border, not in Mirabay, where he had to beg for the resources to keep the realm safe. He had gone to Mirabay expecting a jewel of a city, the home of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. Instead he had found a fruit that was rotten on the stalk.

He stopped and turned to give the city a final look. A steady stream of traffic passed in and out of the gate. A lone rider broke away from the flow and turned in his direction. The road leading to the March was a lonely one, and they were the only two on it. Even from that distance, he could make out the cockaded hat and the gold silk rose nestled in it. He felt a surge of optimism that even his father’s empty horse could not quell.

He watched the rider close with him and smiled when she stopped.

‘A friend has offered me his hospitality in the March,’ Ysabeau said. ‘I was wondering if you might offer your escort…’

Rolf’s smile grew wider still.

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About the Author

Duncan is a writer of fantasy fiction novels and short stories that are set in a world influenced by Renaissance Europe. He has Master’s Degrees in History and Law, and practised as a barrister before writing full time. He is particularly interested in the medieval and renaissance periods, from which he draws inspiration for his stories. He doesn’t live anywhere particularly exotic, and when not writing he enjoys cycling, skiing, and windsurfing.

His debut novel, ‘The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1)’ was placed 8th on Buzzfeed’s 12 Greatest Fantasy Books Of The Year, 2013.

You can contact Duncan at the following places:

- @DuncanMHamilton

- DuncanMHamilton

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Copyright © Duncan M. Hamilton 2016

All Rights Reserved

The right of Duncan M. Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or downloaded in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This book was previously published under the title The Marcher Lord