Starwatch Page 3

  Andiron Sairis, Civil Company Kept

  138 Black Ruin, Year of the Crowned Jester

  18 Vallasir

  Sunlight glinted along an unsheathed dueling rapier held in loose fingers. Baskaran Avaris stood without evident troubles, admiring the clear sky and whistling in soft tones. His adversary awaited across a groomed lawn, lashing boiled leather vambraces to either forearm. A hunched lickspittle with drooping eyelids stood in his shadow and held an ornate velvet scabbard rimmed in gold. The toady bowed and offered a basket hilt sporting woven tassels to the swordsman, who withdrew his blade in one gloved hand. Scowling trimmed eyebrows, he ran a forefinger along its length and nodded.

  “You’ve seen him duel?” inquired Cyriana, nudging her head toward Baskaran.

  Maylene sipped complimentary wine and breathed a sigh. “Haven’t had the pleasure. He put his sword through Voran, so I’d rate his skills highly. I sure didn’t hear any whispers that our dearest friend slipped in mud or stabbed himself. It was a fair bout and this is the man who walked away still breathing.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  “It’s unnerving how damn calm he is. Fellow looks like he’s primed to stroll the gardens and watch birds.”

  “I think he is watching birds.”

  “The act would disturb my peace of mind if I was dueling him. The other man’s inspecting his edge while Baskaran thrusts iron into the grass like a cane.”

  “Duelists are cocky sons of bitches. I’m not sure if they have the mind to be alarmed. But that’s why we like them.” Cyriana scratched her earlobe and surveyed the crowd of pompous nobles jabbering about asinine matters. “This dandy he’s championing…”

  “Lord Verth.”

  “Right. How did Lord Verth slight the other fop? Did he try seducing his sweet daughter?”

  “Nothing so severe. They disagreed over the moral interpretations of some long dead poet and playwright. Words were exchanged, breeding pedigrees insulted, a shared ancestry with livestock insinuated.”

  “Tell me you aren’t being serious.”

  “Dead serious, and one of those duelists is about to die for it. Having a champion duel in your name is all the rage in Asdor. Means the offended noble has no reason to risk his own neck. You’re left with plenty of duels over meaningless squabbles, simply because they can. It’s high sport to these moneyed nitwits. Asdor doesn’t have a hippodrome for chariot races like you grew up with in the north.”

  “If Baskaran goes and gets himself killed while we’re watching I’m going to be miffed. You know anything about the other fellow?”

  “Only that he’d need to be talented to off our boy,” responded Maylene. “But he is a veteran duelist from what I was able to gather.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’re leaving here with a swordsman in tow. I don’t care which one he is. I’ll charm the victor with my wiles.”

  “You could be a crotchety crone missing all your teeth and it wouldn’t matter if we slap silver in his hand. Dueling doesn’t earn the champion any coins.”

  “Come again?”

  “It’s seen as an honorable role. The tradition stretches back centuries, when duels became a noble solution to disagreements. Serving as a duelist brought prestige and respect. In these rarefied circles where patronage counts for much that was seen as better than money. They also didn’t want to attract the attention of sellswords sniffing out easy silver. That’d sully the practice.”

  “Are you certain your knowledge isn’t outdated?” questioned Cyriana, eyeing Baskaran’s adversary. “The other man looks prosperous in his own right. And that’s one hell of a lavish sword he’s swooshing around.”

  “He’s likely a house champion. Means he exists only to serve one noble family, ready at a moment’s notice to defend their honor and stab folks who his masters choose to dislike. For his services the family takes care of him. Provide a place to board, outfit him with swords and swanky clothing. They might even let him hobnob at social balls as if he was someone important. He depends entirely on their good graces. Almost like an indentured servant who puts holes in people.”

  “Let’s hope Baskaran is more interested in shiny metal than ingratiating himself with the snooty blue bloods.”

  “He hasn’t been here for long, I know that much. It’s unlikely any nobles have gotten their scheming little claws into him.”

  “Not a house champion?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. A few more victories under his belt and things might change. He’s cultivating a name for himself, particularly after the Voran incident.”

  “Then I’d say this is a prime time to convince him a change in allegiance is a wise decision. We can’t allow him to be indebted to anyone but us.”

  Maylene jabbed a thumb toward a rotund man ornamented in frilly attire. “We’ll know soon enough which chap to woo. The herald beckons.”

  A man sharing the contours of a potato clapped his hands and hushed nattering spectators. He opened lips decorated with a twirling moustache. “Friends and countrymen, I bid you a warm welcome. We gather here to honor a gentlemen’s agreement as a means to right perceived wrongs and restore faith between two dissenting parties. To satisfy these differing opinions, they have chosen to trust in Malesir’s judgment. We beseech the god of truth and harmony to grant strength to the duelist whose cause is just.

  “Baskaran Avaris of Shorefell shall serve as champion to Lord Marcian Verth. Challenging his claim will be Rentath Darinia of Falinor, representing Lord Irliss Lastin.”

  “All men,” Cyriana snorted. “How typical.”

  “It is alleged Lord Verth unjustly disrespected the hallowed ancestry of House Lastin without provocation. Only the gods can settle such claims and thus we come here today. Gentlemen, have you decided upon your weapon of preference?”

  Baskaran held his rapier aloft and nodded. “I have chosen.”

  “As have I,” Rentath declared.

  “You acknowledge your acquiescence to forfeit all weapons other than your solitary selection?”

  Each man nodded in understanding, though neither withdrew stares from his foe.

  “Respected champions, this duel is not to be fought to first blood, but to the death. The victor will be the one who remains standing at its completion. No other rules beyond those stated are to be considered. In the sight of gods and mortals you agree to these terms.”

  “I do so swear,” each intoned.

  Lifting bare palms, the herald glanced in either direction. Fatty jowls jiggled beneath his generous chins. “Would your lordships care to take this final opportunity to speak?”

  Irliss Lastin thrust one finger weighted by a jeweled ring at his hated peer. “I’ll see you stripped of all titles for your insolent bellicosity. Your upstart grandfather had no right to be granted a lordship. Savor the fresh air this day. There will be precious few more until your family must once again beg for pittances.”

  In response Marcian Verth roared with laughter. “By all means, continue to hide behind a storied ancestry as though it were some badge of honor. Unlike yours, my family has earned its privileges. When did you last have an ancestor worthy of accolades? Two centuries ago?”

  “Nothing will grant me more pleasure than witnessing your unsung champion lying within his own blood. Perhaps then you’ll learn the value of obeisance to your betters.”

  “Mine will bury your pup, and I’ll tolerate no more words from you.”

  Cyriana thought she noted fleeting exasperation creep into Baskaran’s eyes, though his stoic visage returned with haste. Perhaps he might even earn her admiration, assuming he stood among the living within several minutes. She leaned in close to Maylene. “I’m beginning to believe this feud might be about more than critiquing some playwright.”

  “Any excuse, I suppose,” she uttered.

  “Let no further words delay our progress,” the herald thundered. “Gentlemen, take your ready positions and wait for my signal.” He held a pristine white handkerchief
fluttering in the wind, offered one last chance to prepare, and released his fabric. “Commence!”

  Neither seemed content to bait his opponent or embrace caution. The duelists exploded into graceful motion, unleashing a blinding flurry of thrusts and deflections Cyriana could scarcely perceive. Baskaran slashed high, his blade grinding across parrying iron, and twisted beyond the countering stroke. Rentath pressed his advantage with unforgiving blows, staggering Baskaran into a defensive withdrawal. Clumping grass and dirt spewed from beneath shifting boots and Baskaran slewed against an unrelenting blade.

  “Starting to sweat under the collar, you low-bred bastard?” sneered Irliss. “I’ll mount your champion’s head on my front porch.”

  “The crows will gorge on your outmatched pawn,” Marcian retorted to the cheering crowd’s delight.

  Baskaran averted whirling iron and performed a reckless lunge, heaving one fist into his foe’s leather-clad chest. Spittle wetted Rentath’s chin and he struggled to calm ragged breaths while batting aside a lashing sword with clumsy poise.

  “Shame these highborn chaps don’t do their own fighting,” murmured Maylene. “I’d rather see them skewered and have their sorry bravado silenced.”

  A foppish noble cooling himself with a patterned fan sneered and shushed Maylene. She riposted with a murderous glower from her impressive arsenal, causing the imperious man to shrivel as though a timid rabbit.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Cyriana whispered.

  “Not half as much as I thought. Having others do their fighting has snatched away the balls from these men. Is it any wonder the Draugans rule over us?”

  “A more pertinent question is why they’re threatening to desecrate the other’s champion.”

  “Victorious patricians have the right to dispose of the losing duelist however they see fit.”

  Keening metal rang in otherwise still air, muffling her words. “That’s genuinely unsettling.”

  “Most elect to grant a respectful burial, but some are depraved monsters. We might have two on our hands today.”

  Blurred swords sang a shrill and piercing tune, glaring white-hot beneath the fiery sun. The flawless dance enthralled Cyriana, irrespective of any moronic reasons compelling this duel. She admired their precision and unassailable ability to forget the surrounding world. In their minds, only two souls stood upon the dueling field. No sounds echoed but for clashing metal, no sensation other than aching limbs, no sights beyond scything blades.

  “Voran was never that fast,” remarked Maylene.

  “Aye, and the reason for his death is less a mystery to my mind.”

  A spearing feint lured Rentath into a raised guard, though his nimble foe recoiled an outstretched arm and struck low instead. Baskaran plunged his rapier upward into an unshielded stomach and iron encrusted with pulpy red tore through boiled leathers. A solitary breath hissed from parted lips. Rentath uncurled gloved fingers with a whimper and his unsullied weapon slipped free to impale the lawn. Placing a palm on his adversary’s face, Baskaran withdrew a smeared blade and allowed Rentath to topple.

  Silence descended on the gathered nobility. Cyriana stifled the desire to snicker, knowing how ill-advised the reaction might be around certain irked aristocrats.

  Irliss stared at Rentath Darinia’s warm corpse, his face twisted into astonished dread. “Impossible.”

  “Baskaran Avaris of Shorefell, championing Lord Marcian Verth, may henceforth claim victory in this duel!” the herald shouted. “Allegations made by Lord Irliss Lastin have proven to be irrevocably false. Let no person challenge Lord Verth on this matter again.”

  Marcian clasped hands behind his back and strolled toward a stunned Irliss. The victorious noble did not bother to quiet his voice when he spoke. “Learn to show more respect if you ever dare open your mouth in my hearing again.” He turned and yelled to ensure all present heeded his words. “And I forbid this failed champion’s corpse from being touched. I was not jesting about his flesh feeding the birds. Choose a new dueling lawn if his body hasn’t decomposed by the next match.”

  Cyriana watched Marcian depart wearing a smug grin while Baskaran left the field unmolested and approached an umbrella. He tugged dueling gloves off, dabbed his moist forehead with a cloth and retrieved one chilled drink sprinkled with rose petals.

  “Time to make a new friend,” she said.

  Cyriana and Maylene walked toward Baskaran before other nobles might have similar ideas. He noticed their arrival and set his drink aside.

  “An admirably fought bout, sir,” remarked Cyriana.

  “My thanks. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, my lady.” He took Cyriana’s hand in his and kissed her skin. “My name is Baskaran Avaris.”

  “Cyriana Faesen. This is my companion Maylene.”

  Baskaran smiled and offered a crisp nod. “An honor.”

  “I hope Lord Verth pays well for your services. A man of your talents must certainly earn considerable recompense.”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand this practice. A champion duels for prestige and to defend a slighted man’s good name. We receive no payment for our duty.”

  “But you willingly place your life in jeopardy to satisfy another man’s fragile ego,” noted Cyriana. “Don’t you believe such risks warrant something in return?”

  “My profession is respected and cared for. That is the reward I covet.”

  “And what if it didn’t need to be the only one?”

  “My lady, I suspect you knew the qualities of dueling before our introductions.” Baskaran spread his lips in a grin. “Are you trying to bait me?”

  “She is,” responded Maylene. “And she’s being too damned polite about it. We have a mind to hire you for a job elsewhere. Unlike those peacocks who refuse to soil their fragranced hands, we’ll pay for your time. Enough to purchase your way into the lower nobility if it’s what you want. Truthfully we sought another fella until you bumped him from the list.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

  “You killed Voran in a duel,” Cyriana clarified. “He was our intended swordsman.”

  “I’m not a bragger by nature, so it’s no great shame to admit the man was drunk when he challenged me. I did my utmost to convince him to withdraw his challenge.”

  “You might not think so,” said Maylene, “but that’s no less impressive. Voran was more dangerous when he had alcohol in him. Booze made him unpredictable and brash.”

  “If he was your friend, why would you wish to hire me?”

  “Voran wasn’t our buddy. He happened to have a talent for skewering others and that made him tolerable when we had need for it. But as you discovered he was a drunkard and a boor. Neither of us shed a tear when we heard what happened, and by the looks of it he was a fool for throwing down the gauntlet with you. Moron should’ve known better.”

  “This proposition you have for me, can you elaborate?”

  “We’re contracted to perform jobs for wealthy folks with discerning taste,” explained Cyriana. “I can’t give details or tell you where we’re traveling until you’ve signed on and we’re underway. We’re prudent and not the trusting sort. I can tell you nothing is happening here though. We’re leaving Asdor City with or without you by the end of today.”

  “And should I agree, what might my role be in all this?”

  “Some elements of our work attract hostile attention. If we point at someone and tell you to rough them up, you go do it. With any luck and no small amount of planning, there’ll be less swordplay than you’re accustomed to. More than anything else you’ll be a deterrent to those with violent thoughts. We need your mind clever and attentive, so it’s just as well you buried Voran.”

  “I might be suited to that task,” Baskaran asserted. “You promised enough money to buy a title. We may have differing opinions on how much that is.”

  “Two hundred gold coins for each person without exception.”

  “Before you ask,” Maylene said, “n
o, she isn’t jesting. Once the task’s done, you never have to live under some coxcomb’s polished heel again.”

  “Merciful god,” he uttered. “And I need only act as a bodyguard of sorts?”

  “We won’t be asking you to fulfill roles beyond your expertise,” Cyriana responded. “Keep the blade you carry sharp and poised for action.”

  Baskaran clasped an ebony hand onto hers and shook. “You have my loyalty. Where do we travel from here?”

  “Our next potential recruit is in Ercora. We can be on a river barge floating down the Honeywater this afternoon if you don’t have pressing business.”

  “As it happens, I do not. No family has officially designated me their house champion, which gives me a greater degree of freedom. I believe I will exercise that right and excuse myself from further duels. If you’d be kind enough to wait for me?”

  “We’ll be right here.”

  Baskaran smiled and departed with one hand touching the basket hilt at his hip.

  Maylene watched him stride across grass before leaning in close over Cyriana’s shoulder. “He seems a reasonably honorable fellow. What makes you think Baskaran won’t tell us where to shove our blades when he learns we’re hired thieves?”

  “He kills strangers because their patrons don’t appreciate poetry in the right way. Duelists can’t be overburdened by guilt. I’m sure he’ll be fine with lifting relics.”

  “One can only hope.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” Cyriana promised. “Now what say we use our benefactor’s coinage to purchase some refreshments for what I’m sure will otherwise be a dull river cruise?”

  Chapter 3

  Has there ever been a more dependable tactic than blackmail? I’ve never bothered with logic or wasted breath appealing to a person’s emotions. Not when forcing their hand is quicker and requires less effort. I’ll worry about the simmering resentment and tendency toward violence another time.