King of Foxes. Raymond E. Feist

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      He had been practising every day for a week since returning from the hunt, and waiting for his opportunity to confront Prince Matthew. He had finally realized the Prince was waiting until he departed to appear at Masters’ Court every second day. Tal judged that the vain prince didn’t wish to share the attention of those at the Masters’ Court with the Champion. So this day, Tal began his practice sessions in the late afternoon, rather than the morning, as was his habit.

      Tal was saluted by every member on the floor, including the instructors, in recognition of his achievement. Today Vassily Turkov was acting as Master of the Floor, head instructor, and arbiter of any dispute. Other instructors worked with students in all corners of the massive hall, but the Master of the Floor supervised the bouts at the centre.

      The floor of the court was of inlaid wood, arranged in a complex pattern that after a brief study revealed itself to be a clever series of boundaries between various practice areas. The floor was surrounded by massive columns of hand-polished wood supporting the ornate high ceiling. Tal glanced up and saw that the ceiling had been repainted, white with gold leaf over embossed garlands and wreaths which surrounded large skylights. Galleries ran along one wall between the columns, while the other wall boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping the entire hall brilliantly lit.

      Vassily came and took Tal’s hand. ‘When you didn’t appear this morning, I thought perhaps you’d given yourself a day of rest, Squire.’ He glanced at the crowded gallery and said, ‘If this continues, we may have to put up those temporary seats again.’ During the Masters’ Champion Tournament, temporary seating had been erected in front of the windows, to accommodate as many onlookers as possible.

      Tal smiled. ‘I just came to practise, Master.’

      The older man smiled and nodded. ‘Then I shall find you an opponent.’ He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: ‘Anatoli, you are first!’

      Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out, ‘Rapiers! Three points to the victor!’

      Both men wore heavily-padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury. They advanced and faced one another.

      The Master came to stand between them, holding out his sword. Each combatant raised his own weapon, touched it to the Master’s and held it in place. Then the Master pulled his weapon away and the contest began.

      Tal had been duelling during his nearly year-long stay in Salador. The Court of Blades was no match for the Masters’ Court in terms of the number of quality opponents, but there were enough good swordsmen there to keep Tal sharp.

      He had needed the time, for on Sorcerer’s Isle there was only Caleb to spar with, and he had been absent a great deal of the time, out on one mission or another for his parents. And while he was the best hunter and archer Tal knew, Caleb’s blade-work left room for improvement.

      Before then, Tal had been with mercenaries, and most of the niceties of the duelling floor were lost on them. They were not looking to perfect swordcraft as an art, but rather as a means of survival, and Tal was fairly certain the Masters of the Court would look dimly upon his using kicks to the groin, eye gouging, and ear biting as part of his sparring regime. Tal realized that many of the young men who would spend years of their lives here in the Masters’ Court would never have to use their blades in anger. Such was the life of a young noble in the civilized bosom of Roldem.

      Young Anatoli was quickly dispatched, for he was sound at basic swordsmanship but lacked any particular gift. Three other young men were also quickly disposed of, and Tal elected to leave the floor.

      Rather than heading straight for the changing room, he went to a table at the end of the hall which was laden with refreshments. A crystal bowl stood in the centre, filled with water and floating slices of lemons. Tal had come to appreciate the drink after getting used to its tartness. Fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries and smoked meats rested on trays. Bottles of ale and wine were also there for those who had finished with the day’s practices. Tal took a cup of lemon-water from a servant, then picked up a slice of apple to nibble on while he surveyed the room.

      One of the court’s many servants stood next to Tal, busily restocking each dish so that the presentation always looked fresh. He calculated the expense and considered how costly it must be to operate the Masters’ Court. Any nobleman was free to use the court for the furtherance of the art of the blade. Commoners with gold could use it for a not-inconsiderable fee, and many chose to do so, for political reasons. Otherwise, the entire cost of operating this palatial undertaking was borne by the Crown.

      For an idle moment, Tal wondered just how much wealth King Carol commanded. He called up from memory a book he had read on the life of the Krondorian trader Rupert Avery, and reconsidered how exaggerated the various sums mentioned by the self-aggrandizing fellow really were. Sitting alone in his little hut on Sorcerer’s Isle, Talon of the Silver Hawk had thought those figures must have been inflated to bolster the author’s claim of importance in the history of the Kingdom. But now that he considered how vast the palace of Roldem was, and just the cost of operating this court alone, not to mention the funding of Roldem’s navy, Tal realized just how naive Talon had been. From somewhere in his memory came the phrase, ‘It’s good to be king’, and despite not being able to remember which of his teachers had uttered it, Talon was inclined to agree.

      For a brief instant he thought he was on the edge of understanding Duke Kaspar’s greed for power.

      Then he saw another large party enter the floor and without needing a second glance, he knew Prince Matthew had arrived. Tal reconsidered his plan again, as he had countless times since he had dreamed it up the week before. Fresh from his heroics in saving the Duke and with the King’s approval he now stood the best chance of making it work without ending up on the headsman’s block, or being discreetly dumped into the harbour.

      Sipping on his drink, he ambled to where the Prince stood surrounded by his entourage. Prince Matthew was a vain man, despite the fact that by the age of thirty he had accumulated an ample girth around an otherwise slender figure. It gave the comic effect of a large reptile trying to digest an even larger ball. Still, the Prince heroically attempted to mask the result of his excesses by employing a jacket that was cinched tight around the middle and padded across the shoulders. He wore his hair short, heavily oiled, and combed forward to disguise his rapidly-retreating hairline, and affected a thin moustache that must take hours to trim each day, thought Talon. He also carried an ornate little viewing-glass, a thing of light purple quartz imported from Queg through which he would peer at things as if the glass somehow gave him a better level of detail.

      Tal waited a short distance away until he was noticed, then bowed.

      The Prince said, ‘Ah, Squire. Good to see you back. Sorry I missed you at the gala, but I was indisposed.’

      The rumour in the palace had been that the Prince had consumed so much wine the night before Kaspar’s welcoming gala he dared not step more than a dozen paces from the garderobe in his quarters lest his irritated bowels rebel unexpectedly. ‘My loss, Highness. It’s good to see you recovered.’

      ‘Have you duelled?’ asked the Prince.

      ‘I just finished, Highness.’

      ‘Ah, СКАЧАТЬ