Muriele lifted a glare at the man. "You've no manners, sir," she replied. "You're no better than a beast. You've interrupted a perfectly fine evening in the most boorish manner possible."

"I've approached your knight in an honorable way, Your Majesty," he replied. "Which is more than I can say about how he dealt with my poor squires, whom he set upon from hiding. What sort of satisfaction can I have if I can't fight him?"

To Neil, Muriele seemed to pause for an instant.

"Oh, you can fight him," she replied. "I was only pleading with him to spare your life when the moment comes."

The Wishilm knight's brow arched in surprise, and then he smiled. But Neil saw something in the man's eyes. It looked like worry.

He thought I would refuse, Neil realized. Neil realized. He doesn't want to fight me. He doesn't want to fight me.

"Shall we wait for the sun?" Neil asked. "Or would you rather have it now?"

"The morning is fine," Alareik replied. "On the green. Mounted or not?"

"Your choice," Neil replied. "I don't care."

Alareik stood there for a moment.

"Was there something else?" Muriele asked.

"No, Majesty," the Wishilm knight replied. He bowed awkwardly and vanished into the crowd. The music struck up again, and the rest of the evening was all beer, food, and song.

[image]

Neil lifted himself from bed after the midnight bell tolled. He put on his gambeson, took up Battlehound, and made his way back down to the great hall and through its doors to the dark street. He took the sword and made a few pa.s.ses, trying not to wince at how weak the arm felt. An arrow had struck him from above, piercing bone and muscle, and even after the head finally had been withdrawn, fever had nested there for more than a nineday.

Experimentally, he shifted to a left-favoring hold, but that was worse, because the muscles in his upper arm seized into a ball of pain. He'd taken a spear there, and the blade had cut one of the tendons that attached muscle to bone. Apparently those didn't grow back.

He saw something move from the corner of his eye and found a silhouette watching him. Not surprisingly, the shadow had a familiar hulking shape.

"Good evening, Everwulf af Gastenmarka," Neil said. "Come to do your master's dirty work again?"

He couldn't see the face, but the head moved from side to side.

"I'm much ashamed of that," the man growled. "You taught me a proper lesson that night. You could have killed me, but you didn't."

"You were never in danger of that," Neil said.

"Ney, nor was I ever in danger of beating you," the fellow said, "not even with my friends to help me."

"I was lucky."

"Oh, no. I was there. And who hasn't heard of the battle on Thornrath? You butchered our men there, and one of them was Slautwulf Thvairheison. You've made a large reputation in a small time."

"It's the past, Everwulf. No need for you to worry over it."

"Oh, but there is. My lord sent us after you, do you understand? To punish you and affront Sir Fail de Liery. And when you beat us, two of us quit him and went in search of more honorable masters. That's the humiliation that stings him now, that forces this fight, even with you injured."

"What makes him think I'm injured?"

"The battle for the waerd is famous, Sir Neil. And the tale says that you were bleeding from six wounds and lay three months abed. That's not long enough, Sir Neil. You can't be fully mended."

"It is if I didn't really bleed from six wounds," he replied.

"His squires watched you approach. Do you really think he would fight you if he didn't think you were infirm?"

"I think he thought I would back down, and now he isn't sure I'm injured at all."

"Yah. I'm sure you're right there. He's trembling. But he's challenged you in public. He'll fight you."

"There's no talking him out of it?"

"No."

"Well, I'll fight him, then."

Everwulf's voice dropped a bit lower. "Rumor is your legs are good, that your worst injuries were to shoulder and arm. If that were me, I would choose to fight on foot. Quick feet can make up for a slow arm, and I know you have quick feet."

"Thank you," Neil said.

"May the Ansus favor you," Everwulf replied, taking a step back. He paused, then turned and walked quickly off.

"Well, that was interesting," another voice murmured from the darkness, this one feminine. Heat flashed through Neil's veins, and he lifted his blade before recognizing the voice.

"Lady Berrye," he acknowledged.

"You might as well call me Alis," she replied softly.

"You were here for all of that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you be guarding the queen?"

"I am," she replied.

"By watching after me?"

"I never thought she ought to be on this fool's errand in the first place," Berrye said, "and I think it was a mistake to bring you. The emba.s.sy is hardly under way, and already you've endangered it just by being who you are. Every knight between here and Kaithbaurg is going to want to fight you."

"I know," Neil replied.

"Well, then put a stop to it now. Admit your injuries and withdraw."

For a moment Neil honestly thought she was joking, but then her tone registered.

"That's impossible," he said. "That's what Sir Alareik wants."

"Yes. It's what I want, too."

"Is this the queen's word?"

"No. She bleeds the same hot island blood you do, and you convinced her. I think she really believes you will win."

"And you don't?"

"You can barely move your sword arm. Even a little exertion leaves you gasping."

"Well, then I'll lose," Neil said. "That's still better than not fighting."

"You're her champion. If you fight and fall, it weakens her. If you refuse to fight, it shows she's really determined to carry out this emba.s.sy, to avoid distraction, that she has you you under control." under control."

"If she orders me to withdraw, I will."

"She won't."

"She won't because you're wrong," Neil replied. "Anything I do other than fight and win will weaken her. So I'll fight and I'll win."

"That's pure genius," Berrye said, her voice larded with sarcasm.

He didn't see much point in replying, and after a moment she sighed.

"Very well. This fellow you just spoke to-was he really trying to help you? If you chose to fight on foot, won't that just let Wishilm know about the trouble with your arms?"

"Probably. But I don't think Everwulf came to trick me."

"Why, then?"

"To make his peace with me and tell me good-bye."

"You can still stop this," Alis murmured.

Muriele nodded absently. The sun was breaking through the mist, crowning the poplars and firs at the edge of the green, which lay on the eastern outskirts of town. It wasn't, of course, very green but rather an expanse of muddy ground churned up by horses and wagons, soldiers practicing, and children playing games. There were bits of gra.s.s here and there, but on balance Muriele thought it probably ought to be called a "brown."

There was no seating as such, although a chair had been provided for her. Everyone else-and it really did look as if it might be everyone in town-was standing or squatting around the perimeter, waiting expectantly. The Wishilm knight was already on the field, his suit of lord's plate beginning to pick up the gleam of the rising sun. Neil hadn't appeared yet.

"He'll be killed," Alis pursued.

"He's a knight," she replied.

"A badly injured knight. A knight the leics said should never fight again. A knight you brought along to ease into less martial professions."

"He will be of no use to me if I allow Hansa to brand him a coward," Muriele said.

"I cannot believe you are so cold," Alis said.

Muriele felt a flare of anger but let it flicker down.

"I love that boy," she said after a moment. "He has more heart and soul than any man I have ever known, and I owe him more than I can possibly say. But he is from Skern, Alis. I could make him turn from this, but it would wither him. It would destroy him. For a man like him, death is better."

"So you send him to his death?"

Muriele forced a little laugh. "You did not see him at Cal Azroth," she said.

The crowd suddenly erupted in cheers and heckling that were nearly matched, and Muriele wondered if Neil's hounds were from the south part of town and his ravens from the north. But nothing about Bitaenstath seemed so neatly divided.

Neil wore armor easily as bright as Sir Alareik's. It should have been: It never had been worn before. His last harness had had to be cut from him after the battle of the waerd. The new armor was very plain, made in the style of the islands, without ornamentation, formed for battle and not for court.

He was mounted as Wishilm was, but something about the way he sat seemed strange.

Alis caught it first. "He's got it in his left," she said.

That was it. Neil had his lance couched under his left arm. His shield rested heavily on his right.

"That doesn't make sense," she said. That puts point against point. His shield is useless; it's on the wrong side of the horse."

"The same is true for Wishilm," Alis pointed out.

"What is this?" Sir Alareik muttered as they raised visors. "You've got your spear in the wrong hand."

"It's the hand I want it in," Neil shot back.

"It isn't done."

"You challenged me, and yet I let you choose the place and the weapons. Now you're going to begrudge how I choose to wield my spear?"

"This is some trick. It won't work."

Neil shook his head. "It's not a trick," he said. "My right arm is hurt. I think you know that. I can't hold a lance in it, and in fact I don't think I would be able to hold a shield up to take a blow."

Alareik's puzzlement was plain. "Do you wish to withdraw?" he asked.

"Withdraw? No, Sir Alareik. I'm going to kill you. This isn't a formal list; I'll stay to your left, where your shield won't be of any use to you. If you try to bring it around, you'll hit your horse in the head, won't you? So we'll come together point to point, and I'll drive my spear through one of your eyes, and that will be that."

"I'll do the same."