Ellen Kushner - Swordpoint

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Swordpoint by Ellen Kushner

Chapter I

Snow was falling on Riverside, great white feather-puffs that veiled the

cracks in the facades of its ruined houses, slowly softening the harsh

contours of jagged roof and fallen beam. Eaves were rounded with snow,

overlapping, embracing, sliding into each other, capping houses all clustered

together like a fairy-tale village. Little slopes of snow nestled in the slats

of shutters still cosily latched against the night. It dusted the tops of

fantastical chimneys that spiralled up from frosted roofs, and it formed white

peaks in the ridges of the old coats of arms carved above the doorways. Only

here and there a window, its glass long shattered, gaped like a black mouth

with broken teeth, sucking snow into its maw.

Let the fairy-tale begin on a winter's morning, then, with one drop of blood

new-fallen on the ivory snow: a drop as bright as a clear-cut ruby, red as the

single spot of claret on the lace cuff. And it therefore follows that evil

lurks behind each broken window, scheming malice and enchantment; while behind

the latched shutters the good are sleeping their just sleeps at this early

hour in Riverside. Soon they will arise to go about their business; and one,

maybe, will be as lovely as the day, armed, as are the good, for a predestined

triumph....

But there is no one behind the broken windows; only eddies of snow drift

across bare floorboards. The owners of the coats of arms have long since

abandoned all claims to the houses they crest, and moved up to the Hill where

they can look down on all the city. No king rules them any more, for good or

ill. From the Hill, Riverside is a tiny splotch between two riverbanks, an

unsavoury quarter in a prosperous city. The people who live there now like to

think of themselves as evil, but they're really no worse than anyone else. And

already this morning more than one drop of blood has been shed.

The blood lies on the snow of a formal winter garden, now trampled and muddy.

A man lies dead, the snow filling in the hollows of his eyes, while another

man is twisted up, grunting, sweating frog-ponds on the frozen earth, waiting

for someone to come and help him. The hero of this little tableau has just

vaulted the garden wall and is running like mad into the darkness while the

darkness lasts.

The falling snow made it hard for him to see. The fight hadn't badly winded

him, but he was hot and sweaty, and he could feel his heart pounding in his

chest. He ignored it, making for Riverside, where no one was likely to follow

him.

He could have stayed, if he'd wanted to. The swordfight had been very

impressive, and the party guests had been well entertained. The winter garden

party and its outcome would be talked about for weeks. But if he stayed, the

swordsman knew that he would be offered wine, and rich pastry, and asked

boring questions about his technique, and difficult questions about who had

arranged the fight. He ran on.

Under his cloak, his shirt was spattered with blood, and the Watch would want

to know what he was doing up on the Hill at this hour. It was their right to

know; but his profession forbade him to answer, so he dodged around corners

and caught his breath in doorways until he'd left the splendours of the Hill

behind, working his way down through the city. It was breaking dawn when he

came to the river, flowing murky green under the Bridge. No one waited there

to challenge him, so he set his foot on the stone, ploughing through

snowdrifts and the messy trails of other late-night workers who'd come before

him, until he'd put the river safely between himself and the rest of the city.

He stood now in Riverside, where the Watch never dared to come. People knew

him here, and wouldn't bother him.

But when he opened the door to his landlady's, there was a considerable crowd

assembled, all wanting to know about the fight. Other Riversiders had been on

the Hill too, that night, burgling houses and collecting gossip, and already

the rumours had begun. The swordsman answered their questions with as much

civility as he could muster, suddenly awash with exhaustion. He gave Marie his

shirt to wash, and climbed the stairs to his own rooms.

Less than an hour earlier, Marie the whore and laundress, who also rented out

rooms by the week, had lain snoring lightly in the arms of a dear client,

unaware of the impending excitement. Her friend was a sailor turned coiner,

whose wooden leg leaned handily against the headboard. He was her fifth and

last of the night, and she, not as young as she once was, slept through the

initial pounding on her shutters. The sailor stirred uneasily, dreaming of

storms. When the knock came harder, Marie bolted up with a cry, then shrieked

at the cold outside the blanket.

'Marie! Mane!' The voice through the shutter was muffled but insistent. 'Open

up and tell us all about it!'

Marie sighed. It must be St Vier again: every time the swordsman got up to

something they came to her to find out the details. This time, it was annoying

to admit, she didn't know -but then, she didn't have to tell them that. With

the laugh that had always made her popular, Marie got up and unbolted the door

to the house.

Her sailor huddled in a corner of the bed while her friends trooped in, taking

over the room with the ease of familiarity. It was the right room for

socialising, having been the front parlour when the house was a noble's town

house. The cherubs painted on the ceiling were flecked with mould; but most of

the laurel-leaf moulding still framed the walls, and the fireplace was real

marble. Marie's friends spread their wet cloaks out on the gilded escritoire,

now missing all its drawers, and over the turquoise velvet chair no one could

sit on because of the uncertainty of its legs. Lightfinger Lucie coaxed the

fire to a blaze, and Sam Bonner produced a jug of something that made the

sailor feel much better.

'You know,' said Sam ponderously, 'your St Vier's gone and killed a duke this

time.'

Sam Bonner was a former pickpocket with an unhandy taste for the bottle. He'd

been repeating the same thing for half an hour now, and his friends were

getting tired of correcting him. 'Not the duke, Sam,' one of them tried again.

'He's working

for the duke. He killed two swordsmen, see, in the duke's garden.'

'No, no, in Lord Horn's garden. Three swordsmen, I heard,' another asserted,

'and from a very reliable source. Two dead, one wounded, and I'm taking odds

on whether he'll live till morning!'

'Done!'

Marie sat on the bed with the blankets wrapped around her feet, letting the

betting and the squabbling swirl around her. 'Who's dead ? - Lynch - de Maris

- Not a scratch on him - Horn's garden - Hired St Vier? - Not St Vier, Lynch -

Wounded -Dying - Who's paying St Vier? - Horn - the duke - the devil -How

much? - More'n you'll ever see -'

More people trickled in, adding to the clamour. 'St Vier's been killed -

captured - Five to one -'

They barely noticed when another man came in and silently took a place just

inside the door. Sam Bonner was roaring, 'Well, I say he's the best dam'

swordsman in the whole dam' city! No, I'm lying - in the world!'

Trie young man by the doorway smiled, and said, 'Excuse me. Marie?'

He was younger than most of them there; dark-haired, of average height, his

face dirty and stubbled.

'Who the hell is that?' Sam Bonner growled.

'The best dam' swordsman in the world,' Lightfinger Lucie answered with

pardonable malice.

'I'm sorry to bother you,' the swordsman said to Marie, 'but you know how the

stains set.' He took off his cloak, revealing a white shirt ugly with blood.

He pulled the shirt over his head, and tossed it into a corner. For a moment

the iron tang of blood cut through the smells of whisky and wet wool. 'I can

pay you next week,' he said. 'I made some money.'

'Oh, that's fine with me,' Marie said with off-handed airiness, showing off.

He turned to go, but they stopped him with the shouting of his

name: 'St Vieri'

'St Vier! Who's dead, then?'

'De Maris,' he answered curtly. 'And maybe Lynch, by now. Excuse me, please.'

No one reached out a hand to stop him as he walked through the door.

The smell of frying fish made the swordsman's stomach lurch. It was his young

gentleman, the University student, wrapped in his scholar's robe, hovering

like a black bat over the frying pan in the ornamented fireplace.

'Good morning,' St Vier said. 'You're up early.'

'I'm always up early, Richard.' The student didn't turn around. 'You're the

one who stays out all night killing people.' His voice was its usual cool

drawl, taunting in its nonchalance. The accent, with its crisp consonants and

long vowels, took Richard back to the Hill: for a moment he was once again

crouched amid the topiary of the pleasure garden, hearing the same tones

ringing on the air from the party guests. 'Who was the poor soul this time?'

'Just a couple of swordsmen. It was supposed to be a duel with Hal Lynch, I

thought I told you. Our patrons set it up to take place at this crazy garden

party of Lord Horn's. Can you imagine, having a party outdoors in this

weather?'

'They would have had furs. And admired the landscaping.'

'I suppose.' While he spoke, the swordsman was cleaning his sword. It was a

light, flexible duelling weapon of a sort only he, with his reputation and his

reflexes, could carry around Riverside with authority. 'Anyway, Lynch got

started, and then de Maris popped out of the shrubbery and started coming at

me.'

'Whatever for?'

Richard sighed. 'Who knows? He's Horn's house swordsman; maybe he thought I

was attacking his master. Anyway, Lynch stepped aside, and I killed de Maris.

He was out of practice,' he added, polishing the blade with a soft cloth.

'Lynch was good enough, he always has been. But our patrons wanted it past

first blood, so I think I killed him. I think ...' He scowled. 'It was a

clumsy stroke. I slipped on some old ice.'

The young man poked at the fish. 'Do you want some?'

'No, thanks. I'm just going to bed.'

'Well, it's revolting cold,' the scholar said with satisfaction, 'I shall have

to eat it all myself.'

'Do that.'

St Vier passed into the adjoining room, which contained a clothes chest that

also held his swords, wrapped in oil cloth, and a large, heavily carved bed.

He had bought the bed the last time he had any money; seen it in a Riverside

market stall full of odds-and-ends retrieved from the old houses, and fallen

in love with it.

He looked at the bed. It did not appear to have been slept in. Curious, he

returned to the front room.

'How was your night?' he asked. He noticed the pair of wet boots standing in

the corner.

'Fine,' the scholar answered, daintily picking bones out of his fish. 'I

thought you said you were tired.'

'Alec,' said Richard. 'It really isn't safe for you to be going out alone here

after dark. People get wild, and not everyone knows who you are yet.'

'No one knows who I am.' Alec dreamily laced his long fingers in his hair. His

hair was fine and leaf-brown, worn down his back in the long tail that was the

defiant emblem of University scholars. He had been in Riverside since autumn,

and his clothes and his accent were the only signs of where he had come from.

'Look.' Alec's eyes, turned to the window, were dark and green, like the water

under the Bridge. 'It's still snowing. You can die in the snow. You're cold,

but it doesn't hurt. They say you get warmer and warmer, and then you fall

asleep___'

'We can go out later. If anyone is trying to kill you, I'd better know about

it.'

'Why?'

'I can't let them,' the swordsman said; 'it would ruin my reputation.' He

yawned. 'I hope at least you had your knife with you.'

'I lost it.'

'Again? Well, never mind. I can get you another when the money for the fight

comes in.' St Vier shook out his arms, and flexed them against the wall. 'If I

don't go to sleep soon, I'm going to start waking up, and then I'll feel

rotten for the rest of the day. 'Night, Alec'

'Good night, Richard.' The voice was low and amused; of course, it was

morning. But he was much too tired to care. He placed his sword within reach

of the bed, as he always did. As he

drifted off, he seemed to see a series of white images, scenes carved in snow.

Frosty gardens, their branches lush with white roses and crystal thorns;

ladies with floating spun-sugar hair escorted by ivory gallants; and, for

himself, opponents with long bright swords of clear and gleaming ice.

Chapter II

By midday, most of the nobles on the Hill could be counted on to be awake. The

Hill sat lordly above the rest of the city, honeycombed with mansions,

landscaped lawns, elaborate gates and private docks on the cleanest part of

the river. Its streets had been built expressly wide and smooth enough to

accommodate the carriages of nobles, shortly after carriages had been

invented. Usually, mornings on the Hill were passed in leisurely exchange of

notes written on coloured, scented and folded paper, read and composed in

various states of dishabille over cups of rich chocolate and crisp little

triangles of toast (all the nourishment that ought to be managed after a

night's revelling); but on the morning after the garden duel, with the night's

events ripe for comment, no one had the patience to wait for a reply, so the

streets were unusually crowded with carriages and pedestrians of rank.

The Duke of Karleigh was gone from the city. From what anyone could discover,

the duke had left Lord Horn's party not an hour after the fight, gone home,

ordered up his carriage despite the snow, and departed before dawn for his

estates in the south without a word to anyone. The first swordsman who had

fought St Vier, a man named Lynch, had died at around 10 that morning, so

there was no asking him whether Karleigh had hired him for the duel, although

the duke's abrupt departure upon Lynch's defeat seemed to confirm that he had.

St Vier had disappeared back into Riverside, but whoever had hired him was

expected to step forward momentarily to claim the stylish and elegant victory

over Karleigh. So far, no one had.

Meanwhile, Lord Horn was certainly making enough of a fuss over the use his

gardens had been put to, never mind the loss of his house swordsman, the

impetuous de Maris; but that, as Lady Halliday remarked to the Duchess

Tremontaine, meant precisely

what it was supposed to mean. Horn was doubtless trying to coast on the

notoriety that the event had given his otherwise unremarkable party for as

long as possible. Both ladies had been there, along with most of the city's

great aristocracy, many of whom Karleigh was known to have quarrelled with at

one time or another.

'At least', said the Duchess, tilting her elegant head, 'it seems to have rid

us of my lord of Karleigh for the rest of the winter. I cannot commend his

mysterious opponent too heartily for that service. Odious man. Do you know,

Mary, how he insulted me last year? Well, it's just as well you don't; but I

assure you I shall never forget it.'

Mary, Lady Halliday, smiled at her companion. The two women were seated in the

sunny morning room of the Halliday townhouse, drinking tiny cups of bitter

chocolate. Both were clothed in billowing yards of soft, exquisite lace,

giving them the look of two goddesses rising from the foam. Their heads, one

brown and one silver-fair, were perfectly coiffed, their eyebrows finely

plucked. The tips of their fingers, round and smooth, peeped continually

through the lace like, little pink shells.

'So,' the duchess concluded, 'it's no wonder someone finally got vexed enough

to set St Vier on him.'

'Not on him, precisely,' Mary Halliday amended. 'The duke was, after all,

warned in time to find himself another swordsman to take the challenge.'

'Pity,' the duchess growled.

Lady Halliday poured out more chocolate, musing, 'I wonder what it was all

about. If it had been anything clever or amusing, the quarrel would not be

kept such a secret - like poor Lynch's last duel, when Lord Godwin's eldest

hired him to fight Mon-teith's champion over whose mistress was prettier. That

was nice; but then, it wasn't to the death.'

'Duels are to the death only when one of two things is at stake: power or

money.'

'What about honour?'

'What do you think honour buys?' the duchess asked cynically.

Lady Halliday was a quiet, shy young woman with none of her friend's

fashionable talent for clever chatter. Her voice was generally low, her speech

soft - just what men always claimed to

want in a woman, but were never actually drawn to in the drawing room.

However, her marriage to the widowed Basil, Lord Halliday, a popular city

aristocrat, was said to have been a love match; so society was prepared to

credit her with hidden depths. She was, in fact, by no means stupid, and if

she answered the duchess with ponderous slowness it was only that she was, as

was her habit, weighing her words against the thoughts behind them. 'I think

that honour is used to mean so many different things that no one can be sure

of what it really is. Certainly young Monteith claimed his honour to be

satisfied when Lynch won the fight, while privately Basil told me he thought

the whole thing a pointless exercise in scandal.'

'That is because young Monteith is an idiot, and your husband is a sensible

man,' the duchess said firmly. 'I imagine Lord Halliday is much more pleased

with this fight of Karleigh's; at least it accomplished something practical.'

'More than that,' said Lady Halliday. Her voice had dropped, and she leaned

out a little over the furbelows of lace toward her friend. 'He is immensely

pleased that Karleigh has left town. You know the Council of Lords elects its

head again this spring. Basil wishes to be re-elected.'

'And quite rightly,' Diane said stoutly. 'He is the best Crescent Chancellor

the city has had in decades - the best, some say, since the fall of the

monarchy, which is generous praise indeed. Surely he expects no difficulty in

being re-elected?'

'You are kind. Of course the city loves him... but... 'She leaned even closer,

her porcelain cup held out of harm's way. i must tell you. In fact there is a

great deal of difficulty. My lord -Basil - has held the Crescent for three

consecutive terms now. But it seems there's a law that no one may hold it for

four straight terms.'

'Is there?' said the duchess vaguely. 'What a shame. Well, I'm sure that won't

matter to anyone.'

'My lord is hoping to put it to the vote in spring. The entire Council may

choose to override the law in the case. But the Duke of Karleigh has been

quietly approaching people all winter, reminding them of it, spreading all

sorts of nonsense on the danger of too much power in the hands of one

nobleman. As though my lord would take that power - as though he could,

when he expends all his strength just keeping the state together!' Lady

Halliday's cup rattled on its saucer; she steadied it and said, 'You may see

why my lord is pleased that Karleigh's gone, if only for a month or two.'

'Yes,' the duchess said softly; 'I thought he might be.'

'But Diane - ' Suddenly Lady Halliday seized her hand in an eloquent hissing

of lace. 'It may not be enough. I am so concerned. He must keep the Crescent,

he is just beginning to accomplish what he set out to do; to lose it now, even

for a term', would be a terrible set-back for him and for the city. You hold

Tremontaine in your own right, you could vote in Council if you chose-----'

'Now, Mary..." Smiling, the duchess disengaged her hand. 'You know I never

meddle in politics. The late duke would not have wished it.'

Whatever further entreaty Lady Halliday might have made was forestalled by the

announcement of two more guests, the Godwins, who were shown up with the

greatest dispatch.

It was unusual for Lady Godwin to be in town in winter; she was fond of the

country and, being past that time of life when social duties required her

presence in the city, spent most of her time with her husband overseeing the

Godwins' great house and estates at Amberleigh. The responsibility of

representing the family's interests in the city and on the Council of Lords

fell to Lord Godwin's heir, his only son Michael. Lord Michael's name was

surrounded with the pleasing aura of scandal appropriate to a young noble who

did not need to be too careful of what was said about him. He was an

exceptionally attractive young man, and knew it. His liaisons were many, but

always in good taste; they might be said to be his distinguishing social

excess, as he eschewed those of gambling, quarrelling and dress.

Now he escorted his mother into the room, every inch the well-groomed, dutiful

son. He had attended parties given by the duchess and by the Hallidays, but

was not well enough acquainted himself with either lady to have visited her

privately.

His mother was greeting her friends with kisses, all three women using each

other's first names. He followed her with a proper bow and kiss of the hand,

murmuring their titles. Diane of Tremontaine said over his bent head, 'How

charming to find a young man willing to call upon ladies at a decent hour and

in conventional fashion.'

'Barely decent,' Mary Halliday amended, 'with us still in our morning

clothes.'

'They are so lovely, you ought never change them,' Lydia Godwin was saying to

her; and to Diane, 'Of course: he was very well brought up - and the city

hasn't altered his breeding, whatever his father might say. I can trust you,

can't I, Michael?'

'Of course, madam.' Automatically he answered the tone of her voice. He had

heard nothing since the duchess's comment, acid and piquant. He was surprised

that a woman of her stature knew enough about his adventures to be able to

make such a pointed remark, and was impressed with her audacity in making it

in front of the others. The women were talking now, of the season, of his

father's grain estates, as he swept his long-lashed gaze over her. She was

beautiful, delicate and fair, with the true aristocrat's fragility that all

fashionable city ladies strove to affect. He knew she must be closer to his

mother's age than to his own. His mother had allowed herself to run to

plumpness. It made her look comfortable; this lady looked entrancing. Suddenly

Diane was meeting his look. She held it for a moment, unperturbed, before

turning back to his mother and saying, 'And now, no doubt, you are disgusted

with yourself for having missed Horn's winter ball! I nearly had a headache

myself at the last minute, but I'd already had the dress made, and where else

is one going to wear white at this time of year? Poor Horn! I've heard that

someone is saying that it was he himself who hired both swordsmen, just to

entertain his guests!'

'Not a very kind "someone",' put in Lord Michael, 'considering how his house

swordsman teamed up with Master Lynch against St Vier - '

'Who still contrived to win!' his mother interrupted. 'I do wish I'd seen it.

I hear it's harder and harder to hire St Vier to fight for anyone.' She

sighed. 'Swordsmen are getting so above themselves these days, from what I

hear.When I first came to the city, I remember, there was a man named Stirling

- one of the richest men on Teviot Street, with a big house and gardens - he

was a swordsman, one of the greats, and he was paid accordingly. But no one

had to ask him who he felt like fighting that particular day; you just sent

him the money and he did the job."

'Mother,' Michael teased her. 'I never knew you had such a passion for

swordplay! Shall I hire you St Vier for your birthday?'

'Now, who will he fight at Amberleigh? Don't be silly, my darling,' she said

fondly, patting his hand.

'Besides,' Lady Halliday said, 'chances are good that he doesn't do

birthdays.' Her friends looked startled at this pronouncement, coming from

her. 'Well, you've heard the story haven't you? About Lord Montague and his

daughter's wedding?' To her dismay they said they hadn't, and she was obliged

to begin: 'She was his only daughter, you see, so he didn't mind the expense,

he wanted to hire the best swordsman there was to take the part of the guard

at the altar... It was only last summer, you must have... Oh, well - St Vier

had fought for Montague before, so he had the man up to his house - well, in

his study, I imagine - to ask him properly, so no one would think there was

anything shady going on - you know all you need before a wedding's people

getting jumpy over swords - so Montague offered him the job, purely

ceremonial, he wouldn't even have to do anything. And St Vier looked at him,

pleasantly enough, Montague told us, and said, "Thank you, but I don't do

weddings anymore."'

Lady Godwin shook her head. 'Imagine. Stirling did weddings; he did Julia

Hetley's, I remember it. I wanted him to do mine, but he was dead then. I

forget who we got instead.'

'My lady,' said Michael, with that impish grin she had always found

irresistible, 'shall I take up the sword to please you? I could add to the

family fortunes.'

'As though they needed adding to,' the duchess said drily. 'I suppose you

could save yourself the expense of hiring a swordsman to fight your inevitable

romantic quarrels, my lord. But aren't you a little old to be able to take it

up successfully?'

'Diane!' his mother gurgled. This once he was grateful for her quick

intercession. He was fighting back a blush, one of the drawbacks of his fair

complexion. The lady was too personal, she presumed upon acquaintance with his

mother to mock him... He was not used to women who did not care to please him.

'Michael, you are a perfect goose even to think of such a thing, and, Diane,

you must not encourage him to quarrel, I'm sure his friends are bad enough.

Oh, yes, no doubt Lord Godwin would be delighted to hear of his heir taking up

the sword like any common street brawler. We saw to it that you had all the

training you needed when you were a boy. You carry a petty-sword nicely, you

can dance without catching your legs in it, and that should be enough for any

gentleman.'

'There's Lord Arlen,' Lady Halliday said. 'You can't say Ac's not a

gentleman.'

'Arlen is an eccentric,' Lady Godwin said firmly, 'and notably old-fashioned.

I'm sure no young man of Michael's set would even consider such a thing.'

'Surely not, Lydia,' the exquisite duchess was saying consolingly. 'And Lord

Michael a man of such style, too.' To his surprise she smiled at him, warmly

and directly. 'There are men I know who would go to any lengths to annoy their

parents. How fortunate you are, Lydia, in having a son you may trust always to

do you credit. I am sure he could never be any more serious about taking up

the sword than something equally ridiculous ... University, for instance.'

The talk turned to notorious sons, effectively shutting Michael out from

contributing to it. Another time he might have listened avidly and with some

amusement as they discussed various of his friends and acquaintances, so that

he could store up anecdotes to repeat at card parties. But although no trace

of it showed in his pleasant bearing and handsome face, Lord Michael was

feeling increasingly sullen, and wondering how he might possibly leave without

offending his mother, whom he had promised to accompany on all her calls that

day. The company of women, making no effort to include him, made him feel, not

so much as if he were a child again - for he had been a very fetching child,

and adults had always stopped to notice him - but as though he had wandered

into a cluster of foreigners, all chattering with animation in another

language; or as though he were a ghost in the room, or a piece of useless and

uninteresting furniture. Even the alluring duchess, though clearly not unaware

of his interest, failed to be entirely concerned with him. At present, for

example, she seemed to be much more taken with a series of stories his mother

was telling about one of his lunatic cousins.

Perhaps he might see her again soon, in better circumstances -only to renew

the acquaintance, of course; his current lover's possessiveness he found

exciting, and was not yet ready to give up.

Finally, they returned to the more interesting question of whether Lord Horn

had had anything to do with the fighting in his gardens. Michael was able to

say sagely, 'Well, I hope the suggestion will not get back to Horn's ears.

He's liable to become offended and hire himself another swordsman to take care

of the rumour-mongers.'

The duchess's fine eyebrows rose in twin arcs. 'Oh? Are you intimately

acquainted with the gentleman and his habits?'

'No, madam,' he answered, covering his discomfort at her challenge with a show

of surprise. 'But I know him to fee a gentleman; I do not think he would

readily brook the suggestion that he had intentionally set two swordsmen

against one, whether in private quarrel or to please his guests.'

'Well, you're probably right there,' she conceded; 'whether he actually did so

or not. Horn has been so careful of his reputation these last few years - he'd

probably deny stealing honey if his fingers were caught in the jar. He was

much more agreeable when he still had something to occupy his time.'

'Surely he is as busy now as any nobleman?' Lady Halliday asked, sure she was

missing some vital connection. Lydia Godwin said nothing, but scowled at her

knuckles.

'Of course,' Diane said generously, 'you were not yet come to the city then,

Mary. Dear, how gossip will trip us up! You will not know that some years past

Lord Horn was the reigning beauty. He managed to capture the eyes of Lord

Galing, God rest him, who was at the time gaining power in the Council, but

didn't quite know what to do with it all. Horn told him. They were a strong

combination for a while, Horn with his ambition, and Galing with his talent. I

feared - along with my husband, of course - that Galing would be made

Chancellor. But Galing died, not a moment too soon, and Horn's influence has

faded. I'm sure it galls him. It's probably why he insists on giving such

showy parties. His star has definitely fallen: he lacks the coin for further

extravagant purchases. Not, of course, that Lord Halliday would wish for any

distracting influence!'

Mary Halliday smiled prettily, her colour reflecting the rose ribbons on her

cap. Lady Godwin looked up and said a trifle brusquely, 'Why is it, Diane,

that you seem to know the single most unpleasant story about everyone in the

city?'

'I suppose,' she answered blithely, 'because there are so many unpleasant

people. How right you are to stay at Amberleigh, my dear.'

In despair Michael thought: If they start on about the family again, I shall

fall off my chair. He said, 'I've been thinking, actually, about Karleigh.'

The duchess favoured him with her attention. Her eyes were the frosty silver

of winter clouds. He fell a delicate shiver as they brushed over him.

'You are quite sure, then,' she said, in a low, melodious voice, 'that it was

the duke who hired Lynch?' It was as though she hac said something quite

different, for his ears alone. His lips wen lightly parted; and at last he

saw, looking at her, his own beauty reflected there. But before he could

answer, his mother cried, 'Of course it was Karleigh! Why else would he leave

town first thing this morning, making no excuses to anyone - unless he left a

note for Horn apologising for the use his garden was put to...'

'Not his style,' observed the duchess.

'Then it is clear', Lady Godwin said triumphantly, 'that he had to get out of

the city. His man lost the fight! And St Vier may still be in the pay of his

opponent. If Karleigh stayed, he might have to keep hiring other swordsmen to

go up against St Vier, until he ran out of money, or talent. And then he'd be

up against St Vier himself - and then, you know, he'd surely be dead. The duke

doesn't know any more of swordplay than Michael, I'm sure.'

'But I am sure', the duchess said, again with that strange double-edged tone,

'that Lord Michael would know what to dc with it if he did.'

Something fluttered at the base of his spine. Resolutely he took control-of

the conversation. He turned directly to the duchess speaking assertively,

summoning all the confidence of a man used to having his opinions heeded. 'As

a matter of fact, madam, I an not sure that the Duke of Karleigh hired Lynch.

I was wondering whether it were not just as likely that he had hired St Vie

instead.'

'Oh, Michael,' said his mother impatiently. 'Then why would Karleigh have left

town when his man won!'

'Because he was still afraid of the person who did hire Lynch.'

'Interesting,' said the duchess. Her silvery eyes seemed to grow bigger, like

a cat's. 'And not altogether impossible. Your son, Lydia, would seem to have a

far more complex grasp of the situation than any of us.'

Her eyes had turned from him, and the mocking disdain was back in her voice.

But he had had her for a moment - had her interest, had her seeing him

entirely. He wondered what he had done to lose her.

The door to the morning room opened, and a tall, broad-framed man came in

unannounced. A sense of exertion and the outdoors hung about him: his dark

hair was ruffled all over his head, and his handsome face was high-coloured by

the wind. Unlike Michael, with his tight-fitting, pastel costume, this man

wore loose, dark clothes, with mud-splashed boots up to his thighs.

Mary Halliday's face transformed with brightness when she saw him. Being a

good hostess and a well-mannered woman, she stayed seated amongst her guests;

but her bright eyes never left her husband.

Basil, Lord Halliday, Crescent Chancellor of the Council of Lords, bowed to

his wife's company, a smile creasing his weathered face.

She spoke to him formally. 'My lord! We did not expect you back so soon as

this.'

His smile deepened with mischief and affection. 'I know,' he answered, coming

to kiss both her hands. 'I came home directly, before even going to report to

Ferris. I should have remembered that you'd have company.'

'Company is delighted to see you,' said the Duchess Tremon-taine, 'although

I'm sure Lady Halliday is more so. She wouldn't admit it, but I believe the

thought of you riding out to Helm-sleigh alone to face a cordon of rebellious

weavers unsettled her equilibrium.'

Halliday laughed. 'I was hardly alone. I took a troop of City Guard with me to

impress them.'

His wife caught his eyes, asking seriously, 'How did it go?'

'Well enough,' he answered her. 'They have some legitimate complaints. Foreign

wool has been driving prices down, and the new tax is hard on the smaller

communes. I'll have to take it up with my lord Ferris. I'll tell you all about

it, but not till afterward, or the Dragon Chancellor will be annoyed for not

having been the first to hear.'

Lady Halliday frowned. 'I still think Ferris should have gone instead. The

Exchequer is his concern.'

He sent her a brief glance of warning before saying lightly, 'Not at all! What

is a mere Dragon Chancellor when compared with the head of the entire Council

of Lords? This way they were flattered, and felt that enough attention was

being paid to them. Now, when I send Chris Nevilleson out to take a full

report, they'll be nice to him. I think the matter should be settled soon.'

'Well, I should think so!' said Lady Godwin. 'Imagine some pack of weavers

raising their shuttles against a Council order.'

Michael laughed, thinking of his friend riding out to Helm-sleigh on one of

his fine horses. 'Poor Chris! Why do you assign him all the most unpleasant

tasks, my lord?'

'He volunteers. I believe he wishes to be of service.'

'He adores you, Basil,' Lady Halliday said brightly. Michael Godwin raised his

eyebrows, and the colour rushed into her face. 'Oh, no! I mean... he admires

Lord Halliday... his work...'

'Anyone would,' said the duchess comfortably. 'I adore him myself. And if I

wished to advance to any political power, I should most certainly station

myself at his side.' Her friend smiled gratefully at her over the rim of the

chocolate cup behind which she had taken refuge. And Michael felt, in

consternation, that he had just been measured and found wanting. 'In fact,'

the duchess continued blithely, 'I have been grieving over how seldom I see

him - or any of you - when not surrounded by other admirers. Let us all dine

together privately a few weeks from today. You have heard of Steele's

fireworks? He's sending them off over the river to celebrate his birthday. It

promises to be quite a show. Of course I told him it was the wrong time of

year, but he said he couldn't change his birthday to suit the weather, and he

has always been uncommonly fond of fireworks. They will entertain the

populace, and give the rest of us something to do. So we're all to dust off

our summer barges and go out on the river and enjoy ourselves. Mine will

certainly hold us all, and I believe my cook can put together a tolerable

picnic; if we all dress up warmly it won't be so bad.' She turned her charming

smile on Basil Halliday. 'I shall invite Lord Ferris, my lord, only if you two

promise not to spend the whole evening talking politics. ... and Chris

Nevilleson and his sister, I think. Perhaps I had better include a few other

young men, to ensure that Lord Michael has someone to talk to.'

Michael's flush of embarrassment lasted through the chatter of thanks. He was

able to cover it by straightening his hose. A fall of lace cuff brushed his

cheek as the duchess stood by his mother saying, 'Oh, Lydia, what a shame, to

have to leave town so soon! I hope Lord Michael will be able to represent you

at my picnic?' He stopped before he could begin to stammer something out, and

simply rose and offered her his seat by his mother. She sank into it with a

willow's grace, and looked up at him, smiling. 'You will come, will you not,

my lord?'

Michael squared his shoulders, sharply aware of the close fit of his jacket,

the hang of his sleeves. Her offered hand lay on his like a featherweight,

soft, white and elusively perfumed. He was careful only to brush it with his

lips. 'Your servant, madam,' he murmured, looking straight up into her eyes.

'Such manners.' The duchess returned the look. 'What a delightful young man. I

shall expect you, then.'

Chapter III

Richard St Vier, the swordsman, awoke later that day, in the middle of the

afternoon. The house was quiet and the room was cold. He got up and dressed

quickly, not bothering to light the bedroom fire.

He stepped softly into the other room, knowing which floorboards were likely

to creak. He saw the top of Alec's head, nestled into a burlap-covered chaise

longue he was fond of because it had griffins' heads carved into the armrests.

Alec had built up the fire and drawn the chair up close to it. Richard thought

Alec might be asleep; but then he saw Alec's shoulder shift and heard the

crackle of paper as he turned the pages of a book.

Richard limbered up against the wall for awhile, then took up a blunt-tipped

practice sword and began to attack the chipped plaster wall with it, striking

up and down an imaginary line with steady, rhythmic precision. There was a

counterattack from the other side of the wall: three blows from a heavy fist

caused their remaining flakes of paint to tremble.

'Will you shut that racket upV a voice demanded through the wall.

Richard put his sword down in disgust. 'Hell,' he said, 'they're home.'

'Why don't you kill them?' the man in the chair asked lazily.

'What for? Marie'd only replace them with some more. She needs the rent money.

At least this bunch doesn't have babies.' ¦ 'True.' One long leg and then

another swung out from the chaise to plant themselves on the floor. 'It's

mid-afternoon. The snow has stopped. Let's go out.'

Richard looked at him. 'Anywhere special?'

'The Old Market', said Alec, 'might be entertaining. If you're still in the

mood, after those other two.'

Richard got a heavier sword, and buckled it on. Alec's ideas of

'entertaining* were violent. His blood began to race, not unpleasantly. People

had learned not to bother him; now they must learn the same about Alec. He

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Ellen Kushner - Swordpoint

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