Chapter 16 - Razor Edge

All around, the Royal Ballroom was a splendid sight; the uniformed nobles and their ladies stepping delicately into the dancing line, bowing and curtsying as the music rang sweetly. The gala swirled around us, as if we were the only stationary points in a moving world - As if the Crown Prince was the axis around which all else revolved.

Champagne and laughter ruled the room, as the musicians struck up the first waltz. Dancers whirled in glittering joy, the windows gleaming with the reflections of a thousand flames sparkling on ten thousand jewels. The cool night breeze stirred flowing garments, honeyed light shining on glossy hair, flashing on gold and silver, glowing through wine as it sloshed from the necks of countless bottles.

Here, a girl laughed in sheer exuberance, as she turned lithely to the music. There, a trio of young officers competed for the favor of an older woman, a magnificent blonde in a stunning white dress. At a second glance, I couldn't blame them: It was hard not to notice the perfect breasts pushing up and out into a balcony of diamonds, the slim fingers toying with a slender ivory-stemmed pipe in a way that was somehow both coy and suggestive at once.

When her hand rose in a graceful arc, brushing stray strands of pale hair back from paler features, I glimpsed the serpent-tattoo that coiled down her right arm, winding around and along her skin. As her lips parted, faint wisps of violet vapor twisted skyward as she exhaled, violet eyes half-lidded at some jest…

With an effort of will, I brought my attention back to the here and now. Kelart curtsied so low, the hem of her skirts almost touched the gleaming floor; "Your Royal Highness," she murmured, rising up perfectly poised a moment later, as if hoisted by invisible strings, "We are humbled by your warm welcome. Your invitation does us too much honor."

Crown Prince Barbro smiled. It was an effortless, confident smile - the smile of a man who was accustomed to being accommodated, to being toadied to. He was a man, I could tell, who was very much on the rise, and knew it.

"Please, Lady Kelart," he said, "-the honor is all mine."

He held out his hand to her. When she took it - to bow over it or kiss it, I wasn't sure - he clamped the other over hers, taking a slow step forward. The faintest flicker of surprise flitted across her elegant features; Marquis Raeven's eyebrows rose, for the fraction of a second, as Boullope's perpetual scowl seemed to lighten for a moment.

Only Gazef's expression never changed, all tightly coiled vigilance.

"There's a question I've long been wondering, Lady Kelart," Barbro said, familiarly, his voice almost casual. "The Priestesses of the Four Gods...Do they practice celibacy?" He chuckled, vastly amused at his own question. "It's only that, I've heard stories from the temples-"

At my side, Gustav stiffened.

Kelart merely smiled, high points of color in her cheeks. An unobservant man could almost have mistaken it for a blush.

"By no means, your Highness," she said, as if discussing the weather. "You must tell me about them sometime."

"Good," he said, and released her hand at last. For one long moment, his eyes roamed. "It would be such a waste. I look forward to that meet-"

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Grandmaster Samuel," Marquis Raeven said, smoothly. He'd stepped forward, the tiny gems of his finery gleaming in the light. "The Savior of Loyts, in the flesh!" His gaze settled on the sword at my hip. "I see you bear the Holy Sword Interfector - A great burden, for one so young."

He looked like a painted dandy, but his pale, long-fingered hand - like an artist's - bore subtle calluses, and his grip was far stronger than I'd expected. His handshake was firm, cool and careful, the look in his narrow blue eyes not unsympathetic.

I could only hope my own was, too.

"I bear it with pride," I said, humbly, even as I wondered how the fuck he knew all that. "And, as always, in service of the Four Gods and their chosen."

Marquis Boullope gave a low, dirty chuckle at that, and - in that moment - I felt an all-consuming hatred for that man. Some of it must have shown, when I glanced in his direction; His eyes narrowed, and it looked like he was about to say something-

"They say you slew over two hundred beastmen, in the liberation of the city." Raeven said, carefully measured admiration in his voice. "Grandmaster, indeed." He cocked his head to the side, the faintest hint of a frown on his elegant features. "Word of your exploits have traveled far, but - If you'll forgive me for my ignorance - I know little of the Order of Yggdrasil…"

I felt my blood run cold, but I'd been coached on this. I knew what to say, but I couldn't help but wonder whether it would be enough.

"We are an obscure Order, Marquis," I said. My voice level now, as if I wasn't lying with every word. "It is no wonder you've never heard of us. Few have."

"Most certainly," he said, with a thin-lipped but effusive smile. "I confess, I merely have a passing interest in the Paladin Orders...Affairs of court take up the full span of my attention." Raeven spread his hands, in a 'what can you do' gesture. "Still, your accent...I can't quite place it. Where do you hail from?"

Shit, I thought. I kept my polite smile plastered on my face, but my palms were sweating.

At my side, Gustav cleared his throat, and swept in for the save. "Hoburns, my Lord," he said, levelly. "As do all members of the Paladin Orders."

I could tell that Raeven didn't believe it. Not for a moment. But he merely smiled. "Ah, I thought so. My thanks, Knight-Captain."

With a graceful flick of his fingers, he signaled to a passing server. "Will you take wine, Sirs? I recommend the red - It's a very good year."

He turned to give orders to a server, stepping away for a moment. And, at last, I began to breathe again.

"Wolfgunblood!" Marquis Boullope's voice was just a hair too loud, enough to make heads turn. He'd been in his cups, I could tell, but was pretending to be more inebriated than he looked. "It's good to meet you. Damn good."

Wait, they knew each other? I hadn't known that. Wolfgunblood certainly didn't show it - He merely inclined his head in a slight bow. "You honor me, Marquis," he said. Sounding just languid enough to be casual, not enough to be insulting. Boullope, apparently, took it for encouragement.

"Saved Baron Montserrat's boy, didn't you?" the Marquis went on. "Thirty bandits, and one of you. He might be a waste of skin, but that was damn well done. Twenty years ago, and I'd have done it myself."

I could swear that - just for a moment - Raeven winced.

Still, Boullope forged on. He raised his bushy eyebrows, reaching out with a beringed hand to give Wolfgunblood a fatherly clap on the shoulder. "Have you ever considered a career in my personal guard?"

Wolfgunblood deflected the offer with aplomb. "I am an adventurer, my Lord," he said, and his words held all the portent of a total eclipse. "I go where Fate takes me, where the winds of destiny blow. I have yet to find the path ahead."

The Marquis looked momentarily wrong-footed by that, but rallied majestically. "Of course," he said, gruffly. "Of course you are. But if you should - ever - change your mind, I've got a place for you. I can always find a use for promising men."

The Crown Prince looked faintly put-out. "A warrior should fight for his country, eh, Raeven? Why isn't he a soldier?"

"I believe," Raeven said, gently, "Wolfgunblood hails from a foreign land - Is that not so?" At the nod, he went on. "He is no subject of the Crown, merely its guest."

"Oh." Prince Barbro looked confused for a moment, then perked up. "Well, whatever he's offering...I'll double it! Triple it, even! Give me ten men like you, and the Empire and that damn Emperor of theirs would have another thing coming, eh?"

Wolfgunblood bowed, more deeply this time. Hand to his chest. "You honor me with your offer, your Royal Highness," he said. "Rest assured - I shall give it all the consideration it deserves."

"Damn right," Prince Barbro said. I had the impression he'd run out of steam. "-Good man."

"Your Highness," Kelart said, evenly. "If we might speak wi-"

Another burst of applause announced the arrival of some earl or duke, his glittering entourage trailing him like stars in a constellation. The Crown Prince waved happily to them; "Later," he said, negligently. "Later! Join our festivities. Mingle freely! Whatever it is, it can surely wait - How often do you get to see one of these, eh, Gazef?"

"As you say, your Highness." The grizzled Warrior-Captain's voice was carefully neutral. His face might as well have been carved out of rock.

The king elect and his entourage moved away. Conversation began to start up again, the music flooding back in to fill the momentary silence. Marquis Raeven glanced back, and - it might have been my imagination - but there was something oddly apologetic about his look.

"Sirs?" A footman had appeared in red and black, tray balanced on outstretched fingers. A selection of glasses gleamed in the shimmering light. "A drink?"

For lack of any better ideas, I took one. Gustav downed his glass in a single gulp, and didn't look any better for it. "That went well, I think," he said, and I fixed him with a look.

"-What?"

Mingle.

Easier said than done. I knew no-one here, and none of them knew me - And, in truth, I was largely fine with that. I had to admit, after meeting the Crown Prince, my opinion of Re-Estize's nobility had gone down a few notches.

It didn't help that I was getting all kinds of looks, now. Cunning, careful gazes. Secret and not-so-secret, watching and weighing. Sizing me up. Women whispered behind their fans - Men murmured to each other, behind fixed smiles. The cream of Re-Estize society, all in the same impossibly vast room; It was enough to make anyone feel distinctly twitchy and paranoid, all at once.

I couldn't help but wonder what Pavel would've made of this crowd. He probably wouldn't have come within a thousand miles of this place. The mere thought of it would've made me laugh, if I wasn't feeling quite so tense.

It'd been less than an hour, and already my nerves were worn to shreds. I felt distinctly out of place, here; While I might have looked the part, it just made me feel all the more like an imposter. Marquis Raeven had seen right through me, and I knew it - Now, I had a nagging feeling that everyone did.

"-Grandmaster-"

"...never heard of them…"

"-stmen? Loyts, and the North-"

"-the Four? All this way, too."

I had the form of a man in his twenties, but I certainly felt older than that. Each time I caught a glimpse of my reflection, the urge to start never truly went away. Wolfgunblood, of course, had no such problems; Already, he was at the centre of a gaggle of admirers, somehow keeping them all rapt with his words. From the snatches I overheard, he was telling the tale of how he'd rescued the Baron's son.

He told it well, rot him; Offhand, but not overmodest. Letting his audience guess more than he said, smiling only rarely as they filled in the blanks for himself. Strange how someone could do such a complete one-eighty, when the time came - But then again, he had a lot more practice than I did.

Not that I was envious, or anything like that.

A smaller, but still considerable, crowd had gathered around Kelart and Gustav. Perhaps I should've stayed at her side, but I had to admit - I had no head for this kind of thing. The thought of being put to the question had me in a cold sweat; I don't think I could have provided any answer that would stand up to prolonged scrutiny.

Besides, it was fascinating to watch Kelart at work. Gustav and I wore swords, but this battle was fought with a fan. When she snapped it open with a flick of the wrist, it cut off conversation more sharply than the Interfector ever did; A gentle tap brought forth smiles like a magician's trick. All it took was the slightest curl of her lip, a turn of her shoulder, and the unwelcome were banished as if pursued by a flight of angels.

The entire time, her eyes were alert, bright with life. I'd only seen her this animated once before: When she was standing with Remedios, laying out the plan to retake first Loyts, and then the rest of the Holy Kingdom.

This was where she came alive. Where she thrived, the way Remedios was made for the heart of battle.

I thought that as I stood near the buffet, the long tables stacked high with delicacies. Fish and shellfish, breads and pastries, fruits and cheeses, sweets, meats and sweetmeats, all arranged neatly on their gilded plates. The centerpiece - a roast swan - reared over it all, artistically redressed in feathers, a triumph of both wealth and immense culinary effort.

It looked delicious. All of it. Acutely self-conscious as I was, I weighed the pros of a good meal versus the risks of accidental spillage. The dining tables awaited, but with the Crown Prince still making the rounds and the rest of the Holy Kingdom delegation (small as it was) still on their feet, I couldn't help but think it'd be a faux pas to help myself to the deep red slices of roast beef in wine I'd been eyeing the entire time.

I glanced to one side, then to the next. The coast seemed mostly clear; the great and good seemed content to talk rather than eat. Drinks seemed more of an ornamentation than anything else, to be raised in toasts, passed through the air to punctuate a point, or 'accidentally' spilled on a particularly hated rival.

Just when I'd decided to take a chance on the cold cuts, fabric fluttered in my field of vision. A woman - young, black-haired, two of her friends peeking over their silken fans - negligently let her kerchief flutter to the ground. She made a low sound of dismay, and - without thinking - I knelt to retrieve it.

"Thank you, Sir Knight," she said, blushing profusely. As if I was her true love, and had promised to do something truly significant. Her ringlets fluttered in the breeze from her gaudy fan, her fingers gripping it so tightly it was a wonder it didn't crumple. "Might I have your name…?"

"Samuel," I said, as politely as I could. "-Sir Samuel."

"Grandmaster Samuel," one of her friends simpered, all breathy admiration. "I knew you would be gallant, but - forgive me - never dreamed you might be so handsome. And so young!"

The first woman was still smiling, a little more fixedly than before. I could tell she was every bit as nervous as I felt. "I can't thank you enough...It was a gift from my mother," she gushed, as if I'd just rescued her from an Elder Basilisk. "It's such a pleasure to make your acquaintance … Would you care to dance?"

Shit.

"My sincerest apologies, Lady-"

She curtsied, artfully arranging to give me a good view of her powdered cleavage.

"Seles. Seles Cheneko."

"-Lady Seles," I finished. "I'm afraid I lack the skill…"

"Oh, but you must," one of her friends said, a gloved hand settling on my arm. "Surely no knight could refuse a lady's request?" Between the three of them, I was well and truly trapped; For a moment, I considered making a break for it, then opened my mouth to reply-

Seles' eyes widened. She went a little pale, a matched apprehension flitting across the winsome features of her friends. Like a flock of startled birds, they took flight, the last one releasing my arm without a word as she withdrew.

"You don't mind, do you?"

It was the blonde from before. The one with all the diamonds, her pipe dangling negligently from her hand. She seemed different from the rest, though; there was something easy in the way she stood, something open in her lazy smile. Something approachable and alluring (if I was being charitable) faintly decadent and voluptuous (if I wasn't).

"My thanks," I said, and meant it. "I meant to turn them down, but I couldn't think how."

"Manners." She puffed out her cheeks, as she looked round the Royal Ballroom. "I swear - To the high and mighty, it means more than gold. If not for all the bowing and scraping, a gathering like this wouldn't be remotely as tedious..."

"I know what you mean," I muttered, and she smiled. Amusement flickered in those striking violet eyes.

"How about that? An honest man. And here I'd despaired of finding any among this crowd."

Now she had me smiling with her.

"Hilma," she said, and held out one hand to me. I bowed over it, catching a whiff of perfume - Something intoxicating, more spicy than sweet, a contrast to Kelart's clean fragrance.

"Samuel," I said, and she chuckled. "I know," Hilma said. "I doubt there's anyone in the room who doesn't, Grandmaster."

I winced. Every time they called me Grandmaster, the lie jabbed me like a sharp needle.

"Sir will do," I said. "Better yet, call me Samuel."

Forget standing on ceremony. Just like she'd said, the novelty of all the bowing and scraping had worn off, fast.

"Samuel, then," she said. Those full lips found the mouthpiece of her slim pipe, as she took a slow draw; When she exhaled, thin violet vapor swirled in the air, like incense or votive smoke. The smell was cloying, almost sickly sweet, but bearable. "Begging the obvious question...What brings you to Re-Estize, Sir Samuel?"

For one moment, I wondered exactly how much I should tell her. Whether I should even be speaking to her. But then again, I got the feeling that it wouldn't be long before the great and good of Re-Estize knew why we were here. Besides, as Pavel had said - Confession is good for the soul.

"War," I said. "The beastmen have invaded the Holy Kingdom. The North seeks aid."

That soft, sultry chuckle again. Unlike the other noblewomen, Hilma didn't carry a fan - Instead, she simply touched her fingers to her lips, to stifle the sound.

"I don't mean the Paladin Order. Everyone knows why they're here." Her violet gaze settled on me. "I mean you, Samuel. That swan-" She tipped her head towards the centerpiece of the buffet table. "...looks more at ease than you do."

She was probably right. I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. "I'm part of Kelart's retinue, that's all." I said. "-I go where I'm ordered."

"Kelart, is it? First name terms, I see. The two of you must be very close."

From a certain point of view, maybe. I was giving too much away, I could tell - But better to forge ahead than to backtrack, and risk tripping over my own lies.

"Close enough," I said. "And you, Lady Hilma? Why is a lady of your..." I gauged the words, went for it. "-considerable charm alone at the Royal Ball?"

I didn't mention how the mere sight of her had sent the other girls fleeing. I had a feeling her reputation preceded her.

Her smile never wavered. "I'm no lady," she said. Hilma gestured vaguely with her pipe, turning her slim wrist. "I came in on the arm of Earl Fondoll's by-blows. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a crashing bore." A low sigh. "I suppose I could hardly have expected better…"

Ah. A concubine or a mistress, then. I was careful not to let that realization show on my face. It did, however, explain a lot.

"-Are you disappointed?"

Hilma blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. "Disappointed? By what?"

"All this," I said, tipping my chin to take in the room. "This is the first time you've been to one of these, isn't it? You look like you were expecting something...more. What were you hoping for?"

Her expression hardened, just for a moment. She leaned back, ever-so-slightly.

"You're more perceptive than you look, Sir Samuel," she said.

"Don't worry - Your secret's safe with me." After all, I felt much the same. Perhaps I'd been hoping, however subconsciously, that Re-Estize would be something like...Camelot, perhaps. That the Crown Prince would be like the Holy King. Then again, something told me that Caspond was the exception rather than the rule.

Mingle, I thought, and then - What the hell.

"Though if I could prevail upon you for a dance…"

Now she looked surprised. She stared at my proffered hand, as if expecting a knife up my sleeve. "You want to dance with me?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

Her gaze flicked from my hand, then to me. Momentarily wary, calculation in her eyes. For a moment, I had the feeling she was actually about to say no-

But then her hand settled in mine, feather-light, a faintly disbelieving smile tugging at her mouth.

"Would that we both live to regret this," Hilma murmured.

The music began, as she led me onto the dance floor.

Around us, I could hear the chatter gradually diminishing, a quiet descending aside from the clicking of my boots and Hilma's polished shoes on the shimmering tiles. Guests were turning to watch, enough that I felt my skin tingle with instinctive trepidation-

Carve the world to fit you, Erya had said. I reminded myself; I'd held the gatehouse at Loyts. In the face of that, what was there to fear?

Now, if only I could make myself believe that was true.

I'll admit: I'd never danced before. Ever. It wasn't like I'd ever had the opportunity to learn.

But then, I had certain advantages in that regard, now.

I glimpsed Wolfgunblood somewhere in the crowd, a smile creeping over his face. He was grinning, much as he tried to hide it; Kelart, immersed in the cut-and-thrust of negotiation, took a moment to realize what was happening - Her eyes widened, and she came as close to a double-take as I'd ever seen.

I could say that I'd watched the other dancers closely. Learned the steps, from observation alone.

But I'd have been lying.

More importantly, I'd thrust my hand in my pouch, and slipped the ring within onto my finger.

As the winsome melody began, I took Hilma in a close hold, turning her about the floor between the other dancing couples. The hem of her dress swished across the polished stone as we moved first one way then the other, in time to the other pairs gliding across the ballroom.

I could feel the heat radiating from Hilma's taut form, how rigid her body had gone. Trepidation, I could tell - Her fingers were as cold as ice, her perfume filling my head. Her limbs were hard, too; Tension wound through her, like a coiled spring. Fear of being humiliated? Or something else?

As the music grew faster, louder, we moved with immaculate poise, stepping effortlessly in time to the jaunty rhythm. I could feel Hilma's surprise in the faint tremor of her limbs, as we spun and readdressed. She let me steer her, let me lead as I drew her close; Her back to my chest, pressing herself against me.

"You're...really good," Hilma whispered, her wavy tresses brushing against me. "Where did you learn how to-"

We swung out. I rotated her, neatly - a flurry of skirts - and we circled, drawing closer as the music slowed again. This time, her chin rested almost on my shoulder, as she stared at me sidelong. Waiting for an answer.

Tonight, I thought. Here.

But that would have given myself away.

"-Magic, perhaps?" I mused aloud. Her eyes flashed in mock-annoyance, a slim eyebrow lifting as her lips curved in the beginnings of a smile. "You're a terrible liar," she murmured, but there was no sting to her words.

Turn. Swing out. Back.

The dance had brought out a faint color in her cheeks. Her breath came faster now, the faint smell of sweat lingering with her perfume. We danced in silence, the music ebbing to long, plaintive notes; At the last drawn-out refrain, I lowered Hilma gently, her head drooping, that pale neck stretched out as I dipped her almost to the ground.

There was a round of applause, and I felt a relief so profound my legs nearly buckled. As I whisked Hilma back to her feet, her free hand gripped my shoulder for long moments, her fingers circling, almost stroking. When we drew back, bowed, her gaze held mine; For a moment, I thought she was about to say something…

But then I heard a measured clapping coming from somewhere rather closer, as the crowd parted before the Crown Prince and his entourage. It seemed that things had come full circle, at last - That, or he simply couldn't bear the idea of anyone stealing the spotlight, even for a moment.

If I'm being uncharitable, I freely admit it: I didn't like Prince Barbro. Not even slightly.

"Magnificent," Marquis Raeven said, with a smile that never touched his eyes. "A fine performance, wouldn't you agree, your Royal Highness?" I noticed that he was looking at Hilma the entire time. Positively staring at her, in fact, as she curtsied. It was a hard look, almost reptilian, the kind a serpent gives in the heartbeat before he strikes.

Barbro grunted, a vaguely affirmative sound. He looked ever-so-slightly put out, faintly disgruntled; I got the feeling this wasn't going the way he'd intended.

"Not bad," he said, at last, and those around him murmured and cooed in agreement. The Crown Prince's finery, heavy with gold braid, gleamed in the light as he gave me a slow look from beneath his heavy brows. Behind and slightly to the side of the Crown Prince, Gazef had a faintly wary look, a flicker of something that might have been trepidation in his dark eyes.

I had a bad feeling about this.

"If it pleases your Highness…" Hilma murmured, her gaze carefully lowered.

"Eh? Oh. Of course - you may go." He waved a hand in an absent gesture, and she bowed one last time before she glided away. She was smiling, when she glanced back, and I couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking.

"Your Highness is too kind," I said, keeping my voice as level, as respectful, as possible.

Marquis Boullope snorted. "He can dance, but can he fight?" He gave me a critical look, his heavy jowls flapping as he sized me up, with those brawler's eyes. A beringed fist curled around the grip of his goblet, like it was a weapon. "They teach you how to use that fancy sword, over in the Holy Kingdom?"

It was blunt, on the verge of an insult. A man in his cups, too drunk and belligerent to hold his tongue. But something about this seemed oddly calculated to me - Less like a dare, and more like a test.

The problem was, I had no idea what they were testing for. All I could do was play along, and hope like hell I wasn't about to cause a major diplomatic accident.

His eyes, set in that scarred face, never wavered. I was acutely aware of the Interfector on my hip, and was careful to keep my hands away from it. Marquis Raeven, seemingly fresh as frost, gave his fellow noble a swift, sidelong look, before his features became carefully neutral; what he was hoping for, I had no idea.

"With your leave, your Highness, it will be an honor to provide a demonstration of my skill," I said, my blood running cold the entire time. The faces in the crowd seemed to blur, ever-so-slightly; There was a tension in the air now, one reflected in the eyes of the elegant figures that gathered closer.

For no reason at all, I felt a premonition of disaster. As if ruin was about to break, like a storm.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gustav and Kelart closing in, making their way through the press of the crowd. Hurry, I thought. But something told me they wouldn't be fast enough.

"Skill, you say…" Barbro echoed, a cunning expression stealing over those leonine features. The Golden Ogre had an idea, and it meant nothing good. That sinking feeling only intensified, as I fought the urge to rock by on my heels, awaiting his decision-

He turned. His gaze went to Gazef, and the Warrior Captain - carefully impassive - stiffened, slightly. "Up for a match, Gazef?"

A murmur went up. Boullope chortled, the sound somehow triumphant. "A capital idea, your Highness," he said, and the courtiers and sycophants around him muttered their agreement. His scarred, brutal face twisted in a truly gruesome smile. "The Holy Kingdom's best, versus the Captain of the Royal Select? Now that's a spectacle worth seeing!"

It was clear, however, that not everyone felt the same way. Even as the whispers began, some of the surrounding faces looked alarmed, or troubled. Shocked, almost. I could sense a distinct undercurrent of unease, circling the room like a rogue zephyr.

"Excellent," Marquis Raeven said, with a distinctly calming air. "We should formally petition the King, and set a time and place-"

"Nonsense! You could best him at any time - Can't you, Gazef?"

It was a verbal prod. For some reason I couldn't fathom, the Crown Prince seemed to be nursing a palpable dislike for the King's bodyguard. Weren't they on the same side? I wasn't sure what was going on, here; Wheels turned within wheels, and we were enmeshed in them.

Marquis Boullope chuckled. "Maybe he's got something better to do with his time, eh?"

Gazef's dark eyes slid across to him, and stuck there. All he did was look, but it was enough to make Marquis Boullope - and the faint titters his bon motte had gotten - fall silent. As if I needed any further evidence that this was not a man you trifled with.

"Your Royal Highness," Gazef said, at last. His voice was strong, firm. The kind you'd want to hear on a battlefield, over the screams of the dying and the clash of steel. He was frowning, ever-so-slightly, even as he kept his expression carefully impassive. "As you know, my sword is ever ready in the Crown's service. Your father tasked me with your safety-"

Barbro gave an impatient shake of his head. "My father tasked you to obey me," he said, bluntly. Too bluntly; I would have winced, if I'd dared. To Gazef, I was sure, it must have been like a slap in the face.

"Now - Will you spar with Sir Samuel?"

I'd been watching this tableau the entire time, riveted as surely as the rest of the crowd. I hadn't even known the snare was there, but - somehow, somehow - I'd stepped right into it, and dragged the Warrior-Captain with me.

I felt that level gaze settle on me. Directly.

I can't think of anyone who wouldn't have quailed under Gazef's stare. It was all I could do to meet his gaze, my nails slicing into my palms, as Gazef made a modest shrug. "If the Grandmaster is willing," he said, and - to my ears - it sounded somehow apologetic. As if he could see right through me, and regretted that it couldn't be any other way.

My mouth went dry. But what else could I do?

"-I am," I said, my face carefully impassive.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Then came the gasps of consternation, the sighs of amazement. Pale faces gaped; Hands pressed over mouths, whispers and exclamations coming from all sides.

I saluted, fearing that my legs were about to turn to water. "Pray excuse me, your Royal Highness," I said. "I must speak with Lady Kelart."

No backing out, now.

"-Can you beat him?"

Amazingly, Kelart wasn't furious with me. At least, I don't think she was. Her hand gripped her fan so tightly, her knuckles were white against the slates - But her voice was calm, almost thoughtful, her eyes narrowed in calculation.

We'd reconvened in a side room, the four of us. I slumped in a high-backed chair, and tried to look confident; I'd downed two crystal glasses of water, harder to find than you'd think amid all that alcohol, but my throat was still bone-dry. I could feel the waxy sweat that clung to my skin, despite my best efforts.

"My lady, you can't be serious," Gustav said. His brow was furrowed, his voice low, urgent. "It's Gazef Stronoff. He's worth a thousand men. Sir Samuel can't hope to defeat him."

He glanced at me. "-No offense meant, Sir Samuel."

"None taken," I said, though my heart sank.

Kelart was still waiting for my answer, tension writ large on her elegant features. Only Wolfgunblood was entirely calm, sipping from a fine silver goblet as he watched the whole thing unfold. If anything, he seemed quietly amused by the whole spectacle.

I opened my mouth. Paused, closed it again.

"You think I shouldn't," I said. "Tell me why."

She hesitated. Frowned.

"The situation in Re-Estize is...complex," Kelart said. "In brief, there's the royalist faction and the nobles opposed to King Ramposa. Sir Stronoff is, of course, the King's staunchest supporter. If his skills were ever called in question, the King would lose face. It'd weaken his position."

"But the Crown Prince-"

"The Crown Prince is, nominally, aligned with the nobles. And, as you might have realized, the nobles don't like us. They have no interest or patience in foreign wars, especially with the Annual War imminent." She smiled, tightly. "See how it goes?"

I did. "But if I can't beat him-"

The corners of her mouth turned downward. "I'll be frank. You know we have little to offer, in return for the Crown's aid. The Holy King wished that we present a strong front; This exhibition match provides us with such an opportunity. If we lose, we look weak, feckless - Hardly worth supporting."

"...And if I win, it undermines the Crown's position."

She nodded, reluctantly. "You'd think the Crown Prince wouldn't be foolish enough to put himself in a position like this. Oh, he thinks this is in his best interests, but he's chipping away at his own foundations, in the long run."

"So I can't win, and I can't lose-"

"It doesn't matter."

We turned.

There was a clunk, as Wolfgunblood - quite deliberately - set his goblet down. In his black coat, he cut a romantic figure, lounging against an empty table. "It's not about winning or losing," he said. "What the people want is a show."

He smiled, and his mismatched eyes seemed to glow from within.

"So - Make sure they're entertained. You can do that, can't you?"

I thought about this for a long, long moment. My gaze went from Gustav's worried frown to Kelart's thoughtful expression, then back to Wolfgunblood's smile.

"You know," I said, at last. "-I do believe I can."

We met in the palace gardens, an acre of paving stones surrounded by a rolling expanse of green. It was beautiful here, lanterns and magic lighting casting a soft yellow glow over the square. Water splashed from fountains, sparkling in glistening rivulets, as stately statues looked down on the proceedings with quiet benevolence or aristocratic disdain.

Above it all, the vast shape of the royal ballroom loomed like a stage's backdrop, figures clustered at the balcony like the exquisite inhabitants of some life-sized, marvelously ornate dollhouse. In the fullness of the night, the grand building seemed more like some fairy's castle than ever, a place of fantastic and storied romance.

A momentary gust scattered leaves across the paving-stones, stirring the lavender-scented air. What struck me was how quiet it was; Somewhere, glass clinked. Somewhere, a man laughed once, nervously. But by and large, a breathless silence had descended, all eyes drawn to the spectacle to follow.

I stepped out into the empty square, as Gazef Stronoff emerged from the opposite side. Sword in hand, he was an even more impressive figure, as implacable as the walls of Ro Lente castle. A faint glow issued from the sea-green broadsword he carried in his mailed fist, a light the color of life - It seemed to hum in his grasp, coming alive at his touch.

Razor Edge. One of Re-Estize's Five Treasures, to be wielded only by the nation's strongest warrior in the kingdom's defense. For it to be wielded in a match like this seemed somehow ignoble, but I sensed another hand in this. Marquis Boullope, most likely, with all the malice of a true meddler.

The Warrior-Captain's calm gaze took me in, at a glance. His brow creased, as his eyes settled on the blade I held.

"Sir Samuel," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "-Will you not draw the Holy Sword?"

Gnosis gleamed darkly in the moonlight. Samuel's blade felt achingly familiar in my hands; I knew every thrust, every strike that it could deliver, as naturally and instinctively as any other action my body could ever perform.

Before the Interfector, this had been his weapon. I couldn't imagine the toll of virtual lives he must have reaped with it, the hours he'd spent dealing death in a relentless straight-ahead march. But the memory of it had been worn into me, the way words are graven into stone.

"The Holy Sword," I said, putting utmost sincerity into each word, "-exists to be wielded against the enemies of the Holy Kingdom."

I raised the longsword, swept it down and across in the fencer's salute.

"But we are among friends."

There was an approving hubbub. A faint sprinkling of applause. At the periphery of my vision, I glimpsed the trio of the Crown Prince and the Marquises, but had no clue as to their response. I so desperately wanted to look, but didn't dare to give the Warrior-Captain anything less than my fullest attention.

Gazef smiled. Ever-so-slightly, so quickly I might have imagined it, but it was a smile, all the same. The herald - the same one who'd announced our arrival, now pressed into service as referee - held up his arm with a theatrical flourish, turning slowly around to face the crowd.

"The match will be fought to the best of three touches!" the herald called, his voice carrying like a roll of thunder. I could feel my heart racing, feel the rushing, acid bite of adrenaline as I firmed my grip on Gnosis, acutely aware of every eye on us.

For a moment, I wondered - absurdly - if Hilma was watching, too.

Gravel crunched underfoot, as the referee scurried back.

"Begin!"

I'd been prepared for Gazef's strength, but I wasn't ready for his sheer speed. This was the first time I'd ever fought a human opponent; Naively, I'd thought that he would feint or lead with restrained strikes, to test my defenses. Instead, he came at me with full-blooded effort, Razor Edge hissing as it scythed through the air.

I got Gnosis up just in time, to parry his first terrific blow. Hot sparks sprayed, the massive blade glancing off adamantite. If I hadn't set my feet, I'd have been hurled back - Instead, Gnosis lurched in my hands, moving with a terrible speed of its own.

The oil-black blade rang dully from Razor Edge, each impact rushing and flaring with tiny bursts of discharging energy; the ring of sword on sword resounded again and again, competing with the hammer of my pulse as it thundered in my ears.

In the time it took to draw a breath, we had exchanged a flurry of twenty or more blows. The Warrior-Captain drove me back, as I fought to keep Gnosis between me and the measured fury of his assault - He was relentless, a whirlwind. I thought my feet would slip.

Faster, I thought, my teeth gritted. Faster.

I pushed myself harder. Forced myself to forget the limits of what was possible. Gnosis flew around me, moving so fast the blade blurred, a satellite that whirled and danced. This time, Gazef was the one who was driven back, hammered by a cascade of blows from the adamantite-edged blade.

Faster-

He gave ground like a sure-footed pirate on a rolling ship at sea, his defense deft, economical; Precise, minimal shifts of weight and stance that brought Razor Edge to bear, never truly fast but always just fast enough. Somehow, somehow, his blade was where my next attack would be, even as the first hint of strain showed on his features - A subtle grimace, a slight narrowing of his dark eyes.

I could do this. I would do this, the speed and intensity of my attacks ramping up moment by moment. Eight attacks a second. Ten. Twelve. Sixteen, all of them delivered with motion-capped precision, subliminals and combat algorithms bleeding meaning into my mind. As if this, too, was just another game to be won; As if numbers alone would tell.

I wasn't actually a swordsman. I could never hope to match Gazef's skill, find a cunning way around his ironshod defense.

But I could overload it.

Around the flame-lit square, the crowd ooooooh'ed and aaaaaahh'ed as I hammered at him, sensing more than feeling his defenses buckle beneath the onslaught. He had to be tiring, had to be losing his center; I couldn't imagine anyone standing up to that, for more than a few seconds-

Gazef's legs coiled beneath him, and he sprang back from the flurry of my assault, buying him a moment's respite. Right on his heels, I swept Gnosis in a rushing figure-eight, lunging sidelong at the Warrior-Captain. He ducked away and circled, bringing Razor Edge up to parry my next crosswise stroke with a chime of steel-

There. An opening for a winning slice, for the fraction of a second.

I reared back to thrust-

And every breath I had ever taken exploded from my lungs, as Gazef's boot slammed into my stomach. I staggered back, my legs buckling beneath me; Dark spots danced in my field of vision as I fought for air. I could feel bruises forming beneath my mithril plate, my gut clenching from the hit - Momentarily winded, I managed a ragged gasp, then another, blinking through a sudden haze of tears.

It didn't hurt. Not really. He'd held back, I could tell - If he'd meant to kill me, a kick to the kneecap would've twisted me off-balance, long enough to put Razor Edge through my face.

A reminder, then. I wasn't anywhere close to invincible.

"A touch!" the referee shouted, his voice oddly distant. There was a nervous ripple of laughter, a scattering of applause carrying with it an undercurrent of relief. Something seemed off; When I looked up, the onlookers had shrank back from the edges of the square, beyond the protective barrier of the marble columns.

Even as I tried to remember how to breathe, I wondered why…

And then I saw.

The garden looked like a storm had passed through it. The sheer fury of my blows had ripped the leaves from trees, left deep, scouring marks through solid stone. Gravel had torn free from the ground, leaving churned and furrowed earth in its wake. I'd been so utterly focused on landing a hit, so intent on winning, I hadn't even noticed.

All that, and Gazef had beaten me anyway.

I straightened. Breathed out, to clear my mind. "A good touch," I said, and meant it.

It wasn't just about power. I had to remember that.

"Begin!" came the shout, and we closed again. I surged forward, the echoes still ringing in my ears, and brought Gnosis whirring round. Our blades crashed together, the impact-shock reverberating through my arms and down my spine. The searing glimmer of Razor Edge met Samuel's sword over and over again, clashing together, scraping-

The Warrior-Captain was the better fighter. He let his long blade and armor soak up the multiple impacts, planting one foot back to brace against the assault; As I rained alternating downstrokes and upswings on him, he unleashed a lightning-quick backhand that stopped my momentum cold.

Now it was my turn to dance back, giving ground as Razor Edge swept around in quick, flickering cuts - He wielded the broadsword as easily as a lesser man might wield a rapier, as if his weapon's sheer weight and size didn't slow him in the slightest.

It was a ferociously proficient assault. He gave me no respite, the world shrinking down to the ring of steel-on-steel. If anything, he seemed to accelerate, drawing from some vast and boundless store of energy, as if a nuclear reactor burned where his heart should be. I tried a low swing, but he turned my blade with a masterful parry, and volleyed a series of scissoring blows that drove me backwards across the scarred and scoured ground.

The sounds of the audience muttered and swelled, like waves beating against the shore. Mere force couldn't hope to win this; Gazef was too good a swordsman for that. I fell more fully into the rhythm of clashing blades, waiting for the moment.

I had to remember. I wasn't just fast - I was strong, too. I put the full strength of my back and arms into the next strokes, heavy slashes that made the air shudder as my sword cleaved and hacked. Gazef stepped back rather than parry the full-bodied swings, as I drove forward in a relentless straight-ahead assault, as if cleaving my way through the serried ranks of the beastmen-

He saw his moment, and lunged. The motion was fluid and precise - Razor Edge's point seemed to blur, then vanished.

It vanished, because it was coming right for me.

Faster-

I made myself move, faster than ever before. It was something no real swordsman would have ever done, in a life-or-death duel; I hurled myself at him, at the blade, and saw Gazef's eyes widen fractionally. He had no intention of killing me, and that slowed his thrust for the fraction of a second-

Long enough for me to twist to the side, and flick a single, lightning-fast cut at his arm.

Gazef hissed, as a few drops of blood pattered across the ground. A slight trickle of blood ran down his forearm - A graze, really - as he checked a step.

"A touch to Sir Samuel!" the herald bellowed. "One each!"

The Crown Prince was on his feet, delighted by the sight of blood. "Well struck!" he called, clapping his meaty hands together. Others clapped loudly, too - Marquis Boullope among them, I was sure. Them, I ignored; My attention was on Gazef.

You have to understand - Up until this very moment, I'd never drawn blood from a human before. It felt, somehow, like crossing a line.

How he sensed my apprehension, I don't know. Only that he looked up, a momentary frown on his grizzled features. Puzzled, really, by my concern.

"It's nothing," Gazef said. "Just a scratch."

He rolled his shoulder, lifted Razor Edge. "Another round?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I stepped back, I firmed my grip on Gnosis, aware of the metallic taste of exertion in my mouth, my nerves scraped raw by adrenaline.

Third time pays for all.

We had the measure of each other, now. Or rather, I had a better grasp of what I could do.

The subliminal knowledge of ripostes and parries, feints and deathblows that had been imparted directly to my mind didn't come with true proficiency. I knew how to execute any one of a library of stabs, thrusts and slices, but not how to string them together except by sheer instinct. Optimum for cleaving my way through beastmen, but not the best when it came to a formal duel.

But my - Samuel's - strength and speed meant that skill only mattered so far.

We closed quickly this time, exchanging cuts. There was a fluid, rolling grace to Gazef's motions, a proficiency that told of true mastery. He moved like his armor was his skin, not even slightly slowed by the graze he'd taken.

I slashed at him, overlapping overstrokes and understrokes, but he stopped them all. Razor Edge carved at me, but I stopped it with a counter-thrust that checked his stride - I could feel sweat running down the inside of my armor, the utter focus required gnawing away at me as I fought for calm.

The Warrior-Captain's craggy features were impassive now, giving utterly no clue as to his intentions. I watched his eyes flicker from the ground to my sword to my feet, trying to guess where the next attack would come from…

I obliged him, and threw Gnosis's tip up in a zig-zagging slash. The blade whooped through the air, but Gazef blocked - He swung, hard, forcing me to back away.

All right, I thought. All right.

I brought my sword hissing around and over. It smashed into Razor Edge with a resounding crash, as I accelerated into the attack. I reached for the sensation I'd felt only once before, clawed for it: the moon shining low and full over the Platinum Spire, the thunder of my pulse in my ears-

I let loose with a series of high cuts, as the Warrior-Captain spun his sword left and right, parrying everything. When I was almost on the verge of getting one slash past his rotating blade, he was up and on me with a series of short slashes, Razor Edge's glow burning neon-green in my field of vision. I struck out with a quick backstroke, and our swords crossed with a chiming ring of steel…

But this time, I was ready for him. I broke away, darting to the side, exchanging positions - Now it was my turn to hammer at him, a heavy stroke that whistled through the air as it met Gazef's guard. He put both arms into the next swing, one that carved upwards like an uppercut; I leapt back, my feet skidding against the stone, drawing back to lunge-

Gazef's guard was lowered. He made no attempt to defend himself, Razor Edge at his side. It was so abrupt, so sudden, that I caught myself just in time.

What? I thought, startled.

Then - Oh.

I stepped back. Lowered Gnosis, breathing out as the tension drained from my arms, my shoulders, my back no longer stiffened.

What the people want is a show, I thought.

"What's wrong?" Prince Barbro called. "Get up and at him! Keep f-"

There were a few calls to that effect from the crowd - mostly from the younger nobles - but they quickly faltered. They knew, I could tell, that something truly significant had happened; they just couldn't place it, not yet.

But then Marquis Raeven was whispering urgently to him, and I felt a thrill of relief. The Crown Prince's features - flushed with excitement - furrowed, first in confusion and then in growing comprehension.

The whirling fury of our duel had carried us nearly all the way across the square, almost to the ends of the palatial garden. When we'd switched positions, the point of Gnosis had been leveled squarely at the Crown Prince, at where the Golden Ogre had seated himself with his entourage of hanger-ons and courtiers.

Rather than continue the fight, Gazef had stood ready to sacrifice himself. To block my sword with his own body, if necessary. It was a stunning display of loyalty, and my only hope was that someone else had seen it too.

Because - as Kelart had said - I couldn't afford to win. Or lose.

With immense care, my limbs feeling like they were made of ice, I sheathed Gnosis. Saluted, fist-to-chest, even as I shaped my next words with immense care. I didn't have to speak loudly, I just had to make sure I didn't botch it.

"Your loyalty humbles me, Sir Stronoff," I said.

There. Thank God I hadn't stuttered, or slurred the words. I stood there for what felt like forever, thinking: Come on, come on-

After an eternity of agonizing silence, Marquis Raeven rose majestically to his feet. "A cheer for the Warrior-Captain!" he called, in ringing tones. "For Grandmaster Samuel, and his Royal Highness, above all!"

So long restrained, the nobles cheered as if striving to crack the sky. The applause was simply deafening, an enormous release of tension that washed over us like a wave. I could feel fatigue blur the edges of my vision to grey; Forget the amulet I was wearing, I felt like I'd run a marathon in a few moments.

More than anything, I wanted to sink to my knees and sleep for a week. But I made myself stride - Not walk, stride - forward, towards Gazef.

"Well fought, Sir Stronoff," I said, holding out my hand.

"Well done, Grandmaster," he said, smiling wide, and I knew he wasn't referring to the match. Gazef's grip was strong, as unyielding as stone, and when he clasped my hand the rapturous applause came louder still.

And all I could think was-

Thank God.

Because the orchestra had been engaged until dawn, the music still played, and the glittering ball continued. It felt strange for things to resume as if there had been no interruption, as if the duel that had torn up the palace gardens like a winter storm had been a mere sideshow.

And perhaps, to the gilded lords and ladies of Re-Estize's nobility, it was. A momentary amusement, nothing more.

Perhaps my world - the world I'd come from - and this one weren't so different, after all.

Kelart had offered to heal Gazef, and the Warrior-Captain had solemnly accepted. It was a symbolic gesture, but coos and murmurs of approval had followed from the audience. In turn, I had been offered the services of Marquis Raeven's best healers, on behalf of the Crown Prince, and I had gratefully agreed.

But for now, in the private and palatial guestroom, I had a moment entirely to myself.

I washed my hands in a silver basin of ever-renewing water, rinsing my face clean of the dust and sweat of the match. All of it blurred together, in my mind - A clash of swords, the ring of steel on steel, on and on.

It was then that I realized I wasn't alone.

"Sir Samuel?"

I turned, to see who was talking. A young man - short blonde hair cropped close to his skull, steady blue eyes - stood in the doorway, a careful respect in his voice. His clothes were simple but well-made, bereft of the adornment I'd seen on the liveried palace servants. The sword he carried was much the same, plain but entirely serviceable.

I was getting careless. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't even noticed when he'd entered the room.

"May I help you?" I asked, cautiously. There was something about him that reminded me, oddly enough, of the Warrior-Captain. His son, perhaps?

He inclined his head, a short bow.

"I bear a message from my lady," he said. "My mistress congratulates you on your victory. She offers her greetings, and cordially invites Lady Kelart to join her for tea."

But I didn't win, I thought, and said nothing.

He offered an envelope, sealed with a blob of red wax. I could see the faint imprint of a signet, similar to the one that had marked the Crown Prince's invitation.

From his guarded expression, something told me we were being observed. It sent a thrill of paranoia through me, as if someone had walked over my grave.

I took the letter from him, holding it with exquisite care. Only then did he seem to relax, ever-so-slightly, as if his mission had been life or death. He struck me as an intense sort, with a seriousness - almost a fervor - to him that quite belied his age.

"I shall convey your message to Lady Kelart," I said, equally formally. He nodded, and turned to leave-

"Wait," I said. "May I have your name?"

He turned. Hesitated, as if considering whether to answer.

"Climb," he said, at last.

And, as abruptly as he'd arrived, he was gone.

Next: The Golden Princess