Prince Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY

I’d thought I had a fair idea of what Ludovoco’s standing in the Pasaedan camp might be. Now I was sure. A quiet word from him had brought their entire army to rest; not only that, it had turned them into his audience, an expectant throng clustered round to witness his martial prowess. Too, there was the fact that no one had dared challenge him. I could see others who, from their elegant dress and decorated armour, were evidently officers of high rank; yet no one had thought to suggest that the war for a city shouldn’t be reduced to a scrap between two men.

No, with the King vanished, presumably hustled off to some point far from danger, it was obvious who was running this show — which meant that while Alvantes’s gesture was undoubtedly reckless, it at least wasn’t stupid. Taking Ludovoco out of the picture might really buy us a chance at escape.

It was only a shame Alvantes hadn’t the faintest hope of beating him.

If Alvantes had reached the same conclusion, however, it wasn’t evident from his manner. He had his sword in hand and was wiping it busily with a fold of his cloak. I hadn’t much experience of such matters, but I guessed it was bad manners to fence with an opposing officer while your blade was soiled with the blood of their soldiery.

“A duel, then,” he said finally, once the blade was glisteningly clean. “To the rules of the Crown Academy?”

“Of course,” replied Ludovoco, with a none-too-pleasant smile. “What other rules are there?”

“But — to the death.”

“Oh, certainly. I’d say this is sufficiently a matter of honour.”

It was Alvantes’s turn to smile. “Or the lack thereof, Commander Ludovoco.”

Ludovoco failed to disguise the anger that flushed his narrow face. “But then,” he said, “aren’t such questions always decided by the winner? I assure you, Captain, that when they speak of your death, and of how you let your city fall, and of the things that happened there in the days that followed, not one of the words they use will be honourable.”

Alvantes twirled his blade in a tight figure of eight, as if experimenting to see how well it carved the air. “Maybe,” he said. “But fights aren’t won by talking.” He took a step forward, raised the sword in nonchalant salute.

Ludovoco mirrored the gesture. I could see his good cheer was returning now that the prospect of violence was near, for there was a lightness to his movements that hadn’t been there an instant before.

“One moment, Commander!”

I looked to where the call had come from, recognised Ondeges. He had broken free of the surrounding circle of men and stood now just inside, watching Ludovoco and Alvantes intently. “I never trained in the Academy,” Ondeges said. “But isn’t it the case that there ought to be seconds? I mean, according to their rules?”

“I hardly think that…” Ludovoco began.

“That there’s anyone suitable?” said Ondeges quickly. “I put myself forward, Commander. I’m far from your match, but since you’re hardly likely to need me…”

Ludovoco gave his fellow officer a sullen glare. “Not likely at all,” he agreed.

“Then again,” said Ondeges, “it wouldn’t do for anyone to misinterpret this as a mere brawl.”

“No,” Ludovoco said with heavy irony, “that wouldn’t do at all.” Then, louder, he continued, “I nominate Commander Ondeges of the Altapasaedan Palace Guard as my second in this combat. Should I be incapacitated and unable to fight on, he will take my part. As for yourself, Captain Alvantes?” Ludovoco looked with contempt towards our small band of survivors. “If you have nobody left who’s up to the task, I’m sure we can offer someone from amongst our ranks.”

Alvantes’s gaze swung over the handful of survivors, settled on Navare, his surviving sub-captain — and there was no mistaking his disappointment. For Navare was sagging beneath a savage gash to the right shoulder; he was only on his feet because another guardsman supported him. Navare wouldn’t be seconding anyone.

Estrada started forward then — but before she could speak, a palm on her shoulder held her back, and Castilio Mounteban moved to take her place. “I’ll do it,” he said. “No one else has the right.”

“Castilio…” Estrada’s tone was imploring.

Ludovoco held up his free hand, waved it in mocking exasperation. “That’s settled then. Is there anything else, before we begin? Anything anyone wishes to contribute?”

“No,” replied Alvantes, “I think we’re done here,” — and almost before the last word was free of his mouth, he was in motion.

If he’d thought to surprise Ludovoco, however, it was a wasted effort. The Pasaedan slipped smoothly into a guard stance, his footing perfect despite the spoiled ground. The defence lasted not even a split second, for in less time than that he’d whirled round and swung for Alvantes’s head. It was all Alvantes could do to twist his upper body, jar up his arm to fend away the blow and trip back into space.

Vivid memories of the last time these two men had fought sprang to my mind. Then, Alvantes had only held his own by fighting dirty. Now, it was obvious that something — no, everything — had changed. Ludovoco was both more confident and more wary. As he adjusted his stance once more, I noted how he held his arm outstretched, keeping Alvantes at a distance. Even without Alvantes’s disabling wound, Ludovoco had the advantage of height, the advantage of reach, the advantage of not having spent the last few minutes battling for his life. So far as I could see, all he had was advantages.

Alvantes readied to attack, a mere twitch of a muscle — but Ludovoco was faster, his blade whipping low. Alvantes was forced again to turn his own blow into a block, their blades ringing discordantly. Before, Ludovoco had fought with cruel persistence. Now he was pressing his offensive straight away, his sword point cavorting in a whirl. All Alvantes could do was to keep his own weapon up and retreat. Mere seconds in and sweat was already sheeting from beneath his grey-flecked hair; I could hear his laboured breathing even from where I was.

Then Ludovoco’s blade snuck past Alvantes’s guard to nick his arm. A thread of blood trailed in its wake. Just a scratch — but even as Alvantes recoiled, Ludovoco had scraped the tip of his sword in a neat line across his opponent’s thigh.

Alvantes gasped, tripped back two full paces. Did he realise how close he was to the Pasaedan lines? Once he was forced against that immovable barrier of men, any shred of hope he might have was vanished.

But perhaps Alvantes did recognise the danger, for he tried to counterattack then. Even one-handed, he was the stronger man; he thrust wildly for Ludovoco’s left side, and as soon as the Pasaedan countered, hacked at his right. Each blow Ludovoco slid aside was followed by another, another. It was clear what Alvantes was trying for: to wear down the lighter man, or at least to drive him away from his own lines.

Either goal was as futile as the other. Ludovoco parried almost carelessly; to see the way he tipped each blow aside, or else stepped smoothly to avoid it, it was hard to believe Alvantes was even trying to hurt him. In the meantime, attacking was costing Alvantes more in exertion than defending was Ludovoco. Even regaining ground was beyond him; Ludovoco was making sure that all Alvantes managed was to wade in helpless circles.

To see Alvantes lumbering, flailing, was like watching a blind bear try to wrestle an acrobat. This was play to Ludovoco. And it was clear from his face, from the glimmer in his dark eyes and the smile tugging always at his lips, that it was play he dearly loved. I knew then without a doubt that whatever had guided Ludovoco to his current position, whatever excuses he’d made, whatever gifts of birth had eased his way, it was this that drove him. As Alvantes had said back in the palace, the man was a killer — and this game would end the moment it bored him.

I didn’t have long to wait. Alvantes’s thrusts were growing cruder, more desperate; Ludovoco’s defence had only grown more graceful, as if in direct proportion. He’d never been moving slowly, but this time, as Alvantes drove for his flank, the Pasaedan was almost quicker than my eyes could follow. One moment he was before Alvantes. The next their blades met, flashed — and their chime hadn’t even begun to fade before Ludovoco was at Alvantes’s back and raking his sword across it.

Maybe it was Alvantes’s leather brigandine that saved him. I could see it through the slice in his cloak, despite the blood already darkening both garments. More likely, though, was that Ludovoco could have killed him then had he wanted to. For while Alvantes was panting, sweating, barely keeping his feet, the only effort I could see in Ludovoco’s face was the strain of concealing the fullness of his pleasure.

Though Alvantes turned in time to fend off another blow, it was obvious Ludovoco had left him that moment’s opening. It went likewise for their next few exchanges, Alvantes escaping each by only the slightest of margins. Ludovoco wasn’t giving him a chance, or even a moment’s breath — only whittling him down. This was no longer a fight, if it ever had been. It was simply a protracted murder.

Then — and I couldn’t say what tipped me off, perhaps a change in Alvantes’s posture or in the tempo of the fight — it struck me that maybe things weren’t quite so simple. I’d seen him fight many a time now, known him for longer than I cared to think about, and I felt more than saw the change in how he was handling himself.

Finally I understood. Alvantes had used the same ploy when he’d fought against Mounteban. It was a move unexpected enough to win him an edge — the sort of edge he urgently needed.

Even as I realised it, Alvantes dropped back on his right foot, lowering his defence a fraction. He was luring Ludovoco in, drawing the Pasaedan’s focus away from his left side — because the last thing Ludovoco would expect from an enemy with a stump in place of a hand was a punch to the face. It would hurt Alvantes far more than it would Ludovoco, but it would buy him a moment’s surprise — and just then, any chance was better than none.

Alvantes stumbled. For all his obvious exhaustion, his acting was impressive. Even I couldn’t be sure whether this was his final gambit or just the last of his strength failing. His sword dipped further. In a moment, helplessly propelled by his duellist’s instincts, Ludovoco was thrusting for his opponent’s right side. But the stumble became a pivot, as Alvantes rolled on his left foot, shifted all his strength into his left arm — and lashed out.

Ducking effortlessly beneath the clumsy swing, Ludovoco flicked his blade across Alvantes’s calf. Alvantes didn’t cry out, but as he staggered, he did moan through gritted teeth.

“Really, Captain?” asked Ludovoco, with a joyful chuckle. “A cheap trick for so honourable a fighter.”

Alvantes dropped to his knees. He looked surprised — whether at Ludovoco seeing so easily through his ruse or because his body had finally refused to stay up, I couldn’t guess.

When Ludovoco took a step closer, Alvantes flailed for his legs. Ludovoco blocked, forced Alvantes’s blade down, and — so quickly I could hardly register it — sliced Alvantes’s arm. As his sword slipped from his grasp, Alvantes cried out for the first time, a sob of hopeless rage. He made to cradle his bleeding right wrist with his left hand. Then, realising the impossibility, he pushed to his knees and tried instead to fling himself at Ludovoco.

Ludovoco sidestepped; his foot crashed into Alvantes’s ribs, sent him tumbling sideways. An instant later, it was followed by the point of Ludovoco’s sword.

Behind me, Estrada screamed — a sound so naked and pained that I couldn’t believe it could come from a human throat. It was almost loud enough to muffle Alvantes’s own choked cry.

Ludovoco stepped round, careful to avoid Alvantes’s hand, which still grasped spasmodically for his ankles. He put his foot on Alvantes’s shoulder; it seemed to take only the slightest pressure to drive him down into the mud. Ludovoco levelled his sword, adjusted its angle carefully.

“A last mercy, Guard-Captain,” he said. “A quick death. Much more than you deserve.” As he raised his blade, I saw where it would land: across Alvantes’s bared throat.

“Stop, damn you!” Mounteban’s roar was huge amidst the unnatural silence; it actually froze Ludovoco in place. “Captain Lunto Alvantes is incapacitated,” Mounteban cried. “Your fight is with me now.”

Ludovoco looked as if he had every intention of going through with his execution, regardless of what Mounteban or anyone else thought. But Mounteban already had his own sword in hand, had already halved the distance between them; in the time it would take to end Alvantes’s life, Mounteban would be on him. Reaching a swift decision, Ludovoco stepped away and dropped easily into a defence.

Mounteban hit him like a bull charging — and Ludovoco actually staggered. He span away into clear space, a half dozen quick steps carrying him free of Mounteban’s first furious assault. Caught off guard, Ludovoco seemed momentarily to forget just who he was fighting, for when he scythed a blow towards Mounteban’s left side, his steel span off a buckler in place of Alvantes’s missing hand. Mounteban shoved the almost-delicate stroke aside and continued to chop wildly, pressing Ludovoco back still further.

Did Mounteban really think he could beat a fighter of such calibre by chopping like a woodsman? But whatever else he’d achieved, he had managed to drive Ludovoco away from our fallen guard-captain. As the two fighters paced round each other like angry dogs, Estrada was already running to recover Alvantes. Without quite thinking about it, I fell in behind her. As we drew near, Alvantes managed to push himself up onto hands and knees. He was alive, then — for the moment, at least.

Meanwhile, Mounteban had barely paused in his attack. Nor had it become less clumsy; it was still more a charge than an assault. I couldn’t see what he hoped to gain by so inelegant a tactic. Rather than trying to hit his foe, it was almost as though Mounteban were flinging himself at him — which meant that for Ludovoco, it could only be a matter of waiting for the right opening.

Yet, for all its inevitability, when the end came it still caught me by surprise. One moment, Mounteban was hurling another blow at Ludovoco’s head. The next, Ludovoco had flicked his entire body sideways, stepped with feline grace inside his opponent’s defence. His sword wove a sinuous pattern in the air; it danced from Mounteban’s thigh to his arm, and ended in a leisurely swipe across his forehead.

If Ludovoco had expected to stop him, however, he was bound for disappointment — for all the injuries did was make Mounteban press on all the harder. Though he was limping, hardly holding his sword, half blinded by blood, Mounteban opened his mouth and bellowed mindlessly and ploughed forward. Ludovoco’s eyes went wide with shock that edged straight away into fear. For an instant, I thought he might really be in trouble.

Then the fear vanished, composure returned, and Ludovoco ran his sword clean through Mounteban’s stomach.

Mounteban let go of his sword, watched vaguely as it tumbled earthward. His gaze drifted on, to note the blade run cleanly through his prodigious gut. Still clutching the hilt, Ludovoco made no effort to withdraw his weapon; only held his enemy’s eyes and smiled. This time, however, there was relief mingled with his usual cruel glee — and I tried to take some slight comfort from that. Mounteban might have thrown his life away and all of ours with it, but at least, for a moment, he had made the bastard doubt himself.

Then, rather than try to pull away, Mounteban threw his arm around Ludovoco. He drew the other man close.

“What…?” asked Ludovoco, in horrified surprise. He was already struggling to get free, but Mounteban was a great deal bigger than him, surely twice his weight, and there was barely a thing Ludovoco could do. Mounteban reached with his free hand inside the folds of his cloak and then flung that arm too around Ludovoco’s back, dragging the Pasaedan even more fiercely into his embrace.

Ludovoco’s eyes went wide. He tried once more to force his way free, twisted in Mounteban’s arms — but without any great enthusiasm this time. Like drunken dancers, the two turned before us. I saw Mounteban’s left hand first, tight-clenched, pressed against Ludovoco’s back. Then his fingers opened, his hand dropped away.

Where it had been, amidst a spreading stain just visible against the black of Ludovoco’s cloak, there stood out a hilt and a finger’s breadth of blade.

In width, the knife was little more than a needle. But I had no doubt of where it had come from, or what it was doing right then to Ludovoco’s insides. I knew enough to recognise one of Franco’s speciality knives, a weapon for an assassin or a street brawler rather than any duellist. It would have cut through mail and meat like a hot axe through butter.

Mounteban let go of Ludovoco then and slid backwards, flopped into the mud with a sigh. Ludovoco, for his part, looked round at us with vague disgust. He reached for the hilt protruding from his back, but rather than try to remove it, he merely patted around it with his fingers, as if curious. Then, his eyes still holding us, still showing nothing but contempt, he crumpled face down in the mire.

By then, Mounteban was lying on his back, knees hunched. He too was looking in our direction — or rather, I realised, at Estrada. He tried to mouth something, coughed, and flecks of blood sputtered from between his lips.

Estrada ran to him, slid to her knees. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right, Castilio. Hold on, will you?”

“Marina,” he said — and her name brought with it another splash of crimson.

“Shush. It can wait.”

Mounteban tried to shake his head, found the effort too much. “Listen…”

“I am listening,” murmured Estrada. “But you have to stop talking.”

“For you. It was.”

“You stupid, stupid man. Lay still, Castilio.”

“Forgive…” he tried again.

But the sentence would have to stay unfinished; for there was no more blood seeping from between his lips, nothing behind his eyes. And perhaps it was a small kindness, because it meant he would never have to hear Estrada’s reply. “Oh, I wish I could,” she whispered.

Yet, despite what she’d said, she was the only one who seemed concerned by Mounteban’s passing, perhaps the only one besides me who’d even noticed. Excepting Kalyxis, the remainder of our number were clustered around Alvantes; at that precise moment, Navare was striving ineffectually to convince his captain that he shouldn’t be trying to stand.

“It’s not over yet,” Alvantes was saying. “Don’t waste time with me.” His voice was a growl, barely audible. Yet, despite the fact that half his blood must have leaked out by then, his gaze was clear and fixed ahead.

I looked to see what had so preoccupied him, when by all rights he should have passed out a dozen times, and understood immediately. It wasn’t over; the fury in the faces of the Pasaedan front line was ample testament to that. That barrier of armed men was moving, not towards us exactly, but swelling and shifting like water tugging at a shore. From all around there came a mounting blare of raised and outraged voices.

Was it only that their commander was dead? Or was it worse that he’d been cut down in so underhand a way? It occurred to me that Mounteban had died imagining he’d saved us, when in all likelihood he’d achieved nothing but to have us torn apart by an angry mob. Even if that rabble might be convinced to honour Ludovoco’s word, they had other officers, and what possible reason would any of them have to let us go? The noise from all around was a rising tide — and I had no doubt that at any moment it would drown us.

Someone broke ranks then, and he’d taken a dozen steps before I convinced my panicked brain that his advance wasn’t the beginning of a massacre. For the man approaching us was Ondeges, and his appearance set my heart on edge between hope and fresh trepidation. From what Gailus had said, Ondeges was an ally, sympathetic to Altapasaeda’s cause, but he was also Ludovoco’s second, and if he chose to pursue his fellow officer’s cause against Alvantes, it would be a short fight indeed.

Ondeges came to a smart halt before our ravaged group. His steady gaze took in us all and settled upon Estrada. Loud enough that the Pasaedan soldiers at his back could hear every bit as well as we could, he said, “The duel is over. One man is dead. The other lives.” He paused to weather a ripple of protest from his own lines and then raised his voice to continue. “By the terms agreed by Commander Ludovoco and as his second, I declare you free to go.”

Estrada hurried towards him, paused only when she saw Ondeges’s look of warning. “Commander,” she said softly, “thank you.”

“Leave now,” replied Ondeges, matching his volume to hers. “I’d find a stretcher for Alvantes, but if you wait I fear it would do him no good anyway. I’ll make sure your dead are brought to the gates before nightfall. Hurry, before they realise how little they care for my word.”

“Captain Ondeges,” Estrada said, “this is…”

“Nothing!” Ondeges hissed. Then, more gently he added, “A gesture… nothing more.” He looked inexpressibly weary. Though his uniform was fresh, unstained by battle, he seemed every bit as exhausted as the most haggard of our party.

And suddenly, I understood. Everything I could have wanted to know about Ondeges was written clear upon his face. I knew how he’d worked for peace, how he’d challenged Ludovoco and even the King himself; I knew he’d risked his own life in doing so. For a moment, his gaze fell upon Kalyxis, and the rage I saw there was the bitter hatred of a man whose every plan had been brought crashing down, without sense or reason.

Then Ondeges looked back to Estrada and said, with perfect calm, “Nothing will make Panchessa change his mind now. Go while you can, pass the night as well as you’re able… because tomorrow this army will be inside your walls, and there won’t be a damn thing you or I can do about it.”