The Queen's assassin

Chapter Eleven

Sardec awoke before dawn. The chamber was cold and it was difficult to get out of bed. His dreams had been troubled affairs, full of vivid images of the spidery servants of Ulan Ultar and the hidden tunnels beneath Achenar where he had lost his hand.

For a moment, he was disoriented, not quite sure where he was. He had a nagging sense that something was wrong. Rena stirred beside him, her warm weight pressing against his side. She murmured something in her sleep, and he felt a momentary surge of affection for her. Then, suddenly, stunningly, it came to him: today was the day he was due to fight a duel with Lieutenant Deakan. Within a few hours he might be dead. The enormity of it shook him. From out of nowhere, in what should have been a peaceful time, death had reached out with his bony claws.

He sighed and swung his long legs out of the bed. His feet touched the wooden floor and he worried for a moment that he would get a splinter in his foot. He smiled nervously at the ludicrousness of the thought. In the not too distant future a bullet might come crashing through his brain and here he was worried about the prospect of splinters. How strangely the mind worked. He drew on his leggings clumsily and scratched at the scab on the back of his hand.

If a bullet found him today, it might prove a mercy. At least he would die while he was still himself. The conviction that the ghoul disease was destined to take him had settled in his mind, and he did not seem able to shake it. It had all the inevitability of the sunset. He wondered if such pessimism was a symptom that his mind had started to go, or whether it was just because he was tired and hungry.

He glanced out the window. The first faint glimmerings of light had just appeared in the autumn sky. The streets had a ghostly twilit quality that gave the shuffling vendors an unreal quality. Already the first of the street dwellers were stirring, picking among the nightsoil and the garbage, searching for something, anything that would help them survive another day.

How many times had he looked out of windows like this and never even noticed such people, Sardec wondered? They had always just been part of the scenery, animated bits of landscape that no more impinged upon his life than the signs for cheap habiliments that hung above their heads. Now he found himself wondering what it would be like to be one of them, to live their lives, to eke out their fragile existence, to never have to worry about honour, or place or preferment.

He turned and looked at Rena. A street like that was the place she had come from. Something told him that life was no less complex down there, merely harder, and it struck him forcibly and not for the first time just how privileged his life had really been. He had been born wealthy into one of the highest families in the land. His whole life until Achenar had been one of ease.

He concentrated on the girl as he continued to dress. How lovely she looked as she lay there, her hair a glossy raven's wing against the coverlets. He wondered at the way she moved him, in a way that none of his other lovers ever had, though they had been Terrarchs and closer by far to his station. Why was that? Had she uncovered some deep-seated flaw in his nature, or was it something else, a strength he had not known he had possessed? Perhaps a part of it was simple egotism. He was rebelling against his heritage, showing he was different from all the other Terrarchs. There was something about that which appealed to him, even as he knew how ludicrous it was. He was far from the only officer in the Talorean army who had a human mistress. It was likely that he was not the only one who cared for her either.

She was awake and looking at him, had been all the time. "Good morning," he said softly and smiled. She did not smile back. She looked appalled and saddened.

"Are you really going to do this thing?" she asked.

"I don't have any choice."

"Yes, you do. You can simply not show up."

"And I would be the laughing stock of the army."

"It's better than being dead," she said. The easy stock response came to his lips. Perhaps for you, he was supposed to say, but I am a Terrarch and an officer. It was the sort of thing that heroes in plays always said.

"Perhaps," he said, thinking of his father, dying slowly of a terrible wasting disease, thinking of the disease that might even now be eating away at his own brain. "Perhaps it depends on how you die."

She just looked at him and shook her head. There were many things he wanted to tell her then, to explain how he felt about her, to tell her not to be afraid, to tell her that he was not afraid, in spite of everything. At that moment there came a knock on the door, as loud as a thunderclap in the silence of the morning.

"Lieutenant Sardec, we must be on our way to the field of honour." The voice belonged to Lieutenant Jazeray, his second, but it might as well have been the voice of doom. As he left he thought he heard her crying.

Jazeray looked sombre as the coach rumbled through the quiet streets. Sardec was glad to be left alone with his thoughts. The initial feeling of dread had lifted, leaving him afloat on a fragile calm. He found his thoughts were very clear and he was filled with a certain nostalgia. He glanced out the window, drinking in the street scene, the figures moving through the arcades, the beggars with their bowls and crutches, the pie-sellers with their wares displayed on trays that hung from their neck. Strangely, he felt a sudden desire for one of the pigeon pies. He quashed it.

His thoughts drifted back to last night. His love-making with Rena had been feverish, and reached a height of passion he has never experienced before, an ecstasy so intense it had blazed through him like a lightning strike. He has always felt a passion for her more intense than for any other woman he had slept with, and this had felt like the culmination of that intense desire. It made fighting this duel almost worth it.

"By the Light, you look very cheerful for a Terrarch going to face death," said Jazeray. There was a combination of admiration and chagrin in his voice. Sardec realised that he was smiling at the memory of last night, and wiped it away. Soon, he thought, he would need to have all his wits about him. Most likely he would die soon. For all his practise, he was an indifferent shot with his left hand.

"Is Deakan any good with a pistol?" Sardec asked.

"Perhaps that's a question you should have asked before you challenged him to a duel."

"Indeed. It's a pity you were not there to advise me at the time. I might have done so."

Jazeray’s smile was cold but a hint of genuine humour crinkled the corner of his eyes. Sardec felt a feeling of comradeship for him at that moment, the like of which he had never felt before. They had never really been close — if truth be told Sardec had never really been all that close to any of his fellow officers. Jazeray had agreed to be his second because the honour of the regiment demanded it. At this moment Sardec was glad he was there. Jazeray’s smile faded.

"By all accounts he's an excellent shot. Are you so determined on suicide? There are easier ways. I can recommend a particularly good poison — Saladan roach venom — it induces ecstasy that lasts for hours before death."

"One of my men, the northern barbarian, always claims he knows a street girl in Harven that can do the same."

"Perhaps you should seek her out."

"Are you trying to talk me out of this?"

"It's one of my duties as a second."

"You are performing it admirably so far. Keep up the good work."

"You could simply apologise to Deakan for slapping him."

"Would you?"

Jazeray contemplated this for a moment. "I would probably have punched him."

"Then you can see the way the thing goes."

There was silence for a moment. Jazeray paused, almost embarrassed. "By the balls of the Shadow Princes, Sardec, you are a cool one. Whatever happens this morning, the regiment will be proud of you. I can tell you that."

The silence fell again, and in it, Sardec considered his fellow officer's question. Was he determined on suicide? Perhaps he was. Perhaps he found this death preferable to the ghoul disease. Perhaps it was something else, something that had lurked in his temperament since he was born, and had waited for this moment to emerge. Or perhaps he really was just defending his honour and Rena's. A few month's ago he would have laughed if anyone had told him that he would die to defend the honour of a human camp follower. Now he could laugh for a different reason.

He glanced out the window again. They had left the city behind and were out among the fields. Quite recently men had camped here, and lived and died here during the siege. Before this morning was much older, more blood would fertilise the grass, most likely his own.

The fields reminded him a little of his father's estate. They had the same flatness broken by shade trees. He remembered running across those fields as a boy, chasing butterflies, swimming in rivers, learning to ride a destrier. His memories of that time all seemed bathed in golden sunlight, just as his memories of the old winters were always full of snow. He knew there must have been grey days, and rainy days, and days of mud and slush but he was hard pressed to remember them now.

The road passed through a wood, trees all clad in autumn browns and reds that made him think of sitting in his father's house beside a roaring fire. He remembered lessons with his sisters, and celebrations of the Holy Days, dressing up in masks at Solace, lighting candles at the altars for Midwinter. He remembered reading the books in his mother's library, being baffled by the diagrams and odd notations in the grimoires. His sisters always had more of a gift for magic than he had. It came to him now that really he should have spent last night writing to his sisters and to his father telling them of his feelings for them, perhaps he should even have written to his mother. Too late now for that, of course. Much too late.

The coach rolled to a stop where the road passed through a clearing. They had arrived.

Deakan and his seconds were already there. They stood together under a tree. They all seemed rather young and innocent. Sardec felt almost sorry for them, although he was probably younger than they. With them were two people he did not recognise, one of them a human, the other a Terrarch in a long frock coat. The human carried a large black case that most likely contained the pistols.

He stepped out of the coach and tugged his jacket tight. It was a chilly morning. Mist had brought moisture to the air. His breath clouded in front of him although the sun was fully risen. Sardec wondered how many more minutes of life he had left. Probably not many. He took a deep breath, enjoying the loamy freshness of the air, so clear and clean after the pollution of the city. He noticed that dew clung to the long grass. He smiled at Jazeray and nodded to those who waited. He was surprised by the calmness he projected. He felt more like an actor in a play than someone who was about to put his life on the line. He wondered if Deakan felt the same way.

As he came closer, he realised that the answer was most probably no. His opponent looked pale, and there was a darkness under his eyes as if he had not slept. He and his companions smelled of liquor. Perhaps they had been up all night boozing. It was one way that some people kept their courage up. They did not look too pleased to see him. He smiled at them.

"Good morning," he said. No one responded.

The tall Terrarch standing with the humans came forward. Sardec knew him now. It was the surgeon. He was the last person Sardec had expected to see here but he supposed it made sense to have someone with his skills on hand. The sight of him brought back thoughts of the ghoul bite and a coldness deeper than that of the chill morning air settled on Sardec's heart. The surgeon gestured to Sardec and Deakan who approached.

He placed a gloved hand on each of their shoulder's and said, "You have been called today to the field of honour because you each feel you have a grievance against the other. I urge you, before the sight of God, to put your quarrels aside and make peace. No blood need be spilled today. You both may retire with honour."

It was not true of course. Both of them would retire as laughing stocks in the eyes of their fellow Terrarchs, but the form of words had to be fulfilled.

"Lieutenant Sardec struck me. No apology he could make would make any difference to the slight nor excuse his boorish conduct." Sardec noticed a slight stammer in Deakan's voice. Was the other officer nervous? Perhaps. His breath certainly reeked of wine. He refused to meet Sardec's eye. The surgeon turned his gaze on Sardec.

"And you, sir?"

"I believe that honour forbids me from withdrawing."

"Then we must proceed to the drawing of blood. I believe the chosen weapons were pistols."

Sardec and Deakan nodded. "Bulger, if you please," said the surgeon.

Stone-faced as an undertaker, the human opened the black wooden box. Within were two pistols. They were beautiful pieces, with gold-embossed filigree. They smelled of oil and old wood. "Each of you may choose a weapon. Lieutenant Sardec you may choose first. Both of you may prime your weapon with powder and wad. I will pour the measure of powder from the same bag. In light of Lieutenant Sardec's injury, I trust no one will object to his second priming the weapon."

Deakan shook his head. "Does that mean you have no objections, sir?" the surgeon asked.

"No objections," said Deakan. It seemed to take him a little time to get the words out. His hands shook when he accepted the pistol. Sardec was pleased that his own did not although he could hardly slight his foe for that. It was one thing to draw a weapon in battle with the fury of combat surrounding you. This readying weapons in the early morning, alone, with a single opponent who you must look in the eye, and talk to before the event, was something else entirely. Sardec was surprised how calmly he was taking everything.

Jazeray took the pistol and the measure of powder the surgeon had poured into a bag. He checked the action of the weapon carefully and then primed it. He took a long time about the procedure, apparently all too aware that a fellow officer's life lay in his hands. Briefly Sardec wondered if he had done anything recently to offend Jazeray, decided that he had not, and that he could trust him. That thought, too, brought a smile to his face. He noticed that Deakan was staring at him, as if astonished by his calmness. He had spilled a little powder when readying his weapon, and had to ask for more, if Sardec did not object.

"No objection at all," said Sardec pleasantly. He was starting to enjoy himself in a strange way. His opponent's obvious nervousness would perhaps make up for his own left-handed shooting. Another glance at the surgeon reminded him of the ghoul disease and that, perhaps Deakan would be doing him a favour if he killed him.

Eventually the preparations were complete. The surgeon said; "Sirs, you will both stand back to back and give myself and your seconds time to withdraw. When I say proceed, you will take ten steps turn and fire. If you understand and agree, say aye."

"Aye," said Sardec.

"A…aye," said Deakan.

Sardec watched as the surgeon and his companions withdrew. They all looked more nervous than he felt. He took one last look at their faces and the trees, glanced up at the sky, thought of Rena and then waited, feeling the deadly weight of the gun in his left hand.

He could hear Deakan breathing heavily behind him. A faint flicker of pain passed through the phantom of his right hand, as it sometimes did after moments of stress, then he felt a sense of total freedom and lightness such as he had never felt before. In a few heartbeats, everything here would be decided one way or another.

"Proceed," said the surgeon. Sardec put one foot in front of the other. He was aware of every faint shift in the tension of his leg muscles. One, he counted to himself.

He took another pace and then another. What if Deakan turned and fired early? The muscles of his back tensed as if expecting a bullet to come crashing into them any moment. He kept walking, five steps, six. In his mind's eye a picture of Deakan turning and firing emerged. He pushed it aside. He would do this properly or die in the attempt. Seven, eight, nine, ten. He swung and saw that Deakan had already turned. His pistol was raised. Sardec knew in that moment he was going to die. The game was up. He smiled.

Deakan raised his pistol. His hand shook perceptibly as he did so. Sardec did not bother to raise his own. He watched disinterestedly as his foe, straightened his arm and pulled the trigger. A cloud of smoke. A roar like thunder, too loud in the early morning. Pain seared through Sardec's right arm. He waited for blackness to take him. It did not. He looked down and saw that his sleeve was torn and his right bicep was bleeding. A flesh wound he thought.

Deakan stared at him, his face a study in horror and despair. The situation of a few moments ago was reversed. Sardec briefly considered discharging his pistol into the air, of saying blood had been drawn and honour satisfied. Anger grabbed his heart then, and he shook his head. This offal had tried to kill him, and would have done so, if his aim had not been so bad. Slowly and very carefully Sardec raised his pistol, aiming it right between the eyes that held his gaze. He squeezed the trigger. A flower of blood bloomed on Deakan's forehead, and he fell backwards, dead.