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lasp and let the scabbard fall behind him on the grass。 One of his appointed squires from Miraval quickly knelt and picked it up。 The Arimondan moved forward； light on his feet as a tumbler for all his size； and Blaise； watching closely； saw that his first steps carried a little west。 As expected。 He had seen this manoeuvre before； the last time he'd fought a challenge with a man from Arimonda。 He had almost died that day。
Moving to meet the man whose brother he had slain； Blaise regretted； not for the first time； that he knew so little about his foe and how he fought。 For all Valery's words about the propensities of those using curved swords…tendencies Blaise knew well…they had little actual knowledge of Quzman beyond what was obvious。 He was a big man； cat…quick； and brave； with a longing for revenge and nothing at all to lose today。 I could； Blaise thought； be dead before the sun rises much higher。
It had always been possible。 There was no honour to be sought or found in a meaningless challenge； no elevation in the eyes of the gathered world beneath the banner of Gorhaut's kings…which was； of course； the point of all of this。
Moving forward； Blaise found what he was looking for。 His small round shield rested on his left forearm； leaving his fingers free。 He transferred his sword to that hand and stooped quickly。 In the same motion； as Quzman came straight towards him； he seized and hurled a clump of earth squarely at the Arimondan's gleaming shield。 Quzman stopped； surprised； and Blaise had time to rattle another dulling handful of mud against the shield before straightening and reclaiming his sword in his fighting hand。
Quzman was no longer smiling。 It was Blaise who grinned now； with deliberate mockery。 〃Too pretty a toy；〃 he said。 It was quiet now； he did not have to raise his voice。 〃I'll have it cleaned when you are dead。 How many men have you killed by blinding them first like a coward？〃
〃I wonder；〃 said Quzman after a short silence； his beautiful voice thickened by passion； 〃if you have any idea how much pleasure your death will bring me？〃
〃I probably do。 Blood ants on the plain。 You told me already。 By contrast； though；〃 Blaise replied； 〃your life or death mean almost nothing to me at all。 Wele to the dance。 Do you want to talk all morning or are you actually able to use that blade you carry？〃
He was。 He was more than able； and sorely provoked。 The first stroke； exactly as Valery had predicted； was a downward angled slash on his backhand。 Blaise parried smoothly； guiding it short of his body…but then was only barely quick enough； even with the anticipation； to block the vicious return sweep of the curved blade along the level of his knees。 The impact； a grinding collision of weapons； was almost enough to numb his wrist。 The man was strong； enormously so； and his reactions were even quicker than Blaise had guessed they would be。
Even as he thought this； Blaise was twisting desperately and dropping； guided only by reflexes of his own； an utterly instinctive movement shaped by years of bat in tournament and war； the primitive drive for survival letting him react to the curved sword abruptly planted； quivering； in the earth； to Quzman's gloved hand reaching for the back of his calf and the knife blade flung in a blurred motion for his throat。 It went by； almost。 Blaise felt a searing pain at the side of his head。 He brought his sword hand quickly up to his ear and it came away soaked with blood。 He heard a sound from the pavilions then； deep and low； like wind on a moor。
Quzman； his sword recaptured before it had even stopped vibrating in the ground； was smiling again； the white teeth gleaming。 〃Now that；〃 he said； 〃is pretty。 Why don't you throw some mud on it like a peasant？ You do seem to enjoy scrabbling in the earth。〃
The pain was bad and would probably get worse； but Blaise didn't think his ear was gone。 Not entirely； at any rate。 He seemed to still be hearing sounds from that side。 He thought of Bertran suddenly； with his own missing ear lobe。 He thought of how much depended on his walking alive from this field。 And with that his anger was upon him fully； the familiar； frightening daemon that came to him in battle。
〃Spare your breath；〃 he said thickly； and surged up from the ground to engage the other man。 There were no words then； no space for words and indeed no breath； only the quick chittering clatter of blades glancing and sliding from each other； or the harder； heavier clang as sword met blocking shield； the controlled grunting of two men as they circled each other； probing with cold metal and cold eyes for an avenue along which they could kill。
Quzman of Arimonda was indeed good； and driven by the fierce pride of his country and his family； and he had a sworn vengeance to claim。 He fought with the fluid； deadly passion of a dancer and Blaise was wounded twice more； in the forearm and across the back of his calf； in the first three engagements。
But Quzman's thigh was gashed； and the leather armour over his ribs was not quite equal to the scything blow it took on a forehand slash from an Aulensburg sword wielded by a man with a passion and rage of his own。
Blaise didn't stop to gauge how badly he had wounded the man。 He drove forward； attacking on both sides； parried each time with impacts that sent shocks up his elbow and shoulder。 He registered the welling of blood at Quzman's left side； ignoring as best he could the stiffening protest from his own leg as he pushed off it。 He could easily have been crippled by that low blow； he knew。 He hadn't been。 He was still on his feet； and before him was a man who stood in the path of 。。。 what？ Of a great many things； his own dream of Gorhaut not least of all。 Of what his home should be； in the eyes of the world； in the sight of Corannos； in his own soul。 He had said this two nights ago； words very like this； to King Daufridi of Valensa。 He'd been asked if he loved his country。
He did。 He loved it with a heart that ached like an old man's fingers in rain； hurting for the Gorhaut of his own vision； a land worthy of the god who had chosen it； and of the honour of men。 Not a place of scheming wiles； of a degraded； sensuously corrupt king； of people dispossessed of their lands by a cowardly treaty； or of ugly designs under the false； perverted aegis of Corannos for nothing less than annihilation here south of the mountains。
It was one thing to have ambitions for one's homeland； dreams of scope and expansion。 It was another to use the sky…blue cloak of the god to hide a smoke…shrouded inferno of men and women…a nation of them…thrown to burn on heretics' pyres。 Blaise had seen such fires as a boy。 He would never forget the first time。 His father had clutched his shoulder and had not let him turn away。
He knew exactly what Galbert wanted； what Ademar of Gorhaut would be guided to do when he came south。 He knew how strong； how wealthy the army of Gorhaut would be by the time the snows melted in the spring。 He had seen those pyres； he would not watch another burn。 He had sworn it to himself those long years ago； watching an old woman die screaming； flames in her white hair。 And to stop them； to stop his father and his king； he had first to defeat this Arimondan who stood now in his way with a curved sword already reddened by Blaise's own blood。
The most celebrated troubadours and the better known joglars did not watch the tournaments from the mons' standing ground。 By courtesy of Ariane de Carenzu； as a sign of their high favour in Arbonne； they were given a pavilion； not far down the lists from her own。 An invitation to sit among those in the pavilion was one of the prime measures of success each year among the musicians； and this autumn marked the first time Lisseut had found herself included in the elect。 She owed it to Alain； she knew； to his own growing reputation； and to the little man's brash assertiveness that memorable night in Tavernel when she had sung his song to the queen of the Court of Love and the dukes of Talair and Miraval。
And to the red…bearded Gorhaut coran who was now battling for his life on the grass before them。 It seemed he wasn't just a coran； though。 Not si