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By Root 2184 0

Julius. Nicholas did not go quite so far. It was a feat, even if the Venetian used his own horse and bow; even if he wore, strapped to his bow-hand, the ivory trough which, by extending the draw of his arrow, added valuable power to its cast. He was a citizen of the Republic, and it was his duty to promote it. The next moment, de Fleury rode out unsensationally on his borrowed mount, equipped with his borrowed quiver and bow. The string was proofed. There was no excuse therefore for his failure, three times over, to shoot an arrow anywhere near the gold ball. One of the shafts, descending at random, came close enough to cause his three partners to scatter. The third time, the drum beat his recall and, frowning, he trotted over to Zeno, to a chorus of good-natured catcalls. ‘Messer Caterino, who makes your arrows?’

‘Messer Niccolò, who brews your ale?’ said Caterino Zeno.

‘… THAT WAS DELIBERATE,’ Kathi said to her husband. The awning mumbled and spat: the rain was heavier. Robin and Anna exchanged glances.

Robin said, ‘I was close to him just now. Kathi, he hasn’t been drinking water.’

‘It’s not only that,’ Anna said slowly. ‘Is it?’

Kathi gave her a comradely look, and silently congratulated the Divine Bounty which had produced someone who could apply her mind to Nicholas without becoming instantly revolted. She said, ‘No, it isn’t, although he’s pretty sodden as well. I shouldn’t necessarily trust him an inch, but those shots were deliberate.’

‘I don’t see why you think so,’ Robin said. He sounded exasperated. Kathi slid her hand into his.

It attracted one of Anna’s wry, glinting smiles. ‘I am afraid,’ she said, ‘that Julius is the worse for drink also. What are we to do with them?’

ON THE FIELD, his shoulders soaked, Adorne narrowed his eyes at the butts. His hair streaked his cheeks, and the grass churned under the hooves of his horse. Soon, the whole stretch would be mud. He was fortunate, being the first man about to dash across the width of the field, loosing his arrows. Or fortunate in the matter of foothold. Upon the range of distant targets to his left, the white of each bull’s-eye was exactly the size of a crown: he was supposed to hit them while galloping, and his soaked string was useless. His mount continued to fidget, disturbed by the incessant manoeuvres of Zeno’s short, deep-chested animal at his side. Behind Zeno was Julius and here, on his own right, was de Fleury. It enraged Adorne that, through no fault of his own, he was about to seem as incompetent as this unspeakable knave. The unspeakable knave, leaning over, said, ‘That’s a good bow.’

‘It’s wet,’ said Adorne. He spoke shortly. The trumpets blew to announce the next phase, but Zeno’s horse was still displaying its rider’s skill and its mettle.

‘All the same,’ de Fleury said. He leaned over further. Unbelievably, before Adorne could stop him, his opponent had snatched up his weapon and carried it back to his own knee, causing his own horse to start. Next, grinning, de Fleury flung up his shirt-arm and plucked off his hat with a flourish, upon which his horse faced about and showed signs of evacuating the field. The trumpet blew a second time, and someone shouted his name. Adorne exclaimed, ‘What are you doing, de Fleury? Give me my bow!’

It came, thrown into his hands, and he raised it, breathing quickly in anger. Then he saw that this was not his own bow, nor any of Zeno’s providing. What he held was a small unadorned weapon of horn, wood and sinew, expertly proofed, and designed, Arab-style, to accommodate its own majrā: the trough which, like Zeno’s, added length and power to each pull.

Adorne said, ‘But this is yours.’

‘Loaned me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Use it. Keep your shaft to the right.’ Adorne stared at him. The field quietened. He heard his name called again. Anselm Adorne drew a short breath. Then, leaving his reins, he lifted the bow, and flung his horse into motion.

To cross the field at full gallop was a matter of moments. Twisted in the saddle, Adorne shot — once, twice, thrice — at the distant white coins, and, slewing round