Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [242]
Sarene snorted, but her rebuttal was interrupted by the arrival of Duke Roial. Apparently, the old man had finally realized that his property had been invaded by a roving Dula. As the duke approached, Kaloo gave another one of his silly bows, sweeping his large, floppy hat out in front of him. Then he launched into praises of the duke, telling Roial how honored he was to meet such a venerable man.
“I don’t like him,” Sarene declared quietly to Ashe.
“Of course not, my lady,” Ashe said. “You never have gotten along very well with Duladen aristocrats.”
“It’s more than that,” Sarene insisted. “Something about him seems false. He doesn’t have an accent.”
“Most Republic citizens spoke Aonic quite fluently, especially if they lived near the border. I have met several Dulas in my time without hint of an accent.”
Sarene just frowned. As she watched the man perform, she realized what it was. Kaloo was too stereotypical. He represented everything a Duladen aristocrat was said to be—foolishly haughty, overdressed and overmannered, and completely indifferent when it came to just about everything. This Kaloo was like a cliché that shouldn’t exist, a living representation of the idealized Duladen noble.
Kaloo finished his introductions and moved on to a dramatic retelling of his arrival story. Roial took it all in with a smile; the duke had done lots of business with Dulas, and apparently knew that the best way to deal with them was to smile and nod occasionally.
One of the women handed Kaloo a cup. He smiled his thanks and downed the wine in a single gulp, never breaking his narrative as he immediately brought his hand back into the conversation. Dulas didn’t just talk with their mouths, they used their entire bodies as part of the storytelling experience. Silks and feathers fluttered as Kaloo described his surprise at finding King Iadon dead and a new king on the throne.
“Perhaps my lord would care to join us,” Sarene said, interrupting Kaloo—which was often the only way to enter a conversation with a Dula.
Kaloo blinked in surprise. “Join you?” he asked hesitantly, his flow of words stopping for a brief moment. Sarene could sense a break in character as he reoriented himself. She was becoming increasingly certain that this man was not who he claimed. Fortunately, her mind had just alighted on a method to test him.
“Of course, my lord,” Sarene said. “Duladen citizens are said to be the finest fencers in all of the land—better, even, than Jaadorians. I am certain the ladies here would be much intrigued to see a true master at work.”
“I am very thankful at the offer, Your Gracious Highness,” Kaloo began, “but I am hardly dressed—”
“We will make it a quick bout, my lord,” Sarene said, picking up her bag and sliding out her two finest syres—the ones with sharpened points rather than simple balls. She whipped one through the air expertly as she smiled at the Dula.
“All right,” the Dula said, tossing aside his hat. “Let us have a bout, then.”
Sarene stopped, trying to judge whether he was bluffing. She hadn’t intended to actually fight him; otherwise she wouldn’t have chosen the dangerous blades. She considered for a moment, and then, with a casual shrug, tossed him one of the weapons. If he was bluffing, then she intended to call him in a very embarrassing—and potentially painful—way.
Kaloo pulled off his bright turquoise jacket, revealing the ruffled green shirt underneath; then, surprisingly, he fell into a fencing stance, his hand raised behind him, the tip of his syre raised offensively.
“All right,” Sarene said, then attacked.
Kaloo jumped backward at the onslaught, twirling around the stunned Duke Roial as he parried Sarene’s blows. There were several startled cries from the women as Sarene pushed through them, snapping her blade at the offending Dula. Soon she emerged into the sunlight, jumping off the wooden dais and landing barefoot in the soft grass.
As shocked as they were at the impropriety of the battle, the women made certain not to miss a single blow. Sarene