Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [89]
"My thanks," I said glumly, dismounting.
"Not at all." He looked curiously at me. "Any chance you'll win?"
"A very slight one." I eyed him. "Did you place a wager on me?"
He pursed his lips. "Not exactly."
"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate the nod of confidence."
Mavros shrugged. "Look, Imri, I've seen you spar with Joscelin and I'd back you against Bertran or Julien or any of that lot. But you're not a real Cassiline, and the Dalriada learn to fight as soon as they're weaned." He glanced over at Eamonn, who was conversing animatedly with Marguerite Grosmaine. "He's already killed two men, did you know? Some tribal spat or other."
"I killed a man, once," I said.
"You did?" Mavros shot me a startled look. "When?"
"When I was ten." It was true, too; or almost. I stabbed Fadil Chouma, the Menekhetan slaver who bought me from the Carthaginians, in the thigh with a carving knife. Phèdre told me in the zenana that the wound took septic later, and he died of it. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. We're using wooden blades, not real ones."
"Yes," Mavros said thoughtfully. "Prince Eamonn was most disappointed."
Indeed, he greeted me with it.
"Prince Imriel!" Eamonn called in his Eiran lilt. "I thought we were to have a bout!" He glanced at the wooden sword in his hand, coppery brows knitting in perplexity. "These are children's toys. How are we to have a proper fight?"
"I'm already risking my horse!" I said in exasperation. "Do you want to take my head as well?"
"Ah, no!" His eyes widened. "Not on purpose."
In the end, Drustan intervened, explaining to Eamonn in the Eiran tongue—which I nearly understood, it being a dialect of Cruithne—that Queen Ysandre did not take kindly to the notion of either her kinsman's or her guest's blood being shed for sport.
Resigned, Eamonn shrugged. "Well, then," he said, removing his gold tore and giving it unto Drustan's keeping. "I will honor my wager with children's toys."
It was, I thought, an unfair assessment. A fine pair of practice-blades had been commissioned for the occasion, carved of solid walnut with gilt inlay on the carved hilts. A pair of wooden bucklers had been provided, too. Eamonn's was painted green and bore the device of a white horse; mine was blue, with the silver swan of House Courcel. He slid his left forearm through his shields straps, testing the heft of it. I ignored mine.
"No shield?" His brows arched pointedly.
I shook my head, checking the buckles of my vambraces. They weren't real ones, but were made of boiled leather, thick and sturdy. I wore them when Joscelin and I sparred, and the leather was scuffed and scarred.
"Ah." Eamonn glanced over at Joscelin, comprehension dawning. "He has trained you, your foster-father? Perhaps this will be fun after all!"
It took some time before everyone was settled to their satisfaction; members of the royal family, their kin and valued friends seated, others grouped around in a loose circle, jostling for the best view. Mavros stood off to one side, holding the Bastard's reins. He jingled his purse and pointed at me with a meaningful look. I could see my other friends laughing and conferring, caring only for the spectacle.
I did not dare look at Phèdre, knowing she thought this was a foolish endeavor; nor at Joscelin, for fear I would let him down. On the dais, Ysandre looked calm and resigned. Drustan, having taken custody of Eamonn's tore, appeared to take a lively interest in the proceedings. Sidonie, seated at her mother's side, seemed bored. Only Alais, knotting her hands under the wolfhound Celeste's collar, watched me with a worried, anxious look.
I smiled to reassure her, blowing her a kiss.
"The little princess." Beside me, Eamonn chuckled. "She's… what is the word? Clever. I like her very much."
I bristled. "Let her be! She's only a child."
"Dagda Mor!" He blinked at me. "Of course. She's like one of my little sisters. What did you think I meant?"
"Nothing," I muttered. "Never mind."
"You D'Angelines are strange," Eamonn commented. "I'll tell you, though, her older sister's a right bitch."