The Dragon Revenant - Katharine Kerr [187]
“You’re right enough, eh? Very well, I’ll hold my tongue.”
Even in his state of rage, Sligyn had to admit that Talidd had outdone himself on the tournament. The dun itself was hung with Belglaedd’s banners of silver and yellow, and there were more banners, in the colors of the various noble guests, hung from trees or mounted on poles in the area set aside for the festivities. The area around Belglaedd was known for its beautiful ash trees, and there was a particularly fine grove in back of Talidd’s dun, where a small stream wound through a broad meadow. Among the trees the servants had set up table after table of food: sliced spiced meats, cheeses, fresh bread by the chunk and stale bread turned into puddings, pickled vegetables in the Bardek manner, roasted glazed larks and squabs, and as a centerpiece an entire roast boar. There was ale by the barrel and mead by the skin, and no one was turned away, not even the scruffiest beggar in Talidd’s village, which had come in force not just to eat, but to watch the combats. Sligyn even saw a couple of silver daggers mingling with the crowd and helping themselves to the lord’s bounty without anyone saying a harsh word to them.
Across the meadow, a good safe distance from the spread, were two combat grounds, marked out with ribands of green and gold—Gwarryc of Dun Gamyl’s colors, interestingly enough. On one ground the main series of mock combats had taken place that morning, fought by riders from the various warbands, mostly, though a couple of impoverished younger sons of the local nobility had put aside their pride and taken a place in the series. The three hosting lords had put up generous prizes, trophy daggers and silver coins for the winners of every round, and for the grand prize a beautiful bay gelding, battle-trained, with some Western Hunter blood in him to judge by his deep chest and long legs. By the time Sligyn arrived, though, all the preliminary rounds of this splendid contest were over.
“They’ll fight the final round on that other field,” Peredyr said. “They’ve kept it untouched, so the finalists will have perfect footing. Then any of the lords who want to show off can join a mock tourney. No prizes, but it should be amusing to watch.”
Sligyn snorted in a puff of disgust.
“Amusing? Only if the right men break their necks, eh?”
“If we say the right prayers, maybe the gods will take a hand. Gwarryc’s in the lists, of course. I think me the idea is for him to come off the victor. The man’s a splendid swordsman, mind, without any help, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see some of his opponents staying their hands a bit. Just to ensure the show goes their way, like.”
Although Sligyn had been given to fits of blustering, cursing, arm-waving anger all his life, never before had he felt cold fury, that preternaturally calm state where all the world seems very clear yet very far away, and what a man must do is equally clear but quite immediate. He did feel it, then, and he rather liked it.
“Where’s the steward? The one keeping the lists?”
“Over by the ale barrels, last I saw. Lord Amval. Here, though—you’re not going to enter, are you?”
“I am. No doubt I’ll be eliminated in the second or third round, but by every god in the sky, I’m going to try to spoil that piss-proud excuse for a noble lord’s fake victory even if I ride home covered with bruises and shame both.”
When he predicted that he’d be eliminated in the second or third round, Sligyn was not being modest but precisely describing his usual level of skill at mock combats with blunt blade and wicker shield. The rules were simple, but artificial enough to hamper a man like him, used to banging and hacking his way through a scrap. The contestants began at either end of the contest ground, approached and circled for position, then fenced and feinted until one or the other had either scored three touches or driven his opponent into the ribands that marked the ground. Although bruises were ignored, hitting hard enough to break his