Tal smiled. “I just came to practice, Master.”
The older man smiled and nodded. “Then I shall find you an opponent.” He saw several young men lingering nearby, eager to cross swords with the Champion of the Masters’ Court. He beckoned one of them: “Anatoli, you are first!”
Tal had no idea who the young man was, but the youth approached without hesitation. He bowed to the Master, then bowed to Tal. Master Vassily cried out, “Rapiers! Three points to the victor!”
Both men wore heavily padded jackets that covered them from neck to groin, over leggings and leather-soled slippers. Each donned a basket mesh helmet that allowed air and vision, but protected the entire head from injury. They advanced and faced each other.
The Master came to stand between them, holding out his sword. Each combatant raised his own weapon, touched it to the Master’s, and held it in place. Then the Master pulled his weapon away and the contest began.
Tal had been dueling during his nearly yearlong stay in Salador. The Court of Blades was no match for the Masters’ Court in terms of the number of quality opponents, but there were enough good swordsmen there to keep Tal sharp.
He had needed the time, for on Sorcerer’s Isle there was only Caleb to spar with, and Caleb had been absent a great deal of the time, out on one mission or another for his parents. And while Caleb was the best hunter and archer Tal knew, his blade work left room for improvement.
Before then, Tal had been with mercenaries, and most of the niceties of the dueling floor were lost on them. They were not looking to perfect swordcraft as an art, but rather as a means of survival, and Tal was fairly certain the Masters of the Court would look dimly upon his using kicks to the groin, eye gouging, and ear biting as part of his sparring regime. Tal realized that many of the young men who would spend years of their lives here in the Masters’ Court would never have to use their blades in anger. Such was the life of a young noble in the civilized bosom of Roldem.
Young Anatoli was quickly dispatched, for he was sound at basic swordsmanship but lacked any particular gift. Three other young men were also quickly disposed of, and Tal elected to leave the floor.
Rather than heading straight for the changing room, he went to a table at the end of the hall that was laden with refreshments. A crystal bowl stood in the center, filled with water and floating slices of lemons. Tal had come to appreciate the drink after getting used to its tartness. Fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries, and smoked meats rested on trays. Bottles of ale and wine were also there for those who had finished with the day’s practices. Tal took a cup of lemon water from a servant, then picked up a slice of apple to nibble on while he surveyed the room.
One of the court’s many servants stood next to Tal, busily restocking each dish so that the presentation always looked fresh. He calculated the expense and considered how costly it must be to operate the Masters’ Court. Any nobleman was free to use the court for the furtherance of the art of the blade. Commoners with gold could use it for a not-inconsiderable fee, and many choose to do so for political reasons. Otherwise, the entire cost of operating this palatial undertaking was borne by the Crown.
For an idle moment, Tal wondered just how much wealth King Carol commanded. He called up from memory a book he had read on the life of the Krondorian trader Rupert Avery, and reconsidered how exaggerated the various sums mentioned by the self-aggrandizing fellow really were. Sitting alone in his little hut on Sorcerer’s Isle, Talon of the Silver Hawk had thought those figures must have been inflated to bolster the author’s claim of importance in the history of the Kingdom. But now that he considered how vast the palace of Roldem was, and just the cost of operating this court alone, not to mention the funding of Roldem’s navy, Tal realized just how naive Talon had been. From somewhere in his memory came the phrase “It’s good to be king,” and despite not being able to remember which of his teachers had uttered it, Talon was inclined to agree.
For a brief instant he thought he was on the edge of understanding Duke Kaspar’s greed for power.