“Touch!” cried the Master of the Court.
Tal retreated a step, then came to attention and saluted his opponent, a young noble from the coastal city of Shalan. Duzan or Dusan, Tal couldn’t quite recall his name. The spectators applauded politely as if the match had run to form, which it had.
The Master of the Court stepped forward and declared, “Point and match to m’lord Hawkins.’’
Talwin Hawkins, a minor noble from Ylith, distant cousin to Lord Seljan Hawkins, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, bowed first to the Master of the Court, then to his opponent. The two men removed the protective mesh masks they wore and crossed to shake hands. The young Roldemish nobleman smiled and said, “Someday you’re going to guess wrong, Tal, and then I’ll have you.’’
Tal smiled in return. “You’re probably right. But as my man Pasko says, ‘I’d rather be lucky than good.’ Right, Pasko?’’
The burly servant, who had appeared at his elbow and was now taking his master’s sword and mask, smiled, and said, “As my master says, given the choice, I’ll take luck anytime.’’
The two combatants exchanged bows and retired to opposite corners of the huge dueling hall that was the heart of the Masters’ Court in Roldem City. Large carved wooden columns surrounded a massive wooden floor, which had been polished to a gleam like brushed copper. Intricate patterns had been laid into the floor and, once he had been introduced to the instructors, Tal had quickly seen they served a function beyond the aesthetic aspect. Each pattern defined a dueling area, from the very confined, long and narrow dueling path for rapier fencing, to a larger octagon for longer blades.
For blades were the reason for the existence of the Masters’ Court. Over two hundred years ago the King of Roldem had commanded a tourney to name the greatest swordsman in the world. Nobles, commoners, soldiers, and mercenaries had traveled from as far away as beyond the Girdle of Kesh—the mountains that separate the northern and southern halves of the Empire, the Far Coast of the Kingdom, and all points in between. The prize had been fabled: a broadsword fashioned from gold and studded with gems—an artifact worth a kingdom’s taxes for years and years.
For two weeks the contest had continued until a local noble, a Count Versi Dango, had prevailed. To the King’s astonished delight, he announced he would reject the prize, so that the King might make use of the value of the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the blade, and there hold the contest on a regular basis: and thus the Masters’ Court was born.
The King ordered the construction of the school, which covered an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdom’s capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined, until now it resembled a palace as much as a school. Upon its completion, another tourney had been organized, and Count Dango had prevailed in defense of his rank as premier swordsman in the world.
Every fifth year the contest was held, until on his forth defense, Count Dango was wounded in his match by the eventual winner and was forced to retire from the contest.
Since then thirty-one different men had won the championship. Talon of the Silver Hawk, now known as Tal Hawkins, planned to be the thirty-second such champion.
The dueling master approached, and Tal bowed. “Master Dubkov,” he said with respect.
“That was a fine display, but you took your opponent for granted. If you did that with a more experienced swordsman, you might have found yourself taken, my young friend.’’
Tal inclined his head in acknowledgment of the dueling master’s correct appraisal. Then he grinned and said, “If I never offer the less skilled a slight chance to win, what motive do they have to spar with me?’’
Master Dubkov laughed. “And those with more experience—say, those anticipating a place in the tourney—will not spar with you lest they reveal too much and disadvantage themselves to you during the contest, eh?’’
“Exactly,” said Tal.
“Well,” said the dueling master, lowering his voice, “I don’t know how much good you think you’re doing yourself by these exercises, but the crowds enjoy them—especially the young ladies.” He inclined his head toward an area of the gallery where a dozen of Roldem’s noble daughters sat observing the bouts.
Several smiled and nodded in Tal’s direction. He smiled back and returned the nod in their general direction without making eye contact with any specific girl. Master Dubkov raised an eyebrow at this. Then he said, “Well, I must be about my duties. Good day to you, young Talwin.’’