“This is not a country fair, Sir Kitchen Knight,” the announcer said
reproachfully. “You can’t just wander around among the exhibits. Sir Guy
Morton is now the top contender in the Ribbon Dance style of street fighting.
Challengers welcome. Dame Cynthia Barkley has so far scored highest in the
Wyvern’s Eye competition, obliterating eight out of ten targets.”
Pierce reached him finally, after coming unnervingly close to getting
scrambled under the hooves of a charger finishing a gallop down the tilting
list. The announcer was a burly blond knight with an easy, confident smile
that Pierce guessed he had worn sliding out of the womb. He stood on a
platform overlooking the field, with a microphone in one hand and an earpiece
in one ear, receiving information from the enclosure high in the seats above
him.
“Welcome, Sir Kitchen Knight,” he said cheerfully, then held the mike under
Pierce’s nose. “Do we have a name?” Pierce opened his mouth; the mike was
suddenly no longer there. “No? Then Sir No Name it will be, since a knight
without a name is a knight without a history, kitchen or otherwise, and who
can say what feats and marvels you might perform on the field? Who can say,
that is, but you?”
The mike was in front of Pierce again; the announcer cocked a brow, said
briefly into it, “Anything?”
“What?”
“What,” the announcer asked more precisely “is your weapon of choice?
Hands, feet, longbow, lance, pistol, Wyvern’s Eye—”
“Kitchen knife?” Pierce said uncertainly, all he could think of. The mike
swooped back to him; he said into it, “Knife?”
A cheer went up. “Knife it is. What style?”
“What?”
“Longshore Style, Double-Handed, Chained Blades, Eastern, Old Style—”
“Ah,” Pierce said, and got the mike’s attention. “Deli Style?”
The announcer grunted with amusement. “Not familiar with that one. Do you
have your weapon with you?”
“Yes,” Pierce sighed.
“A field squire will escort you to the Field of Knives. Wait there for your
challengers. Let’s hear it for Sir No Name, who will introduce us to the art
of knife-fighting Deli Style.” He held up the mike to catch the raucous
reaction. Pierce closed his eyes, wishing he had taken his chances with the
tree.
He followed his escort to a square patch of grass with mysterious colored
lines painted on it. He unpacked his knife and stood bleakly in the center
where the lines converged, waiting. Around him, in other painted squares, men
and women fought with unbelievable dexterity and grace, with and without
weapons, their patterns of movement as varied as dance and likely as old.
Surely, he thought, none of those skilled in such subtle and deadly moves
would be interested in the knife-weavings of Slicing the Onion or Cubing the
Tenderloin.
He was wrong.
A tall, lithe knight with long red hair in a knot on his head walked up the
front of his opponent, did a backflip off his chin, and knocked the feet from
under him on the way back up. The explosion from the nearby crowd obscured the
announcement of the knight’s victory. He held out his hand, helped his dazed
opponent up, then he bounded into Pierce’s square and bowed gravely. Pierce,
stunned, could only stare at him and hope one of them would disappear.
“Since you have no name to give,” the young man said briskly, “I won’t
bother you with mine. Anyway, I expect to lose to you since I’ve never heard
of Deli Style fighting. Can you show me a few basic moves before we start?”
Pierce found his voice finally. “You just walked up that knight.”
“Yes, but that was a totally different style.”
“You don’t even have a knife.”
“I’ll get one,” the nameless knight said patiently. “If you could give me
an example of the style, I’ll know which knife to choose.” He waited, while
Pierce’s mind went blank at the idea. “Please? Just one simple move?”
Pierce stirred finally, an underwater slowness in his bones. Feeling
ridiculous, he tossed an invisible fruit in the air with one hand; with the
other he sent the knife flashing after it, describing a little circle in the
air, before he caught the falling fruit. “Coring the Apple,” he said, and
tossed it again, cutting the air with five vertical, precisely parallel turns
of the blade. “Wedging the Apple.” He caught the wedges, which usually fell
on the cutting board, and stood awkwardly, his empty hand cupped, wondering
what to do with the nonexistent pieces.
The knight’s eyes had narrowed. He gazed at Pierce out of eyes the pale blue
of a winter sky; his lean, comely face, with its red brows and lashes, was
without expression. “Can you do another,” he suggested finally. “I’m not
quite getting this.”
Pierce drew breath, held it. It seemed easier to acquiesce than to try to
explain, which would probably result in his getting walked up and knocked
down, then jumped on a few times. The explanation was inevitable.
“Look—”