Fool's Errand (Tawny Man #1)

Fool's Errand (Tawny Man #1) Page 103

No, no, no.

I turned, seeking the source of the floating thought, but of course that availed me nothing. A faint snatch of music distracted me. A stableboy, sent hurrying about his tasks, jolted into me, then, at my startled look, begged my pardon most abjectly. Without thinking, I had allowed my hand to ride my sword hilt. “No harm done,” I assured him, and added, “Tell me, where would I find the Weaponsmasterthl heeb Êoystopped suddenly, looked more closely at me and smiled. ”Down at the practice courts, man. They re jus past the new granary." He pointed the way.

I thanked him, and as I turned away, I tugged my collar closed.

The Tawny Man 2 - Golden Fool

The Tawny Man 2 - Golden Fool

The Tawny Man 1 - Fools Errand

Chapter XIII

BARGAINS

Hunting cats are not entirely unknown within Buck Duchy, but they have remained for years an anomaly. Not only is the terrain of Buck more suited to hound'hunting, but also hounds are more suited to the larger game that is usually the prey of mounted hunters. A lively pack of hounds, boiling and baying, is a fine accompaniment for a royal hunt. The cat, when it is employed, is usually seen as more fittingly the dainty hunting companion of a lady, suitable for the taking of rabbits or birds. King Shrewd's first queen, Queen Constance, kept a little hunting cat, but more for pleasure and companionship than sport. Her name was Hisspit.

Ê- Ê. sulinoa's “a history of coursing beasts”

“The Queen wishes to see you.”

“When?” I asked, startled. It was hardly the greeting I had expected from Chade. I had opened the panel that admitted me to his tower to find him sitting in his chair before the hearth, waiting for me. He immediately stood.

“Now, of course. She wants to know what progress we have made, and is naturally anxious to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“But I haven't made any progress,” I protested. I had not even reported my day's work to Chade yet. I probably stank of sweat from the weapons court.

“Then she'll want to hear that,” he replied relentlessly. “Come. Follow me.” He triggered the door and we left the tower chamber.

jb-, It was evening. I had spent my afternoon doing as the Fool had advised me, playing the role of a servant learning his way about a new place. As such, I'd talked to quite a number of my fellow servitors, introduced myself to Weaponsmaster Cresswell, and successfully arranged it that he would suggest I freshen my blade skills against Delleree. She proved to be a formidable swordswoman, nearly as tall as I was, and both energetic and lightfooted. I was pleased she could not get past my guard, but I was soon panting with the effort of maintaining it. Trying to penetrate her defenses was not yet an option for me. The weapons training Hod had enforced on me long ago stood me in good stead, but my body simply could not react as swiftly as my mind. Knowing what to do under an attack is not the same thing as being able to do it.

Twice I begged leave for breathing space and she granted it to me with the satisfaction of the insufferably young. Yet my leading questions about the Prince availed me little, until at my third rest interlude I loosened my collar and opened my shirt wide to the cool air. I almost felt guilty doing it, yet I will not deny that I wanted to test if the charm would coax her to be more loquacious with me.

It worked. Leaning on the wall in the shade of the weapons shed, I caught my breath, and then looked up into her face. As our gazes met, her brown eyes widened, in the way that a person's eyes widen at the sight of something pleasantly anticipated. Like a rapier rushing to its target, I thrust my question past her guard. “Tell me, do you press Prince Dutiful so hard when he practices with you?”

She smiled. “No, I fear I do not, for I am usually more occupied with maintaining my own defenses against him. He is a skilled swordsman, creative and unpredictable in his tactics. No sooner do I devise a new trick to use against him than he learns it and tries it against me.”

“Then he loves his bladework, as good fighters usually do.”

She paused. “No. I do not think that is it. He is a youth who makes no halfmeasures in anything he does. He strives to be perfect in all he attempts.”

“Competitive, is he?” I tried to make my query casual. I busied my hands in smoothing my wayward hair back into its tail.

Again she considered. “No. Not in the usual sense, There are some I practice with who think only of beating their opponents. That preoccupation can be used against them. But I do not think the Prince cares if he wins our matches, only that he fights each one perfectly. It is not the same thing as competing with my skills . . .” Her voice trailed away as she pondered it.