Chapter 5: The Yard

"The forty, or supper," Isandor told his court in the practice yard at nine the next morning. "My consort's terms and mine."

The court had come out in furs to watch.

They lined the gallery above the sand, three deep, with hot wine in their hands.

Corvain sat in the middle of the front row with a swollen purple nose, taking bets.

"Ten to one on His Majesty," Cassien heard him say. "The boy held a ford for nine days and then gave it up. That tells you everything."

Cassien had held Tarrow Ford for nine days with two hundred men against four thousand.

He had surrendered it when the citadel fell, because there was nothing left to hold it for.

He did not say that.

He took off his coat and handed it to Maelis.

"Win," she said.

"That's the plan."

"No, really, Cassien. Win. I don't want to watch you eat supper with him every night. Your face goes stupid."

"My face does not go stupid."

"It went stupid last night in the gallery. I was at the end of it."

Cassien turned away before she could see his face do it again.

Isandor came down onto the sand in his shirt and black breeches with a plain blade in his hand.

His sleeves were buttoned to the wrist.

In the morning light he looked bigger, with the shoulders of a man who had swung a sword in a real war and not in a ballroom.

"You can still have supper," he said. "Without the bruises."

"You can still give me the forty. Without the humiliation."

Isandor smiled.

The marshal dropped his hand.

Cassien went in fast, the way he always did, because he was built for it.

Isandor took his first three cuts on his blade, close to his body, and gave no ground at all.

Steel rang off the walls of the yard.

"You've been well taught," Isandor said.

"You sound surprised."

"I'm delighted."

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