In the Company of Gentlemen Page 3

  “My idea hadn’t worked. Young Jack felt a bit guilty, I could see, as he’d breached good manners if not good sense, and it hadn’t worked. You could see from Damian Raskae’s expression that he knew what he’d tried, and that it had failed. He was panting but grinning and I wondered if he were mad. I kept thinking back to the Trigoon Wastes, and how everything there was exquisite on the surface and rotten underneath. Masks and corruption. And he was a beautiful man.”

  No one spoke this time. Zorey took several deep breaths. He hadn’t thought about the Trigoon Wastes for years, not even in nightmares, and there had been enough of those to last for several lifetimes. He’d seen such awful things, done such awful things. No wonder that captain had been mad, he’d been there over three years.

  He looked up again and saw Domina Black smiling gently at him. He wondered what she’d seen in her day, to look like that at him, to know what the Trigoon Wastes meant to an old soldier who’d been young then. It was the look an elder sister might give, loving and warning at once. He coughed slightly. Not that he felt much like a younger brother’s feelings.

  “So it was our unit, the first of our company. I was all for going first, but Young Jack held me back. He had the men go separately again, not in a rush. Not that it helped, for Damian was still in his rhythm and though he was clearly getting a bit tired he didn’t start making mistakes. No injuries except for a couple of sprained wrists and fingers from people who didn’t know when to let go when he used moves like Urlong’s Disarmament or the Fegle Key on them. Two piles of swords, and a hundred and twenty-five men who were increasingly bewildered. Half awestruck, half angry as hell.

  “Our unit was good—the best, whatever Old Jack thought of his. Seasoned men, newbies, all good. Good enough to catch the Red Company—but not good enough to keep them.

  “Damian Raskae went through the last four before me like butter. By this point no one much wanted to win—it was such an extraordinary achievement, everyone was torn between wanting to be the one who finally beat him and not wanting to break such a glorious streak. Or I guess that’s what everyone else was thinking. I was puzzled, and getting angrier.

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t think it was beautiful—I did. I told you, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, a perfect swordsman at his height. He was more than a grand master, was Damian Raskae.

  “We all knew, watching him, that this would make his name forever—that we were watching a legend being created. But it’s not much fun being the ones who fall like flies to the hero, really, or I didn’t think so.

  He swallowed. “And as I said, I’d been in the Trigoon Wastes, where I’d learned to mistrust—no, to hate—no, to despise beautiful things. The mists there are worse than Fairyland, and I know you’ve all heard things about Fairyland. Whatever was in the Trigoon Wastes made those of us who survived have topsy-turvy views of things. We thought only ugly things could be real.

  “That was me, when it was my turn. I thought beauty incapable of being true: and here I was, looking at this marvel. I didn’t believe in hope, I didn’t believe in trust, I didn’t believe in honour. The Red Company were hoping for their escape, they trusted their captain, and they seemed to trust in our company’s honour. I knew Young Jack was honourable, but I thought it was stupid, and I didn’t think it was a thing worth defending. I was angry.

  “I walked forward, with all my anger boiling up. My pride wasn’t stung, not like that fool Taft’s. I didn’t care about the honour of our company, or of the Imperial Army, or of me. I wanted to destroy Damian Raskae because he was so superbly excellent, and I was certain that meant he was evil. Not that I said that to myself as I walked forward. I only thought this through afterwards. When I walked forward I just said knew that he had to be taken down, whatever way I could.”

  Zorey didn’t look at Colin or any of the other listeners. He was going to look carefully at the floor, when another movement from Domina Black attracted his attention, and he saw she was still looking gravely and sympathetically at him.

  He knew, absolutely knew, then, that she knew exactly what he meant, knew the desire to destroy the beautiful for being beautiful, knew the mistrust; perhaps also knew what came afterwards, if you were lucky.

  “I walked forward with my sword in hand, and I think Damian Raskae saw something in me, for he stopped grinning and looked absolutely dead serious. I was furious. I feinted with Kisron’s Opening, and I saw he knew I was no slouch—I the last soldier bar the captain of our company. He knew that I was well trained, to start with that, and he countered with Poorman’s. I attacked with Bollythwaite—him, Saudade—Vaschl—Yinarvik—Mbangalele—Tellahiu—and then I did a double move, Poorman’s Cross (using his own skill against him) and then—the Blackguard’s Turn.”

  He paused, feeling the echo of those long-done moves through his bones, even as he gripped the water cup tightly. Colin spoke hesitantly. “I don’t know that one.”

  “Good,” someone said emphatically, and Zorey had to laugh.

  “Yeah, because it’s one of the dirtiest moves there is. I tell you it nearly worked—he was not expecting that sort of move from someone who’d just shown he knew Yinarvik and how Tellahiu can counter Mbangalele—but he defended himself with something whose name I never learned, and the real fight began.

  “I fought with everything I had, which went way down, let me tell you. I’d learned a lot in Trigoon, but I’d learned more in the West Collian campaign, before the army realised how dark the Bayesthers had grown. I knew some wicked, wicked moves. Young Jack guessed I had it in me, but he hadn’t seen me let it out—no one in the 31st had.

  “I could see that I’d made Damian Raskae mad. He felt I was dishonouring myself, but he wasn’t going to let me win, either. He showed me he knew how to counter things that wicked without returning them back to me. He didn’t aim below the belt, not even when I taunted him with openings. Not he! He wanted to win bloodlessly—he wanted to triumph.

  “But I was fresh and he wasn’t, and I was very, very good. Young, but I trained almost as obsessively as he must have. We were well matched by this point. Maybe if he’d been fresher he’d have been able to beat me faster. Very likely. But I think I would have given him a good run for it any time of day. Though perhaps I wouldn’t have been using quite such dastardly moves if I hadn’t been fighting him last.

  “I pushed him hard. Not into panic, but into anger. I was goading him, wanting him to break, wanting him to show the darkness I was sure he was hiding. He couldn’t be that good, I thought—he had to have sold his soul to the Dark Kings, or something. He couldn’t be that good at the sword and also a good man—I was sure that was impossible. I wanted it to be impossible, because then I didn’t need to try to be both. But I kept remembering the looks on his friends’ faces, when he made his challenge, that trust. And it made me angrier and angrier.

  “Finally I threw everything else out and started in on the Royal Beggar. You won’t know what that one is, either, I hope, Colin, and I won’t show it to you. It makes a lynching look nice.

  “I thought I was going to get him with it, and so did he. It doesn’t have any way out but carving up the person doing it into pieces. I’d been taught it by the captain of the Bayesthers’ Twelfth himself, one day when we’d—well, never mind what day it was that that was the only way we managed to get out alive, and we the only ones of our whole unit. Only a madman would use it, but only an equal madman could defeat it.

  “I used it. On the great and noble Damian Raskae, who, I am sad to say, seemed to know exactly what it was and why I was using it. He was not happy with this.

  “Actually, let me say that again: he was righteously furious, toweringly enraged, to the point that he seemed to regain all the power he’d lost and be fighting me as if it were his first bout of the day. There was such strength in his arm as he blocked my sword—I can feel it still, it was like swinging against a tree. It shivered, but wasn’t coming down.

  “I used it. But he refused to respond the way the move was calling for, same as he’d refused to cry out against the whirlwind formation when it was supposed to be single combat. Instead he did something like what Domina Black just did now, and took apart the Royal Beggar piece by piece. Not me, mind—that’s the way it’s supposed to work, with one party or the other losing a body part with each part of the sequence. No, he took apart the sequence, making me do each part perfectly before letting me move on to the next.

  “To this day I don’t know how he did it. That should have made me win—making me do each move fully should have meant that I disarmed him, or took off his nose or his ear or something. Instead, it meant that he did a corresponding block perfectly well. It was like it was a demonstration in how to fight. And at the end he did one sweeping final move, which blocked the Rizzetta’s Prime—the last step of the Royal Beggar—disarmed me, and cut my cheek, all in one motion.”

  Zorey touched the line of the scarring. It went from his nose to his chin, a straight line, but across the folds of his face, so when he smiled or frowned the skin puckered in strange unlovely fashion.

  “It was the only cut he’d made that whole afternoon, and I knew, and everyone knew, that he hadn’t had to do it. It was done in punishment, because I’d fought that dirty. I had thoughts of attacking him with my bare hands or my dagger once his guard was down, but Young Jack came up and held me back. Once I started to relax I found I was completely exhausted, and my cheek hurt.

  “Damian Raskae looked at me, and the blood on the edge of his blade, and he turned to Young Jack with his back straight and his eyes brilliant and a stern expression on his face, sure no doubt that Young Jack had planned it this way, leaving the dirtiest and best soldier for last. Or second last—because of course Young Jack
hadn’t gone yet. And it might be expected that he was good with the blade, or at least Damian Raskae couldn’t assume he wasn’t.

  “They looked at each other for a long, long moment, and we all wondered what they were going to do. Was Damian Raskae going to complain about the dirty tactics I’d used? Was Jakory going to order us to attack as a mob to get our swords back and surround the Red Company? Or maybe it was just me wondering that, and feeling sullen.

  “Damian Raskae saluted Young Jack. I remember a drop of blood—of my blood—flicking off the blade and landing on his cheek. He didn’t do anything about it though, just spoke ... regally. Truly, he was like a king or a god. He said, ‘Captain Jakory, it seems it is down to you at the last.’

  “Now, Young Jack was a good swordsman, though not as good as me. We’d been practising together, and he’d been improving—though I hadn’t been teaching him things like the Blackguard’s Turn or the Royal Beggar, let me tell you! But he was no match for Damian Raskae, and he knew it. He might have had a chance with him so tired—except that the captain of the Red Company was obviously furious after my little display, and righteous indignation goes a long way to beat off tiredness, as I have learned.

  “We all waited silently. The Red Company were very tense, but not making any fast moves or reaching for their weapons—yet. They were still surrounded by a hundred and fifty Imperial soldiers, without their swords, true, but with other weapons. We waited, and the only sound was the wind in the trees and the sounds of the horses.

  “Young Jack spoke at last: ‘Captain Raskae, I have never seen anything like that. You are magnificent.’ And he bowed very deeply.

  “Then he said, ‘I accepted your bet, certain you could not win. What can I do now? You have defeated one hundred and forty-nine men in single combat; the sun is down; and the last was a bout not to be forgotten by any here any day soon.’ They both looked at me, and I know I scowled, for I remember it feeling as if my face were going to fall off, it hurt so much and so much blood came out. I had my sleeve up and it was drenched.

  “He went on, ‘I gave you my word that if you defeated my company I would let yours go freely. Captain Raskae, I may well be executed for keeping my word. I should fight you, but how could I? Dare I win, and act to destroy such magnificence? Dare I lose, and see my men avenge my honour? No: I would rather be known as the captain whose company lost to you.’

  “He looked around at us, all his men, and at me especially, with a very meaningful glance—not that I was in any mood to do anything at that point. Then he added, ‘In our defeat, we are made great. We have entered legend by grasping the stirrup-leathers of the Red Company. Go, Captain, and your Company with me. You saluted me, but I am honoured to say I salute you.’

  “And with that he laid his sword at Damian Raskae’s feet, and bowed with nine flourishes—which you would only do to someone who ranked as high as a lord magus. Nine.” Zorey had to shake his head, even now. “I travelled years with Young Jack, and the only other person I ever saw him give nine flourishes to was Lady Ardaline of Alinor. Her, the lord of a world; and Damian Raskae, when he accepted our defeat.

  “Damian Raskae said, ‘Thank you. Your courtesy and your magnanimity will not be forgotten, in the songs that are sung of this day.’ And they aren’t—you’ve heard what Fitzroy Angursell wrote of it, I’m sure, in The Company of Armed Gentlemen.” He had to sigh. “Fortunately he didn’t know my name.”

  A couple people muffled snickers; Domina Black grinned more openly, still wryly but also in real amusement, seeing that he could—more or less—smile at it himself. “Being known as ‘the most dastardly gentleman ever to attack Damian Raskae’ has had its uses in my career, however, at times. Not always good uses, I admit. Because you see, something happened then that changed my view of things.”

  He looked briefly at Colin, whose head was down as if his hat held the secrets of the universe. Zorey wet his lips, made himself keep going. This wasn’t even the bit where he was revealed as a wicked man; this was the worse bit, when he realized it.

  “I was standing there sullenly, a little apart from where Jakory was. He gestured for the men to open up a lane, and the Red Company quickly mounted their horses and prepared to leave while they had the chance. Though actually Young Jack would never have broken his word, even without that fine speech he’d just made. Perhaps they were worried, having seen what I did.

  “Damian Raskae did accept a leg up from one of his friends—I think it would have been one of the sisters Avramapul again. That was the only sign he gave that he might conceivably be tired. He wiped his sword on his handkerchief before sheathing it and let her boost him up, which I’m sure he didn’t usually. Then he rode out of the clearing, his friends in formation behind him.

  “Except that the woman, Pali or Sardeet Avramapul, she made a pause before mounting her own horse. She stopped in front of me, looked me in the eye, and said, ‘That was brilliantly fought. Wicked dirty, but brilliant.’

  “And she unwrapped one of the long scarves she was wearing, a bright blue silken thing, and tossed it at me. She grinned when I just stared at her and let it fall, and added, ‘For your cheek.’

  “And off they rode, to more adventures and more renown, and from being merely wanted to being the Ninth Terror of the Empire, and from being much-rumoured about to being household words.

  “Our company was bound together by that defeat. I don’t know how Young Jack managed not to be executed, unless it was that someone high up was as impressed by the sheer accomplishment himself—though perhaps it was because it was before Fitzroy Angursell’s song made the rounds. We thought we’d be laughing stocks, but Jakory was right. By that defeat, by that sound rout, we’d entered into legend, into shared glory.”

  He smiled wryly. “Even I, when people found out I was the ‘dastardliest man to attack Damian Raskae’—people were in awe. For had I not kept him fighting five times as long as anyone else that day? Had I not come the closest to touching him? Had I not come by my scar just the way any young soldier dreams of, at the hand of the greatest swordsman for many a generation of many a world?”

  No one responded for a few moments. They were regarding him with another mix of expressions, still a bit of disbelief mixed in but mostly thoughtfulness, curiosity, wonder, amazement, a bit of derision.

  Then Colin spoke, sounding as if he were wrestling with difficult ideas. “But you’ve never talked about that. I don’t think my mother knows how you got that scar, uncle—no one’s ever hinted at this.”

  “And if I’d been Jakory Goldlake or Taft or Old Jack, I would have told the story in every bar and barracks—which they did. Colin, lad, I was humiliated by Damian Raskae, and what was more, everyone knew why. It wasn’t because I was bad—I wasn’t, that was true enough. It was because when he cut open my swordsword to show my soul it was ugly, and no one wants to think that. Not even someone who’d spent three years on the Trigoon Wastes and thought everything was broken.”

  He frowned intensely. “Uncle, I don’t understand. You’re telling us now.”

  Zorey fought to find words for it. Finally he came up with, “Before that bout I would have been perfectly happy, in a grim kind of way, to be known as a dastard. Afterwards, I ... wasn’t. I’d seen something else at work. He’d shown me my soul, and it was ugly. But I’d opened his, and it wasn’t. The worst that was in him was that he cut my face to show me that, and even then, his friends did me honour.”

  That disjunction of skill and dirty tricks, of honour and shame, had eaten at him. He’d become obsessed with the tales of the Red Company, the deeds they had already done and the later songs and stories of what they came to do.

  He’d followed Jakory through five years of near-exilic punishment postings, followed him through the reconquest of West Colly, and ridden in triumph behind him into Astandalas the Golden down the Boulevard of Roses.

  He’d sat patiently through years of raillery in bars and barracks, of being asked to do the dirty tasks, of being regarded warily and sidelong by people who’d heard his reputation, until finally his new reputation as Jakory’s faithful second overcame it in accolades and honours.