Read Online Orb Sceptre Throne by Ian C. Esslemont - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian C. Esslemont
Ads: Link
earn? Enough to hire a cook. I’m getting sick of your burnt offerings.’
‘You could try lending a hand, you know.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t want to eat my cooking.’
‘I’ll be out back then.’ He threw the gown. ‘Could use some tea.’
‘We all could.’
On the way down the stairs he looked forward to another day standing at the forge where he could look over to the courtyard and see Scillara sitting on rugs laid out on the ground there, nursing little Chaur.
Life, it seemed to him, was better than he’d ever hoped it could be.
CHAPTER II
Turn not thine hand against thy father; for it is sacrilege
Inscription upon stone fragment
Dwelling Plains
THE CHALLENGE BEGAN as these things always do: with a look. A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.
Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.
‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’
Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’
‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’
Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.
So, a year already, is it?
He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older – it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having stretched and warmed up, while he had just completed a very gruelling series of sparring matches and was even now still sweating with exertion. It would appear that this cunning new Third had the advantage.
But Jan was where he wanted to be. His blood was hot and flowing fast. His limbs glowed with heat and felt strong. Practice did not drain him as it seemed to so many others. Rather, it enlivened him. Yet … a challenge during exercise … a time when by tradition all members of the Jistarii aristocracy were welcome to mix freely, practising and training. This was very bad form. An assembly of impartial judges wouldn’t even countenance it.
Yet there was no question he must answer. It was his duty. He was Second.
He set the tips of his fingers on the two-handed grip of his longsword and walked out to the middle of the amphitheatre sands. Over the years he had lost count of the many Thirds who had come and gone beneath him. The ranks of the Agatii, the top thousand, were like a geyser in this manner – ever throwing up new challengers. And this one was an impatient example of a notoriously impatient ranking. Long ago it was always said that
‘You could try lending a hand, you know.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t want to eat my cooking.’
‘I’ll be out back then.’ He threw the gown. ‘Could use some tea.’
‘We all could.’
On the way down the stairs he looked forward to another day standing at the forge where he could look over to the courtyard and see Scillara sitting on rugs laid out on the ground there, nursing little Chaur.
Life, it seemed to him, was better than he’d ever hoped it could be.
CHAPTER II
Turn not thine hand against thy father; for it is sacrilege
Inscription upon stone fragment
Dwelling Plains
THE CHALLENGE BEGAN as these things always do: with a look. A glance held a heartbeat too long. In this case lingering across the beaten dirt of the practice grounds at the centre of Cant, the marble halls of the Seguleh.
Jan, in the act of turning away to call for a slave, noted the glance, and stopped. Those of the ruling Jistarii family lineage out exercising that morning also instinctively sensed the tension. The crowd parted and Jan found himself staring across the emptied sparring fields and wrestling circles to Enoc, the newly installed Third. He watched while the young aristocrat’s friends and closest supporters within the rankings crossed to stand at his side. Without needing to turn his head Jan knew his own friends had come to his. He held out his wooden practice sword. It was taken from his hand.
‘Give him your back,’ Palla, the Sixth, hissed from behind. ‘How dare he! This is not the place.’
Jan answered calmly: ‘Does not our young Third claim that daring is just what is lacking these days among our ranks?’ A snarl of clenched rage answered that. Jan allowed himself a slight raise of his chin to indicate the seats of the amphitheatre across the way. ‘Look … the judges of the challenge assembled already.’
‘They are all of his family!’ Palla exclaimed. ‘This is the work of his scheming uncle, that fat Olag.’
Jan’s sword appeared, offered hilt-first from behind. He took it and began securing the sheath to his sash. Across the field Enoc’s coterie of supporters, ambitious young-bloods mostly, did the same for him. Someone handed Jan a gourd of water and he sipped. His gaze did not leave Enoc’s mask: a pale oval marred only by two black slashes, one down each cheek.
So, a year already, is it?
He was surprised. Time seemed to pass ever more quickly as he became older. Not that he intended to get older – it was merely the byproduct of his extended wait for someone to manage to defeat him. Enoc obviously thought his chance had come. And he had to acknowledge that the daring youth seemed to have chosen his moment quite well: Enoc himself was yet fresh, merely having stretched and warmed up, while he had just completed a very gruelling series of sparring matches and was even now still sweating with exertion. It would appear that this cunning new Third had the advantage.
But Jan was where he wanted to be. His blood was hot and flowing fast. His limbs glowed with heat and felt strong. Practice did not drain him as it seemed to so many others. Rather, it enlivened him. Yet … a challenge during exercise … a time when by tradition all members of the Jistarii aristocracy were welcome to mix freely, practising and training. This was very bad form. An assembly of impartial judges wouldn’t even countenance it.
Yet there was no question he must answer. It was his duty. He was Second.
He set the tips of his fingers on the two-handed grip of his longsword and walked out to the middle of the amphitheatre sands. Over the years he had lost count of the many Thirds who had come and gone beneath him. The ranks of the Agatii, the top thousand, were like a geyser in this manner – ever throwing up new challengers. And this one was an impatient example of a notoriously impatient ranking. Long ago it was always said that
Similar Books
