53 - Duels over dinner

I came to know my way around, got used to and in time came even to like kri , and learned the basics of the language at least. I did some study, of Enchian works on Laka, first from the Palace library and then from Astalaz’s collection when he knew. He did indeed invite me to exercise, with the elite of Tardengk’s standing army, every man of which I sparred at one time or another, learning all manner of Lakan swordwork.

As in Brahvniki, when my work of studying was done, they treated me to lavish entertainments. Mostly it was music or acrobatics or plays, delivered with utter melodrama in the Lakan style. Once I was shown to a courtyard by a passle of laughing nobles, along with Jarengkt, the envoy who’d been assigned to me. On the dais was a long pole on two supports like saw-horses, several burly men in black and gold Lakan pantaloons, and a naked man in chains who looked very afraid. “You certainly don’t get to see this in Yeola-e, from what I’ve heard,” Jarengkt chuckled. When all were assembled… I will write no details, except that they began impaling the prisoner, with all the watching Lakans laughing and exclaiming and taunting the victim with delight.

I leapt out of my chair and towards the door; Jarengkt chased after me saying, “Timnimuz akdan, this displeases you somehow?” I just said, breathless, “I’d prefer no entertainments that are torture or execution.” I couldn’t think of how to explain why without it seeming like insult. “You sick, dirty, pain-lusting, perverse, barbaric savages!” wouldn’t do.

Every false dawn I had dinner at Astalaz’s left hand, not the place of greatest honour—that was his right—but close. That morning, he said to me, “You’re a warrior, J’vengka. You’ve seen all manner of carnage, that must have been far more gruesome than a simple impalement, on the field; how is it you couldn’t bear this?”

He said it without contempt, only curiosity. I thought before I spoke; he clearly wanted honesty and so I should give it, but without insult. “It’s not the blood,” I said finally. “It’s the wish. On the field, if enemies die in front of my eyes it’s because they chose to risk that; if friends die in front of my eyes, they likely want me near, for comfort and perhaps mercy. I can’t know that this man wants me to see him die, especially in such a slow and painful way; I can’t imagine he would. So it’s not for me to be there—at least to my mind.”

He looked at me in his quizzical way. “But he’s a condemned criminal—that one was sleeping at his post. And had displeased one of the Kin. Why care what he wants? He didn’t want to die, either, but he did.”

And that wasn’t punishment enough, so he had to suffer being leered and laughed at in his agony and terror? I bit my tongue. “It must be that I’m Yeoli.” We left it at that, and they refrained from inviting me to the like again.

I baffled them, though they took pains to tell me that was intriguing, not offensive. I had a god’s son’s pride, they told me, which in the Palace is the highest praise—I had no idea what I’d done to earn it—and yet I actually spoke to servants as if I owed them words (I couldn’t help it) and thought it odd to wear my sword to dinner in a Palace.

The whole Kin feasts together in the Dinner Hall, every man armed with at least one sword. The third or fourth dinner, there was a yell and a bang and I saw one lord had leaped to his feet fast enough to knock his chair over backwards, bellowing something in Lakan; across the room another did the same, and with the scrape and ring of steel they both drew. The tables are set up in a great rectangle, with open floor inside with no carpets; when they both strode into it, I understood why.

Would they kill each other? Right here? They seemed earnest enough, moving full-speed, striking sparks off each other’s edges, and letting out war-cries as sincere as I’d heard on the field. “J’vengka,” Astalaz said, “should we get you a different dish, don’t you like that? It’ll get cold.” I stared at him, then around the tables, even as I appreciated the irony of the idea that Lakan food could ever get cold. Everyone but me was still eating.

“No… it’s very good… as always,” I said weakly, lifting a morsel to my lips. (Lakans, like us, eat mostly with fingers.) I didn’t know because the challenge and acceptance had been made in fast Lakan, but it was only going to be to first blood.

It ended with one getting a long gash in on the other’s outer arm; the vanquished made a grudging obeisance to the victor, sheathed his sword, and walked back to his place dripping blood. The woman next to him—his wife, presumably—wrapped it tenderly with a serviette, and he finished his meal even as blood soaked through the pale silk and began running down onto the table-cloth. To not finish eating afterwards is considered cowardice, if you are merely flesh-wounded.

I witnessed four dinner-duels in all when I was there. The knocking-over of the chair, I soon learned, was ritual, done every time. I hoped none would be to the death; I was not so lucky. I remembered the saying, ‘warrior enough to eat dinner downwind from yesterday’s battlefield on a hot day, and still enjoy it,’ and kept eating, even as they hacked sheets of flesh off each other, and finally one went down with a blade through his entrails and was finished by a blow to the throat.

I thought about it when I woke, too early, in the afternoon after the first duel I saw, the woman of that particular night snoring softly beside me. Understanding came: even in peace, Lakans are at war, with each other. It is rich against poor, free against slaves, nobles against other nobles, nobles against king and king against nobles, all for power. All the aspects of war are there: the weapons, the blood, the harsh punishments, the oaths, in essence, of relinquishing will, and the deaths. They carry it to their very hearths.

The next night I asked Astalaz, “What if one of them challenges me, because I killed his brother in the war or something; what do I do?”

“Don’t worry, my son. No one will, because as a fosterling you are under my protection. But being that that is the case, it would be unmannerly to give anyone cause to, so keep as civil a tongue as you have so far—people know to cut you some slack for not knowing our ways, so you haven’t really offended anyone yet—and don’t cuckold any one man too often.” As if I could possibly want or even be able to do that, I thought, when there’s a woman in my bed every night.

One morning at dinner, a man fairly near me stood up with his hand on his sword-hilt, and said words that seemed very like the challenge-words, fight-staring me. He hadn’t knocked over his chair, though. I looked at Astalaz, saying with my eyes, ‘I thought you said no one would challenge me!’ He leaned over to whisper, “That’s Korsharend, the best warrior among the Kin. He’s challenging you only to spar, no blood.” Right, I thought: chair knocked over, blood, no chair, no blood. “I thought he would. Everyone wants to see what you’re made of.”

Thanks for the warning. “Um,” I whispered, “should I do my best?”

The King drew back and up, his brows coming down black and hard, his lips tightening to a line. Whether he was truly angry or putting it on, I couldn’t know; that’s another thing about Laka. “You’d even think of doing less?” he snapped. I got up fast, unclipping my sword.

“Could you all at least do us the decency of quitting eating?” I wanted to declaim as I faced Korsharend in the centre of the space between the tables. As it turned out, they mostly did. Lord against lord was old hat, but most of them had never seen Yeoli swordcraft before. I also think they wanted to understand better the enemy who had just fought them to a stalemate.

Korsharend sparred as intensely as a warrior can spar, and was good, but not as good as the best of the Tardengk elite. Of course he had it all over me in size and strength, a good head taller than me with a moderately massive build; but I had over him that I’d learned so many Lakan tricks and he knew no Yeoli. I also was in much better shape than him—Lakan nobles are fairly lax in this, I learned—and we went long enough that it mattered.

Though of course they favoured him, they applauded my good moves too, and I found myself drawn back to Rao Kyavinara, at least in his performing rather than captive incarnation, as a Lakan would say. I went for spectacle, doing down-the-back parries and whirling dodges and flying kicks, making as if I’d leap over a table then throwing a back-flip off it instead, and so on. Chuckling with delight, Korsharend went right along, finding a bit of the acrobat in himself as well.

But I didn’t forget the purpose, to show them what I was made of. I was standing for all Yeola-e in that, too. I got in three or four touches for his every one, including the first one, and the first killing one. Afterward he said, through an interpreter, “I’d heard the stories, but stopped believing them when I saw how young and slight you are. And thought I’d trounce you. I believe them again.” All the men showed me a deeper respect than they had before, from then on, and the women flirted more. War permeating their every waking moment, they love nothing more than a good warrior.

I should note, the Kin are as free with sex outside marriage as we are, or perhaps more so, even though it’s considered a deadly crime outside the Palace, as is sex between two women or two men. Though—or perhaps because—they marry in pairs only, it’s considered boorish for a nobleman to object to another nobleman having his wife, unless they keep at it long enough that she seems to be changing her affections, in which case there might well be a duel. A wife, of course, wouldn’t dream of objecting to her husband sleeping with whomever he pleases.

The difference between them and us is that we are plainspoken and direct about it, saying chalk or charcoal as is true, and no one pretends that everyone doesn’t know. In Laka, it’s all meaningful looks, battings of long black eyelashes, hints, double entendres delivered in the most flowery of phrases, fleeting caresses, and pretenses of secrecy. A woman might flirt unmercifully, and either mean that she’s dripping wet for you right now, or absolutely cold but enjoys teasing; your challenge is to discern without coming out and asking, which is considered boorish. Living a life of ease, they must entertain themselves as best they can.

I became something of a rage among the noblewomen. Everything is fashion in the Palace; men and women both would wear dung on their heads if they imagined it gave them an air of sophistication and newness, and of course I was exotic. To everyone under twenty-five I was “love” and “darling” and “heart’s delight.” It made it hard even for me to remember myself that I’d been killing their countrymen only days ago.

The moment I most enjoyed was at a party that went decadently late into the day, and was attended by a girl named Inzithera, who told me she and her father had come to town for her debut at court tomorrow (night), but hadn’t wanted to miss the fete. Her hand was on my shoulder when she said, “Ah! Father! My love, I must introduce you to him.” He’d spotted her hand on my shoulder, and fathers of unbetrothed women are less forbearing than husbands.

Seeing him approach, I had to set my teeth to keep from laughing. It was Klajen. When he saw mine, his eyes went wide and his brows darkened at the same time, and I thought he might challenge me to a duel anyway. “Oh father!” Inzithera said, her sweet voice turned scolding. “Stop that stormy face; they suffered as much as we did in the war, you know that. Besides, he is a prince—Fourth J’vengka, heir to the throne of Yeola-e and the esteemed guest of the King.”
Klajen’s expression eased—I had position over him now, which is everything in Laka—but I could still see the coins flashing in his eyes as he estimated how much he should have got for me.

I raised my wine-cup, and said, “To old acquaintances.” By the ethic of the Kin, he must do likewise or seem unrefined, so he did, and then we were both laughing.

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