Page 26 of Crucible of Chaos

The carnival of wanton madness all around him had the unexpected effect of calming Estevar’s nerves. His fever faded and his thoughts settled, so he could weigh his options with cold, dispassionate reasoning.

Death– his own and those of Caeda and Imperious–hung upon his next move.

He waited until the clamour from Strigan’s followers died down, then lifted his head and whispered in his captor’s ear, ‘Listen closely then, you vain, pathetic child, for it is indeed of mercy we will now speak, you and I. Ah, ah, no– do not attempt to raise that blade of yours to strike me. Look down instead at my right hand, you pustulated canker, you preening toad in tattered rags. See how, when you so graciously bade me kneel, you made it possible for me to bring my right hand across my body to where it now rests upon the hilt of my rapier– actually, I believe the weapon belongs to you, but I will need to borrow it a while longer. Rest assured, I will pay a reasonable fee for its loan, especially if I decide to stain this blade by carving your worthless hide, you pitiful, prancing popinjay, you crust of defecation stuck to the heel of better men’s boots, so lacking in substance that you cannot even stink with distinction.’

The harsh intake of Strigan’s breath and the increased pressure of his own rapier blade hinted that he was formulating a violent response, but Estevar was not nearly done.

‘I understand you count yourself a skilled fencer,’ he continued. ‘No doubt, within the voluminous library of this abbey, even Abbot Venia, a peaceable man, allowed a book or two on the subject. Perhaps one of your more literate brethren took sufficient pity on you to read them out loud to you– slowly, I would imagine. Assuming a vessel as tiny as your unremarkable mind could hold onto even a sip of that knowledge, you will, I assume, have studied the famed Cressi Manoeuvre?’

Estevar gave the tiniest shake of his head to keep Strigan from responding. He had given many stirring speeches while delivering verdicts. This one would need to make all the others pale by comparison.

‘No, no, don’t answer me,Wolf-King, or you die as ignorant as you were born. Allow me to educate you, first with words, and then, if you are so foolish as to test my earnestness, with steel and blood. The Cressi Manoeuvre is counted as one of only three ways a swordsman whose weapon is in its scabbard may kill on the first strike an opponent whose blade is already bared. The trick, you see, is to lure the enemy into either a high thrust under which the fencer must duck, or a diagonal slash aimed at the neck which, by bending over, is taken on the back instead. Now, such a cut would normally cause merely a significant, albeit debilitating, wound, but you have done me the courtesy of already placing your blade over my back, so we may safely come to the second part of the Cressi Manoeuvre with me unharmed. My hand– see the fingers wrapped lightly around the hilt?’

He paused there, just long enough to give Strigan’s eyes the chance to drift downwards.

‘Perhaps you noticed me loosening the blade before I came to kneel before you,Majesty? All I need do now is perform the quick-draw– a manoeuvre I have practised not hundreds, butthousandsof times. The top third of my blade– the sharpest, as you well know–will slice your belly open before you can so much as exhale the last foul breath that will ever leave your worthless body. The shock will slow down your reflexive attempt to bring your own weapon back for a thrust to my face or throat. By the time you are halfway there, my own blade will be buried to the hilt in your craven, odious heart.’

A final pause, to let the enemy visualise that outcome, before the performance’s finalé, delivered with a hiss filled with all the contempt and condemnation Estevar could muster, which at this moment was a great deal indeed.

‘Do you understand at last,your Majesty, why I consented to kneel before a noxious piece of refuse whose continued existence I tolerate only because inside your witless skull may reside some scrap of information that might assist in my investigations? Your pitiable, self-aggrandising confession of having slain Abbot Venia rings as hollow as your claims of mystical powers. So I give you leave to answer me now,Sorcerer Sovereign, but only to acknowledge what I have told you. One word more–one word–and you and I will demonstrate for those half-dressed hyenas of yours–many of whom I suspect secretly long to witness your fall–whether the vaunted Cressi Manoeuvre is deserving of the years of study and practise I have devoted to its mastery.’

There, when Estevar could not have uttered a single word more without gasping for breath, he allowed his threat to hang in the air between them. . .

. . . and waited for the Wolf-King’s reply.

CHAPTER 17

THE CRESSI MANOEUVRE

The silence that had descended over the Venerance Tower was absolute. It had substance, took up space, swallowing every inch of the circular chamber from the once-spotless marble floor, now stained with shallow pools of spilt wine, to the glorious painted ceiling that depicted a sky full of stars and six pairs of heavenly eyes gazing down at those fools bound to the grim absurdity and inevitable end of their earthly existence.

The silence among Strigan’s followers, those three dozen lapsed monks he called his hounds, remained absolute, tolerating no raucous jeering, no anxious whispers or shuffling of feet as they awaited an answer that would either bring about a truce or spark bloodshed. Even the fire in the hearth had ceased its crackling, the last page torn from the book Estevar had recovered from the gleeful arsonist now nothing but ashes.

No one but Caeda had been close enough to overhear him threaten the Wolf-King. Estevar now wondered if that had perhaps been a mistake.

Why wouldn’t his gods-be-damned opponent answer? Why did Strigan sit there on the edge of his stolen throne, leaning cheek to cheek with Estevar, his warm breath tickling Estevar’s neck as if they were a pair of hesitant lovers, each waiting for the other to initiate the first kiss? The flat of Strigan’s rapier blade still rested against Estevar’s back. A quarter-turn to the sharp edge followed by a quick draw backwards would be the prelude to a thrust that would end Estevar’s life. The only thing staying the glib, grinning Wolf-King’s hand was a hastily concocted tale of a mythical fencing manoeuvre. Neither could truly know who would prevail, should blades clash. Death, if he happened to be one of the gods who’d returned to Tristia, must surely be standing over the two men, an expectant smile lingering on his pale lips.

The waiting was unbearable. Estevar felt as if he were trapped once more beneath the waves, not knowing if he would reach the surface again. Worse, the knee supporting his weight on the marble floor was aching more and more with each passing second.

Perhaps this is the real reason why Falcio val Mond insisted the Greatcoats never kneel, Estevar thought bitterly.Perhaps he suffers less from excessive dignity than from a pair of bad knees.

If only he could have shifted his posture even a fraction without revealing his discomfort and therefore his weakness, but this had become a test of resolve now: a war of attrition. The Wolf-King no doubt suspected the Greatcoat’s boast of having mastered the quick-draw was a ruse. . . but he couldn’t be sure.

He has every reason to believe I’m lying, Estevar thought despairingly.A man ten years older and a hundred pounds heavier, displaying no particular swiftness of reflexes or unusual skill with a sword– who would imagine a fat old goat could hope to gore a young wolf?

The stand-off couldn’t continue much longer. Strigan’s followers probably assumed Estevar was still whispering pleas for mercy and soon they would wonder why their mercurial leader wasn’t getting bored and simply slaying this foreigner Greatcoat who’d dared speak of laws and trials in the presence of wolves.

Say you understand.Estevar tried to will his obstinate partner in this odious dance between life and death to speak.Tell me you understand and no one need die. I’ll let you laugh and mock me in front of your fawning sycophants. You can gloat that my begging has become so embarrassing that you can’t be bothered to kill me. Then you and I will take a walk so that you may answer my questions before returning to your drunken revels and proclaiming yourself the Sovereign Sorcerer of Isola Sombra to all who will listen.

Another breath sent the stench of soured wine and bitter herbs slithering into Estevar’s nostrils, yet still the Wolf-King neither snarled his defiance nor whined in submission.

I must draw soon, Estevar realised,else he’ll doubt my determination and initiate the first attack himself.

The arrogance of his reckless gambit had becomean even sharper weight than that of the blade resting against his back. Hadn’t he made this same mistake just a week ago, accepting a challenge that—?

The fingers wrapped around the hilt of the rapier at his side began to tremble– and Estevar forced them to be still before they caused the blade to clatter inside its scabbard and mistakenly signal Strigan that he was about to attack.

Perhaps I should make the attempt, he thought.Now, before my damned knee does give out and I lose my nerve.

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