Elvenborn

7

Every trace of the bloody conflict that had preceded Gel's fight had been cleared away from the preparation room by the time that he and the other lord's bodyguard retired to it. Even the armor was gone; all that remained was the presence of the liveried gladiators themselves, divided into two tight groups with a careful space between them. Divested of arms and armor, to Gel's eyes they looked absurdly young, barely out of boyhood. The two sets of gladiators hovered at a respectful distance from Gel and Lord Kyndreth's man as they took over the preparation room for themselves. Gel suppressed a smile of amusement; there was more than a touch of hero-worship in those young faces. He and his opponent had not only saved these children from injury and death, they had probably put on the most skillful combat the callow lads had ever seen. He was just glad that he was going to be able to return to his own estate and get away from all those admiring eyes.

As Gel followed Kaeth Jared's example and divested himself of armor, clothing, and walked naked into the white-tiled water-cascade cubicle as if he belonged there, he was thoroughly conscious of gratitude for being able to clean up after their strenuous bout. With all of the youngsters still watching, awe-filled eyes glued to him, Gel was more than a little uncomfortable as he plunged under the warm cascade of water and let it soothe muscles that had been asked to work without a proper warm-up. He wondered why the other fighters didn't say anything to him—or at least, to Kaeth Jared. They might not know him, but surely they knew Kaeth at least by sight. Well, they've got tongues, he told himself, as he ducked his head under the steaming water and let it pour down his neck and back. If they don't want to use them, that's not my problem.

Kaeth Jared must have been more used to this odd, semi-frightened treatment from his fellow humans, as he acted on the surface as if the other fighters simply weren't there.

On the surface, anyway.

To Gel's experienced eyes, he moved as if he noted and analyzed every move any of them made, however inconsequential. That spelled "assassin" as well as "bodyguard" to Gel, which actually made a great deal of sense, considering Lord Kyn-dreth's prominence and the uncertain times. There was no telling if the Young Lords or his own peers might decide to revert to the ancient ways of dealing with an obstacle in the form of another Elvenlord. Who better to guard against assassins than another assassin?

Still. It aroused his suspicions. In all his lifetime, Gel had encountered no more than four assassins, and he himself was one of them.

And I wonder if Kaeth Jared has made the same conclusions about me that I have about him. . . .

The first had been his own teacher, the third had been his teacher's teacher—a succession of trained men to guard the estate's lord, just in case. The fourth had been on the auction block, and that particular set of skills hadn't been mentioned in the auction catalog. Although it momentarily tempted him—to have someone else he could trust with his lord's safety—he had said nothing to the Seneschal who had been looking for a few choice youngsters to introduce to the freedom of the estate. It was a bad idea; like his own teacher he would train his own successor. There was no telling where that man had been, or why he was on the block.

For a moment, Gel recalled his teacher with great fondness—Hakkon Shor had not been Gel's father, but he might just as well have been. He'd helped raise Gel from the moment that Gel showed the sort of athletic potential that made him the skilled fighter he was today. Hakkon hadn't had sons, only daughters—not that one of them wouldn't have served perfectly well as Kyrtian's bodyguard, but none of them took after Hakkon; in point of fact, they were sweet-natured and absolutely oblivious to half of what went on around them. Now Tirith Shor, who'd been Hakkon's father, felt that was just as well, but Gel knew it had been a great disappointment to the Old Man that his son wouldn't be the one to stand at the next Lord's side....

Kaeth Jared was an unlikely sort for an assassin, if you only saw him clothed. Tall and slim, pale, with hair of a dark auburn and long, clever hands, he didn't look particularly strong. If you saw him nude, however—or in combat—you realized that he was a great deal stronger and more agile than he seemed. There wasn't an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere, and the muscles he had were wire and whipcord; tough, and powerful.

Gel wondered if the others had noticed Kaeth Jared's unusual alertness and caution, and decided that they probably hadn't. They were just ordinary fighters, and wouldn't be trained or practiced in such careful observation and deduction. They were probably just impressed by the bout that he and Gel had completed—and perhaps a little stunned at its bloodless outcome.

Part of their awe might very well have been due to the lack of scars on Kaeth's body and his own. In the old methods of training, at some point, when two fighters met, they would covertly read true expertise in martial arts not by the number of wounds collected over the years, but by the absence of scarring. An unmarked body in their world meant either that one's lord valued one so highly that he granted the use of magic in healing, or that a fighter's reflexes were so swift and movement so agile that no opponent ever got a chance to land a blow. Neither he nor Kaeth were marred by more than a few trivial lines, long healed.

As Gel emerged from the cascade of water and shook his head like a dog, he caught Kaeth watching out of the corner of his eye; Kaeth knew he'd been caught, and unexpectedly grinned. "You gave me the best bout I've had in a long time, friend," he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water-cascade. "I'm impressed."

"So am I," Gel admitted freely, as the circle of silent gladiators strained their ears to hear every syllable either of them spoke. "And I don't mind saying that if you'd had the benefit of Lord Kyrtian's system to train under, you'd be so much better than me that it wouldn't have been a contest."

"I wouldn't know about that," Kaeth replied, quickly enough to salve Gel's bruised ego. "But if I'm any judge of Lord Kyn-dreth, he'll be using this system of yours before the month is out. And if he does, every other lord will do the same, or be thought hopelessly provincial and out-of-step. With enough approval behind him, he might well mandate this system through the Council."

The encircling men let out a suppressed sigh; so that was what they had been waiting to hear, and perhaps Kaeth had known that. Gel sympathized; such news would be like a reprieve from a death-sentence.

Like ? By the Stars, it is a reprieve from a death-sentence! I wonder how many of their comrades were killed in training, and how many more killed in feud-combat or their masters' entertainments ? Now the only thing they 'II have to fear is being drafted into the Old Lords 'Army and sent up against the rebels or the Wizards.

"I dare say you're right," Gel agreed, waving his hand in front of the cascade to stop it, then reaching for a towel from the rack behind him. At that point, a servant appeared to summon the gladiators to their respective lords for the return to their home estates, and with palpable disappointment, the two groups of men filed out of the preparation room.

Kaeth waved his own hand at the cascade beneath which he'd been standing, and the sound of rushing water was replaced by silence. He seized a towel and dried himself, then wrapped it around his waist as Gel already had and exchanged a wry smile with his companion. "Alone at last!" he said.

Gel chuckled, warily. For an assassin, this man had a remarkable sense of humor and no reticence about showing it. "I would hardly have thought my conversation was that entrancing."

Surely he's here by accident. Assassins are normally sent against key humans in an Elvenlord's entourage, and there was no way of knowing who would be playing bodyguard to Kyrt-ian. Was there?

"It's better than theirs." Kaeth jerked his head in the direction of the exit door. "Those poor blockheads don't have much to talk about except fighting, food, and sex. If they'd gotten up the courage to speak to us, you'd have found that out."

Gel raised an eyebrow. "Well, they're young," he pointed out, as he followed Kaeth carefully into the main room.

"And under the old system, not likely to get older," Kaeth retorted, getting his clothing off the shoulder-high shelf beside him, and laying it out on a polished wooden bench. "How old's your oldest fighter?"

Gel considered his reply carefully before answering, using the opportunity to lay out his own gear as a chance to stall a little. "If you count retired fighters who could still pick up a weapon in defense of the estate—the oldest just turned seventy-eight."

Kaeth was actually taken aback, and let out a low whistle as he reached for his trews. "I don't know that I've ever seen a human that old, much less a fighter! You mean your lord actually puts his old men out to pasture instead of putting them down? Great Ancestors, man, how many of these retired fighters have you got?"

"I'm not sure," Gel replied, his suspicions aroused. He's asking too many questions. He's a trained assassin, 1 know he is— what if he's targeting Kyrtian?

It was possible—Lord Kyndreth could be a patron and ally of the obnoxious Aelmarkin. It might be that he would wait just long enough to learn Kyrtian's training-technique, then eliminate Aelmarkin's inconvenient cousin.

In fact he might have been brought to get rid of Kyrtian right here and now, which was why Kyrtian got the invitation in the first place! Maybe that's why Lord Kyndreth wants to come to our estate now, to get the secret, then get rid of Kyrtian where there aren 't any witnesses—and maybe get rid of the Lady at the same time!

By now, Gel had gotten his second wind, and such alarming thoughts only increased his energy. And Kaeth, all unsuspecting, had actually turned his back to him. If there was ever a time when a trained assassin would be vulnerable, this was it.

Gel didn't even pause for a breath; he acted. He had been bent over, tying his boots; now without warning, he turned his pose into a charge, staying crouched over and rushing Kaeth, shouldering him into the wall face-first. He heard Kaeth grunt as he hit the wall, but before he could secure the assassin, Kaeth writhed loose a trifle. His reactions were as swift as a serpent's, and he managed to get himself turned around, but not before Gel grabbed a wrist in either hand and smashed them into the wall, then got his knee up to reinforce his hold. Now Gel had Kaeth pinned against the wall with both wrists imprisoned over his head and Gel's knee in his gut.

His legs are still free. If he can kick my leg out from under me—

Flushed, but impassive, he stared into Gel's grey-violet eyes for a long moment as Gel waited for him to speak or act. His wrists under Gel's hands showed no sign of tension, nor was there any indication that he intended resistance or struggle.

But that could be a ruse to get me to drop my guard.

"I suppose it's too much to ask what prompted this—ah— rather unexpected action of yours?" he finally asked mildly, a bit out of breath, but completely polite, in spite of the situation.

Gel glared at him, but he didn't drop his eyes. "I suppose you're going to deny you're an assassin," he replied flatly.

"Ah!" The expressionless eyes now reflected understanding, and the mouth relaxed a trifle in a faint smile. 'Wow I understand! You think Lord Kyndreth has targeted me at you—or perhaps, your master! Be at ease, friend; Lord Kyrtian is in no danger that I know of, other than from his own conniving cousin. And you're in no danger at all, least of all from me."

It felt honest. Gel wanted to believe him.

"But you don't deny you're an assassin—" Gel's instincts warred with his intellect. His instincts and his senses swore that Kaeth was telling the truth—his more cynical mind warned him that this was just a trick. Still, he was very tempted to release the fellow; this just didn't seem like a lie.

"Hardly, since you seem to have caught me as one," Kaeth replied, with a surprising amount of humor. "Although my own Lord isn't nearly as observant as you, since he is totally unaware of my training; I went to him, bought at auction after the unlamented death of my old lord. Still, once an assassin, as they say, the cloak never drops from your shoulders—so I'll qualify it by admitting for Lyon Lord Kyndreth, I'm an active agent, but an inactive assassin, nor am I ever likely to let him know of my more esoteric abilities."

"Huh." Slowly, carefully, Gel rocked his weight back onto his own feet, and released Kaeth's wrists. Just as slowly, Kaeth dropped his hands from the wall and rubbed, then flexed, his wrists, testing them. "And just how did you become an inactive assassin?"

"Look for yourself." Kaeth reached up and pulled the neck of his tunic open, then tilted his chin up so that Gel could see his slave-collar clearly. It wasn't the seal of Lyon Lord Kyndreth there, but that of the deceased—and, as Kaeth had said, unlamented—Lord Dyran.

Things were beginning to add up.

The noble Lord Dyran, who trained all manner of slaves in skills best left unexamined.. . and whose estate was broken up and divided among his relatives, with what was left going to auction. And that was where I saw another assassin!

That seal couldn't possibly be counterfeited, either. The fact that he was still wearing Dyran's collar meant that he'd been claimed after Dyran's death—otherwise the new master would insist on having the old collar removed and his own put on. Gel backed up, giving him a little more space. "Interesting."

"My beloved former master," Kaeth said, with a touch of ironic inflection on the word "beloved" that did not escape Gel's notice, "Was not the sort of Elvenlord to forget the traditions of his Ancestors."

"Including assassination?" Gel replied evenly.

Kaeth nodded with a dignity that impressed Gel in spite of himself. "Even so. I was trained from childhood, having shown unusual ability for getting into and out of supposedly guarded spaces and places without being caught. Whether or not you choose to believe me, I will say that my training was never employed against Elvenlords...."

"Not that Dyran would have hesitated if he'd thought he could get away with it," Gel interjected. Again, Kaeth nodded, this time with a shrug.

"Be that as it may, my usual tasks were to act as his intelligence agent, which is how I was employed at the time of his demise. And, not knowing any better, that is how my talents were advertised when the estate was broken up and the slaves went to auction, as an agent and bodyguard." Kaeth turned his palms up, and shrugged his shoulders again.

"And you, of course, were under no compulsion to enlighten the auctioneers." Gel felt a reluctant smile creeping over his lips; if this story was true, Kaeth was a very clever fellow indeed. Hardly likely he 'd tell them, when it was a lot more likely that the other Elvenlords would order him destroyed rather than take the chance of one of their number getting his hands on a trained assassin. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to bolt?"

"Of course it did," Kaeth replied, and sat down on the bench, indicating to Gel that he should do the same. "Oh, don't worry about anyone overhearing us. If there had been anyone listening or watching, they'd have been in here the moment you went for my throat. I cost Kyndreth a very pretty penny, and he'd take it personally if someone deprived him of my services."

And this could be a set-up, but it's getting rather too unlikely and complicated—no, I think I'll go with my instincts and take him at his word.

"Naturally, it occurred to me to flee to the Wizards and the Wild Humans," he repeated, "But—well, 1 learned a few things about these collars that I wasn't supposed to. Only Dyran could compel me magically, and once he was dead, no other Elven-lord can harm me through this collar, unless he is Dyran's equal or better in power. That was a reason to run. But Dyran was as clever a bastard as his reputation claimed—I can still be traced and pursued through the collar, and any attempt to take it off will deprive me of my head. That was Dyran's little fail-safe in case anyone ever decided to subvert me."

Gel winced; that took powerful magic, and it took a particularly cruel mind to think of it.

"So, on the whole, it seemed better for everyone that I turn myself in as one of Dyran's slaves and go up for auction with the rest," Kaeth concluded with a lazy smile. "After all, I still had the option to bolt if my new master proved unbearable, and I'd be able to plan my escape so that I'd have a decent chance to get so far away before they discovered I was missing that it wouldn't be worth pursuit. At the time of Dyran's death I was in a position where that wasn't a possibility."

"What if Kyndreth ever finds out from another of Dyran's slaves—" Gel began, but Kaeth interrupted him with a gentle shake of his head.

"It's not likely, since everyone who ever knew what I was trained for is dead—mostly at Dyran's hands, I might add." For just a moment, there was a shade of bitterness in his voice, but he quickly covered it. "And of all the Old Lords, frankly, Kyndreth is the least likely to use an assassin. He's powerful enough to do his own dirty work, and ruthless enough to enjoy doing so. No, I'm out of the business, unless for some reason it becomes necessary to re-enter it long enough to protect myself. On the whole, I'm rather enjoying myself. Kyndreth treats expensive property well, and my duties are light, compared to those I had under Dyran."

Gel didn't miss the veiled threat in those words, but he shrugged them off. "I don't give a flying damn what you do with your skills, as long as you're not targeting Kyrtian." He couldn't help it; a note of fierce protectiveness crept into his voice.

Kaeth blinked slowly, and looked deeply and penetratingly into Gel's eyes for a moment. "Interesting," he murmured. "I'd heard rumors about Lord Kyrtian's people ..."

Then he shook his head, as if it was no consequence. "I overhear a great deal, as all bodyguards do, and Kyndreth has the usual failing of our masters that he forgets how much his slaves see and hear. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that Kyndreth's plans are such, and so complex, that it is unlikely he could ever fit a trained assassin into them with any degree of confidence."

"Maybe against the Old Lords, and the lords that haven't revolted," Gel objected, "but what about the Young Lords who are still in revolt?"

"A bare possibility if they actually developed a leader with enough charisma to make them all work together." Kaeth admitted. "But it's more likely that cattle will fly before that happens. And besides, even if he did, sons aren't so thick on the ground that the victim's relatives would be very happy that the errant lad had been eliminated rather than returned to the parental fold." He smiled, but this time there was no humor in it. "After all, a youngster who has had all thoughts of rebellion neatly wiped from his mind can still function to sire the next generation, even if the rest of the time all he does is sit in a corner and drool."

That shocked Gel; he'd heard rumors that some of the Old Lords had the ability to tamper with another Elvenlord's mind and memory, but this was the first time anyone had said anything that confirmed what he had privately thought was a rather wild tale.

He did his best to seem as nonchalant about it as Kaeth was, however. "Putting it that way—I suppose you're right. Kyn-dreth would get no joy from the surviving relatives if he wiped out an heir, no matter how they felt about that heir when he was alive." He shook his head, and allowed his disgust and bafflement to show. "Damn, but this is as twisted as ball of snakes! How do you make it all out?"

"Early training, mostly." Now Kaeth actually relaxed, and for the first time, Gel saw him drop all of his defensive mannerisms. He knew that he was meant to see that—and he instinctively knew that Kaeth now trusted him as far as he had ever trusted anyone but himself. "Politics among the Elvenlords—it's considered a high art. Sometimes I think it's a pity that no one will ever know how accomplished an artist I am but myself."

Gel had to chuckle at that, and Kaeth smiled—a real, unmasked smile—in answer. "Well, I'm a plain man, and I tell you now that I'd rather map battlefield strategy than political strategy any day."

"It's cleaner." The regret in that voice was so deep that Gel could have drowned in it. For a moment, they both fell silent, then Kaeth coughed. "Well—before Lord Kyndreth wonders what is taking me so long, and summons me—what can you tell me about this training method of Lord Kyrtian's?"

Gel studied his expression, and came to an interesting conclusion. He approves. Granted, if his master asks what we were talking about, this will give him something to feed to him, but he also approves of this and wants to know for himself. Fascinating. I wouldn 't have thought that an assassin would be interested in preserving lives.

"He's doing something with his magic that's initially complicated to set up, but doesn't take a great deal of power," Gel admitted. "That's what he's told me, anyway. Not being a lord, I don't know the mechanics of it." He brooded a moment, thinking back to the first time that Kyndreth set the spells. "There are two different pieces of magic involved: one to create a weapon that looks and feels real, but has no more substance than an illusion; and the other that he sets on the fighter that works with the weapon and reacts to what the weapon does."

"Senses it, you mean?" Kaeth asked, his eyes intent.

"I guess that's close, as close as anything a human can understand." Gel licked his lips. "Anyway, that second spell is what makes the glow and the shock when you're hit. The first time he did it, it took him most of the day; he says it gets easier as you get used to it. And according to him, it's almost as simple to work the spells on a lot of people as it is to cast them for one—he said something once about giving the magic extra energy and it copies itself for as long as you feed it." He laughed with embarrassment. "That probably sounds stupid, but that's the best I can tell you."

"No, no, it makes sense," Kaeth told him. "I've heard them talking about that, when they want to create a lot of something, like trees or flowers—doing the first one, then setting it to copy itself. That's how they can tell the difference between the illusion that a really powerful lord creates, and one created by an underling. You never see a powerful lord making copies; in his illusions, every tree, every flower is different."

"Whatever. That's the best description I can tell you." He pondered a moment, then decided to give Kaeth some information that, should he feed it back to Lord Kyndreth, would be a protection for Kyrtian rather than a danger. "Kyrtian has as many regular fighters as any other Great Lord, but I have to tell you, all we do is practice—either in daily drill using his method, or in actual battle-simulations. That's the regular fighters. Once a fighter is over forty, he goes on light-duty; he has some other job, but keeps in practice—archery practice, mostly, though some of them keep their sword and spear work right up to their old standards."

"Which means you don't just have gladiators, you have an army, trained to fight together." Kaeth pulled on his lower lip. "And you have a back-up corps of those older men. Interesting. Only a fool would challenge your Lord."

That was said as a statement, not a question.

Good. Let Kyndreth chew on that! "Exactly," Gel nodded. "That's because Lord Kyrtian likes to see how battle-strategy really works, rather than just reading about it. We work out new combat simulations fairly often, because unless someone steps into a hole and breaks a leg or something equally stupid, we come out of combat with the same number of fighters we went into it with."

"It's a damned good system," Kaeth agreed, finally. "So good, it makes me wonder what the advantage is to Lord Kyrtian. Trained fighters could revolt, if they put their minds to it,"

Gel laughed easily. "Well, for one thing, there aren't any real weapons around where we can get hold of them. They're all locked up in the armory under Kyrtian's seal."

"So he doesn't have to worry about a slave-revolt." Kaeth's face cleared, and he nodded.

"And, of course, knowing you aren't going to get injured or killed makes the men willing to practice."

"He wouldn't have the expense of buying or raising replacements, either." Kaeth sighed in open admiration. "Brilliant strategy, especially for someone with no political allies. After today, no one will dare challenge him to a feud; his position is secure against all normal avenues of challenge. I would never have thought it, given his reputation."

"Not exactly bad strategy to make the others underrate him until he was ready, was it?" Gel said slyly, and Kaeth actually laughed.

Gel had the impression now that despite his sinister training, Kaeth Jared was a pretty decent sort, and that surprised him, more than a little. He'd always considered assassins to be—

To be scum, actually. I suspect most of them are. This one, though—well, he's got my respect.

His thoughts were interrupted by a discreet cough from the door, where a pair of young lads in Aelmarkin's livery stood uneasily. "Your Lords—" the nearest said, a tremor in his voice.

"Our Lords require us," Kaeth supplied with a nod. Suddenly the mask dropped over his face and he was all cool surface again, remote and unreadable. "Of course, immediately."

Gel stood only a fraction behind Kaeth, who turned and offered his hand. "It was a pleasure in every sense," Kaeth said, the warmth of his tone belying his lack of expression. "I would like to meet you again under similar circumstances."

Gel clasped the offered hand solemnly. "I hope that we can," he replied as warmly, "and I look forward to it."

And with that, they parted. As Gel followed his guide, he wondered what Kaeth's emotions were. He didn't think he was mistaken; something had resonated between them.

Maybe not friendship, at least not yet, he decided, as he saw Kyrtian waiting up ahead with a sense of relief that the ordeal was finally over. But definitely admiration. And neither of us wants to ever have to kill the other. That has to count for something!