‘You are fighting in less than two hours,’ he warned him. Gorain grinned.
‘I fight better on a full stomach.’
No-one fights better on a full stomach, thought Chain, but he did not argue. This was, after all, more a pleasure excursion than a real tourney.
The bishop sat Chain beside him on his right, and began by telling him how privileged he was to have the legendary Chain Shada at his table. ‘I have seen almost all of your bouts. Remarkable. I was a fighter in my youth, you know.’ He made a podgy fist. ‘I had quite a mighty punch.’
And now you have a mighty paunch, thought Chain. A serving maid refilled the bishop’s golden goblet with rich, red wine. The fat man grinned at her, then reached out, patting her behind. Chain looked away. He had noted that no words of thanks had been offered to the Source for the food, and now he had seen the bishop was a lecher as well as a glutton. It was dispiriting, to say the least.
He listened politely to the bishop’s conversation, the story of his vastly successful life, the seemingly endless anecdotes illustrating his wisdom, intellect, and the huge respect he enjoyed throughout the empire. ‘. . . the king complimented me on it. He said he had rarely met a man with so much . . .’
Wind, thought Chain.
‘Why did you invite me to take part in your tourney?’ he asked, more to change the subject than to hear the answer.
‘These highlanders need keeping in their place,’ the bishop told him. ‘They are a troublesome, rebellious people. Only recently they tried to kill our Moidart. It will be good for them to see the superiority of the Varlish fighting man.’
‘And they shall,’ said Gorain, leaning in to the bishop. ‘I shall break their bones, their hopes and their hearts.’ He drained his own goblet, and raised it towards the serving girl.
‘You have drunk enough uisge,’ said Chain.
‘What are you, my mother?’ asked Gorain, with a laugh.
Something inside Chain Shada snapped. He looked at Gorain, and for the first time allowed himself to see beyond the man’s talent. Yes, he had the potential to be great, but not the discipline. Chain took a deep breath.
‘No, I am not your mother,’ he said. ‘I am the man who thought you were the heir to my crown. I was wrong. Do as you please, Gorain. You are my protege no longer.’ Chain rose from his seat and bowed to the bishop. ‘My thanks for the meal, sir. And now I must prepare.’
‘Wait, Chain,’ Gorain called out. ‘There’s no need for this. I’m sorry, all right?’
Chain ignored him and walked away.
Gorain’s face darkened. ‘I don’t need you,’ he called out. ‘I’ll fight my way to the top without you.’
Chain was angry with himself as he left the mansion. He turned away the offer of a carriage to return him to his lodgings and strolled out through the gates and down the wide avenue that led to the cathedral. It was an imposing building, twin-spired, and shaped like a vast, white crown. The doors were open and he walked inside, enjoying the cool, calm atmosphere. Statues of the saints lined the walkways, and the rows of pews were scattered with red velvet cushions. A young priest was placing sheets of paper on the seats.
‘Good day, brother,’ he said. ‘May the Source bless you.’
‘Mostly he has,’ said Chain. Many of the statues were decked with golden laurels, and there were paintings on the wall in gilded frames. ‘This is a rich church, I see.’
‘Indeed, brother. Our congregation numbers the finest citizens of Eldacre, rich and powerful men who see to our every need.’
‘In my experience the rich are seldom the finest,’ Chain told him. ‘But I am just a poor fighting man, born in a hovel. What would I know?’
The priest gave him an uncertain smile, then carried on laying prayer sheets upon the pews.
Chain walked around the cathedral for a while, then returned to the sunlight. Be honest with yourself, he thought. You always knew Gorain was undisciplined and uncouth. So why end it now? He still has more talent than any fighter you’ve seen in ten years. He could still make you a fortune.