‘I wish I had never mentioned the tourney,’ said Banny.
Chain Shada watched Gorain’s first two bouts and felt a sense of embarrassment. All of the Varlish fighter’s bouts had been scheduled to take place on the raised wooden circle so that he would not have to suffer the indignity of crossing into the clan area and fighting on mud surrounded by rope.
Gorain’s first fight had lasted no more than three or four heartbeats; a heavy straight left, followed by a crushing right cross. The big highlander had hit the wooden floor face first, where he lay unmoving. The Varlish crowd had roared their approval. The second bout had been longer – but only because Gorain had toyed with the man, a bearded cattle herder with ten times more guts than skill. He had kept coming, walking into Gorain’s lefts which snapped back his head. Gorain was pulling his punches, picking the man off with ease. When he finally went to work in the fourth period he all but tore him apart, keeping him on his feet with wicked uppercuts before sending him sprawling to the canvas with a clubbing left. The man’s face was cut to pieces and attendants had to carry him away before wiping away the blood from the boards.
Chain had had enough. Rising from his seat he wandered across to one of the select dining areas. The red-cloaked steward bowed as he entered. ‘I think the Kilts will remember your visit, sir,’ he said.
Chain nodded and moved inside. A young woman brought him a goblet of crushed apple juice and Chain walked through to the rear, where several benches had been set close to an iron brazier, filled with glowing coals. He saw the young white-haired officer -Mulgrave, was it? – talking to several stewards, and beyond him a black-garbed, hawk-eyed nobleman in conversation with the fat red-caped bishop. Chain cursed inwardly and was about to swing away when the bishop saw him.
‘My dear man,’ he boomed. ‘Do join us. Let me introduce you to our Moidart.’
The fighter approached them, towering over both men. He bowed to the Moidart and their eyes met. Chain felt something cold touch his blood. This, he knew instinctively, was a dangerous man.
‘I am honoured to meet you, my lord.’
‘I trust you will ensure that this nonsense ends well,’ said the Moidart. The bishop’s face was flushed with embarrassment.
‘How should it end, sir?’ countered Chain.
‘It should never have begun, sir,’ the Moidart told him. ‘It is foolishness in the extreme. But at close of day the arm raised in victory must be Varlish. You understand this? Anything else would be … perilous. For all concerned.’
‘It is merely an entertainment for our people,’ put in the bishop. ‘There is no peril, my dear.’
‘You are an idiot. You explain it to him, fighter. Tell him the danger.’
Chain looked into the bishop’s eyes. The man was frightened. ‘Even the strongest fighters, the finest champions, can be caught by a lucky punch which scrambles their brains. Or they can meet a man who just won’t quit. Or they could slip on a blood-covered board, just as their opponent throws a wild blow. Nothing is certain.’
‘But . . . but. . . Gorain said he could defeat any clansman.’
‘In theory he should do just that,’ said Chain.
‘If he does lose,’ said the Moidart, ‘you will destroy the man who beats him.’
‘I am here to fight an exhibition bout, my lord. If Gorain should lose – which is extremely unlikely – the man who beats him will have fought five or six times today. He will be in no condition to face me.’
‘Then you will have little difficulty in crushing him,’ said the Moidart. ‘The consequences of any alternative outcome will be severe.’ The Moidart walked away without another word, the bishop trailing after him.
Chain was angry now, though he did not allow it to show. Leaving his drink untouched he left the area and walked out into the crowd. Everywhere he went people smiled and waved, some even bowed as he passed. He did not return to the raised dais, but wandered instead through into the clan area. Here no-one bowed, but he felt eyes upon him. Coming north had been a huge mistake. He had lost his protege, and was now caught in the middle of a potential crisis.