Shotza nodded, but seemed unconvinced.
The feast involved eating an extraordinary amount of meats which, back in Kiatze, would have been refused by the court dogs. In the main, it was high beyond the point of rotting. To offset this, the guests covered the food with spices. Chien ate sparingly and drank less. The liquor being consumed by the Nadir was distilled, he was told, from rancid goats’ milk. ‘How clever,’ he remarked. How apt, he thought.
Between the interminable courses there were performances by jugglers or acrobats. They were not especially skilled, though Chien applauded politely.
‘We have heard much,’ said Jungir Khan suddenly, ‘of the martial skills of the Kiatze. Would your officer honour us with an exhibition?’
‘Of what kind?’ enquired Chien.
‘Swordsmanship.’
‘With respect, Lord Khan, that is not possible. The soul of a warrior partly resides in his blade. It is not to be drawn unless to take blood – and that, I fear, would not represent an exhibition of skills.’
‘Then let him fight to the death,’ said the Khan.
‘I am afraid I do not understand you, sire. Is this a jest of some kind?’
‘I never jest about war, ambassador. I merely ask that your man shows me the skills of the Kiatze. I would take it badly were you to refuse me.’
‘I hope, my Lord Khan, that you will not interpret my words as a refusal. I merely ask you to reconsider. Is it not bad fortune for there to be a death at a feast?’
‘That depends on who dies,’ answered the Khan coldly.
‘Very well, sire,’ said Chien, turning to Sukai. ‘The Khan wishes to see the battle skills of a Kiatze officer. Oblige him.’
‘As you order,’ answered Sukai. He rose and vaulted the table. He was not a tall man, nor did he have great width of shoulder. His face was broad and flat, his eyes dark; he was clean-shaven, but for a thin moustache which drooped to his chin. He drew his long curved double-handed sword and waited; his fingers brushed his chest. Chien read the signalled question and found it difficult to keep the pride from his eyes. ‘Do you require me to die?’ Sukai had asked. Chien lifted his hand to touch his carefully lacquered hair. Sukai understood – and bowed.
Jungir Khan pointed to a warrior at the far end of the hall. ‘Show our guest how a Nadir fights,’ he called, and the man leapt into the square.
‘Excuse me, sire,’ said Chien, his face expressionless.
‘What is it?’
‘It seems hardly fair to have only one man face Sukai. He will be mortally offended.’
The Khan’s face darkened and he held up one hand. Silence fell. ‘Our guest, the ambassador for the land of Kiatze, has said that one Nadir warrior is no match for his champion.’ An angry murmur began. Again the Khan’s hand cut the air and silence followed the move. ‘Can this be true?’
‘No!’ came a roar from the feasters.
‘But he also says that his champion will be insulted if he faces only one opponent. Should we insult so fine-looking a warrior?’ There was no response and the Nadir waited for the lead from their Khan. ‘No, we cannot insult our guests. Therefore you, Ulai, and you, Yet-zan, will join your comrade.’ The two Nadir warriors clambered into the square. ‘Let the battle commence,’ Jungir ordered.
The Nadir warriors spread out in a circle around the still, motionless figure of Sukai, his great sword resting lightly on his shoulder. Suddenly the first Nadir ran forward, the others following. Sukai spun on his heel, his sword slicing out and down to cleave through the collarbone and chest of the first attacker. He swivelled and blocked a thrust, cut the head from the sword wielder, dropped to one knee and rammed his blade through the belly of the third man.
Sukai returned the great sword to its scabbard on his back, and waited with hands on hips. At his feet lay three corpses, their blood staining the mosaic floor.
‘He is a fine warrior,’ said Jungir Khan, his voice cutting the silence.
‘Not especially, my lord,’ replied Chien, masking his delight. ‘I thought the last thrust sloppily executed. A fourth man might well have killed him at that moment.’