In the year or so that Weasel had been with the Gallowmen, Bard had formed a bond with him. It wasn't that he overly liked the boy, nor did he feel duty-bound as Deathsworn to make the best of him. He was, simply, compelled, with an urge he wondered hadn't survived his old life, to learn the lad; to right the wrongs of the guiding hand Weasel had never been afforded.

In that moment, though, the five of them back in the pavilion after the close of the tourney's first day, Bard had never wanted to strangle something so much as the grisly excuse for a neck that propped up Weasel's head.

'I can stick him up that new horse's arse, if you like?' Taaj's jape failed to stir any laughs. 'But then, I suppose, you'd have to joust on Oath.'

Bard rubbed his chin and pondered glumly.

'Might be that you can withdraw,' Bodkin chipped in.

'We're supposed to be here without having unnecessary eyes knowing about it. Imagine the lord that withdraws before his first tilt? We'd attract even more attention to ourselves!'

'More attention than when you're knocked off a horse in front of three-hundred people?' Taaj asked.

'I don't even have a lance,' Bard realised, out loud.

'Orl Ejjar's supplying the tourney lances,' Weasel said, 'they said so at the lists.' He returned his gaze to his boots, sullenly. 'I'm sorry, Bard. You're good with an axe, maybe you'll be good with a lance as well?'

He's only a boy. A boy who knows no better. He's not a squire. He's never even seen a joust before. Even so, only a fool thought skill with axe and sword translated to success in the lists. Bard had never held a lance before, never taken a blow from a metal-clad knight on heavy horse while a crowd cried for blood. The idea chilled him to the bone.

'How do we withdraw honourably, Bodkin?'

'You get an injury,' the Greenman replied, 'or you make up some other excuse that doesn't give them the idea that there's fixing going on. Weasel, who was this knight you challenged?'

Weasel shrugged. 'He was quite big, brown hair. From Green Country, I think. That don't matter though. I didn't challenge him as such, more said that Bard would win the tourney.'

'In that case you could end up meeting anyone in the first tilt,' Bodkin told Bard.

'What do you suggest?'

'I suggest you go to the lists, first thing tomorrow. The joust doesn't start until a day after. It might be you can withdraw, no harm done.'

Withdraw. It was the only thing to do, if Bard wanted to keep his head on his shoulders. And yet, somehow, it left a bad taste in the back of his mouth. You'll withdraw, thick-head, or you'll be the corpse they take back to Brother Sorrow. "Sorry, Brother, he fell off his big horse." 'Did we find out anything today, at least?'

'That Orl Ejjar can't keep his breeches fastened,' Taaj said. 'He had nine children with his first three wives. Erikk's his eldest son.'

He has a small army, bound by blood, then. I wonder if Erikk's brothers are as big as he.

'I spoke with some of the other fighters.' Toyne's voice was a low rumble inside the closed tent. 'One of them said Orl Ejjar used to be able to fell a tree with three blows of his axe. Erikk's of the same cloth.'

Bodkin grunted in concurrence. 'This isn't one to be done loudly.'

'I heard something,' Weasel piped.

Taaj chortled. 'Before, or after, you sentenced Bard to death?'

Weasel accepted the jibe without retort. 'Some of them were talking about some big thing happening on the last day of the tourney, something about Orl Ejjar giving away one of his daughters. The Lover's Climb, they called it. Said they couldn't wait to watch. Sounds like the whole family'll be there, and a big crowd too.'

'At the lists?' Bard asked. Maybe my soul can watch them from the Great Inbetween.

'No. They said something about a tower, I think it's at the castle.'

'Have you got a leg o' lamb for a brain?' Taaj snapped. 'The castle's the last place we can do it.'

'Calm, Taaj.' Bard sat up. He knew he'd drive himself mad trying to think in the tent. 'We'll have more time tomorrow. Weasel and I will visit the lists in the morning and settle that problem first.'

'What now?' Taaj asked.

'Now, I could do with some ale.'

#

The sun was powerful bright the next morning. It didn't shine so much as enforce itself, almost to the point of awakening the ale-sickness Bard had been fighting to stave off. There was far less noise than the day previous; those who had the luxury were sleeping off the revelries of the night.

The Gallowmen had no such luck. Tall Toyne, Bodkin and Taaj were lost to the tourney already, Toyne set for another day at the melee and Bodkin due at midday for the start of the archery. Bard and Weasel, though, were headed straight for the open field of the lists, Weasel clutching Brother Grief's scrolls of heraldry and puffing his chest out like a proper squire.

The arena conferred a darkened foreboding, one that hadn't been present at the Invocation. The timber supports loomed in all-seeing judgement, the lists themselves rose higher than Bard remembered. He imagined the stands entirely packed with the expectant hordes. Three-hundred eyes won't miss a thing.

He and Weasel made their way to the far end of the field. Tables were set up underneath another tree of shields, this one sporting an array of colours and sigils. Bard saw their acorn up there, diminished between the red drake's head of House Emal and another shield that bore a black bird clutching a rock in its talons.

'Weasel,' Bard hissed, when they'd got close to the tables.

Weasel brought his feet together, readied himself and then announced Bard, officially, before the gathered knights, lords and heralds. Only the latter paid any real heed.

'Lord Eran, have you your papers?' One of the heralds gestured them to the table. He was a shrewd-looking man, slick, resin-stuck hair and a long face that formed into an acicular chin.

Weasel gave the man Brother Grief's scrolls of heraldry. What followed was the herald carefully scanning the scripture. It didn't matter, the only bit of importance was the part at the bottom that bore the seal of Lord Protector Rifus Infir, warden of Oblivia in the absence of an emperor.

'Very good, Lord Eran,' the herald said, rolling the parchment up and passing it to Weasel. 'Fear not, we received your squire yesterday. You are registered to compete on the morrow.'

'Err ... yes,' Bard said. Rich folk and their carefully-worded intimations always unsettled him.

'Let me see, my lord ...' The herald ran a finger down a large tournament scroll before him on the table, as though Bard had asked a question. 'You shall first meet Sir Claudo Armis, first son of Lord Clypeus and heir to Battalon and all its lands.'

They've already decided the meets. That's not good. 'I am here to enquire after ... well, you see, there's been a change of circumstance. I'd like to withdraw.' The very word fouled Bard's palette.

The herald's nose twitched. 'Beg pardon, my lord?'

'He wants to withdraw, sir,' Weasel repeated. 'My lord, that is.'

'If you truly wish to withdraw, my lord, you will venture yourself to the lists tomorrow and present your white flag. You will give Sir Claudo the day, for all to see. I'm afraid there is nothing we can do from this table.'

For all to see. For Erikk to see. There'll be no invitations to the castle then. No one drinks with a coward.

'Can I take a moment, to consider things?'

'Take as many as please you, lord.'

Bard turned away from the table, Weasel at his shoulder.

'I can carry the white flag, if it bothers you,' Weasel said, when they were away from the others.

'The laughing stock we'll be when my ratty squire grovels on my behalf.'

'I heard the men talking about Claudo yesterday. The Blue Lance, they call him. What else we gonna do?'

I don't know, Weasel. We're going to pray to the Elders that you haven't ruined any shot we ever had at Erikk. Bard would have conjured more possibilities, but his contemplation was broken by a flash of ice-white hair.

'Are you for the joust, my lord?' Lady Orel was as radiant as she'd been the day before. Is she a lady? Or did she say that was for show? He found he didn't much care. She looked like a lady. Her desires had given in to a hugging dress of fern green, a pretty gemstone collar attending her neck. The young boy was with her again, his shaggy hair allowed to drift freely.

Weasel came to his senses before Bard could. 'Actually you're wrong, my lady, my lord here was just-'

Bard cuffed him around the ear. 'Don't talk out of turn, squire. And don't talk to a lady at all unless you have my leave. Understood?'

Weasel narrowed his eyes. 'Perfectly, my lord.'

'I'm sorry if I've interrupted you, lord, I wanted to give thanks for yesterday. This one was born for mischief.' She pulled the hand of the child beside her before he could grab the tunic of a passing knight.

'Not at all, my lady, I know the feeling.' He glared at Weasel.

She giggled. 'Women in Scavania aren't 'ladies', it is fine to call me Orel.'

'And you can call me Eran, if you like. This is my squire, he is, err ...'

'Pim, my lady.'

Pim? Bard wondered if that wasn't a popular name in Foul Brown.

'Very well, Lord Eran, are you for the melee? I thought I heard the horns called not long ago.'

'Not the melee. I find swords to be rather dull.'

'As do I,' Orel said, 'I'm a fan of the joust. We don't have any jousters here in Scavania; I shall be most excited to see you compete tomorrow.'

A stone hit the bottom of Bard's stomach. To see me wave a white flag?

'Will you walk with me, Lord Eran? I would like to see the camp, but I can't imagine I'll have an easy time of it alone.'

He knew it to be a bad idea, instantly. Her very presence marked her for high-birth of some sort. And the boy? If the father sees me escorting his heir? Perhaps it will be a melee after all. 'Yes, certainly,' he found himself saying, all the same.

Orel rewarded him with a secret smile and put her arm through his. They began to walk back through the lists and Bard forgot everything that had troubled him on his way in.

'Shall I go to the melee and attend Sir Toyne, my lord?'

'No, Pim, you shan't. You'll stay exactly where I can see you.'

#

It was the realisation of an impossible dream for Bard. Striding, as a lord, amongst the pavilions of the powerful, an astonishingly beautiful lady on his arm and his very own squire to clear a path and declare his coming.

He found Orel to be forthright, as he'd heard Moutainwomen were. She lead the conversation and imposed upon him the understanding that there would be no awkward silences, no voids of uncertainty. Bard versed back as best he knew how. He told her stories as they walked, of Green Country heroes and the deeds of ancient houses. Orel seemed taken by the idea of knights and their tales, far more than she was with the enduring clansmen of the west.

'What happened to the boy's father?' Bard asked, when he'd plucked up the courage. He could see Weasel's ears pricking as he led the way between tents, listening to every word.

Orel appeared troubled, a cute line of confusion impressing on her brow. 'Oh ... Ulf?' She laughed and pointed to the little boy. 'Ulf is not mine, he is my brother. Half-brother, really, but I still have to look after him. I told you, my lord, I am not wed.'

Brother? Not son. Well then what is she doing here?

They stopped when Ulf showed interest in a cart of exotic fruits from the Island Kingdoms. Oranges and yellows mainly, ones Bard knew from experience would bite a man's tongue and sting his eyes.

'What about you?' Orel said to Bard. 'Your ale-boy is funny looking.' She set free a timid giggle as she glanced at Weasel.

'Oh, he's my squire.'

'Are you a knight, Lord Eran?'

'No, just a lord,' Bard said.

'I thought squires were for knights, not lords?'

'They're for both ... sometimes.' They're for both when the Burned Priests give you heraldry scrolls for yourself and tell you to make up the rest.

'He is so peculiar.' She laughed again and tussled Weasel's bowl of hair. 'What happened to him?'

'His father was a ferret.'

Weasel smiled pleasantly and bowed. 'We're not all what we appear, my lady.'

Bard gave him another cuff on his ear. It was light enough not to leave a mark but Weasel hit the ground anyway, covering his neck as though he expected further blows.

'I apologise, Lady Orel, my squire can be ... forgetful, from time to time.'

'No insult taken. He is a most entertaining boy.'

'I live to serve, my lady,' Weasel said, as he clambered from the dirt, rubbing filth from his knees.

#

They wound through the fruit markets and into the spice tents. The air grew colourful, dusty and flavorsome there, Green Country merchants and the handful of Zaffaarians who had braved the Corridor of Fire, exploiting the needs of mountain folk with foreign tastes. After that it was past the outside of the ale-tents. Lutists strolled up and down isles of men, singings songs of 'Ana of Nordholm' and, of course, every Mountainman's favourite, 'The Islander and the Horse.' They spilled through to the parade-way, the sides of which were adorned with a variety of puppet shows. Bard found that it was Orel who led the way, subtly, like she enjoyed having an unspoken control.

'Aren't they amazing, Ulf',' she said, lost to a show of bright swirls.

They are amazing, Bard concurred. He supposed the puppeteers from the Island Kingdoms. They carved enchanting figures from strange woods and costumed them expertly. Unfortunately, Weasel found them amazing, too.

'Look at that one! Look, Bard!' His eyes went wide when he realised what he'd said.

Orel ended the silence with another giggle. 'Bard? Have you a new name, my lord?'

'It's a nickname I acquired when I was younger. My friends say I tell a lot of stories.'

'Indeed, you do.' Orel said. 'You have quite the memory, Bard. Shall I call you that instead?'

'If it please you.'

'Tell me a tale of Hammar, Bard who knows so many stories.'

'Happily.' Bard thanked the Elders. He knew very little bards from the Mountain Lands, but every storyteller worth his salt had heard of Hakkhakkamon of Hammar, the leg-less man who defended the city. So he told that one, first explaining how Hakkhakkamon came to be leg-less and then proceeding to his later genius.

'Very impressive,' Orel said, when he was finished.

'What about this one, my lord,' Weasel asked, pointing at the show he'd been intrigued with before.

Easy. 'That's Obliviant,' he explained, steering Weasel towards the stall with the mounted knight in armour of black onyx. 'The banished Outlander king who settled Oblivia over ten-thousand years ago.'

'And what are they?' Orel aimed her finger at the two grizzly puppets, twice the size of the others.

'That's Mikill and Vikaar, I'd guess. Mikill was the last laerd of the giants and Vikaar was his brother. They and their race used to be the shepherds of the land. Then Obliviant and his Elder Folk came and the First Coming began. Vikaar was killed at the Battle for the Blue and the giants went extinct.'

'Most fascinating, Bard,' Orel said. She had a twinkle in her eye that Bard reckoned would turn pirates into honest men. 'Tell me more.'

So he did tell her more, of course. They meandered around the camp, briefly passing the archery but not bothering to dwell. When they did stop again, it was so Bard could explain the famous fable of the Knights of Eight to Weasel and Orel, the group having come upon an artist's impressive imitation.

It wasn't until they were almost at the city gates that Bard realised they'd left the pavilions behind.

'This is where we part again, Lord Eran.' Orel pulled away from his arm and ruffled Weasel's hair once more. 'I thank you for the escort, your company was refreshing. I am excited to see you joust tomorrow, if you ride as well as you talk I shan't imagine I'll be the only woman who enjoys your time here.'

'It was my honour, Lady Orel. We shall have to see who wins the favour of my time, there are three days yet.'

Orel bowed, turned, and her and Ulf moved off to the monumental doors in Hammar's thick walls.

Bard raised a finger and whatever Weasel was going to say died on his lips.

#

'Making a plea to Orl Ejjar himself, were you?'

'Not now, Taaj. Where are the others?'

'Bodkin's at the archery. Toyne's off breaking things. He got out-pointed by an ale-boy from Rime in the melee. Greener than Weasel, he was.'

'I'm going for a walk,' Bard told them. 'Weasel, take a brush to the horse.'

Weasel groaned. 'But Oath always bites me.'

'Not Oath, the destrier.' He needs a name.

Taaj stopped what he was doing.

Weasel blinked as if confused. 'What? You're only withdrawing, what difference does it make if his coat's shiny?'

'Just brush him,' Bard said, 'and tell Bodkin I need him when he's done.'

'But, Bard ...'

He ignored Weasel's call. I need time to think.

#

Bard spent some change buying an ale-skin on his way to the Wisp Wood. There he sat, on the thick trunk of a felled willow where he could no longer hear the noises of the tourney. He slipped into meditation. Snowflakes of azure tumbled in his mind's eye, strands of ice-white hair, countered by crimson splashes of blood. Stretches of time passed as he drank his ale and waged inner-conflict. Day became twilight, twilight proceeded to full dark. In the blackness of the Wisp Wood he continued his weighing.

Then, by the time the heralds blew to sound the coming of the dawn, Bard had made his decision. 

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