The crowd rose to its feet, their eager cheers resonating around the arena as the two knights rode into the jousting ring. Their dark untried armour shone cleanly, and the newly painted crests on the small bosses of their rail-shields, untouched by sword or lance, caught the sun in a bright gleam.

Their armoured steeds seemed calm under the noise of the crowd, but High Madriel-master Sprak, watching from the second level of the observation tower, could tell from the stride of one of the animals that its body held an ill controlled tension. As though to confirm Sprak's assessment, the madriel gave a deep roar, which echoed from within its metal helm, and brought its head down sharply to gouge two deep scars in the dampened earth of the arena with its armoured horns. Its rider calmed the beast with a word, and Master Sprak smiled malevolently. It was the training of the beast that was insufficient it seemed, not that of its rider. There were words to be had with the Madriel-master responsible.

Both knights crossed the perimeter circle together and raised their lances in salute, causing the cheering of the crowd to rise again. All six of the new arenas were filled for the opening bouts, and the air vibrated with the noise. The excited cheering was interspersed with the loud cries of the food and ale vendors among the common seats.

On the level of the tower below Master Sprak, where the judges observed the contests and where the countless clerks kept a record of everything won and lost, a proclaimer from the herald service stepped down onto the pulpit that jutted out over the arena.

"Knights and ladies of Klinberg! Good people of its lands! Please give silence for the reading of the stakes!"

The crowd fell silent and the herald unfurled a roll of paper, which he brandished in front of him with practiced ceremony and purpose.

"Today being the first day of contests in the eight hundred and thirty ninth year since the founding of Naddaran, it has fallen upon me to present Sir Khaled and Sir Jathik, and their steeds; Lepessis and Fejun..."

Master Sprak tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as the herald droned on below.

"Have I missed anything, Sprak?" said a voice behind him.

"Nothing, of course," replied Master Sprak, his eyes not leaving the jousting ring below. "Just this pompous idiot being charmed by his own voice."

He pushed the other chair from underneath the table with his foot. High Lance-master Tzarren put his tall cup of crimson ale on the table and sat down with his back rigid, rested his arm on the table besides his drink, and propped one worn boot up on the low parapet that edged the level of the tower.

"What do they fight for? Has he said yet?"

"A few patches of ranch-land downriver. Some of Morath's old territory."

Master Tzarren nodded.

"Rich pickings for the new blood this year."

"They had better be worthy of it."

Below, the herald had finished, and withdrawn. At a signal, given by three quick blasts of the tower's karabok horn, the contest began and the crowd grew quiet.

* * *

The beasts in the arena began to stalk each another, keeping outside the line of the ring's perimeter. The two knights held their lances high and their rail-shields close to their sides as they gave their beasts leave to roar their challenges across the jousting ring, and to beat at the earth with their armoured horns.

The karabok horn emitted one final blast, the two armoured beasts stepped over the boundary of the inner circle, and the contest began. The animals crouched with their bellies close to the ground, armoured limbs tensed with stowed energy as they continued to circle around one another, their growls becoming low, aggressive and feral. The madriel and their riders stopped in a brief moment's stillness. Then, at a mutual signal, the energy of their pent limbs was released to throw their great weight of muscle and armour forwards. Thick clods of damp earth scattered behind them as they closed with each other, both riders lowering their lances and raising their rail-shields, gripping them loosely in anticipation of the first powerful strike.

They met with the echoing sharpness of metal sliding on metal. Lances were deflected by rail-shields, and the knights were past each other, the first test of their opponent's defence made. Their steeds turned swiftly, muscles tensed, more clods of earth flew, and they closed again.

This time the tone of the collision was different. Metal ground against metal as Sir Khaled caught the lance of Sir Jathik on his rail-shield and angled it upwards, away from his body. A reverberating crack echoed clear above the other noise as he struck squarely at the armour of his opponent's chest, and the brittle metal of his lance shattered.

Sir Jathik swayed back in his saddle as the knights pounded past each other, but kept a hold on his lance, while Sir Khaled swiftly dropped the remains of his own weapon and drew his sword. He shouted a single word for Lepessis to turn and close with his foe.

The turn was too slow. Sir Jathik's steed, Fejun, had sprung away to widen the gap between the two, and the tardiness in his opponent's turn gave the knight time to regain his bearing and meet the attack.

Beasts and riders charged again across the narrow space, meeting swiftly, lance against sword. This time, with a quick word of command from Sir Khaled, Lepessis turned in front of his charging adversary to pass on Fejun's right side, out of the reach of Sir Jathik's lance. Fejun, though, moved swiftly, turned to intercept, lowered his head and brought it up, carried by the weight of his charge.

Metal cased horns locked together and the animals reared, their armoured hind claws raking into the earth. As they clashed, Sir Jathik brought his lance above the heads of the grappled beasts, and he struck with precision at Sir Khaled's unprotected chest. The knight was torn from his saddle, scraps of broken metal spiralling around him as he hit the ground with a heavy crash. Lepessis roared his anger as he twisted his head to disengage his horns from those of Fejun, before backing away to stand protectively over his fallen rider.

Sir Jathik sat silently on Fejun's armoured back as the beast roared his victory out over the ring. The madriel struck the earth with his horns and gave out a long tearing growl. Lepessis lowered his head and stepped back from Sir Khaled, who was pulling himself slowly to his feet. Fejun stalked forward, his growls still echoing from the vents of his jaw-guard, and Sir Jathik drew his sword and held its point at Sir Khaled's chest.

"Do you yield, Sir Khaled?"

The other knight took his own sword and rammed it into the earth.

"I yield," was his reply.

The crowd erupted once more, cheering and clapping and stamping their feet on the wooden stands.

* * *

In the observation tower, Lance-master Tzarren applauded with the crowd.

"His beast won that one for him," said Master Sprak, scowling down at the winning knight as he left the arena, his sword raised to the still cheering crowd.

"Or was it the other's lack of training that helped gain him the victory?"

"It sure wasn't either of the riders. They both fought like borak shit."

Lance-master Tzarren picked up his cup of crimson ale and took a long swig.

"They were both too slow. And that last was a standard move; easy to interpret and counter. Even so, Jathik was lucky to win."

Sprak spat over the low parapet, into the jousting ring below, where Field-hands had come out to rake the earth of the arena flat where it had been gouged by the fight. With them came two Junior Engineers, who were meticulously collecting the pieces of shattered lance from the field of battle.

"A man needs more than luck," growled Master Sprak.

"True enough. But luck can change a life, be it good or bad."

Klinberg's High Madriel-master shook his head and scowled.

"You always get soft in the head at this time of year."

"I miss the ring."

"You miss Galanth."

"Of course I do."

"It is not just that though is it? This could have been your year, with Morath dead. That's the reason you have a face like a streak of piss today."

Master Tzarren smiled at Sprak. He was never offended by his friend's vitriol. He was far too used to it.

"Had things been different, I would have been Grand-commander a decade ago."

Master Sprak turned in his seat, looking round for one of the pages that were serving food and drink around the levels of the tower.

"We would have had no peace these past years if you had," he said.

"After Wessvall..." began Master Tzarren.

"You boy!" bellowed Sprak. "Bring me that!"

A young Page ran over, bearing a large tray, half filled with cold pastries and slices of cured meat. He held it out to Master Sprak, who took the whole tray and dropped it onto the table in front of him. The Page stood still by his chair, mouth open and hands still raised as though he was not sure what to do with them.

Sprak leant forward so he was eye to eye with the stunned boy.

"Bugger off and get me a drink."

The page blinked as though waking from a trance and ran off back towards the stairs that spiralled through the height of the tower.

"After Wessvall, I would have sought peace as much as Morath," said Tzarren as Sprak began sorting through the pastries in front of him, picking each one up and giving it a suspicious sniff.

"Yes, but you wouldn't have got it," said Sprak, still sorting and sniffing. "Morath had a tongue like a trill and a mind like a blade, and he talked his way to peace. You have a brain like a club and a tongue like a hamabird."

Tzarren shrugged.

"Maybe so."

Sprak had finally selected a suitable pastry and devoured half of it in a bite.

"So it's good Galanth's luck ran out at Wessvall, or there would have been war to this day," said Sprak, his mouth full.

Tzarren scratched the greying stubble on his cheek.

"Yes, but had things been different, you could have been Madriel-master to the Grand-commander of Klinberg."

Sprak looked at the half pastry left in his hand as he chewed and then, with a scowl, threw it into the arena, missing one of the stooping Junior Engineers by half a metre.

"Instead, I have risen to high office on my own merits, not by hanging onto your backplate."

"So we have both done well for ourselves, and the Order has had peace for a year short of a decade."

"Though not for much longer if that idiot Galder beats Zembulla next week."

"So you think the contest to be between those two alone?"

"Of course it will. Kralaford may be dithering in his decision on whether to stand or not, but even if he does, he can't win."

Master Sprak selected another pastry, took a bite, and began to chew.

"Are you so sure? The man has skill, and you know Hakansa's strengths better than anyone."

"Only too well." Sprak stuffed the other half of the pastry after the first, and then spoke with his mouth full. "But Galder is a demon and Zembulla is a rock, and if he stands, Kralaford will break himself on both of them."

Tzarren lifted his cup to his lips, but did not drink. He left it poised there for a moment as he contemplated his reply.

"When Kralaford was my squire, he told me he would be Grand-commander of this Order, and I believe that one day he will be."

"But not this year."

Master Tzarren placed his cup back on the table.

"No. Not this year."

Sprak grunted and returned his attention to the tray on the table in front of him.

"So who will it be? Galder or Zembulla?" he asked, but Master Tzarren had no time to answer, as below them, two more knights had entered the arena, and the herald stepped back out into the pulpit

"Knights and ladies of Klinberg, Good people of the province..."

"Oh he's off again," spat Master Sprak. "These two had better be more interesting than those last shades of shit!"

Master Tzarren leant forward in his seat to get a better look at the two opponents.

"Let's see a proper fight!" Master Sprak shouted over the sound of the cheering crowd. He gathered up a wad of finely cut meats from the tray in front of him and stuffed them into his mouth.

Master Tzarren shook his head at the ill-tempered Madriel-master, but smiled nonetheless. He had lost so many friends in the war that had culminated in the massacre at Wessvall, and now that Lord Morath had passed, Sprak was one of the few who remained.

"This should be an interesting fight," he said. "These two both show promise."

"Their beasts look good," Master Sprak conceded.

The herald finished his speech and stepped back from the pulpit. The beasts circled, growling and grating their challenges. Lances were lowered and rail-shields raised. A sudden burst of movement, earth clods flew, muscles tensed and bunched beneath thick armour. They met in the centre of the arena, metal screeching and hammering.

The crowd cheered.

Master Tzarren sat back in his chair and picked up his cup of crimson ale as Master Sprak hunched forward in his seat, eyes darting to follow every movement in the ring below. Much of what his old friend had said was true. It had been Lord Morath's will alone that had kept them from war for the past decade, and the peace had begun to disentangle and fray as soon as he had died.

Master Tzarren took a long swallow from his cup and turned his attention to the jousting ring. The very fate of the Orders of mountain and plain would be decided in just such a ring within two cycles of the Taqi moon. He was glad he had been denied the opportunity to answer Master Sprak's final question. Even he could not gauge what the final outcome of the Tourney would be.

* * * * *

When the karabok horn sounded, Grifford lent forward eagerly and peered over the parapet at the jousting ring below, the plateful of food by his side forgotten. The long table in the gallery behind the high chairs was laden with delicacies, and he had piled his plate with them, but his appetite had left him as soon as he sat down beside his father and realised his mistake. There were other knights seated in the gallery, but they did not go to the table, and instead waited for the young pages to serve them.

"You are hungry," his father had observed. Grifford had looked down at his hugely piled plate and cup of krakla juice, and felt like a child.

"I have not eaten since breakfast!" he had said defensively, but the plate still remained untouched on the arm of the chair, which suddenly seemed too big for him. The sun was passed midday, and the arena was a bowl of rippling heat. Even though the terraces of the observation tower offered shade, Grifford could still feel the uncomfortable prickling of sweat on his back.

He had been sitting with his father for most of the morning's contests, and though the usual feeling of awkwardness was on him, it had not been so palpable as usual. Their time together during their vigil the previous day had seemed to relieve something inside him, but it had not resolved his resentments.

He had seen Tasker only once since the boy's return from the north, when he had been waiting for his father at his pavilion that morning. The hated boy had ridden up with Sir Galder after his exodus from the fortress, and the sight of him, riding straight backed on his madriel, the Pride-commander's banner held aloft in his stirrup, had made Grifford's anger well afresh inside him. He could do nothing about it, and for his own turn, Tasker paid him no attention, so he had simply sat and stared at his enemy until his father had arrived, accompanied by his own squire, Zemrossa.

Grifford had been grateful to find that, even though Commander Galder shared the terrace with him and his father, his squire had not accompanied him. Grifford believed that was well, because the boy had no place there. Commander Galder himself was at the other end of the terrace, an untouched cup of hive-wine at his side. All morning, the old knight had sat unmoving, watching the contests below with his cold grey eyes, waving away any page who dared to approach him. Even when the karabok horn sounded to announce the entrance of his son into the jousting ring, he did not move, save to turn his gaze down to the heavy gate as it swung open.

Sir Nathalle, on his steed, Nortennor, rode proudly into the ring.

"That is a fine suit of armour his father has paid for," said Sir Bevrik, who had taken the chair on the other side of Grifford. He did not like the Commander of Asquith Chapter. He did not like the way he attempted to make a joke out of everything, but it seemed that this time his comment was meant sincerely.

"Maybe he does hold his son in higher regard than we suppose," his father commented.

The armour that Sir Nathalle wore, as he rode about the outer perimeter of the ring, did seem much finer than those of the other sixth Echelon knights who had fought that morning. Grifford wondered if his own father would give him one so fine when the day came for him to enter the tourney.

Sir Bevrik leant on the arm of his chair, to talk over Grifford's head.

"Or maybe our fellow Commander is more concerned with how his son's appearance reflects on himself."

A second knight had entered the jousting ring. His armour seemed dull in comparison to Nathalle's.

Below, the herald had begun to speak.

"...it has fallen upon me to present Sir Nathalle and Sir Jerik, and their steeds; Nortennor and Leldariki. The stakes for this contest are as follows. Sir Nathalle has laid down a five share of the Slow-bank brew house, against a three share of Merien farm..."

"I would have thought Galder's son could have negotiated a better contract than that," Sir Bevrik muttered.

"He has not inherited his father's shrewdness, that is for sure."

"Maybe just his skill."

They were interrupted by three blasts of the karabok horn, and the contest began.

Sir Bevrik leant down to speak in Grifford's ear.

"You had better not take your eyes off this contest. It is likely to be over quickly.

And it was.

The customary posturing around the inner ring perimeter lasted less than half a minute. The two beasts began to prowl. Leldariki, Sir Jerik's steed, growled the first challenge, and Nortennor charged, his own low pitched growl rumbling in his throat.

Sir Jerik was slow to respond. Leldariki's claws had already gouged into the earth to spur him forward before the command to charge was issued, and the young knight's lance had barely dropped to the attack before Sir Nathalle was on him.

The crack of shattering metal echoed around the arena, and Sir Jerik tumbled to the earth.

The echo faded, and was replaced by silence for a few heartbeats before the cheering started, but to Grifford's ear, it was missing its usual enthusiasm.

In the ring below, Sir Nathalle had begun to circle the arena, his broken lance and his rail-shield raised in victory. Sir Jerik still knelt in the dust, his opportunity to yield denied him.

"Sir Nathalle's standing will never be favourable among the common folk with a performance like that," said Sir Bevrik.

Grifford assumed he was addressing his father, but his father did not respond. He merely sat, politely applauding the young knight in the ring below.

"But Nathalle's skill was perfect," said Grifford. "I have never seen a fight so swift."

"The crowds do not want swift," replied Sir Bevrik. "They want a spectacle. You must remember that if you want to have popularity among the common folk."

"Common folk make no difference to anything," said Grifford. "Why should I care for their good will?"

He leant forward to peer around the applauding knights on the terrace so that he could judge Sir Galder's reaction to his son's victory, but the Pride-commander's chair was empty, the cup of hive-wine still standing on its arm.