I believe I've already talked a fair bit about the dueling area known as the Circles.

Like just about anything you could care to describe, there are certain features or aspects that become more important depending on your circumstances. When you're there for the purpose of relaxation or entertainment, you tend to notice the design features and the clean, rugged beauty of the place itself. If you're hungry, you notice the staggering quantity of shops and foods located nearby, the impossibly diverse mixture of scents that combine into a not unpleasant jumble of fragrances completely unique to the place.

When you're there to cross swords or some other sort of potentially fatal activity, you tend to notice different things. Things like the presence of old, dried blood that had somehow managed to survive the rains.

I was noticing a great deal of blood around me as I stood in the center of the magnificent open-air marble structure, ten feet or so away from the main dueling circle, a simple shallow metal ring that had been set into the well-packed earth. There was blood on the side of the ring nearest us, I saw.

I don't believe in omens.

The very air seemed charged with the undercurrents of potential violence, like a suspended moment of time between seeing lightning in the distance and hearing the thunder that you instinctively know is coming. The throngs of people that had shown up were not beyond my notice either. The stands were positively crowded today.

I suspected that many had been invited, or encouraged to come. Redforne's doing, obviously – you didn't go to all the trouble he did without wanting to share your success with as many people as possible.

Staring at the many faces in the crowd, I idly wondered what kind of headache I was about to create amongst those who made their livelihood through wagering and the placing of bets. It wasn't hard to get them all riled up, and with what I had planned I could almost picture some of them staring aghast or gnashing their teeth in frustration.

“Milord?”

“Hmm?” I looked to Cyrus, who stood off to my right, looking as though a few days rest would be a barely adequate start. I'd overworked him shamelessly these past couple of days in general, the last twelve hours in particular.

“You're smiling. Is there something new you've noticed or thought of?”

“Ah, no. Sorry, I was just thinking of something funny and useless. How are you holding up?”

“Well enough, Milord,” he said, his voice making him sound like a man who might commit murder in exchange for the promise of eight hours of unbroken sleep. His eyes were sunken into the sockets that held them, and the bags beneath his usually bright grey orbs had taken on a darkish blue quality. I also noticed that his eyes didn't seem to focus on anything at times.

“Cyrus. I need to know if you're going to be okay through all of this. I can arrange for things to be delayed long enough for you to fetch a replacement if need be.”

“I'll be fine,” he said, coming as close as I've ever heard to actually snarling at me. “I'm just – uh...”

“You'd kill someone for a good eight hours of sleep?”

He blinked, and then smiled ruefully.

“Close. I'll be fine Milord, honest. I ... say, do you happen to have any more of that tea handy?”

“No, fresh out. The only thing I thought to bring with us aside from the healing reagents was some vimroot oil, if that'll do.”

“That would do fine.”

I handed it over after reaching into my satchel to retrieve it, and continued to inspect the crowd as he applied the sharp smelling stimulant to his forearms and neck. Yes, there were many, many people here today. I briefly wondered how many had come to be entertained, and how many had come to watch me die.

“Vincent?” A much different, heavily accented voice ventured apologetically.

“Yes, Ismir?” I responded, turning to my left. I also frowned slightly. “Uh, actually Ismir, we're on the clock right now. Perhaps you should use the honorific 'Milord' or 'Lord Tucat'.”

The tall, swarthy man looked down at me, wearing an expression that made it clear he didn't quite comprehend.

“We, uh...” he said, looking down at his own feet for a moment, “are on a time? Early? Not sure, how is your meaning?”

I sighed. “Never mind. What is it, Ismir?”

“Ah, okay. Uh, Vincent, to tell you that of the money ... I have some much. This thing, not necessary is what you do?”

“Ismir, I've already told you,” I said, patiently, “this isn't charity. I need someone who knows what they're doing. This is not me trying to be nice. Honest. Trust me, I'm not that nice a guy.”

He frowned at me, a tiny amount of suspicion apparent in his eyes. He looked carefully at me before glancing to Cyrus, and then back to me. Then, shrugging a little, he went back to scanning the crowd.

“And me, Lord Tucat?” came another voice from somewhere behind Ismir. “I'm still not certain what I'm doing here exactly.”

“Tanin, you're being paid twenty gold marks to simply stand with our party, as we discussed, and give an opinion regarding your area of expertise when and if the time presents itself. The less I tell you, the better off things are going to be once they begin to happen. I don't want to outright tell you what to say – I need you to be impartial, in case your motives are questioned.”

Tanin, one of the most accomplished and respected instructors who taught at the Circles, leaned forward and looked around Ismir to stare at me briefly, frowning in disapproval.

“I suppose that's what I agreed to. I just don't want to be on the receiving end of an unpleasant surprise is all. You have a certain reputation.”

“If I believed you were at risk, I would have told you. It's nothing like that – I anticipate your involvement to be fairly minor. You have my word on it.”

“Fair enough,” he sniffed. Turning away, he too began to inspect the crowd.

We were the only men currently on the floor of the arena, and there wasn't much to do besides look at the crowd and stand about awkwardly. Or sleepily, as it were. Although I hadn't stayed awake the entire evening (like Cyrus had) confirming many of the guesses we’d made, I didn't exactly get much sleep either. I stifled a yawn, hoping as I did so that I looked more bored than tired.

“Milord,” said Cyrus, stepping closer and speaking softly. “Greybridge, behind us and to the right.”

I nodded my understanding without looking behind me, continuing to look out at the audience, attempting to mentally shrug off the last vestiges of sleep and become fully attentive to my surroundings. I could feel the excitement begin to build from the pit of my stomach, and forced myself to relax.

Deep breath. Time to begin.

I idly turned around as if to survey the state of the audience behind me, allowing my eyes to widen slightly and acting as if pleasantly surprised to see Greybridge plodding towards me with the slow, methodical gait of the out of shape and overweight. Knowing what I now did about his affairs, I studied him as if for the first time.

The frown upon his face had dug entire trenches upon his skin over the years, giving you the firm belief that this particular expression had long ago won whatever war had been waged for control of his face. His mouth, his small inset eyes, even his carelessly choppy haircut seemed to exude a kind of bitter resentment directed at the rest of the world.

His expression might have had something to do with the four rather large men who served as his escort. I guessed they were not Greybridge's men, despite the fact that they wore his crest on four tasteful uniforms. Just to look at them you couldn't tell if their purpose was to keep the Lord in their care protected, or if it were to make sure he didn't run off somewhere.

They walked up as a single unit. I smiled at the dour-faced Lord. He frowned, possibly because it was the easiest thing for his face to do.

We began.

“Honorable Lord Greybridge! Delightful to see you again,” I said cheerfully.

“Lord Tucat,” he replied, sizing me up and down and then peering at my face. “You don't look like you've quite gotten enough rest.”

“Ah me, how well I know that. Matters of estate, Lordly duties, you know the drill. It never ends. It will not affect matters today however, I assure you. Ah, but you Lord Greybridge - you look marvelously relaxed and well rested! Why, I'd have to turn in for bed no later than eight bells to be so spry and alert! Did you perhaps have an early evening last night? What's your secret?” I smiled even more cheerfully.

He became still as he took in all the possible meanings of my words, eyes narrowing. I sent him my most winning and innocent looking tooth-enameled grin.

After a few moments he answered, slowly.

“My secret? Healthy living, not having to perpetually worry about ruffians at my gates, or the prospect of various treasures getting stolen from me. Which, of course, brings us to today's little affair.”

“Ah, right you are,” I said, throwing the front flap of my good silver-lined three-quarter cloak over my shoulder and twisting from side to side, making a production of loosening up muscles. “I'm assuming that you have some sort of special instructions regarding what you would like done to young Teuring? Dance around him, make him look silly, that sort of thing? I know of this one particular move – dreadfully embarrassing, but unfortunately it relies on him wearing a certain type of belt, and rather baggy pantaloons, or-”

“Yes, well,” he said, waving his hand as if it were capable of negligently brushing my words aside. “I'm sure that whatever you think is best will do under the circumstances. I do apologize for not having contacted you earlier in regards to my wishes for this duel, but I didn't think you'd mind terribly. From what I've heard of your skill and of his, this little event will hardly even qualify as exercise for you.”

I laughed at that, and then laughed a little louder ... just long enough to perhaps cause him to wonder if he was being mocked.

Which he was, of course.

“Indeed Lord Greybridge! Ha! Why, just the other day a few of my men saw him attempt to practice lunging on a sack that had been stuffed with straw. Bookies in attendance were taking bets on the sack to win,” I chuckled. “Why, a man would have to be a complete and utter buffoon to be bested by the likes of him.”

His cheek twitched a little at that.

“Well, that's-”

“I mean, the very notion of being undone by a low-rent blubbering fop like him, why, a man would have to have half his brain missing, reduced to some sort of drooling, half-witted, giggling imbecile. Ha!” I smiled a ridiculously large smile at him, projecting innocent good cheer with all of my being.

He looked the tiniest bit flustered, then the tiniest bit angry. He had, of course, been outwitted by the very man we were talking about.

And then he smiled at me.

It was an ugly kind of smile, smug and secure ... the kind that seemed to take great delight in the fact that there was no way I could possibly know what was in store for me. Obviously I was going to find myself tremendously surprised shortly, and Greybridge knew it.

I smiled back, because ... well, obviously. How could I know?

We spent a few moments smiling at each other, for drastically different reasons.

“Yes, well ... I shall be watching, of course. I expect I should be here for at least an hour before I tire of this, so feel free to take your time. Good fortune today Tucat. Gentlemen,” he said, nodding to the rest of my assembled party. They nodded back to him.

“Enjoy the performance My Lord,” I said, waving at his back as he turned and plodded towards the stands. “You've certainly paid enough for it.”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Turning slowly, he gave me a piggy little stare, his brow furrowing.

“What?” he said in what he probably presumed was a dangerously quiet voice.

“Errr ... sorry, bit of a joke there!” I said, spreading my hands palm-up before me apologetically. “A small attempt at humor – I was being ironic. This whole arrangement has, of course, cost you nothing.”

It was an unkind remark - his empire lay in ruins, after all. I watched him fume in silence at that with my innocent smile fixed firmly in place, counting the several different emotions crossing his face. A moment later, he stiffly turned and continued his walk into the stands. There had been a small trace of uncertainty in his eyes just before he'd turned away.

I chuckled.

Well? He was helping to set me up. It's not exactly like I felt bad for the guy...

Once Greybridge had departed we didn't have to wait long before spying Redforne entering the grounds. He walked in with a look of bleary-eyed desperation, hair a veritable bird's nest of unkempt curls and lopsided in a manner that suggested that he'd over-imbibed the night before and had just woken up. Once again he was wearing that ill-fitting tunic bearing the two interlocked circles of Teuring, as well as some other shoddy finery that was now obviously a calculated effect.

His dueling party consisted of a curly-haired youth who bore a grim expression, and a young light-haired lad who was expending considerable effort to keep a large deerskin bag from touching the ground as he walked.

Redforne looked like a young, poor Lord doing his best not to look like an idiot. He was projecting the kind of despair that one has when one knows they are as good as defeated, even before a contest begins.

Slouched forward, he didn't meet my eye as he approached the main dueling circle, his steps faltering and uncertain. It was masterful. I briefly wondered what Theo thought of the performance, keeping watch from somewhere in the crowd. I'd managed to see him the night before, and explained to him both what was going on and what I intended to do.

He'd called me a sneaky bugger.

Redforne and I didn't look at each other as we stood at opposite sides of the circle, thirty-five feet away from each other. He presumably wished to give as little away as possible, as did I. After a few moments of standing around the 'Teuring' party began to converse amongst themselves.

I spied the Herald on duty stepping through the crowd at the edge of the stands about a hundred feet away from us, walking towards the ring, two smaller robed men trailing in his wake. After a glimpse at me and a familiar nod, he altered his course and made his way to my group.

“Lord Tucat,” he said, nodding.

“Herald Cartwren,” I nodded back, respectfully.

“In regards to the duel being fought on this day, four-hundred and first day of year twenty-and-two Tenarreau, the matter of Greybridge versus Teuring - have their been any changes, or negotiation for extension?”

“None.”

“Is there any hope of reconciliation?”

I stifled a chuckle. “None whatsoever.”

“Very well. Is there anything that you, the party representing Lord Greybridge, requires from the Crown?”

“No – all standing with me are familiar with the dueling laws and swear to abide by them. The party undertaking to resolve matters on behalf of the Lord Greybridge stands ready.”

“The Crown hereby recognizes that the party representing Lord Greybridge stands ready. Good fortune, and may the gods smile upon this contest,” he said solemnly. Then, formalities done with, his face split into a wicked grin and his eyes twinkled merrily. “May the gods also have mercy on that poor, poor bastard.”

I've always liked Cartwren.

“Actually, I'd keep your money in your purse if I were you. As a matter of fact, you'll probably want to stay fairly sharp ... things could go sideways for anyone acting in an official capacity today. Can I quickly check the list to confirm something?” I gestured to one of the smaller robed men standing behind him.

“Eh? Well, certainly. Varnie,” he said, catching the attention of one of the young men accompanying him and indicating that he should step forward. “Please show Lord Tucat what he requires.”

Startled by the odd request, the clerk stepped forward and turned his tablet towards me so that I might be able to read its contents. I began to do so rapidly.

“So,” said Cartwren, seemingly intrigued by my lack of usual wit-laced and smarmy bravado, “I should perhaps hedge my bet a little? I've currently got something in the neighborhood of four-hundred and fifty gold wagered on you.”

“What?” I practically choked. For a Herald, even one working for the Prince, that had to be a small fortune.

“Too much? This was pretty much the closest I've seen to a sure thing in the past year - the odds are dismal, and I'll only make about a twenty or so if I win, but I figured I'd capitalize on it if there was a bookie stupid enough to take the bet. Twenty marks is twenty marks, after all.” He looked at me shrewdly, considering. “There some reason I shouldn't have my money riding on you? You know, if you mess with the odds or get caught throwing a duel, especially one the Prince is required to attend-”

“No,” I said, rubbing my neck thoughtfully. “Nothing like that. I like my neck as it is – unadorned by noose or garrote wire.”

“Hmmm. But you're not telling me not to worry, either. And, you're not going to tell me what's happening...” he said, not making it a question.

I shook my head. “Too many knives in the air right now. Sorry.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Think I still have time to get my money back?”

“May as well ask, beat the rush,” I said. “At the very least, I believe that we'll be surrounded by hundreds of extremely pissed off people in very short order.”

It was then that I realized an aspect of Redforne's plan that had eluded me completely – wagering. What sort of profit did he expect to walk away from this match with? Odds were twenty to one, if Cartwren's wager was any indication. A man with enough cash could bankrupt several bookmakers in a single day!

Redforne had a lot of cash.

Cartwren gave me an odd look before nodding to me in a vaguely thankful manner. I nodded back, quickly continuing to scan the document before me. It appeared to be in order, and my dueling party was being announced first. Perfect.

“Thank you. Yes, everything looks fine, I apologize for troubling you, Varnie,” I said, waving the clerk away. “And thank you, Herald. Wish me luck.”

“If you believe you require luck today, Lord Tucat, then I'm suddenly very anxious to talk to a certain bookie I know,” he said, making a face. Then, motioning to the two clerks standing dutifully behind him, he turned and made his way over to the party standing opposite of us.

I really shouldn't have told him anything ... not that there was much chance of things falling apart at this stage. Still, I watched the Herald's interaction with Lord Redforne with keen interest.

There seemed to be nothing to their conversation, covering the formalities and nothing more. Soon Herald Cartwren was making his way back towards the stands.

He'd made it halfway when some small murmur ran through the crowd. Squinting against the sun that hung high in the sky, I could make out the royal booth in the distance, a handful of knights swathed in purple parting the crowd gently yet insistently.

Trumpets sounded. The Prince was taking his seat.

Everyone stood and craned their necks to try and catch a glimpse of the royal figure. They always did, like it was borne out of habit, but they needn't have bothered trying. Warren Tenarreau, Prince of Thieves and Thief-Lord of all Harael, master of intrigue and cunning, the single most powerful man in the city ... stands three-foot-eight inches tall.

It's actually an amazing advantage, and one of the many reasons for his extraordinary good fortune. Some people don't realize just how useful something like that can be for a thief.

The hairs on the back of my neck and arms started bothering me. I had a few minutes before things would begin. The familiar nervous energy of pre-duel anxiety was creeping up my back, my head swimming a little in that unreal 'is there anything I've forgotten to consider' sort of way.

“All right, here we go. Does everyone know what they're supposed to do?” I asked.

“No,” said Tanin, a bit of an edge in his voice.

“Uhm,” said Ismir uncertainly.

Cyrus was half asleep already and staring into the crowd with a distracted look on his face, possibly not having heard me at all.

Fantastic. Just the sort of pick-me-up I needed right then.

The trumpet playing ended abruptly, and I could barely make out the Prince at his booth as he was taking his seat for the proceedings. This would be only the second time that Tenarreau had attended a duel that I was involved in, and he probably didn't remember the first.

He'd definitely remember the second.

Five minutes or so passed all told as people milled around and found their seats. Though unnerved and anxious, I tried to give the impression that I wasn't. I looked over at Redforne.

He was doing his best to look nervous, scanning the crowd, he would occasionally say something out of the corner of his mouth to the older of his companions, who was listening and nodding in a tight-lipped fashion. The other, younger lad was busy scanning the crowd with wide eyes, looking thoroughly awestruck.

I watched them without giving the impression that I was, glancing at Redforne out of the corner of my eye. Even with the phony nervousness he was projecting, I could sense excitement in how he held himself. Anticipation.

Herald Cartwren appeared at the Prince's booth, slightly flushed and looking out of breath. After a few words passed between them, he nodded to the child-like regent and began making his way towards the main arena. The chatter from the crowd increased for a moment, and then receded. By the time Cartwren had made it to the bottom of the steps and across the arena floor to where we stood, there was nothing but hushed whispers.

He paused to compose himself, turning towards the main seating area.

“Lords, Ladies, honored Haraelians,” he boomed, “you are here to bear witness to resolution of a matter of honor between the nobles Greybridge and Teuring, whereby it has been asserted via petition that the Lord Teuring did assault the reputation of the Lord Greybridge, and whereby the Lord Greybridge does demand satisfaction of the honorable Lord Teuring as a consequence. The honorable Lord Teuring has accepted the judgment of Prince Tenarreau, who has decreed that the matter be settled by contest of arms to be carried out this day, four-hundred and one of the year Twenty-and-two Tenarreau. So says his Highness, Prince Tenarreau - so say these men here, the party for the accused and the party for the injured. Good fortune to you both.”

He turned towards the circle and looked to his right, meeting my eye, and in that same loud booming voice said “The party for Lord Greybridge – Do you have a duelist?”

“We have,” I shouted, trying to speak as loudly as Cartwren and failing

“Please announce the names of both your duelist and your second for this contest.”

“Thank you, Herald,” I said, nodding my head to him as I did so. I hoped my voice carried far enough to reach the stands. Gods, there were a lot of people here. “If it pleases you all, before I announce the duelist for this event, I would like to first take a second and announce our second ... first.”

That produced a couple of chuckles, and a muted clap. Grinning, I continued.

“Sadly, due to his rather solitary nature brought on by a tragic series of unfortunate events that left him brutally disfigured as a boy, the other Lords and Ladies in attendance may not have had an opportunity to meet this fellow. Indeed, the very sight of this poor wretch is enough to cause babes to cry, women to flee to their houses, and milk to spontaneously curdle. And yet despite all of his handicaps, both physical and mental, he has risen above his circumstance and into prominence. I hope that his quality of character and unbelievable honesty will be as much of an inspiration to everyone in attendance as it is to me. Without further ado, I would request that second for the party of the Lord Greybridge ... be-”

I paused and enjoyed the pregnant silence, looking directly across the dueling circle at the faces on the other side. I didn't want to miss a moment of their reaction.

“Lord Eagan Redforne, son of Salvatori Redforne, Earl of Fen-Arryl!”

The reaction that provoked from the audience was negligible - doubtless throwing out the name of a Lord nobody had ever heard of wasn't going to result in gasps of astonishment or anything like that.

Ah, but the reaction from Redforne, on the other hand...

The mask he'd been carefully maintaining had fallen away at the very first mention of his name, and he stood like a man frozen in the act of moving. He simply stared at me, eyes wide and looking astonished, and then looking as though he were attempting to murder me through sheer act of will. Even at that distance, I could see the muscles lining his jaw standing out, his face now taking on a slightly ruddy complexion.

Oh, was he angry!

I looked at him smugly for a while, and then began to cast my eyes about the arena as if confused. I looked behind me, making of a small production of measuring both Ismir and Cyrus up, a perplexed look on my face.

“Lord Redforne?” I called out forlornly, looking around as though expecting someone to leap out from behind a small rock or speck of dirt on the arena floor. “Funny, I could have sworn I saw him here not two seconds ago! Where could he have gone?”

Redforne's complexion was fast becoming a vibrant shade of crimson.

Ignoring the murmurs of disquiet in the crowd, I cupped my hands to my mouth and began yelling, “Yoo-hoo! Lord Reddddd-Foorrrrrrne!” at the top of my lungs towards those in attendance, shading my eyes with one hand as if attempting to pick him out from the ocean of faces in the distance, ending my small production by putting my fists on my hips comically and looking perplexed. There was a smattering of chuckles, as well as a dull roar of mutters as spectators looked questioningly at one another, as if to ask each other if perhaps they knew what was going on.

The taller youth beside Redforne was very urgently whispering something into his ear, probably telling him what I already knew.

He was screwed. Protocol demanded that if you were present and asked to be a second for a duel, you responded. Period. You did not have to accept the mantle of second, of course ... you didn't even need to state your reason for refusing it.

Of course, if you were within earshot, you had to actually state your refusal aloud. It's simply what you did.

Good manners, all that.

Redforne had probably even thought that he was being extra clever, arranging things so that he could announce his name – his true name – just before the duel was scheduled to begin. I would have been taken by surprise, realizing that something unexpected was happening, and no doubt the young Lord would have followed it up with several other masterful strokes to put me off balance, help me slowly realize that things were not at all what they appeared . He could no longer do that.

He was trapped. He could remain mute and simply make as if the name meant nothing to him, but he couldn't very well lay claim to the name Redforne after the match without people being scandalized over the gross violation of protocol.

I watched him grind his teeth in impotent frustration, hardly even acknowledging the advice that was being urgently whispered in his ear. I don't think I even saw him blink as he stared.

Herald Cartwren had the look of a man who was wondering what was going on, if he was required to step in, and what sort of unpleasant-smelling thing he might be stepping into as a result.

“I say, this is dreadfully embarrassing! I don't know what could have happened to him,” I bellowed theatrically, deciding it was time to force the issue a little. “Terribly, terribly unfortunate. Ah well, if the Lord Redforne isn't present, then I shall have to-”

“I, Lord Redforne, reject Lord Tucat's request to serve as dueling second for the party of Lord Greybridge!” The young and enraged Lord spat the words as though they tasted bad. His lips had curled into an angry snarl.

That provoked some muted reaction from the crowd, and even caused Cartwren to raise an eyebrow. The murmurs of confusion surrounding us increased, and I made a tight little moue of surprise with my lips, as though taken aback by this sudden revelation.

“Why, but ... Lord Teuring! I don't understand! Are you saying that you are Lord Redforne?” I said, filling my voice with disingenuous astonishment.

I wondered how much energy he was putting into that glare, still fixed on me as though he believed it might cause me to wither and die from fright. Grinding his teeth and baring them slightly, he said nothing.

“And here I thought that the two of you merely looked alike. I can't ask a member of the other dueling team to perform as second for Greybridge! Dear me, how dreadfully awkward! Oh, if only I had known in advance!”

Really, under the circumstances, nobody could blame me for a few smart-alec comments, could they?

Redforne continued his campaign in search of new and interesting shades of red to adorn his face with, standing there mute, glaring at me. I was content with simply grinning back at him. It would have gone on for longer had Cartwren not chosen that moment to assert his Heraldic authority.

“Err. Lord Tucat! Your request to have Lord...” he paused for the barest instant, “Redforne ... act as your second has been denied. Please announce another. If that request is likewise rejected, a second will be appointed and provided for by the crown for the sake of expediency.”

“No need, no need,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “So sorry about that. As luck would have it, I know a fellow whom I am utterly confident will fulfill the duties of second for the party of Lord Greybridge here today. A gentleman of unquestionable character, and unassailable integrity. A marvelously handsome and striking fellow, whose reputation for cunning is dwarfed only by his reputation as a superb dancer, and snappy dresser. A veritable demigod of a man, who-”

“Get on with it!” Redforne said, unable to contain his fury any longer.

I shrugged, and sent him a half-smirk.

“I would request that second for the party of Lord Greybridge be...” I said, one hand behind my waist and standing in a manner that I hoped would be perceived as annoyingly melodramatic, “Lord Vincent Tucat, son of Giles Tucat, Viscount of E'ren-Dell.” I bowed as theatrically as I was able. “I accept, of course.”

The reaction that prompted was immediate, and drew gasps of astonishment as well as a good deal of angry muttering and other chatter from the crowd. The face of Lord Redforne and his two retainers were comical in their bewildered confusion.

I imagined bookies in the crowd were looking at each other, asking themselves if they'd heard that right. For several moments I simply stood there and enjoyed the reaction, the noise from the stands seeming to come from everywhere at once, pouring over me in waves of disapproval and surprise.

A rather small portion of the crowd had made its way through the throngs of people lining the seats at ground level, and was urgently pushing its way towards us, the figure in the center positively blazing in anger.

“No!” Lord Greybridge bellowed. “This will not do!”