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A Springtime Duel
by S.A. Payne
Once upon a time, Tarin Morris was a prized, pretty thing. As a slave in the harems of some of
the wealthiest and cruelest men it was only his looks and willingness to obey that mattered. Now
as a free man, Tarin lives by selling his skills with a sword to the same wealthy men that once
owned him. He fights their petty duels of honor when they'd not risk their lives or sully their
hands.
Only as an early spring duel goes awry, his life starts to unravel and his life will never again be
the same as it once was...
A Springtime Duel
Chapter One
The coach hit yet another bump and the badly worn springs tossed Lord Glendale roughly. He
wasn’t a young man, not any longer, and his looming birthday was as painful a reminder of his
age as the aching in his bones. It wasn’t his habit or nature to go venturing into the filthy, poor
lower districts of the city, and not for the first time he was tempted to change his mind and return
home.
It seemed as if every turn, every aspect of Glendale’s life, conspired to brutally remind him of
how ordinary he was in the eyes of society. His wife, lovely but distant, saw to it he never forgot.
It was little wonder he was disgustingly grateful to hear that the Governor’s cousin, Lord
Harnswell, had accepted the invitation to attend Glendale’s birthday dinner party. Just knowing
that Harnswell was going to be at his own private celebration flushed him with pride.
Lady Glendale had been totally proper in her suggestion that the party, originally intended to be a
small and intimate affair, must be worthy of such a grand figure in society. The guest list had
mushroomed from a dozen to over a hundred; the courses at dinner had gone from five personal
favorites to a full dinner of thirteen. There was going to be music and dancing and a society ball
after dinner. His simple birthday party had become a highlight of the social season virtually
overnight and people who scorned him were now begging for invitations.
Which had opened up a whole new arena of concern, one Lord Glendale didn’t trouble his lovely
younger wife with. He had lived his years carefully and had few admirers, but equally few
enemies, and now he was turning forty five. If he lived to see his birthing day he’d be too old to
challenge. With such a larger scale party it would be easy for a hired swordsman to slip in and
deliver a challenge in revenge for some past and mostly forgotten slight. He’d made it so far
without a challenge and he wasn’t going to risk one the day before safety.
Which was why he found himself in a plain, hired coach, rolling along the old streets of the lower
city: he needed to find a swordsman. He needed to be protected, he needed someone to accept
a challenge for him should one be offered, and with Harnswell in attendance it couldn’t be just
anyone.
Discussion of the professional swordsman was a matter of hot gossip in the fine parlors of the
upper city. Every season brought a new crop of young men, all trying to earn a fortune and a
name for themselves with their blades. Most never drew even the most minor of interest , but
some were lucky or skillful enough to be great. It was this small handful that were the darlings of
the nobles. The debates over which swordsman was best could often grow so heated as to lead
to challenges and bloodshed of their own.
Those who knew little about swordsmanship would name someone flashy like Carvik Gar. He
was really a second rung sword, but his showmanship and skill at drawing an audience into his
fight made him a much spoken of name. Glendale felt Gar was uppity beyond his place and
didn’t approve of his presence.
Most agreed the best swordsman in the city was a man named Benshear Vask, but if asked who
was the most deadly even the greatest fan of Vask agreed without question on the name Tarin
Morris. Reputation said he lacked Vask’s natural skills, and in sheer raw talent Vask was the
greater, but there was a wild unpredictability to Morris that placed him at the top.
Vask was a hired sword because, to him, it was art and he was an artist. And like any good artist
he liked to have his work admired, for admired he was. He was a delight to the upper city. He
attended an occasional party or showing of a play--and attended more than an occasional bed.
After a job was completed he stayed around to be congratulated on his handiwork and sip a
brandy. The upper city ate it whole, his low city accent, the dangerous air to him, and for all that
they embraced the plain and slowly aging swordsman , they also mocked him as a savage and
he never saw it.
In contrast, Morris did it for the money. Parlor room whispers said he was suicidal. His skill was
strong but everyone knew it was the work the swordsman put into a job that made him great. He
planned out details, prepared for all options, and once he accepted a job he was unwavering,
relentless and almost unstoppable.
He refused the invitations he received to attend parties socially and shunned the company of the
upper city. Unlike Vask, he stood in cold indifference to his betters and sought neither their
acceptance nor their approval. He neither cared nor desired to have his work appreciated.
People said Morris was as cold as the coin he was paid with.
The ironic thing was his indifference had the entire of the upper city craving his attention. He was
many times more handsome than Vask and spoke with an upper city accent for he had been
raised there as a slave, which only added fuel to society’s desire for his attention. They
whispered about when he wore a collar as a child, and it spurred their need to see what had
become of the handsome boy. The more the upper city sought to court the young swordsman ,
the more he looked upon them all with disdain.
Glendale knew he had to hire someone, his life was worth protecting after all, but the question
was just who to hire. Gar revolted him, Vask would steal the attention away and there was no
way Glendale was going to be ignored at his own party. It left only Morris of the truly great men
to hire. Even if a second-rung swordsman would have been socially acceptable, Glendale
wanted to impress Harnswell.
The choice had been simple, once he’d sat and thought about it. He simply must hire Tarin
Morris and he’d called his manservant in and told him just that. Only, the man wouldn’t go and do
the task he’d been ordered. The servant had carefully reminded Glendale that Morris refused to
work for anyone without meeting them directly. If Glendale wanted to hire Morris, he’d have to go
down into the dangerous and dirty lower city himself.
It was such an inconceivable notion, so utterly unthinkable that Glendale refused. It didn’t matter
if the Governor’s cousin would be in attendance, Glendale wasn’t going to bow to any upstart
swordsman’s arrogance. He wouldn’t stand for it. He told himself he would do without a
swordsman before he went to Morris, told himself all manner of things in his outrage. When his
anger cooled with only a few days until the party, there really was no choice.
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So he’d dressed himself in common clothes, poor in style, but the fabric was fine and expensive
and gave him away on first sight to anyone truly without coin. He’d pulled on his most worn
boots, a pair so old and scuffed they weren’t fit for civilized society. They’d been tossed aside
and he’d forgotten to throw them out and he was glad for it now. It never occurred to Glendale
that even the most worn boots were a luxury and most of those who lived and died in the lower
city made do with rough sandals. Finally, about his waist he strapped his sword, unwilling to go
unarmed into such a wild part of the city.
It was a fine blade, well crafted and expensive. The leather of the belt and sheath were of good
quality, but not the gaudy, over- tooled fashion most chose. His father had always said a good
sword couldn’t be judged by the leather around it, and Glendale had remembered those words.
The hilt of the sword, however, was well decorated and the blade was heavy and lovely. Above
all, it looked good when he wore it and flattered his ever-expanding waist line. The fact that the
sword was as useless as it was pretty didn’t matter, Glendale had never drawn it in threat. He
had the proper training in the use of a sword as any young man of substance received, but he
had no idea of how to fight. That’s what swordsmen were for-- a true gentleman found the idea of
combat distasteful.
So he was feeling rather clever, certain he blended into the people who he drove past on the
streets around him. What he didn’t realize was that the very fact that he was in a hired coach set
him vastly apart, for the coach’s passengers were almost universally upper city folk poking about
in the wilds of the lower city, seeking adventures. The coach rolled along the old street, staying
to well lit ways, and Glendale sat lightly. He’d been warned that in spite of the clean appearance
that one could catch fleas from the straw stuffed padding of the seats. He touched as little as he
had to, as certain the poverty of the districts he road by could infect him as surely as any
unseen, biting insects.
The drive felt endless and Glendale felt one more jarring bump would be enough to drive him
mad when the coach turned into a street of taverns and inns. The street widened and the
buildings spread out from the cramped quarters of the street they’d just turned off of onto one
that had small yards and respectful distances between each stone work building. The one the
coach pulled to a stop in front of was set at the end of the row and the front of the yard was lined
with a crumbling, knee high wall.
The tavern stood close to three stories tall and was speckled in real glass windows. The roof was
finished in fired clay tiles and the walls were freshly whitewashed. The yard in front was only a
dozen or so paces wide, with a tall old tree to the one side offering shade and lanterns hung on
posts to light up the stone walkway that led to the door.
Shadows moved inside the glowing lower floor windows, and every time the door was pulled
open light and sound poured from inside. Lord Glendale sat and watched the tavern, suddenly
uncertain about venturing from the assumed safety of the coach. The people he could see
moving around all were armed in one manner or another and moved with a drunken slurred
motion that warned of danger and short tempers. It would be just as easy to turn around and go
home. No one knew where he was tonight, so no one would know he’d backed down.
He quickly reined in his own uncertainty and reminded himself of just who he was and what his
place in the world was. Lord Glendale was from a long and well respected family line and the
previous Lord Glendales had never once backed down from any challenge. Neither had he, and
he wasn’t going to start tonight. With a steadied nerve , he opened the door--any respectable
driver would have done it for him--and hopped out from the shabby interior.
“You’re certain he can be found here?” he asked of the man sitting behind the horses.
“Aye, Lordship. He’s always about this time of night.” The driver’s grammar was acceptable, but
the accent of the lower city was unmistakable. The flat vowels, the sharp cadence to the speech,
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it was rapid and ungraceful.
“Wait for me,” Glendale commanded and turned to follow the short path to the entrance.
“No, your Lordship.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no, I’ll not be waiting. You hired for a trip to the inn, not to have me sit and wait at your
call. Another coach will be about soon enough.” He nodded knowingly toward the darkness of the
night.
Glendale pushed down his anger. He had no intentions of being stranded in the heart of the rat’s
maze of the lower city after dark. “How much?” he asked thinly.
When the price had been met Glendale, finally turned his attention back to the task at hand. The
music that had been drifting out had ended, and now only the low buzz of conversation hummed
out into the night. He squared his shoulders and drew closer to the doors and was forced to
pause before going in to make room for a trio of men to exit.
They leaned on each other and smelled strongly of sour wine, staggered about in contented
friendship and didn’t look twice at Glendale standing slightly in the shadows. He stepped behind
them to catch the door before it shut and his eye fell upon the painted sign over the door. A
large, fleecy sheep stood with long, painted eyelashes and a wide grin; behind it knelt the figure
of a man, dressed in wealthy clothes, a look of raptured ecstasy on his face. The sign was well
known; its mocking obscenity to the upper classes was whispered over in drawing rooms and
parlors. There was no doubt now, the driver had brought him to the right place.
He expected to be noticed when he walked inside. Glendale was used to being noticed but few
eyes swung to look at him. The crowd inside almost made a point to not glance toward the door
as it swung open and shut. The tavern was as full as it had appeared. A small stage set in the
back was well lit but empty; musicians lounged around the side, talking and sipping from mugs.
Along another wall stretched a counter with an open slot to the kitchen. Several people, men and
women, sat there and ate plates of food and sipped drinks from wooden mugs. Groups of people
sat about the tables drinking, eating and some gaming. A large cluster was carefully watching a
dice game and calling out enthusiastically at each toss.
There appeared to be four sorts of people in the inn. The first were the inn’s workers, men and
women alike that moved with long practiced ease around tables and crowds, carrying drinks and
food and scooping up coin. Glendale spotted at least a half dozen people he pegged to be
whores, mostly women but he saw at least one male, each carefully dressed and being charming
to anyone who drew their notice. Once he saw a young woman with black hair and wide hips lead
a man to the stairs; they disappeared up to the hallway above. He counted at least a dozen or
more who had to be from the upper city. They were dressed in obvious efforts to blend in but
their accents gave them away. They stuck together, drank and gamed and for the most part were
young men seeking thrills and wild adventure.
The last sort were the reason he’d come to this tavern. By far the largest number present were
swordsmen, dressed from plain to flamboyant and all armed. They were men and women, armed
and strong. They drank and joked, living loudly on the coin they earned from renting out their
skills. While this wasn’t the only tavern to cater to their lifestyle, it was one of a very small
number of them.
Here a sword could be hired, a duel arranged or even an assassination if you had enough coin. It
was where letters were sent when jobs were offered or where face to face meetings were made if
a hire was planned. Inside was only for swordsmen; thieves were driven off to their own places,
informants were not tolerated and being a slaver would get a body killed.
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From the dozens of swordsmen, Glendale searched for one. He stood inside the doorway and
scanned the room, searching for the man he’d only seen occasionally and then from a distance.
“Can I help you?” A deep voice spoke from Glendale’s right.
The lord turned and had to crane his neck up to see who had spoken. The man was tall and
broadly built, his head was shaved bald as an egg and his dark brown eyes were steady. “Tarin
Morris,” Glendale answered simply, knowing a little bit about the protocol of hiring a swordsman
from the man he normally sent to accomplish the task.
The big man nodded knowingly. “Black haired fellow, over with the musicians.” He motioned with
his chin while flagging down a girl that went past.
Glendale peered at the area by the stage and saw a black headed man. His hair in a neat tail at
the base of his skull; he stood with his back to them listening to one of the musicians talk.
“Jen, see to it his lordship is placed in a private room and let Tarin know he’s company?” the
deep voice rumbled out.
Glendale turned his attention from the man by the stage to the short and slightly round woman
who’d been addressed as Jen; she was dressed in the plain clothes of the servers. “Sure thing,
this way.” She spoke quickly with a slight bobbled curtsey before turning to move swiftly away.
Glendale followed her along the edge of the main room to a door discreetly placed in the back.
She moved through it with confidence and he followed her into a well lit hallway which was lined
in more doors. She opened one seemingly at random and motioned for him to enter.
“It’ll be a moment only, sir, can I get you anything?” she asked distractedly, unimpressed with
him.
“Nothing,” Glendale answered a tad too sharply and paced inside the private room.
“Yes, sir,” she answered with another bobbled curtsey and shut the door behind him.
The room was large enough to seat several comfortably, the cushioned chairs and smooth wood
table finer than what sat outside. There were no windows, no other doors and few decorations. A
small charcoal burning stove sat by itself to ward off the damp but otherwise the room was
empty. Glendale took a seat and waited.
The wait was quite a bit longer than he had expected and he was about to rise and see what the
delay was when the door opened. He was caught half rising to his feet and was forced to
continue the motion, forced to offer the swordsman the sign of respect he otherwise wouldn’t
have.
“Tarin Morris?”
The swordsmen turned from latching the door and paused, his eyes narrowed a moment but he
nodded. “Aye.”
Glendale was forced to pause; naturally he’d heard the stories, but he hadn’t truly believed them.
The man standing across from him looked more like a fantasy idea of a harem slave dressed up
as a swordsman than one in truth. He was neither unusually tall nor short but he was lean,
slender and with a graceful body. His shoulders were strong and his torso tapered to lean hips,
but a strong and well balanced body wasn’t overly uncommon. It was the swordsman’s face that
was stunning. His hair was black, thick and glossy and even though it was pulled back it still
looked vaguely untamed and wild. His skin was the color of milk, the color women and aristocrat
men would die for, with just enough rose tones to keep him from being corpse pale. His lips were
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