"What Was Mine" 10
It was a few minutes ‘til 5 c’clock. My stomach felt like daggers were poking me from the inside, but I’d slurped down three bowls of soup before coming out to the courtyard nonetheless. I was standing unsteadily in the sunlight, and I wasn’t completely certain that I wasn’t going to shit my pants as soon as the fight started. I hiccupped and fought the rise of the stomach contents that were begging to rain free on the yellow stone beneath my boots.
The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by plain stone walls, two storeys tall, dotted with the occasional window, and a sturdy wooden gate, big enough to let through coaches. It seemed to be a combination recreation area and delivery dock. There were a few slate tables out here, with chairs and umbrellas to block the punishing sun, but they’d all been cleared to the perimeter for this occasion.Everybody who worked or loitered around this prison was here: maybe twenty-five people in all. I saw every guard who’d ever sneered or smiled at me, the Wrangler, Suelanne and two other girls (one of whom looked a lot prettier but a lot less accommodating, if you catch my meaning), Osef and a scattering of more of the hard little brown children that these facilities attract out here in the middle of nowhere. Basically, everybody except for Head Warden Peyd.Maybe he chickened out.He entered the yard like a prizefighter, or a champion pit-cock, all strut and shine. The crowd, well, Peyd probably expected them to erupt into applause, but it was the applauding equivalent of a forced march: slow to start and artificially sustained past the point of fatigue. He was accompanied by another higher-up, one I hadn’t met before, who was carrying a black case by the handle. The case was long and thick enough to hold two military sabres.Peyd soaked in his subordinates’ obligatory adulation, then looked around the courtyard and looked annoyed. Quickly, six men peeled away from the walls, and, hustling and grunting, moved one of the heavy slate tables into the middle of the area. Peyd’s assistant placed the case on the table-top, and Peyd waved me over.“Good morning, Mr. Gunniver,” Peyd said pleasantly. “Are you feeling in prime condition? I wouldn’t want to have you at a disadvantage.”Little explosions rocked my guts and threatened to erupt out both ends. “Tip top, sir,” I responded with no emotion. That was fucking funny, that thing about not wanting to have me at a disadvantage. This whole scenario was about having me at a disadvantage.“I see you had somebody retrieve your clothes,” he observed with obvious disapproval. He looked around at the men, as if trying to pick out which one would have his food rations restricted, or would be locked in his quarters, or would get the lash. He gave me a smile. “You’re pretty confident in the outcome, aren’t you?”“Anything can happen.”He barked a mild laugh. “Yes…” He nodded at his assistant, and the case popped open. There were two sabres, in their scabbards, nestled into the red velvet interior. Peyd pointed at the top-most one. “This is my Army-issue sabre. I used it in the war.” At the other: “This one belonged to General Hoistings of Vidalia.” He raised an eyebrow. “Have you heard of General Hoistings?”“Of course,” I growled, my agitated bowels getting hold of my tone and steering it toward the nasty.“Why do you suppose I have it?”I sighed. “Hoistings fell at the battle of Broken River. I assume at your hand?”A self-satisfied smile spread across Peyd’s gaunt face. “That’s right! His sabre was presented to me after my discharge, by my commanding officer. It’s the one you’ll be using, Gunniver.” I noted that Peyd had dropped the formality of “Mr.” “Let’s see if history will repeat itself, shall we?” He withdrew his sword, slid it free of its scabbard, and pressed that back into the case.I suddenly felt very tired. My stomach and asshole were both clenched tight. Maybe I had Byson spike the soup with too much of that stuff, or maybe I had a few too many bowls. I grabbed Hoistings’ sabre, drew it, and tossed the scabbard randomly back into the case. Peyd frowned at me and fitted it back into its molded nook. His assistant closed and snapped the case, and then the six guys picked the table up and shuffled it back to the edge of the courtyard.I looked down at the sabre. It was definitely a fine example of a cavalry officer’s sword, all shiny and sharp, with the name “General Lucius F. Foistings, Vidalian Royal Military” engraved near the lapis-embellished handle. It felt awkward and clumsy in my hand, but then again, it didn’t need to feel right if this worked.My stomach kicked, growled and pinched. Wind was hissing out of my ass. I couldn’t tell if it was accompanied by precipitation, and I didn’t care. Peyd backed about a dozen steps away from me. “Are you familiar with the Stetory Rules of gentlemen’s duelling?”“Can’t say that I am,” I croaked.He smiled condescendingly. “Well, we’ll just say, last man standing wins…that’s a rule you can understand, I presume, Gunniver? Isn’t that the law of the frontier?” I was almost bowled over the the realization of how much I hated this man. He raised his sabre in front of his face and gave me a formal military salute. In response, I waved my weapon in his vague direction. “Are you ready, Gunniver?” I felt a lurch down below. I hiccupped, and felt my mouth flood. I nodded and waved Peyd on. The old military man’s grin reflected generations of bloodthirsty war-making. “Sorry about this, Gunniver,” he said with no sincerity, and then he came at me.