ggk.asongforarbonne-第87部分

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　　And　to　the　red…bearded　Gorhaut　coran　who　was　now　battling　for　his　life　on　the　grass　before　them。　It　seemed　he　wasn't　just　a　coran；　though。　Not　since　those　two　bright　banners　had　been　run　up　above　his　tent　and　the　herald's　voice　had　fought　to　be　heard　over　a　roar　of　sound。　She　had　known　since　Midsummer　who　Blaise　de　Garsenc　was　and　had　kept　faith　by　telling　no　one。　Now　he　had　revealed　his　identity　to　the　world；　and　had　done　something　rather　more　than　that。　The　man　she　had　upbraided　so　caustically　in　The　Liensenne　a　season　ago；　and　had　then　followed　to　the　Correze　gardens　later　that　same　night；　was　laying　claim　to　the　crown　of　Gorhaut。
　　It　was　with　a　sense　of　deep　unreality　that　Lisseut　remembered　inviting　him　to　e　back　with　her　that　night　in　Tavernel。　Unlucky　to　spend　tonight　alone　in　this　city；　she　had　told　him。　Unluckier　still　to　have　a　degree　of　presumption　as　rash　as　her　own。　Her　mother　would　likely　be　forced　to　take　to　her　bed　if　she　found　out　about　any　of　this。　Even　now；　months　after；　Lisseut　could　not　stop　herself　from　flushing　at　the　memory。
　　Looking　up　at　those　two　banners　in　the　wind；　she　wondered　what　he　must　have　thought　of　her；　of　the　wet　and　straggle…haired；　interfering；　impertinent　singer　who　had　accosted　him　twice　in　a　night　and　then　taken　his　arm　in　the　street　and　invited　him　to　bed　with　her。　He　didn't　even　like　singing；　she　remembered。　Lisseut；　among　friends　in　a　bright　pavilion；　had　winced　at　that　thought；　too。　No　one　had　noticed。　The　others　were　busy　wagering　on　the　ing　fight；　laying　odds　on　a　man's　death。
　　Then　thoughts　of　herself　and　memories　of　summer　had　gone　flying　far　away；　for　the　two　men　on　the　grass　had　drawn　their　blades；　the　straight　sword　and　the　curved　one；　and　had　advanced　upon　each　other。　Blaise　had　bent　to　throw　grass　and　mud　at　the　other　man's　shield；　something　she　hadn't　understood　until　Aurelian；　without　being　asked；　had　quickly　stooped　to　speak　an　explanation　in　her　ear。　She　had　not　turned　to　him。　She　had　been　unable　to　take　her　eyes　from　the　two　men　on　the　grass；　though　a　part　of　her　was　recoiling　in　horror　even　as　she　watched。　They　spoke　to　each　other；　but　none　of　them　could　hear　the　words。　She　saw　the　Arimondan　react　as　if　scalded　by　something　said；　and　then　spring　to　attack。　She　saw　him　parried；　once　and　then　twice；　as　her　breath　caught　in　her　throat。　Death　was　here。　This　was　not　for　show。　The　reality　of　that　came　home　to　her；　and　just　then　she　saw　the　curved　sword　planted；　unexpectedly；　in　the　earth。
　　And　it　had　been　in　the　next　moment；　precisely　then；　she　would　afterwards　remember…the　Arimondan's　flung　dagger　slicing　through　Blaise's　ear　as　he　twisted　away；　then　the　swift；　bright　flowering　of　blood…that　Lisseut　of　Vezét　realized；　with　a　cold　dawning　of　despair；　that　her　heart　was　gone　from　her。　It　had　left　without　her　knowing；　like　a　bird　in　winter；　flying　north　to　a　hopelessly　wrong　destination　where　no　haven　or　warmth　or　wele　could　even　be　imagined。
　　〃Oh；　mother；〃　she　whispered　then；　softly；　to　a　woman　far　away　among　olive　groves　above　a　coastal　town。　No　one　paid　any　attention　to　her。　Two　men　were　trying　to　kill　each　other　in　front　of　them；　and　one　of　them　had　claimed　a　crown。　This　was　matter　for　song；　whatever　happened；　it　was　matter　for　tavern　and　castle　talk　for　years　to　e。　Lisseut；　her　hands　gripping　each　other　tightly　in　her　lap；　spoke　a　prayer　then　to　sweet　Rian；　and　watched；　even　as　she　felt　the　flight　of　her　heart　from　her　breast　across　the　bright　green　grass。
　　
　　Some　things　about　fighting　Blaise　had　had　to　teach　himself；　or　learn　from　his　brother　at　those　rare　intervals　when　he　was　at　home　and　Ranald　would　consent　to　give　him　a　secret　lesson：　Blaise　was　heading　for　the　brethren；　what　use　would　skill　with　a　blade　be　for　him？　Other　elements　he　had　learned　from　the　men　who　guided　him　in　swordsmanship；　quite　a　few　years　later　than　most　young　men　in　Gorhaut；　in　the　year　after　the　king　had　already　made　him　a　coran；　more　as　a　rebuke　to　his　High　Elder　than　through　any　recognition　of　Blaise's　merits。
　　But　the　greater　part　of　his　education　had　e　in　the　field；　in　war　and　in　the　tournament　melees；　the　nearest　thing　to　warfare　that　peacetime　offered。　He　was　lucky　he　had　survived　in　those　first　months　and　years。　He　knew　that　now。　He'd　been　far　too　callow　and　untutored　to　have　had　any　right　to　expect　to　walk　away　from　battlefields　at　Thouvars　or　Graziani　or　Brissel；　or　those　early　tourneys　at　Aulensburg　or　Landeston　in　Valensa。　By　the　time　of　Iersen　Bridge；　though；　he　had　known　the　craft　of　killing　and　surviving　extremely　well。　And　it　was　there　on　that　winter　field　that　he　had　e　nearest　of　all　to　dying：　which　was；　of　course；　the　darkest　of　many　ironies　at　the　heart　of　a　soldier's　life。
　　In　any　case；　what　Blaise　proceeded　now　to　do　was　as　obvious　to　him　as　the　direction　of　sunrise　or　the　proper　flight　of　birds　in　winter。　The　Arimondan　was　badly　hurt　on　his　left　side。　The　task　then　was　to　make　him　use　his　shield　again　and　again；　to　lift　it　high　against　forehand　blows　aimed　towards　shoulder　or　head。　It　didn't　matter　if　the　blows　landed；　against　a　good　man　they　wouldn't　be　expected　to。　But　with　each　one　warded　by　a　shield　thrust　upward　in　defence；　Quzman's　wound　would　be　forced　open　more　and　his　arm　and　side　would　grow　weaker。　It　was　straightforward；　routine；　any　petent　soldier　would　know　this　to　be　so。
　　Blaise　became　aware　after　a　time　that　this　was　exactly　what　was　happening。　It　began　to　be　visible　in　the　Arimondan　's　face；　though　his　expression　of　arrogant　concentration　never　really　changed。　There　was　more　blood　now；　welling　from　the　wound　in　his　side。　Meticulously；　with　the　precision　all　field　surgeons　claimed　and　most　lacked；　Blaise　set　about　exploiting　the　injury　he　had　inflicted。
　　His　focus　was　calmly　precise；　unhurried；　patient；　so　much　so　that　he　nearly　died。
　　He　ought　to　have　been　killed；　for　he　was　badly　fooled。　What　Quzman　did　was　feint　a　throw　with　another　knife。　For　the　second　time　he　stepped　backwards　and　stabbed　his　sword　into　the　flattened　grass；　reaching　towards　his　leg　with　his　freed　hand。　Blaise；　alert　for　the　throw；　was　already　dodging；　twisting　downwards　again；　when　Quzman；　on　one　knee；　hurled　his　heavy　shield　instead　like　an　athlete's　disc　with　his　left　hand；　cracking　Blaise　so　savagely　across　the　shins　it　sent　him　sprawling；　crying　out　with　the　pain。　The　Arimondan　seized　his　sword　again　and　was　up　with　frightening　speed；　lunging　forward　with　a　downward　slash　intended　to　decapitate。
　　Blaise　rolled　desperately　backwards　and　flopped　to　one　side；　gasping　at　the　pain　in　both　legs。　The　descending　sword　bit　earth　a　blade's　width　from　his　head；　but　Quzman　was　reaching　in　earnest　now　for　his　second　knife；　at　quarters　too　close　for　swords　as　he　fell　forward　upon　Blaise。
　　He　never　reached　that　blade。
　　Years　ago；　during　one　of　the　endless　campaigns　against　Valensa；　King　Duergar　of　Gorhaut；　who　had　continued　to　take　an　interest　in　Galbert　de　Garsenc's　curiously　rebellious　younger　son；　had　called　for　Blaise　to　ride　out　alone　with　him　one　morning　in　the　king's　circuit　of　his　army's　encampment。　On　that　springtime　ride；　as　a　purely　passing　remark；　he　had　offered　a　suggestion　as　to　where　a　useful　blade　might　be　secreted　upon　one's　person；　before　pointing　out　how　cherry　trees　in　blossom　were　a　good　place　for　archers　to　hide。
　　In　real　pain；　his　sword　useless；　Blaise　rolled　again　desperately　and　released　his　grip　on　his　shield。　And　as　he　did　so　he　claimed　his　own　hidden　dagger　from　the　iron　sheath　he'd　had　made　for　it；　at　his　king'　suggestion；　on　the　inside　face　of　the　shield。　Jamming　his　right　arm　against　the　ground　at　the　end　of　his　awkward　roll　he　rang　the　shield　hard　off　Quzman's　shoulder　and　then；　pulling　his　left　hand　free　with　the　blade；　he　stabbed　the　Arimondan　twice；　once　deep　in　the　muscles　of　the　sword　arm；　and　then　a　raking　gash　across　the　ribs　already　wounded。
　　Then　he　twisted　out　from　under　his　writhing　foe　and　struggled　to　his　feet。　He　quickly　regained　his　sword。　Quzman；　twisting　in　pain；　his　sword　arm　now　useless；　his　left　side　streaming　with　fresh　blood；　lay　on　the　smeared　grass　beneath　him。　There　was　a　sound　of　people　shouting　in　the　distance；　oddly　remote。　Blaise　was　aware　that　he　was　swaying　unsteadily　o