07.25.09
Sacrifice
This one’s from… oh, a while back. File metadata says it’s 01/11/2008 but that can’t be right. It’s years older than that. It was my first sword fight.
The weather was not cooperating.
Not that that was all that surprising. It was, after all, late summer, and no one but the scavengers seem to enjoy the City’s weather during the summer. Nearly everyone who can afford to leaves for cooler — or at least less densely populated — areas. The smell rising from the sewers is unbelievable. Flow through them depends on the river, which often drops to too low a level to keep things moving, so they just stagnate. The worst of it isn’t the shit, it’s the cooking fat that congeals into huge festering masses which provide that extra frisson which makes the summer air such a delight to breathe. Life in the City’s demi-monde provides many opportunities for education.
Some people, however, find that what the City has to offer in compensation is well worth the inconvenience. And then there’s the rest of us, who simply can’t afford to leave or have no place to go.
Like the children who have gathered to watch us play this morning. I don’t think the oldest can be any more than six, and they make me feel tired. My eyes didn’t look like theirs until I was twenty, and I counted my life fairly rough. Gods know what they’ve got to wager, but there seems to be a brisk trade in betting on the outcome of our little adventure. I am, unsurprisingly, not favored to win.
It had rained, just a little, the night before, and though it was barely after dawn the day was already stifling and sticky. The field was baked hard and slick with dead and dying grass only partly revived by the shower. Already the sweat rolled down my neck, between my breasts, into my eyes.
Yves, that thrice-damned bastard, does not seem at all affected by the heat. As always, he is urbane and elegant. He’s laughing, chatting with his seconds. They might be going to a tavern for iced wine, and not about to fight a very illegal duel in a vacant lot in one of the City’s poorest neighborhoods. Possibly his color keeps him cool: white-blond hair, pale blue eyes, skin that might have never seen the sun.
As if in deliberate contrast, I am short, softer and rounder than I’d prefer, and brown, brown, brown. Mamí always insisted that we were of pure Valencian stock, with not a drop of Moorish blood in our veins, but having met some few (Moors, not pure Valencians. I don’t believe such a fabulous creature exists.) I can no longer believe it. Where Yves’s silk blouse moves gently as he does, mine sticks to my skin, peeling away reluctantly as I tug at it. It’s unlikely that the way my nipples poke at the thin fabric will distract him at all; when I arrived, he took a glance, smirked, and went back to chatting with the Marshal of the Field. Discussing horses, from what little I could hear. His friends, though, find them highly entertaining. Glaring at them would only amuse them further, so I limit myself to sighing and lifting my eyes skyward.
Michel, my only second and truest friend in the City, lays a huge gentle hand on my shoulder and rumbles, “Couráge, cherie. You’re not so overmatched as all that. He’ll be overconfident, it will make him careless.” The first is true: I’m not unskilled with a blade. I’ve killed men before, but not like this, not so cold and deliberate. Also, I’m stronger than I look. Still, Yves has the advantage. With his height and longer weapon, he has the reach on me, and he has more experience on this field of so-called honor. He’s been careless exactly one time that I know of, and this is not that time.
I cannot reject my friend’s offer of comfort, so I pat his hand on my shoulder and say nothing.
One of Yves’s loutish seconds chooses this moment to call out, “So where’s your pervert lover, girl? Afraid of a little blood? She doesn’t want to watch her whore die?” I try to tell myself that he’s not worth reacting to, but I stiffen and flush at his taunt anyway. Why does Yves keep their company? Is it to look better by comparison? If so, it implies a deeper insecurity than I thought him capable of.
“She wishes only to avoid the heat and the sun, my lord,” I tell him, matching his mocking tone. “She’ll be here in time to see me kill him.” Yves’s second — Georges, I think — laughs and elbows his companion. The oaf. He wouldn’t dare face me in fair combat, I’d have his sack for a coin purse. An ugly small coin purse I’d have stolen at the first opportunity but still. It’s the principle of the thing.
A cold anger begins to spread just below my heart. Finally, I think. I’ll need that. It helps me stand a little taller. Apparently some of it does show in my eyes, because Georges stops laughing and gives me an odd look. Then my Lady does come, announced by the sound of hooves and carriage wheels. I hurry to greet her, bowing my head. “My Lady,” I whisper; it is all I can say. The anger is gone for now, replaced by the hollow feeling I get when I see her, hear her, smell her. It’s as though I were a vessel for her to fill.
My Lady lifts my chin with a finger, sending a shiver through me. She looks into my wide-open eyes as her lips brush over mine. “Don’t disappoint me,” she murmurs. I try to say ‘no,’ but no sound escapes my throat. She understands, though, and smiles. As always, the sight thrills me and I shiver again, twitching like a horse before the race.
So. It’s time, now. I return to the field (the vacant lot, mocks a voice in my mind) and give my sword to Michel, who presents it to the Marshal. Yves has done likewise, giving his sword to Georges. The Marshal glances at the swords, giving them the most cursory of inspections, and returns them to our seconds. He has an amazingly deep voice, which he uses to bellow, “My lord, my lady!” (He gives me the title as a courtesy; I don’t qualify for it.) “Please take your positions.” We comply.
“The terms are these: single combat, with swords only, until one or the other combatant yields, is incapacitated, or is killed. If either flees the field, she or he will be killed, having forfeited match, honor, and life.” Delightful. At least there’s no nonsense about resolving our dispute peaceably. These are serious people.
“Are you ready, my lady?” he asks me. I incline my head in assent. “My lord?” he asks, turning to Yves.
Feigning a yawn, he drawls, “Oh, I suppose.” How droll.
The Marshal lifts an eyebrow a fraction of an inch and steps back. “Draw. Salute.” We do. Mine is as crisp and polite as I can make it. Yves waves his sword vaguely. He may as well be dismissing a servant. He really isn’t this much of a fop; he’s just doing it to annoy me. And it’s working, damn his bartered soul.
“En garde. Commence.” The Marshal snaps the words out and steps back to lean against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. He watches with an utter lack of interest, wanting only for us to get it over with so he can leave to hide from the heat of the day.
Suddenly Yves’s fop act is gone, and he’s dropped into exactly the proper stance, feet arranged just so, arm protected behind his blade and the tangle of metal that forms the hilts and guard. His attention is now focused solely on me. But that’s all right; I’ve done the same thing barring half a thought spared for my watching Lady. He lets me move first, apparently wanting to draw it out. I oblige, probing his defenses with thrusts, blade-feints, body-feints. A half-smile flickers across his face, and he takes the offensive, pushing me back.
Around us, the children are howling abuse and encouragement, the former mostly at me. “Slice her tits off! Shove that sword up her cunt, fuck her with it!” Where did they learn such language? Where are their parents? Not relevant. I try to block them out, but one girl screams, “Cut his dick off! If you can find it!” I like her; the corners of my mouth twitch.
Step, shuffle, half-step. We dance with no rhythm, the sound of steel on steel providing a melody for us to follow. He’s good, very good, and I’m too slow. Again: My sloth is why we’re here entertaining the local children this morning. A line burns across my cheek; if I survive, I’ll have a nasty scar there. Another fire starts, on my off-arm, and my blouse darkens, sticking to me with more than sweat now.
I back off a few steps, trying to gain time to breathe and think, but Yves follows, pressing me. He’s better than I am.
He’s going to kill me. Fuck.
So, I think. Use that. Give him what he wants and take what I want. There’s even a chance I’ll survive if I do this right. It’ll hurt, certainly, but pain is no stranger. When my Lady had the chain soldered around my throat, the hot metal burned me, leaving a bright scar the size of a silver centime. Thinking of it makes me shiver again. Yves takes it for weakness, not pleasure. Let him. He presses me harder, his blade flashing against mine. I let my breath come heavier than I need and shake drops of blood from my fingertips, wincing. A hungry light burns behind his eyes. I know that look; he wants to hurt me badly. Careful, I tell myself. I press into his attack, making my actions just a hair too large, parrying with a fraction more strength than I need. Not too much, I mustn’t give away the game.
I’m about six feet from the edge of the ‘field.’ Yves is trying to herd me out of it, to avoid giving me the honor of dying in combat. If I step over that line, I’ll be shot down like an animal. The Marshal watches us, bored, his long pistol dangling lazily from his hand.
For a miracle the children are quiet now, but that might be just me. I can’t hear anything but the ring of our swords, the shuffling of our feet, and the rasp of my breath. The world goes away, leaving the two of us to our play.
Hah! I’ve made him sweat, at least. Droplets have beaded on his forehead; one trickles down towards the corner of his eye. When it reaches them, he blinks it away, annoyed. I step in, slicing at his shoulder.
Of course, he was expecting my attack then and he’s ready for it, knocking my blade away with too much force. I let it turn me, opening my body to him. He’s got a perfect shot at my heart. His eyes go cold and hard as he decides to take it. I can’t help but swallow, terrified. It seems a year could pass between one heartbeat and the next. How long can it really take for him to skewer me? I’ve been waiting forever.
He’s committed to it now and I lunge forward, twisting to take the point of his sword just above my left breast. If the slashes he gave me before were fire, this is ice, pure cold driving through my chest and into the air on the other side, draining all the warmth in me. The scrape of steel over bone is the most excruciating thing I have ever felt. My scream turns into a cough of pink mist; he must have hit my lung.
I can see the burning in his eyes. He thinks it’s over, that he’s killed me or will with his next thrust, and he turns his wrist to twist the blade before drawing it out.
But I’m committed too. My muscles know what to do here. My sword flashes in an arc towards his neck. Yves sees it too late, he tries to duck, to block it with his hand, but it’s no use. The blade shears through his fingers and into the side of his neck, half-severing his spine before it stops, trapped in the bone.
The light behind his eyes vanishes between one instant and the next and the world crashes in on me again. I can hear the girl who’d bet on me shrieking her triumph. Did it get cloudy, all of a sudden? It’s so dark. And all the colors have washed out of everything. How on earth did I end up on my knees? I hear men, shouting, but I’ve forgotten the language. It must have gotten cloudy. I hear thunder.
I’m so tired. It’s been a very long day. I think I’ll rest my eyes for just a moment.
Someone’s calling me. Morning already? With an effort I open my eyes again. Sky. On my back, but where? Memory flickers; I’m still on the field. In the vacant lot, bleeding into the dirt. There’s a shadow to one side, and I let my head roll towards it. My Lady is kneeling next to me, soiling her dress with more than just dirt. My blood has stained her clothes before but she’s usually the one who’s shed it. I try to sit up, but she holds me down with a hand smoothed over my forehead. “Shh, love. Rest now. You’ve earned it,” she tells me, and I obey.
“How~?” I croak. My mouth is filled with mud mixed from my blood and the dust of the field. “Not~”
“Oh, you did marvelously, my sweet. No, I’m not disappointed in you. Not at all.” A larger shadow looms into the edges of my sight, and my Lady speaks in her command voice. “Help us, Michel, carry her to my rig.” He takes hold of Yves’s sword and I scream again, white lights exploding in my head.
“Stop!” My Lady’s voice rings out and everyone stops. Except me, I’m still bleeding. The screams have faded to whimpers, and I can’t make them stop. “Don’t take that out. If you do that here, you’ll kill her. Unless you know what to do for a sucking chest wound?” Michel mumbles something apologetic, but too soft for me to make the words out.
Somewhere, about three hundred miles away at the edge of the lot, there’s a high-pitched argument. This amuses my Lady, and she says, “Oh, and Marshal? Do make sure that girl gets what’s coming to her. There seems to be some disagreement as to who’s won here.” I can hear the grin in his voice as he assures her that he’ll see to it.
Michel lifts me easily, cradling me in arms thicker than my legs. He’s crying; I can hear him sniffling, feel the jerking in his chest. He’s crying over me? How very odd. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but it’s too much effort. He lays me on the seat in my Lady’s rig and makes ugly wet noises. I can see him, barely; he’s staring at my blood on his hands and clothes. He’s probably never had to fight anyone in his life, being so huge. So he’s not used to this at all, and he isn’t looking very well.
“Please do join us at the house, Michel,” my Lady offers. “I’d take you with us, but there isn’t room just now.”
After a pause, she continues, more gently. “She’ll live if anyone can. She’s tougher than you think.” The carriage rocks gently as she steps up into it. There’s only the one seat, which I’m currently filling up, so she kneels on the floor next to me. Kneeling? wails a small voice in my mind. Oh, no, that can’t be right. Her fingers brush my forehead again, and she kisses me deeply, tasting my blood — and not for the first time.
“Live, my love,” she breathes as the world fades away. “Live and get well. I’m not done with you yet.”