Justarius suddenly broke off speaking, pointing toward the arena. "Look, the jest is starting up again." Guerrand could hear bets being placed between the spectators around him.
Having settled the contestants upon the prancing birds, the attendants jumped back and cried, "Let the tournament begin!"
The two hapless men dug their heels into their birds' ribs, trying desperately to get them to move forward- or in any direction at all. The slight boy's austritch finally began to half hop, half walk in a circle, causing his section to cheer wildly. He nudged the bird in the ribs more confidently and tugged on the blue banner about its long neck. Reluctantly the bird stumbled forward in the sand.
For his part, the older man was having considerably more trouble getting his overburdened austritch to move. Its skinny legs bowed, and it stumbled and staggered around, sinking in the sandy field. The green knight's crowd went wild with laughter, but he was not amused. Ignoring the catcalls and boos from the crowd, the man in green waited for his lighter opponent to come to him.
Seeing his adversary give up the struggle, egged on by the crowd's support, the youth flushed with confidence and exhilaration. The blue knight nudged his bird to within a length of his opponent's bird, confident that his foe was helpless.
He didn't even see the long broom that swept out with all the power of the fat man's weight… until it connected with the left side of the bucket on his head. The stunned young man was easily knocked from his austritch like a bird from a clothesline. He stumbled to his feet, spitting out mouthfuls of sand as the audience roared. Scowling, the contestant who'd once smelled victory ripped the bucket from his head and stomped into the fickle crowd.
The fat man slid from his austritch and was beginning to strut when the master of the jest leaped forward to thrust his arm skyward, announcing him the winner.
The crowd seemed unsure whether the entertainment was over or not and was beginning to thin. Guerrand, only mildly amused by the antics of the Knights' lest, had already turned his back on the field. The apprentice was looking around for interesting fair food, when he heard the master of the jest behind him. "Here we have an interesting contestant, the great mage Belize!"
Surprised, Guerrand spun around to look to the far side of the arena. Belize's shiny pate and elegant red robe were now visible in the wake of the thinning crowd. To Guerrand's surprise, he could see that the mage was regarding him as well. He'd not seen Lyim's master since his arrival in Palanthas, not since the interview in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. No, he's not looking at me, realized Guerrand. He seems to be looking through me, as if I weren't here. The young apprentice shivered, despite the heat of the day.
"Come now, Belize," the unwitting barker called to Belize over the noise of the crowd. "Have you no sense of Huma? Get it? Huma… humor?"
Belize abruptly looked away from Guerrand. His coal-black eyes locked, in a piercing, bone-chilling stare, on to the barker who'd called his name.
"That fellow is lucky Belize didn't change him into a snake… or worse," chuckled Justarius under his breath to Guerrand.
"Yes, uh, well," said the barker, anxiously casting his glance about for another familiar, if less intimidating, face in the crowd. He didn't have to look far.
"I'll fight in the name of Belize, the greatest mage to ever have lived."
Guerrand knew the voice without seeing the face: Lyim.
The flamboyant apprentice wore his favorite purple padded-and-slashed doublet, puffed-out breeches, striped hose, and enormous feathered cap. He strode forward across the sand, bowing to the quickly returning crowd. Standing to their cheers, he settled his dark hair, with its thick overbraid, upon his shoulders. Lyim's handsome face was alight with pleasure at being the center of attention. He called to many of the spectators by name, inquiring as to their health. There were more than a few swooning maidens in the crowd. Guerrand found himself chuckling at Lyim's antics, then cheering him on.
"Have we no one courageous enough to challenge this would-be knight?" bellowed the barker through cupped hands. But no one stepped forward to confront the strutting youth.
"I see one who would meet the challenge!" cried Lyim. His laughing eyes locked on to Guerrand. "The apprentice of the great Justarius!"
Speechless, Guerrand merely shook his head, his lips opening and closing in silent denial. Before he knew what was happening, hands from all around pushed him forward, through the first line of spectators and onto the sandy field.
"I-I don't wish to play," he heard himself mumble ineffectually as he turned, preparing to scramble back into the crowd. The spectators would have none of it and blocked his passage. Peering over their heads, Guerrand looked helplessly toward Justarius. That venerable mage simply lifted his red-cloaked shoulders in a shrug that seemed to say, "Make the best of it, lad-it's only sport."
Just minutes ago, Guerrand had felt like a nameless face in the crowd. Now, the world seemed to be closing in on him. The noise inside his head was thunderous. He desperately searched his mind for a way to escape the attention. Unlike Lyim, he hated being at the center of things. His reluctance had nothing to do with fear of losing, but everything to do with looking ridiculous before a cast of thousands.
"It would appear that the apprentice of the house of Justarius fears the house of Belize!" taunted Lyim, drawing both cheers and boos from the crowd.
The hot sun slashed through the cloud cover and rained down upon a section of the crowd, drawing Guerrand's eyes. They widened, and his heart skipped two beats.
Esme. Her flawless face seemed to hold both pity and disgust. He knew in that instant he would chance looking ridiculous to escape appearing cowardly before Esme. Gritting his teeth, Guerrand tore his gaze away from her loveliness and stomped toward Lyim.
The second he hit the sand he stumbled, tripping over the hem of his robe. A barker snatched his arm, spun him around, and slammed the bucket on his head. Don't think about how asinine you look, Guerrand told himself. Just visualize yourself somewhere else, a peaceful, private place. In a flash-in his mind's eye-he was alone in the silent rare-books section of the nearby library, poring over the brittle pages of some old spellbook. The crowd noise was gone. His heartbeat slowed. He could very nearly pretend this public humiliation wasn't happening.
Then the friend who'd engineered it spoke. "Come on, Guerrand," said Lyim, adjusting his own bucket. "It's all in good fun." Guerrand glared at him with a single eye. "One of us is having a lot more fun than the other," he muttered, then sighed in resignation. "All right, Lyim. I don't have much choice but to go along with this little attention-getting stunt of yours. Let's just not carry it on too long. We'll whack each other a couple of times, then both fall off. With any luck we'll be drinking a pint at your favorite pub before the barkers can gather another two contestants."
Allowing himself to be helped onto the austritch wearing the green banner, Lyim laughed aloud. "I'll be drinking a pint, all right, but with Esme, while you're still picking broom straws out of your teeth, hayseed!"