Pattern

'Thanks,' Eyvind replied, 'but I'd rather not. I don't think folks would take kindly to stuff like that.' He was frowning slightly, like a religious man who thinks he's just heard a blasphemy but can't quite work out what it was. 'I wouldn't go around pulling any more stunts like that if I were you, either. People can be very funny about things like that.'

Poldarn shrugged. 'Well, all right,' he said. 'Actually, I can't say the game appeals to me very much. Anything where you're likely to get hit isn't really my idea of a good time.'

That didn't seem to carry much weight with Eyvind, who looked away and changed the subject.

'The last event shouldn't be a problem,' he said. 'There isn't really much scope for hurting anybody in the home game, unless you happen to let go of the stick. Make sure you dry your hands before you start. In fact, rubbing a bit of sawdust on your palms might be an idea.'

'I meant to ask you about that,' Poldarn interrupted. 'This home game. What is it, exactly?'

Maybe Eyvind sighed a little, or maybe it was just Poldarn's imagination. 'Oh, it's quite simple. You and the other man stand facing each other, and you're both wearing a sash-any bit of old cloth, really-with a wooden sword stuck through it. It's supposed to be a proper carved job, but we generally just use a bit of old roofing lath, something like that. Anyhow, the game is to see who can draw the fastest; there's a referee watching in case it's not immediately obvious, but usually you can tell. It's called the home game because it used to be really popular back in the old country, apparently, before we left the Empire and came here. Sound familiar?'

Poldarn didn't reply straight away. 'No,' he said, 'but it sounds to me a bit like the swordmonks.'

'Same sort of thing,' Eyvind said. 'That's probably where it came from originally. Anyway, it ought to be perfectly harmless. Just don't go mad, you don't have to win this one. And make sure the stick doesn't slip, like I told you. All right?'

Poldarn nodded. 'I should be able to manage that.'

For the first time since the games began, Eyvind smiled at him. 'Be particularly careful,' he said, 'when it's you against me. I can't speak for the others, of course, but if you let go the stick and it smacks me in the face, I'll break both your arms.'

'Well, of course,' Poldarn said. 'Look, are you sure you're all right to take part, with your hands all burnt like that?'

Eyvind laughed. 'Listen,' he said, 'I may not be good at much, but there's nobody in these parts who can touch me at the home game, even if I've got both hands tied behind my back. Not that I'm trying to put you off or anything,' he added innocently, 'just thought you ought to know that, is all.'

'We'll see about that,' Poldarn replied, grinning. 'You know, I won't be sorry when all this is over. I feel like I've just had a barn fall on me.'

'Really?' Eyvind said. 'Is that because of the fighting and stuff, or did you have a rough night?'

Poldarn sighed. 'If only,' he said. 'There, I think that means they're ready. Do I need to get something to use as a sash?'

He needn't have worried about that; Rannwey had one ready for him, a real sash rather than a strip of old sacking, with two silk tassels and a cord strap for a scabbard. Not made locally, that's for sure, he thought as he tied it on, I wonder how old it is? He was also given a proper wooden sword, remarkably similar in weight and feel to the steel version he'd been issued with during his time with Falx Roisin. It felt uncomfortably natural riding at his waist; he felt exposed by it, as if it was a dirty mark on a white shirt.

As Poldarn settled himself for the first bout, he thought about what Eyvind had said. No need to win this event in the interests of self-preservation; and it'd probably be smart to lose anyhow, so as not to leave the spectators with an impression of him as ferociously competitive. Anything like that, he felt sure, was probably frowned on in this community, and he'd done enough damage already on that score. Accordingly, he resolved to make a conscious effort to lose, assuming he wasn't hopelessly outclassed anyway.

Colsceg was the referee. Poldarn was expecting him to say something or give a signal for the start, but apparently that wasn't how the game worked, because his opponent drew quite unexpectedly, while Colsceg was busy talking to someone on the edge of the group. Even so, he'd have had trouble at all beating the draw, if he hadn't made a conscious effort not to. It felt quite extraordinary to miss the beat like that, and his hand shook so much he was sure that the spectators must have seen.

(Besides, he told himself, even if they hadn't been watching his hands, they'd surely noticed him shake all over, as his instincts tried their very best to override the conscious decision he'd made, like a dog pulling hard against its chain as a cat or a rabbit goes by. But, if they saw, nobody hissed or threw anything, so he could at least assure himself, without being rudely contradicted, that he'd managed to get away with it. Just as well they couldn't read his mind, though; otherwise he'd be wasting his time trying to deceive them.)

Poldarn managed to lose seven bouts. Once he'd got the hang of it, he found it relatively simple, mainly because his opponents were so slow and obvious about it that they didn't register in his mind as a threat. He was relieved to see that the eighth competitor was Eyvind, with his bandaged hands. Losing convincingly to someone who had to have his sash tied for him would be something of a challenge, but he reckoned he could handle it; after all, it looked as though he'd have plenty of time.

'Remember,' Eyvind hissed at him as they walked into the middle together, 'don't go raving mad. You're doing all right.'

'Thanks,' Poldarn replied. 'At least it's nearly over.'

Eyvind too had a proper sash, presumably his own-interesting, that he'd brought it with him from home, along with a finely carved oak dummy sword; presumably he practised every day, to keep his hand in, even when he was away from home. 'Leave it to me,' Eyvind added, as they reached the centre of the ring. 'You won't have to fake it, just follow me. All right?'

Poldarn nodded, and took a step back. Eyvind took a moment to settle himself: three deep breaths while he adjusted the position of the sword in the sash, blade uppermost, handle diagonally across his body. No scabbard, of course, for a wooden foil, so he hooked his left thumb in the cloth and gently gripped the sword through it, simulating the scabbard's grip on the blade. Poldarn found it rather fascinating to watch; there was always something rather fine about a skilled practitioner of any art going about his business, and Eyvind's calm, solemn preparations were the antithesis of Poldarn's own experiences in sword-drawing-everything so deliberate, so carefully controlled. He made a mental note to ask Eyvind to run through his routine some time when his hands were better. As he watched, he almost believed he could see a circle in the air around his friend, fitting neatly into the circle of the fenced-off ring and the surrounding crowd of spectators, like ripples in a pool after a stone had been thrown in. Each circle, it seemed to him, bore on the circle next to it, so that disturbing one would disturb them all, as the ripples spread out. Where the circles ended, of course, he had no idea.

Then Eyvind drew. He was quick; extraordinarily so, there was almost nothing to see, only a palpable physical shock as his own circle was broken into (-And he was suddenly in a different place, though still inside the concentric rings; he was standing on the white sand of an arena ringed by raked stone benches, on which sat hundreds of men in the black robes of the sword-monks, all watching him and someone else, although which of them was which he couldn't quite make out. It was as if the rings spread out between them, as if he was looking through the ripples at his own reflection in the water just as it broke up, ruined by the sudden violence of the draw. He knew-he remembered-that the other man's name was Monach, that they were best friends, and that the swords in their hands were the finest grade watered steel, and sharp-)