“Shield the light,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Keep it from the windows.”
Val obeyed the odd command, pulling down the small shutter on the lamp so only a narrow beam of light escaped. He hurried to the closet and searched out the medicines chest. Injuries were an occupational hazard in a fencing salon, so dal Ruisseau Noir kept a selection of the handiest supplies available, from bandages of various shapes and sizes to numbing ointments. There was even needle and gut to stitch deeper wounds shut.
He pulled the chest out, balanced the lamp on top, and carried the lot to where dal Ruisseau Noir leaned against the wall. The light flashed across him for a second, long enough for Val to notice that the Maestro was wearing different clothes than those he had gone out in.
“What’s happened?” Val said, as dal Ruisseau Noir bent down stiffly and opened the chest. “Were you attacked?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He took a swath of bandage out, then rummaged through the jars of ointment. “Shine that light over here a moment.”
Val did as he was asked.
“Ah, here we are.” He took out the jar and made to open it, but could not grip the lid tightly. He seemed weak on one side. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” he said, holding out the jar.
Taking it, Val opened the jar with ease, then offered it to his employer. Dal Ruisseau Noir tore open the left side of his tunic before scooping a daub of ointment from the jar. Val strained to see what lay beneath the torn-open tunic but glimpsed only the glisten of blood in the meagre lamplight. His eyes widened; was dal Ruisseau Noir moonlighting on the Black Carpet?
The Black Carpet was the name given to illegal duelling, where the combat was carried out on a black mat, or black-painted floor. Regular competitive duels were fought with blunted blades, and scored by “touches.” On the Black Carpet, sharp blades were used, and duels were scored by blood-letting cuts. They often ended with the death of one of the duellists. The black floor was intended to hide the stains of spilled blood.
Val wondered what might have drawn dal Ruisseau Noir to the Black Carpet. For some men, it signalled that they’d hit rock bottom. Fortunes were gambled on the Black Carpet, and it was an easy way to make serious money if you were good enough, or lucky enough. But there was another reason to duel on the Black Carpet: for the excitement of it. For some, sport duelling could never match the thrill of the real thing. It was said to be addictive, but Val wasn’t sure that would ever make sense to him. He’d seen men die and be badly injured, and there was nothing about the experience he would choose to repeat without very good reason. A bit of excitement wasn’t nearly enough.
Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Val asked, “What actually happened?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Val shrugged, but realised dal Ruisseau Noir probably couldn’t see the gesture. “I think so.”
“A man cut me. It happens from time to time. Comes with the job.”
Val frowned, then uttered the dirty words. “The Black Carpet?”
Dal Ruisseau Noir let out a laugh, then gasped in pain. “No, not the Black Carpet. Nothing like that. I’ll tell you someday, I promise, but now’s not the best time.”
He turned his attention back to dabbing ointment on the wound. There was a hammering on the salon’s door and dal Ruisseau Noir hissed a curse.
“Shall I answer that?” Val said.
Dal Ruisseau Noir shook his head, then reached over and doused the lamp. There was more pounding on the door, then a shout.
“It’s the Watch. We’ve seen the light. We know someone’s in there. Open up.”
Dal Ruisseau Noir swore again. He grabbed Val by the shoulder. “Answer it,” he whispered. “Pretend you were asleep. You’re here alone. There’s been no one else here since the end of classes yesterday. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good lad. Tell them you’re coming, then count to thirty.”
“Just a moment!” Val said, then started his count in a whisper.
Dal Ruisseau Noir stole away into the darkness, moving with such remarkable silence that after he had gone a few paces, it was as though he was no longer there.
Val finished his count and made a theatrical amount of noise as he went to the door so that dal Ruisseau Noir knew he was moving. He unlocked the door and cracked it open.
“Who’s there?” he said.
“City Watch, and we’d ask you the same thing?”
Two men in the jerkins and steel helmets of the City Watch stood in the doorway, holding a large watchman’s lamp that filled the little alcove of the door with harsh yellow light.
“I’m the caretaker,” Val said.
“Has anyone come in here?”
“People come in here all the time,” Val said. “It’s a fencing salon.”
“Don’t get smart with me, lad, or I’ll tan the hide on your arse. Has anyone come in here in the last few minutes?”
“No, of course not,” Val said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I was asleep, but the door was locked, and all the windows are bolted shut.”
The watchman held up his lantern, allowing the light to flood into the salon. Val’s heart leapt into his throat as he looked over his shoulder to see what the illumination had revealed. But for the medicine chest and Val’s small lamp, the salon was empty. Dal Ruisseau Noir was nowhere to be seen.
“See,” Val said. “I’m here on my own.”
The watchman surveyed the room a moment longer, then nodded his head. “Make sure the door is locked after we leave. The streets aren’t safe at the moment.”
“Thanks,” Val said.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” the watchman said grudgingly.
Val shut the door, locked it, then returned to his lamp and turned it up enough to see the whole salon. There was indeed no trace of dal Ruisseau Noir—not even a drop of blood. He wasn’t so gullible as to call out for dal Ruisseau Noir, and from the stealthy way he had disappeared into the night, Val reckoned his tutor was well versed in how long he needed to delay before it was safe to reveal himself again.
When dal Ruisseau Noir walked into the salon the next morning, it was as though the events of the previous night had not happened. Val waited awhile for him to bring it up, but when it was clear he intended to let the matter lie, Val approached him at the end of one of their hour-long sessions.
“Is now a good time to tell me what happened last night?” Val said. He knew he was pushing the boundaries of their short-lived association, but he had lied to the City Watch for this man, so felt that dal Ruisseau Noir owed him an answer.
“I’d prefer not to,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, “but I suppose you’re involved now. I’m sure you’ve heard about the king taking ill, and the Prince Bishop’s announcement a bit before that?”
Val nodded his head. It was a strange thing—everyone knew about it, but no one seemed to want to talk about it.
“Well, there are those who think it all a little convenient that the Prince Bishop announces something so profound as the use of magic, and then the king—a fit and healthy young man—falls ill, leaving the Prince Bishop to take over control of the state as regent. I happen to be one of those people.”
“That doesn’t explain why you stumbled in here in the middle of the night with a wound.”
“No. No, I suppose it doesn’t, does it.” Dal Ruisseau Noir scratched his clean-shaven chin. “I reckon if you were working for him, you’d already have enough on me by now to put me on the headsman’s block.”
“Working for who?”