(First appeared in MYRIAD:Duel, Hexagon Press, Dec 2023)
Plucked notes rose above the cacophony of the arena. Tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder, people sat on the raised benches that ringed a sandy pit. Twin islands of space lay within this mass, opposing each other across the pit and throng, where Telyn the harpist eyed her rival: Wil, and his lute.
Their tuning notes bounced and danced as they drifted over the stands, dissonance fading as instruments attuned to true sound and the heartbeat of the crowd. Below, two fighters emerged and began to stretch, to swing their swords, and strap on their shields. Their instruments of war and blood required just as much ritual tuning.
Winding among the bleating crowds were bet masters and their scribes, taking wagers, coin, and promises. Telyn handed over an eye-watering amount of silver, more than three months’ food and board; and she saw Wil bet his whole purse. The sly smile on his face beamed out his confidence in the odds. Their champions stood below, nervous energy manifesting in the swings and jabs of their blades.
Barnir, the magistrate, a bearded man in flowing red robes slowly climbed into a small overlooking balcony on doddering legs. When he finally stood tall, he was centered between the two players, looming above the fighters. Unrolling a long browned scroll, the noise of the crowd turned silent, and all, including Telyn, strained to hear the charges from the faint yet iron-shod voice of Barnir. Some in the crowd repeated the words, so all knew the stakes.
“Elan, of the Street of Five Apples, patissier, honorable veteran of the Eastern Legion, you are charged with breaking the contract you made with the Baker’s Guild and taking more than your agreed share of coin. As is your right, you have declared trial by arms for Masnacur—they who hold all agreements in the bosom of their divine being—to set your share as true. Targ, of the Golden Avenue, thrice champion of the arena, proxy of the Baker’s Guild, will defend the original position with blade and blood. If so agreed, raise your blades.”
Both stood and raised their blades. Elan, a lithe man, iron-hard thews bulging in the sunlight. Targ, a giant, with a back broad enough for three Elans to lie upon it.
“You may begin, may Masnacur favor this dispute.”
Elan and Targ moved, slowly orbiting the center of the pit, eyes wide and drinking in every movement, twitch, and signal. Telyn’s harp sang in lock step with Elan, sharp double beats of the hunter, filling in the gaps of the lumbering scales of the lute. Targ, the arena favorite, raised his sword high, lute song inviting: for an opening, for a quick kill.
Instead, the Elan song kept to its own beat. Weary, circling, forcing the lute to respond to its refrain, forcing Targ to turn, to move his footing.
A flourish of sharp notes and steel, Targ’s shield caught Elan’s thrust, and returned with a slash that would have crumpled anyone in its path. Deft timing avoided the loud flat chords; and the song, the dance, continued.
Thrice more they met, each clash of steel a discordant wail as briefly the players lost their resonance. The music swam through the arena, its watchers silent and enraptured by the dance and the song. Bar by violent bar, the music ceased following the movements, attacks, and parries; instead, it began to lead them.
Telyn smiled, for this was what she had hoped, and she knew that Targ, half entertainer, would accept this as the way of things much faster than Elan, whose skills were hardened on the cold ruthless fires of the battlefield, rather than the lukewarm—often rigged—flames of the arena.
She made her move. A rising rhythm, sharp cutting chords, a sequence of attack. Elan followed for half the bar, long enough for Targ to already be swinging his shield towards a blow that never came. Quickly, she held the thrumming strings of her harp, silencing them, draping the space with the confused melody of the lute, dangling alone without accompaniment.
Elan sprang behind Targ, sword slashing through calf, before thrusting through the back of his neck. The confusion never left Targ’s face, even as the color drained away, as he sank to the ground to a softly played dirge, which Wil strummed for his champion and his lost wager.
Elan looked towards Telyn, and bowed like a stage actor, before turning and leaving: free and legal in the eyes of the Gods and the city. Shocked silence hung over the crowd, all listening to the dirge of the fallen. Telyn began to pack up her harp and sought the eyes of her bet master.
As the setting sun kissed the skyline of the city, its final rays bathed Telyn and Wil within her bed. Curled in each other’s arms, Wil asked why she helped the baker, why she so openly risked their racket.
“Wil, my heart, Elan is the only one in this damnable city who can make a decent cinnamon chocolate swirl of Pethmelys! It was merely my patriotic duty.”
She ignored his skeptical look, unraveling from his embrace. Wil picked up his lute and strummed a simple song of home and hearth.
She reached over to a ribbon adorned basket filled with lightly dusted pastries, savored a bite, uncaring as the crumbs scattered upon the sheets, and let the taste transport her. To her mothers’ table, to the babble of cousins, the rising sun catching the river which wound through her homeland. For she knew that sight was the weakest sense, that flavor and music could pluck the true notes of the soul.