Kingfisher(41)

The announcer grunted with amusement. “Not familiar with that one. Do you have your weapon with you?”

“Yes,” Pierce sighed.

“A field squire will escort you to the Field of Knives. Wait there for your challengers. Let’s hear it for Sir No Name, who will introduce us to the art of knife-fighting Deli Style.” He held up the mike to catch the raucous reaction. Pierce closed his eyes, wishing he had taken his chances with the tree.

He followed his escort to a square patch of grass with mysterious colored lines painted on it. He unpacked his knife and stood bleakly in the center where the lines converged, waiting. Around him, in other painted squares, men and women fought with unbelievable dexterity and grace, with and without weapons, their patterns of movement as varied as dance and likely as old. Surely, he thought, none of those skilled in such subtle and deadly moves would be interested in the knife-weavings of Slicing the Onion or Cubing the Tenderloin.

He was wrong.

A tall, lithe knight with long red hair in a knot on his head walked up the front of his opponent, did a backflip off his chin, and knocked the feet from under him on the way back up. The explosion from the nearby crowd obscured the announcement of the knight’s victory. He held out his hand, helped his dazed opponent up, then he bounded into Pierce’s square and bowed gravely. Pierce, stunned, could only stare at him and hope one of them would disappear.

“Since you have no name to give,” the young man said briskly, “I won’t bother you with mine. Anyway, I expect to lose to you since I’ve never heard of Deli Style fighting. Can you show me a few basic moves before we start?”

Pierce found his voice finally. “You just walked up that knight.”

“Yes, but that was a totally different style.”

“You don’t even have a knife.”

“I’ll get one,” the nameless knight said patiently. “If you could give me an example of the style, I’ll know which knife to choose.” He waited, while Pierce’s mind went blank at the idea. “Please? Just one simple move?”

Pierce stirred finally, an underwater slowness in his bones. Feeling ridiculous, he tossed an invisible fruit in the air with one hand; with the other he sent the knife flashing after it, describing a little circle in the air, before he caught the falling fruit. “Coring the Apple,” he said, and tossed it again, cutting the air with five vertical, precisely parallel turns of the blade. “Wedging the Apple.” He caught the wedges, which usually fell on the cutting board, and stood awkwardly, his empty hand cupped, wondering what to do with the nonexistent pieces.

The knight’s eyes had narrowed. He gazed at Pierce out of eyes the pale blue of a winter sky; his lean, comely face, with its red brows and lashes, was without expression. “Can you do another,” he suggested finally. “I’m not quite getting this.”

Pierce drew breath, held it. It seemed easier to acquiesce than to try to explain, which would probably result in his getting walked up and knocked down, then jumped on a few times. The explanation was inevitable.

“Look—”

“Just show me.”

Pierce closed his eyes briefly, then, in rapid succession, showed him Scalloping the Potato, Fine-shaving the Ham, and Butterflying the Flying Prawn. The knife had warmed to his grip by the time he finished; he was vaguely aware of the flashes that came from it as metal caught the sun. When he stopped, the knight was regarding him with a peculiar, skewed stare, blinking rapidly as though light from the sun’s reflection had streaked across his eyes.

He said finally, very softly, “Who are you?”

“My name is Pierce Oliver,” Pierce answered, relieved that the knight had asked before he attacked. “And I’m not a knight. I was just in the kitchen accidentally—”

“Yes. You made me remember something. My mother used to chop like that. That same magical blinding tangle of knife moves. I loved to watch that when I was little. She was—is still, I think—a sorceress.”

Pierce swallowed. His heart seemed to shift and glide in his chest like a fish easing from shadow into underwater light. His eyes stung, blurred. “On Cape Mistbegotten?”

There was silence. When he could see again, the knight had crossed the battle lines to stand in front of him. His pale, intent eyes were very wide.

“Heloise Duresse. She is my mother.”

“Heloise Oliver.” Pierce heard his voice shake. “She took her maiden name when—after she left you here in Severluna. She is my mother.”

The knight, still holding his eyes, gave a short nod, as though in recognition. “You look like her. I remember that, now, too. And your father?”

“My father—” He paused to swallow again. “She didn’t tell my father about me when he returned to Severluna after he saw her for the last time at Cape Mistbegotten.”

“So.” The knight’s hands rose, clamped above Pierce’s elbows. “So you are my brother.” He smiled then, the astonishment and pleasure in his face making Pierce’s eyes burn again. “This is amazing. I always felt I lacked a brother and finally here you are. My name is Val Duresse. Our father is—” He stopped. His eyes flicked away from Pierce, then back again, an odd, wry expression in them. “Well, he’s not on the field. I’m not sure where he is now. He’s not good at keeping his cell turned on. We’ll find him later, at the Assembly.”