The closer I got to the tournament grounds, the more crowded the accommodations became. So, bumping into popinjays became unavoidable. If they failed to notice my approach, it was because they mistook me for a servant. Lugging around my own things like a common varlet was something I’d grown accustomed to, but made it harder to convince people that I actually was a knight. That was how the smooth-faced Valayan barged into my chest, and bounced off. An indignant rage burned across his boyish features as he tried to stare me down. I sniffed, unconsciously trying to clear my left nostril. My crooked nose meant it clogged on the regular. I got a noseful of floral scents. Definitely Valayan.

“Do you have any idea who you’ve just run into?” he huffed, his volkssprache marred by the lilting tones of his native lands.

“Nope,” I said. “Kindly stand aside. My armor’s heavy, and I’d like to put it down.” The bundle of plates in question was slung over my right shoulder, and I held it by a loop of leather straps in my fist. My regular possessions were in a bag dangling from my left hand by my side, but did not weigh nearly as much as a jousting harness. A snickering of laughter came from the group clustered about the fireplace to my left. I glanced in that direction and found a crowd cast in much the same mold as the man in front of me. All blond, baby-faced young men arrayed around a singular dark-haired figure who nonetheless shared the same physicality. All were built more towards grace and speed than raw power, though none looked to be weaklings. This laughter incensed the one before me even further.

“See here, you ogre-faced oaf, I will not be spoken to in such a manner. You need to learn how to act before your betters!”

“Better at what?” I asked. “If you’re trying to start a fight, I’d drop you without even having to clear my hands.” He blinked and took half a step back, realizing I wasn’t intimidated by his bluster. Sure, he almost certainly had a raft of titles back in Valay, but we were in the Volkmund, and I was a Free Imperial Knight. I might not have had any lands or much money, but my only overlord was the Emperor. I certainly wasn’t beneath some foreign nobleman who grovelled to a mere King.

“Using what?” he asked in a lighter tone and back in his native language, “Your stench?” He raised a perfumed handkerchief towards his face, but my forehead beat it there. My own face had been struck by more foreheads, fists, elbows, knees, shins, and feet than I could remember. I could take a headbutt from a man my size with little more than a flinch and a curse. He, however, had not been hardened up in such a manner, and crumpled like a dropped sack at my feet.

“I will not be insulted by a pompous ponce!” I belted out in my best imitation of Valayan.

The pack of blond men hopped to their feet and reached for their swords, only to be stalled by a raised hand from their dark-haired leader. The one I’d struck was now using his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. He scrambled to position himself within the protection of his peers. I met the leader’s gaze with my glower.

“You, brute,” he said, “Have struck Comte Antoine de Ganisan, and affronted my eyes and my ears with your face and your butchery of my native tongue.”

“And who, pray tell, are you?”

The question caught the man off-guard, as though he expected me to know without asking. It was Comte de Ganisan who answered.

“You have the honor of speaking to His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Claude of Valay.”

“The proper response to your insults is with steel,” Claude said, “Though it is beneath my dignity to get drawn into a brawl in a lodging house like some commoner.”

I held back my tongue before it spat another quip. Goading him about not having more royal lodgings would not be wise. If his lackeys used their swords, well, there were at least seven of them, and fencing wasn’t my forte.

“From your disposition, I’d say you’re here for the tournament.”

“No better reason to come to this corner of the Empire,” I said, “Besides, that is the only thing that would explain you being here.”

“Quite. We will settle these matters of honor on the lists, where none of us need get closer than lance-reach of you.”

I smirked. “Shame the melee fell out of favor at these tournaments. I could have used a prince’s ransom.”

“If you’re really interested in tradition, I understand that the custom used to be for the loser of a joust to forfeit their harness to the victor. Though I’m not sure I have any use for your bucket of plates, other than watching you grovel to get them back.”

“So, are those your terms?”

“Certainly,” Claude said, taking a sip from a goblet.

* * *

For a landless knight, there were not too many ways of making a living that were befitting the station. The tournament circuit was the most respectable. It was a pastime of princes and potentates, so naturally their prestige rubbed off on the proceedings. But most of the dueling events were beyond my skill to hope to take a prize. The kind of men who won swordsmanship events were wielding blades since they were mere babes. That was a fourteen year head start on me. That left me with the rings and the joust. The rings had a lot of competition, and the joust demanded a lot of kit. So I’d had to scrounge up the coin through bare-knuckle brawls in the ring and brazen bets on the card table. By some accounts, the former was beneath me, but without barding, armor, a horse, and plenty of spare lances, the lists were out of reach. The card table, however, was popular with plenty of people from all walks of life.

“Artur Elster!” Graf Ritterblume said in a joyous tone. I looked up.

“Evening, Lian,” I said. Julian Castor was one of those northern noblemen, overly tall and well-built. I was pretty sure he was only Graf Ritterblume by courtesy rather than holding the title himself. Like Claude’s companions, he was blond. Unlike them, he had rugged features and a square jaw, the kind of face I sometimes wished I had. Julian sat down at the unoccupied seat across from me.

“Doesn’t look like you’re winning,” he said, dropping a stack of coins in front of himself as a sign he wished to be dealt in.

“Not so far,” I said, glancing at the mournful dearth of riches arrayed before me.

“Sir Artur hasn’t been very ambitious in his bets either,” one of the men I’d been gambling with said.

“That’s not what I heard,” the other interjected. I wasn’t even sure of their names. I’d seen their faces at other events, and they were willing to play for stakes I could afford.

“Oh, really?” Julian asked. “Does this mean you really did have a run-in with Prince Claude of Valay?”

“Afraid so. And I nearly broke one of his decorative boys in the process.”

“They’re not so decorative,” the man to my left said.

We bought in to the game, and the cards were dealt. I kept my expression as impassive as I could, despite my sourness over the hand I held.

“The rumor that reached me was something about a challenge in the joust?” Julian said, his tone bearing the inflection of a question. “I thought you didn’t have the harness for that.”

“Just managed to put it all together for this tournament.”

The man to my left discarded a card and got a replacement.

“Artur,” Julian said, “Valayans honor chivalric traditions most highly. They are knights born and bred. You don’t stand a chance against them if this is your first time at the tilt.”

“Too late,” I said, turning in two cards. “Bet’s been made.” The clink of coins as I called the existing bet punctuated the statement.

“So I was wrong, you are reckless,” the man to my right said, betting without exchanging cards. “Shame this’ll be the only time I get to see you joust.” I sneered at him, acting as if dismissive of his assessment.

“Pride will bite you like that.” Julian folded without taking another card.

“Got any advice?” I asked.

“Find a way to back out of the bet.”

“Got any advice on how to knock that prince off his charger, I mean.”

“You don’t have to knock him off,” the man to my left said. “You just have to break all three of your lances against his shield and hope he doesn’t break all of his.”

“A prince of Valay is going to break all of his lances in a joust,” Julian said.

“A tie is as good as a win in terms of not losing your armor,” the man to my right said. He laid down his hand and I threw my cards to the table in disgust.

“Not your day, Artur,” the man to my left said.

* * *

There was nothing quite like the sound of a crowd. Each one was different, and you could tell what they were here for by the sound. This one was bigger than those I’d been in front of for petty bouts. The excitement that roiled off the stands was thrilling as we paraded before the spectators. A cool breeze waved the pennants behind the back benches. Lancers in brilliantly colored panoply played to the crowd or remained stoic as per their wont. I didn’t have the style for a smile to be taken as anything but a baring of teeth, so I stayed stoic. I would have ridden in with my helmet on had protocol permitted. I’d much rather their attention be on the twin magpies on my surcoat than on my features.

The lists were a grand rectangle of sandy soil with a shield-festooned rail running down the center. Stone terraces full of seating rose along all four sides, with the seats growing less posh as you climbed towards the top. The lowest seats were level with the men on horseback, so we could look them in the eyes. These also held the spectators of the highest rank and their retinues.

“Is that an ogre?” an over-curious boy in the front row asked. It was asked in such an innocent tone that I had to laugh.

“No, I am much too short to be an ogre,” I said.

Realizing that I had heard the question, the boy’s governess began sputtering out an apology. I waved it off and rode on, not wanting to break the flow of the procession. Since I still only counted among the knights, I was late in the precedence. Prince Claude was near the front, as befit his royal personage. At a glance, I would be hard pressed to tell there was any iron in his armor. It was edged in gold and the visible plates enameled in blue and green. I had no doubt that gilt and enamel was backed by the best steel his armorers could lay their hands on. His surcoat was a field of blue and green, edged in gold. Upon it was emblazoned a knight upon a rearing horse in gold. Unlike the other contestants of his age, who sought the adoring gazes of the eligible maidens in the audience, Claude was instead surveying the other riders. Sizing up the competition? Despite his boyish features, I knew he would be the more experienced jouster. Julian was right, Valay was cavalry county, and their culture steeped in the mystique of the Chevalier.

But before I had to worry about Prince Claude, I had Comte Antoine to deal with. Before that, the benediction and oath of sportsmanship. At least that was one thing I had no qualms about. I had sworn fair play before Azerion many times before, and readily did so again. The procession resumed, uncoiling the rows of horsemen to file out of the lists. Before it even came around to my turn to start moving, Claude arrived in one of the booths on the front row, seated amongst dignitaries and waiting for his turn to ride. Of course, he had squires and countless grooms to ensure his horse was ready. I had no such entourage, so I’d be in the stables, tending to my mare. Hell, he probably had more than one horse to choose from.

Once free from the attentions of the crowd, I busied myself making sure my horse was in good form. I was pleased to see she was nonplussed by the effect of the noise. Officiants kept those of us in the stable apprised of who was coming up, so we could be sure to have everything in order. I suppose I could have risked some time in the stands, as I knew Claude had opted to let his lackey ride against me first. It was only fair – I had struck Antoine. But I couldn’t remember how many contestants there were before the Comte in the order of precedence, which was what we were scheduling by. It still felt like both an instant and an eternity before the officiants announced that I would be riding next.

My helmet had a beak-like bevor that jutted forward of the sallet to deflect lance strikes away from the face. Unlike a battlefield bevor, it was fixed, to further strengthen it for the joust. Holes for air pierced it only on my right, so that only smooth steel faced my opponent. It had to be fitted precisely to the height of my eyes so that I could see, as the gap was as minimal as the armorers could get away with. It would be an impediment on a real battlefield, but a joust had only one axis of concern. Mounting, I took up my concave shield and first lance before coaxing my horse out of the stables. I found Antoine riding a lap of the lists, coaxing cheers from the audience. His surcoat was banded scarlet and gold, with black bears on each row. His steel was polished to a mirror shine, brilliant in the sunlight. Compared to the vibrant Valayan vestments, my black and white livery was dour and dreary.

I tightened my grip about my lance and let myself be led to the start by the rail. Facing down the line, I pinned my eye on the rows of bears on his shield. They were subtly offset, giving a natural aim point that was not best suited for a solid hit. I picked the snout of one of the beasts and pinned my eyes upon it. That was where I would land my lance.

With a sweep of a signal flag, we spurred our steeds into a gallop and the gap evaporated almost before I could get my lance down. I winced more from my lance tip not reaching its target and skittering off the edge of Antoine’s shield than from the impact of his strike. Charging through the spray of splinters from his lance, I bit back a curse. I was already one point behind. Easing to a stop at the end of the rail, I took up position on the other side facing the way I’d come. I watched and rankled as Antoine dropped what was left of his lance on the pile of broken weapons and accepted a replacement.

Aim for the snout of the bear. Faster on getting the tip in position. There was nothing but pride and standing in the tournament riding on this one. Get it right.

The signal flag fell again and we spurred to a gallop. My lance tip fell sharply and met Antoine’s shield. I saw it shatter, and then I was falling. Not backwards as I’d feared, but forward. I flew over my horse’s head and bounced off the rail, sprawling on my back in the sandy soil.

Blinking a few times at the fluffy clouds, I sat up. Turned about by my spill, I was facing where my horse’s forequarters had plowed into the earth. She was howling hideously, and I saw blood rapidly staining her caparison. Tearing my helmet off, I rushed over to check on her injuries. Despite the steel plates she wore, a wooden lance fragment had pierced her shoulder, and been driven in deeper when she’d tripped. My anger and frustration grew as I saw the colors of the paint – white and black. It was a piece of my own lance.

Hearing hooves on dirt, I looked up to where Antoine loomed over me.