Lancelot was the single most terrifying person I’d ever faced behind a sword. I knew venerable instructors who weren’t this good. I’d become a smoke monster with six arms and was faster than her thanks to Levity, yet I could barely hold her back! It took everything I had to not get slashed open. It was pure luck I’d drawn out the fight as long as I had managed, and somehow, I’d backed myself up against the spectators, who were going mad for their heroine.

  I was grinning too. I’d never much liked fighting, but this had felt like a memorable performance. Lancelot sheathed her sword and helped me up. I was reassured to see that she was breathing heavily. In the battle, she had been all fluid grace and icy focus. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d immediately wanted to go again. I was naturally struggling to gulp down air, even if I tried to hide it. That had taken it out of me to no end.

  I flooded myself with smoke and changed back into my normal gear. Someone came running over and placed my lost bow into my hands. I felt better to be away from the martial gear—it weighed on me.

  What had helped was viewing it as a performance. An improv show, or perhaps a showcase of our skills. I’d called on the Levity from my fight with the Gale Hare, my still-growing skill with the bow, and my illusions and blade work. In theory, I could’ve just swamped her with smoke and we could’ve had a very dull fight in a cloud, but that just didn’t match how bards should fight.

  With that thought, I felt the curtains swing open within my soul. Upon the stage, bowing and reaping its accolades, was the revelation that this was how I could fight, how I should fight, and that it matched the emerging intent that was still forming as I headed towards Iron. I fought not to win, but to look good doing it. I’d make beauty from battle.

  Huh, that might cause some problems down the line.

  The group of guards swamped us, half after Lancelot and half commiserating with me for a battle well fought, though they were quite clear that ‘no one’ won against their Noble Squire. Alright, maybe not prioritising winning was good—I sensed I’d get mobbed if I’d pulled off an impossible win. Still, the voices were warm and friendly. It felt totally unlike any group of cultivators I’d ever encountered.

  “What a splendid bout!”

  The words were a frost-bitten wind blowing through the cosy hall we’d built. The mood of everyone changed in an instant, eyes fixed on a group of three newcomers. The speaker was a man in full armour with a tabard in the Fos colours of blue and white. He bore an unfortunate rat-like face that reminded me of my least favourite cousins. He was flanked by a pair of Squires, both from an Order I dimly recognised as the ‘Order of the Kraken.’ The tentacles on their tabards were hard to miss.

  “Noble Squire Barclay, what has this humble guard station done to deserve the honour of your presence?” Commander Smith’s voice answered a whole bunch of questions for me. So this was the other Fos? Damn, and here I was hoping that it was just Albion cultivators who were all stuck-up pricks.

  “We heard that a wandering Squire was here. It seems poor taste that you should be the first to test yourselves against him. I do believe my father requested that he be informed of any Errant Knights who visit.” Barclay sounded insufferably posh, like a pantomime of the accents of those actually in power. He probably thought it sounded genuine.

  “Barclay, come out and say it.” Lancelot was beside the Commander, and I saw all three lock onto her, marking two sneers and one leer. The leer came from Barclay, who I decided to immediately hate. Was he competing to be the most punchable fool around, or just naturally talented?

  “Dear Lancelot, a pleasure to see you. Indeed, it seems that your father has overlooked his duty. He was ordered to inform us of such guests. I will be taking this Squire with me.”

  “Not a chance.” Lancelot’s hand went to the pommel of her blade. You could cut the tension with a knife.

  “I believe there has been some form of miscommunication. No rules have been broken.” I cut into the conversation. Lancelot did not strike me as one gifted at de-escalation.

  “You dare to contradict me, peasant?” Barclay spat.

  Damn, it’d been a long, long time since I’d been called peasant. It was oft considered a mortal insult to a cultivator and their lineage. If I’d still been under a Harkley's gaze, it could’ve resulted in a full assault from the family. Thankfully, I was my own man.

  “Well, it is the nature of my profession. I am no Squire. I’m a Bardic cultivator.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was the fact I ignored the barb or my career choices that caused Barclay to imitate a wide-mouthed fish gasping for air.

  “You what?” That voice was far more natural, no longer his pantomime falseness. It didn’t make his voice any more pleasant, but it was a step in the right direction. The less well kept of his two minions was clearly just as confused but hid it better—one by sneering at me. Their sneers were pretty good but still amateur compared to what I usually faced. The other showed proper decorum, his face flatly neutral.

  “Are your eyes just for show, Barclay? Or can you not recognise a Bard when you see one?” Lancelot was grinning as she gestured to me. Back in my usual gear it was hard to imagine me ever being a knight. To complete the look I pulled out my lute and strumming a few notes.

  “What? That’s nonsense are you going on about? We just saw him fight.”

  “Yes, you saw me fight, which is how you know I’m a Bard?”

  “What?” The third ‘what’ almost cracked my mask—he looked like a confused rodent wondering where its cheese had gone.

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  “I mean, clearly the optimal combat option was to swamp the entire room in smoke and attack a blind opponent? But that would’ve been a travesty to hide her swordplay from sight. It was rather marvellous.” I bowed to Lancelot.

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying you lost on purpose?” That came from the professional one the left, who looked the most intelligent of the bunch. I saw a look bounce between him and Lancelot. The man was clearly more than a usual minion. He swept a hand through blue hair as he mulled over the thought, the strange colour a clear sign of a strong fae lineage.

  “Oh no, I had no chance of winning. Lancelot is far too skilled an opponent. While I could not win, I have a chance of putting on a spectacular show, and so took it.”

  Lancelot had a grin on her face. She was enjoying this new show I’d started.

  “This is nonsense. You are a Squire—you shall duel us.” Barclay snapped out of his confusion, affecting again his ‘posh’ accent and doubling down on his idiocy.

  “I actually don’t duel,” I replied smartly.

  “What?”

  Behind me, I heard a guard start to lose it before his friends managed to silence him. I couldn’t blame it. Barclay Fos was made for comedy. It was the way he went bug-eyed and jumped between accents.

  “Again, I’m a Bard. This was merely an educational spar, a request from my host for a small performance.”

  “Do you disrespect us? Are you claiming we are not worthy of such attention? Are we less deserving of such honourable combat than this Squire?” That was the smart one, I noted there was no venom to his questions. I saw Barclay nodding at him, the foolish heir must outsource his brains to his lackeys. Respect and honour were quick ways to demand a duel that I had little defence against. I weighed up my options.

  I had plenty of things I should say, but most of those were lies. My fae gift placing me in a bind. I was most certainly disrespecting them in some way, and I couldn’t even say it was unintentional. I was saved by Lancelot.

  “You claim honour while stomping into this guard house where you should not be, and demanding combat against an innocent cultivator.” Her voice was grim. Thankfully it was enough to distract the floundering Barclay.

  “Want to make something of it, Squire Lancelot?” Barclay was all too keen, hand already heading to his blade. Perhaps this conversation was far less about me than it seemed. I was but a tapestry in the background with an odd design—a conversation starter, it seemed.

  “I’ve been asked to stop fighting you. It’s getting embarrassing,” said Lancelot, sighing due to the terrible burden of her skill. Her taunt only made his grin wider.

  What was his game? Why do this? He might have thought he had a chance against her, but I found that hard to believe somehow. If he had a genuine chance, why was he putting on this show? Surely, he could just challenge her conventionally if that was the case.

  The smoke in the room had spread out, and I used invisible tendrils to subtly probe him.

  Cultivators were far harder to use this skill on than mortals, as competent cultivators would keep control of the glamour directly around them. It was no surprise that Barclay didn’t—of the three, only blue hair was protected.

  Barclay had talismans aplenty, and his armour was good if a bit flashy. In fact, it seemed as if he’d gone for a quantity-over-quality approach to his assorted items. I could sense the glamour, and none of it was as good as Lancelot’s blade.

  Smoke fumbling around, I didn’t find anything that immediately worried me—no poison glamour, nor strange artefacts that might explain his confidence.

  Then again, I had my totally mundane lute that was in no way a soul-bound item. Ban had told me last night that to his senses it was just a very minorly enchanted item, durability being the main focus. That proved it was always possible to hide these things.

  I was about to give up when my smoke curled up just within his breastplate. I was fumbling around with my senses here—even a fool like Barclay would sense if I started sampling the glamour here. Fortunately, the shape I found was one I could recognise even if I were beaten and blindfolded.

  A small icon of a seven-pointed star, with one point far longer than the others, sat on a chain around his neck. The Guiding Star. The mark of a Divine Cultivator.

  I felt my hand move to my blade without thinking. My blood rose in my ears, and my heart roared to life. My stance on duelling was facing a rapid revision. Stop, don’t be a fool. I struggled to rein in my impulses. My mood barely changed, even if I forestalled my immediate urge to cut the monster down.

  I checked him over again and felt sick.

  How had I missed it the first time? His glamour had a whiff of corruption. Glamour senses were a mix of sensations, so he both smelt sickly sweet and gave the uncanny sensation of pushing against a log I thought firm, only to feel it squish as I discovered it rotten from the inside. It wasn’t deep set, which meant he’d started down that path recently. With the rest of my check, I found at least a couple of talismans I’d dismissed as nothing were similarly afflicted.

  A brief check over the Order lackeys found no sign of corruption on him. That was reassuring, at least. I didn’t feel like taking on a corrupted Order. I brought my attention back to the two cultivators arguing before me. They’d been riling each other up while I examined the group. They were but a few steps away from a fight at this point.

  Could I even defuse the situation?

  “Enough! I challenge your fool here to a duel! He has far too fine a storage ring for a ‘Bard.’ I will fight, but I will permit him to use a second.”

  Barclay answered my question for me. Apparently, I was getting roped into this farce—and over the storage ring, no less. I cursed, having completely forgotten to hide the fact I had the expensive device.

  Lancelot began to speak, no doubt to accept.

  “If we must, though I must insist it’s after my business with Miss Peaches is concluded. Also, the storage ring is not mine but loaned to me by the Knight Bors.”

  I couldn’t have made a bigger impression than if I’d stripped nude. Even Lancelot was looking at me like I’d grown a second head.

  “I beg your pardon, but did you just call the esteemed Elder Witch ‘Miss Peaches?’” That question came from blue hair.

  “Well, it’s what she asked me to call her. I’ve just come from her place where we were discussing the nature of Bardic cultivation. So, I did indeed refer to Elder Nimue as she requested. Is that so wrong? See, she was quite pleased with myself and Bors after we helped out one of her apprentices—though I did little.”

  With those few words, our play had gone from a comedy with dark undertones to an absurdist piece of humour. The two Order men started to edge backwards, leaving the gaping Noble Squire on his own.

  “You’re Bors’ Squire? As in Bors the Beast? Fuck.” The forgettable Order lackey made his sole contribution to the conversation. He was hushed by blue hair, but the damage was done.

  I didn’t appreciate my friend being so slighted, even if it did afford me confidence that they had some respect for Bors. Perhaps it was the Guiding Star and how it reminded me of the Harkleys, but my hackles were up, and I was itching to make a point.

  “We’re terribly sorry. It appears an error has been made.” Blue hair said, bowing and backing away simultaneously.

  “Indeed, Bors the Titan, my friend. Also, it seems you are still confused as to my calling. Let’s fix that—let me play you a ditty.” The two Squires were lost, clearly torn between their desire to flee and the possibility of creating a bigger insult. Barclay, I noticed, had put his hand to his chest and was now circling glamour. Too late.

  “This I wrote based on the challenges Bors helped the caravan—which one of Miss Peaches’ apprentices was a part of—overcome.” I strummed my lute, and the smoke swirled around me, ready to become part of my performance.

  “Bors the Titan, hearth ablaze,

  Protector worthy of ancient days!”