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Chapter Seventeen
As arranged, I went for my lesson to the champion's pavilion, a large circular
tent, big enough for a man to ride through on horseback. He used it at
tournaments, where it was considered classy not to show yourself until ready to
fight.
"You'll forgive me if I don't rise," the champion said. "Sometimes an old knee
injury of mine acts up. I take it that you're the fellow my squire talked to. From
your height, I'd guess you are the Sir Conrad Stargard everybody's been talking
about."
"Guilty," I said. "That was quite a beating you gave Pretty Johnnie. I thought you
were supposed to go easy on him, Sir Boleslaw."
"You heard about that, huh? Well, before you go thinking ill of me, just remember
that I do this sort of thing for a living, my expenses are high, and the widow
couldn't afford to pay me much. What she paid me didn't cover my overhead and
expenses getting here. But it is the off-season, her cause was just, and my
overhead would have gone on anyway, so I took the job. Can you really blame me
for taking almost three times as much from -the challenger, not to throw the
fight-I wouldn't have done that for any money-but just to not hurt him badly?"
"But you maimed him for life!"
"True. My employer hated him and wanted it that way. A professional often has
to walk a thin line to try to satisfy everybody. As I set it up, my employer is
satisfied, and the challenger has no legitimate complaint. After all, he could have
stayed knocked out after that blow I gave him to the head, the fight would have
been declared over, and he wouldn't have been seriously hurt."
"Then why did he get up and fight? He must have known that he couldn't win."
"He got up because he was too angry to think straight. You saw what I did to him.
A Florentine Flick to brush off his lance, and then I took him down with the Club
of Hercules. I wouldn't have dared try those on another pro, and by using them
on him, I showed him up for the buffoon that he is. Yet I can always claim that
my attack was designed to not injure him, which it didn't. As to the subsequent
face injury, why that was a single blow, and who is to say how well his helmet was
made?"
"So you set it up to satisfy all parties and keep your own nose clean."
"Of course, Sir Conrad. There's more to this business than meets the eye. Anyway,
that dog turd was-trying to throw a widow and child off their lands. He got less
than he deserved. But that's not what you came to see me about. You're worried
about meeting Sir Adolf next Christmas."
"Who? And when?" I said.
"They haven't told you yet? I guess that's only to be expected, The concerned
party is always the last to know. It's been bandied around the circuit for weeks, so
I'll tell you about it. Just act surprised when you hear about it officially, since the
heralds like to think that what they do is important. The short of it is that on the
third day before Christmas, you will meet on the field at Okoitz with the
Crossman Champion, Sir Adolf, in a fight to the death, with no quarter allowed.
He's going to kill you, so your best bet is to sell what you can and run away. That's
my advice and it's well worth the twelve pence you're going to pay me."
"If I run away, a hundred forty children will be sold into slavery. I can't allow
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that."
"Those poor bastards are going to be sold in Constantinople whether you're a live
coward or a dead hero. You don't look to be a starry-eyed fool, of the sort who
memorizes the 'Song of Roland' and bores people with it at parties. You're a
sensible man. Do the sensible thing and run."
"Sir Boleslaw, I tell you I can't. But look here. If this Sir Adolf is so good, why
can't I hire a champion as well? I'm not a poor widow. I can afford the best!"
"No, you can't, because the best will be fighting against you. All the rest of us are
inferior to Sir Adolf, and we know it. This is a rough business. A fool doesn't
survive long in it, and neither do the suicidal. There's not enough money in
Christendom to pay me or anyone else to go up against him in a fight to the
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