of his own retinue to be large enough to make an impression, but not so large as to seem ostentatious.
His followers went about their work under Atharis’s careful eye. They were soon erecting his pavilion. Tyrion joined in. He always enjoyed using his hands and there was something about setting up these temporary structures that appealed to him. He helped drive the central post of his great silken tent into the dirt and then he aided his fellows to throw the fabric shell into place, pull the hawsers tight and then drive in the pegs. He could see that some of the watching nobles were appalled to observe him performing manual labour and rushed off to tell their friends the gossip. He did not care.
When his own small village of tents was in place, he took the Emeraldsea banner himself and drove it into the ground outside his pavilion, like an explorer claiming a new land in the name of the Phoenix King.
He was not sure this was entirely appropriate behaviour or an entirely appropriate image to have in mind as he did it, but it suited his mood and he was pleased to see the green ship on a gold background flutter in the breeze before him.
He felt like he had staked a claim to his own place in this vast temporary city.
‘Who is that?’ Tyrion asked Atharis as they sat together on the slope outside his tent.
He pointed towards a tall, noble-looking elf, garbed in glittering armour and riding upon a most impressive steed. The warrior was accompanied by a group of knights almost as stern looking and impressive as himself. He waved in a friendly fashion as he passed.
‘I believe that is Arhalien of Yvresse, judging by the device on his shield. He is widely regarded as the most likely winner of this tournament.’
‘Why?’ Tyrion asked.
‘He is a great warrior. He has slain hundreds of dark elves. He has never lost a tournament with lances. He rides like he is from Ellyrion and fights like a Shadow Warrior. He is brave, noble, of ancient lineage, a noted poet, a fine dancer, a bold war-leader. He is everything a hero should be – sickeningly dull.’
‘You sound as if you have studied him.’
‘I have been forced to learn the life stories of all of your likely opponents. Your grandfather was a believer in thorough preparation. Your aunt is keeping that proud family tradition alive.’
‘He knew this day would come?’
‘Of course he did. The old Everqueen had to die sometime and it was a fair bet that her champion would not wish to serve her successor. Your grandfather had plans for all contingencies and your aunt is his daughter. Although I must admit that neither of them expected this to happen so soon. They would not have allowed you to go gadding around the world with your brother otherwise.’
‘Is he a better warrior than I am?’ Tyrion asked.
‘I don’t know. I doubt anyone except Prince Iltharis is better with a sword than you are, but if anyone is it will be Arhalien, or perhaps Prince Perian of Valaste. In addition, Arhalien has had far more practice with a lance than you have, and far more experience of tournament fighting. It is something of a sport where he comes from.’
‘That is not real fighting,’ said Tyrion.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Atharis, ‘but it is the sort of fighting that will be going on here. And don’t underestimate how vicious these contests can be. Competitors have died before now and not always by accident.’
‘You don’t think that is possible here? In the tournament to decide who will be the Everqueen’s champion? That would make a mockery of everything the tournament stands for.’
‘My dear Tyrion, there are times when I wonder whether you are really an elf. The forms will, of course, be observed, but there is a great deal of power and prestige at stake here, and you know how elves can be over those. This is a deadly serious matter. Deadly serious. I suggest you treat it as such.’
‘I will bear that in mind.’
‘We have found a poet to compose verses for you. You will merely need to memorise the couplets he writes and recite them.’
‘I will not do that,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am here to compete on my own merits.’
‘I have never known you to court failure. You are no poet, my friend, whatever else you might be. Many of those warriors over there are almost as adept with a pen as