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pity on his innocence. We matched the weakest of us with him. You can imagine what happened.”
    The other apparently could not. His eyes were on the slender figure in black, bending over a lady’s hand, dwarfed beside her great blond-bearded consort.
    â€œIt was,” said the knight from Acre, “surprising, if not incontestable. Yet. It could have been blind luck. He was holding back, we found out soon enough. And he kept on doing it. I dared to think I had him, till I found myself flat on my back, staring at the sky.
    â€œThen he lost his temper. I don’t know precisely what set him off: I was still taking inventory of my bones. I think someone accused him of mocking us, and challenged him to show us what he could do.
    â€œNow, mind, we were limping and groaning and sweating from the heat, but he was as fresh and cool as a flower in a lady’s garden. He’d changed horses twice, taking offers of mounts more used to the climate than the one he’d brought from the west. They were good horses, not nags or rogues: we were fools, but we were honest fools. I remember, he had Riquier’s big grey, and Riquier rides him on a bit-shank a span long, but our lad had the reins on the beast’s neck and was guiding him with his shins. He rode down the lists with his lance in rest, and though he had his helm on we knew he was glaring at us. Then he lowered his lance at the one who’d armed to keep us company, but who’d never meant to fight, and no one was minded to challenge him.”
    â€œBalian, of course,” said the other.
    â€œBalian,” the knight agreed. “Of course. We’ve all done our share of listening to troubadours. So, obviously, had the boy from the west. Of course we tried to talk the young fool out of it. Balian is a man in his full strength, Balian is seasoned, Balian is the unconquered champion of Outremer.
    â€œâ€˜Therefore,’ said the westerner, ‘I will fight with him.’
    â€œHe meant it. Lances first, then if neither would yield, swords, until one either yielded or was hurt too badly to go on. Balian was hardly willing. He’s a gentle enough soul, when he’s not breaking lances. But a challenge is a challenge, and Balian understands young men’s hunger for honor. He could give that even with defeat.
    â€œYou know how it goes in any tourney. The knights take their places at the ends of the lists. The destriers champ and snort and shake the ground with their pawing. The world holds its breath. Then the lord raises his hand. The lances come down. The shields come up. The horses lumber into motion. It’s dream-slow; then it’s blurringly fast.
    â€œEven before the lances met, we knew what we were seeing. God knows, there are no knights in the world to compare with ours in Outremer; and often we’ve seen it proven, with every ship that comes out of the west, and every sunstruck cockerel who fancies himself a champion.
    â€œThis one was cockerel enough, but he could ride a joust. He broke his lance on Balian’s shield, and Balian broke his on the westerner’s, and neither even swayed in the saddle. They’d been testing, we could see. Neither said a word that we could hear, but they stopped in the same instant, dismounted, and set to with swords.
    â€œNow, Balian can ride, but it’s with the sword that he excels, and it’s with the sword that he’s held his title so long. His arm is made of iron and his wind is unbreakable, and he has an eye like a Cairene cutpurse. There are men who’d swear that he sees a stroke coming before his opponent has even thought of it.
    â€œAnd here he’d met his match. Soon enough they had their helms off, and they were grinning like boys on a lark, but going at it with all they had. Or Balian was. The other was still — still! — holding back. Till Balian saw, and his grin went wild, and he struck in grim earnest. Struck, if the other