The Tournament by Matthew Reilly Read Free Book Online Page A

the second youth yelped as he reached his own climax. Elsie moaned sensually, her entire body relaxing as she leaned back on the barrel.
    The youth then hurriedly yanked up his pants and the two young men disappeared down the alleyway, whispering animatedly, clearly happy with the event.
    As for Elsie, I watched her sigh with tremendous satisfaction before she retrieved her cassock and casually put it back on. It was at this point that I hurried back inside so as not to be seen by her—much shocked, definitely titillated, but most of all, fascinated by the actions of my older friend.
    Contrary to those discussions with the girls back home, Elsie had not shown any trepidation at all. Nor had the scene I had just witnessed had anything to do with pleasing the two men involved, let alone marrying them. What I had just seen Elsie do had been done, it seemed, for one reason and one reason only: the pursuit by Elsie of her own pleasure. I didn’t know what to think of my friend. I was very confused.
    I re-entered the tavern just as Mr Giles checkmated the local champion and reluctantly took the man’s silver coins.

THE OTTOMAN CAPITAL
    EMERGING FROM THE GRIM darkness of Wallachia, we entered the homelands of the Ottoman Turks. The landscape became drier, more dusty, and the odd clump of snow could be found by the side of the road. Winter was not far away.
    I travelled in the first wagon, seated beside Elsie, while Mrs Ponsonby now travelled in the second, lying covered in a blanket, her husband gripping her hand. Her condition had not improved in the two days since we had left that tavern in Wallachia. She had a terrible fever that caused her to perspire greatly and shiver uncontrollably. Neither Elsie, I, nor any of our guardsmen dared give voice to the thought we all shared: that Mrs Ponsonby’s malady could be plague.
    ‘What do you think about Mrs Ponsonby?’ I asked Mr Ascham. ‘Is it . . . ?’
    ‘It is not plague,’ he said simply.
    ‘She thought it might have been bad perry,’ I said.
    ‘It was not bad perry. Apply logic, Bess. If the perry had been off, wouldn’t Mr Giles also be ill? He drank the same drink.’
    I frowned. This was true.
    ‘But what if,’ my teacher said, ‘there was something else that was wrong with that perry?’
    ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
    ‘The poor woman drank the wrong cider,’ Mr Ascham said, staring resolutely forward. ‘Back at that tavern, both she and Giles ordered perry. But she must have inadvertently switched her mug of cider for that of Giles. It was laced with something, a poison of some sort, something that was intended to make him fall ill, not her. Do not forget the Sultan’s man who has been following us—it would have been easy for him to pay the barkeep’s boy to add something to Giles’s drink.’
    I spun where I sat, glancing from Mrs Ponsonby’s shuddering body to Mr Giles on his horse nearby. ‘But . . . why? Why invite Mr Giles to play in the tournament and then poison him on the way?’
    ‘Ah, the Sultan did not invite Giles. He invited our king to send a player. The Sultan did not know who Henry would send. But evidently the Sultan’s man has been watching and evaluating Mr Giles’s play and has found Giles to be a threat worthy of hobbling.’ Mr Ascham shook his head grimly. ‘I have not even met this Sultan yet and already I do not like the rules by which he plays.’
    The lands of the Ottoman Turks were, I must admit, far more impressive than I had anticipated.
    Their roads, some of them dating back to Roman times, were paved and clean and kept in excellent condition with few ruts or potholes. Their houses were sturdy and well built, and the Turkish people—unlike their surly Wallachian neighbours—were bathed and clean, wore brightly coloured clothing and were friendly. Many smiled at us as we passed by on our way to their capital.
    ‘I had expected the lands of the Ottomans to be, well, more backward,’ I said to my