Tasko paused as he transferred one sum of money from a long column into a second, his quill hovering above the latter figure. He'd make a subtle change here in the usual run of things. Nothing massive. Certainly not noticeable to anyone without a significant grounding in finance. But a little difference here and elsewhere to the figures would equal a tidy profit for him when it was all added up.

He'd done it so often, was so accomplished at this sort of deceit, that he had to stop himself from doing it automatically during his calculations. However, mindful of his various conversations with Sir Bors, he'd never been quite so certain about the imminence of violent retribution.

"He doesn't expect you to be honest; he just wants the job to get done."

The merchant looked up at the speaker. His bodyguard, Pæps, had been with him as long as he could remember. He, too, came from a land far across the oceans and was a squat, strong block of a man with a shining black head above his thickly muscled shoulders. More than once over the years, his tactically cleared throat and shift of position had saved Tasko from a beating. Or worse.

"And just how sure about that are you? You weren't there when he crushed the table."

"Sure enough to offer the advice. Not sure enough to hang around if I'm wrong. I might not have been there for the exemplar, but I've asked around."

"And?"

Pæps wrinkled his nose. "Maybe keep the skimming to the minimum, now I think about it."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Tasko carefully blotted out the number he had written and replaced it with a replica of the first. "This goes against my code."

"Fits perfectly well with mine. End the day with more money than you started. But end it alive."

"You speak the truth."

Tasko closed the ledger and stood, crossing to look out of the window. Queen Guinevere had insisted that he took a room within Tintagel itself while he planned the Grand Tournament. At the time, he had thought this was a tremendous honour. Now, he couldn't help but feel the pressure of the situation.

Two weeks was no time at all to plan an event of the size required. Fortunately, with money as no object, he'd managed to rope in a couple of minor cultivators he knew from the old lands to help with the transportation challenges. And, with various portals springing up across the country, he was now reasonably confident the bare bones of the plan were in motion. All things being equal, across the next few days, some flesh would start appearing and - please, by all the gods that kept him safe - this time next week, everything would be in place.

At least from the administration side.

Tasko looked down on the training yard, where Bors was trying to finish his fight categories. Groups of spearmen stood around him awkwardly as he divided them into different groups. Surprisingly, it was not difficult to eavesdrop on his frustrations.

*

"So, we've got the Heavy Spearmen category. The Lights. The Mediums with the potential to be Heavies. And the Lights who might be better as Archers." Bors ushered a few men around into different sections with a light tap. "Stop your blubbering; I barely broke anything. Next, we've got the Pugilists, the Royal Rumble, the Armed Melee and the Hunger Games . . ."

Over the next twenty minutes, Bors crafted a series of bouts, rounds and round robins so intricate and complex that anyone still alive at the end of them was surely destined to be one of the greatest warriors of the age.

It was also fated to be one of the bloodiest tournaments in history.

He was pinning the ranking points per limb chopped off to the barracks wall when the Queen arrived to conduct a much-needed intervention.

She knocked gently on the open door.

Bors's face locked into a snarl as he turned. "I told you, no one was to—" the anger vanished as he saw who was waiting. "I am sorry, my lady. I did not know it was you."

Guinevere had taken a step back at the intensity of the man's rage, hands going to a sword her ridiculously elaborate dress did not allow her to wear any longer. Trying to slow her rapidly beating heart, she fixed a smile on her face. "Sir Bors, how goes the planning?"

Stolen story; please report.

Bors' own smile was a rictus grin. "Not bad, Your Majesty. Not bad. I was worried I was leaving some bases uncovered, but I think I'm getting there now. I'd made the mistake of treating th quarterstaff and the pike as the same weight class, but I've subdivided them now and I think I'm getting somewhere." He pointed towards the back wall of the barracks that, at first sight, Guinevere had taken to have been painted black. With a start, she realised it was covered with hundreds upon hundred of tightly written lines of text.

"Are . . . are those the rounds for the tournament?"

Guinevere walked towards the writing, with Bors following close behind, anxious as a man at the birth of his first child. "Yes, my lady. I think I've managed to account for every eventuality and possibility. When all this is finished, and the dust settles, whoever is still standing will truly deserveto serve alongside your husband's Marghekyon."

"Right." Guinevere tried to follow the spiralling lines of intersecting text. "And how long do you envisage this process taking?"

A manic glint crept into Bors' eyes. When his wife had begged a moment with the Queen, she'd said that the big man had not been home for two days. "That's the beauty of it. In less than a month of constant fighting - providing we have enough of Morgan's healing elixirs, of course - we should be in a position to move into the second round."

"The second round?"

Bors turned and pointed to the opposite wall. Guinevere spun to look at the way she had come in to see an equally complex plan sketeched on that surface too. "Fuck me," she whispered under her breath.

"Sir Bors, why don't we take a breath of fresh air?"

*

It had taken every persuasive skill the Queen possessed to drag Bors out of the barracks and up to what she was beginning to think of as her 'office' on the battlements. Up high, and with the wind running through her hair, she felt like she could think much clearer. She hoped the bracing air would have the same impact on her big companion.

How should she play it? Softly softly? Try to slowly bring him to his senses. Or . . .

"What the fuck's going on with you? You have the whole castle convinced you've gone batshit crazy. You've put a quarter of our remaining spears in the infirmary during 'practice 'bouts' and, what is worse, you're making your wife worry. Explain. Now."

Guinevere watched Bors sag under the impact of her words, as if he were a bag of grain emptying from myriad cuts. He didn't answer long enough to open her mouth to speak again, and then she realised he had murmurred a quiet reply.

"I don't want to let him down."

A thousand answers ran through her head, none of which seemed appropriate for the moment. Guinevere was an astonishing accomplished woman in most respects, but she'd never quite developed the skill of offering a soft shoulder to cry on. She was not too proud to admit his had played, at least a small part, in her marital difficulties. Thus, she went for a neutral: "How do you mean?"

"I was in charge when they all died. The Marghekyon. He'd trusted me to lead when he was hurt and I failed him."

From what Guinevere had heard of the battle with Cedric's West Saxons, the only reason anyone - including Arthur - had made it out of that clusterfuck was due to the extraordinary bravery and balls to the wall belligerance of Bors. He'd almost single-handedly kept the defeated forces together and led them back home.

But Bors was speaking again before she could set him right.

"And now I have a chance to redeem myself and I need to get it right. I can't trust myself to be at his side anymore, but I can make sure he has the very best men to protect him. I'm not letting anyone but a certified monster have his back."

Guinevere thought back to the infinitely complex arrangements of bouts she had seen on the walls of the barracks. "And if no one reaches the necessary standard . . ." she asked, gently.

Bors went to answer, then paused. His eyes focused on the path from which he hoped, any moment now, to see his friend return. "Then I'll just have to work harder until they do."

The Queen put some iron into her voice. "This is a lovely self-indulgent little fantasy you are particpating in here. It would be wonderful if I had the lucary of humouring you. Really, it would. However, you have a job to do. Your King asked you to identify and train up an elite force, not play out some sort of sad sack redemption story arc. There will be three brackets. Sword, Spear and Bow. We will pair up competitors and the losers of each bout will be knocked out until we have ten left of each. These will be the new Marghekyon. And it will be done in three days."

Bors spluttered. "But what about . . ."

"Am I understood?"

For a heartbeat, she thought he was going to argue. Bors' face went dark red, and his hands clenched and unclenched. Guinevere was not exactly afraid, but she was glad she had positioned herself so that, should he attack, the sun would be in his eyes, and she would be in a position to release a kick to send him over the top of the low wall and off the roof.

Then, Bors took a deep breath and all the angst vanished. He rolled his shoulders and the pained expression that clouded his face cleared. "I've been a bit of a twat, haven't I?"

"Nothing wrong with taking a command to heart, but if I hear you cause Mrs Bors another night of no sleep, I will be kicking your arse myself."

"Deal."

Then, he suddenly spun around, plunging his hands into the shadow of the doorway. His fists reappeared, dragging a very startled, non-descript-looking man into the light. "Fucking eavesdropping wanker!"

"My lady!" Blæk shrieked as Bors carried him to the tower's edge and prepared to drop him into the open sky.

"A moment, Sir Bors." Blæk dangled precariously over the battlements, Bors holding him by the throat. Guinevere frowned at the spy. "I asked to be left alone. I hoped you would honour my wishes!" Explain yourself."

Blæk struggled momentarily and then, realised the hopelessness of his position, relented. In his dry, monotone voice he said, "I have taken a few days to confirm information recieved and to cross reference reports. However, I am now able to deliver news around the untimely death of Queen Igraine. And, what is more, I believe I know who killed her."