It was the start of the Grand Tournament proper, and there was a certain . . . tension in the air.

Of course, that was mainly because of the assassination attempts the day before. Security had been beefed up, which meant Bors had taken to wandering around with his arms wide open, asking loudly for anyone to "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough." As blood was leaking through a poorly tied bandage around his chest, his hair and beard were matted with sweat, and he had a somewhat wild gleam in his eye, this was proving to be a surprisingly robust measure.

Furthermore, most competitors found themselves in a state of unease, reporting a disturbed night's sleep as the shadows within their rooms seemed to roil and move. Had anyone harboured nefarious intent this morning, summoning the energy would have been hard.

Indeed, there was such a lack of festivity and general raucousness for the opening morning of the heats that Guinevere found herself summoning the merchants Bors had charged with organising things to see if anything could be done.

Guinevere noted that neither of the merchants looked well, and she didn't think that was just from one night's poor kip. Their clothes hung off them as if they had not been eating, and when Bors' voice drifted into the throne room from the courtyard below, they visibly flinched.

"Sirs, I thank you for the pains you have taken thus far with the preparations for this tournament. I have rarely seen the castle environs so vibrant and alive."

"Thank you," the smaller of the two men whispered. "Your Majesty," he added hurriedly at a nudge from his partner.

"Sir Bors assures me that this has all been achieved well within budget—" Did the bigger man start at that? "—and for that, you have my profound thanks."

There was a pause as the smaller merchant - Tasko, was it? - licked his lips and searched for the words he wanted. "If we could just return to the matter of the budget for a moment . . . "

"And if you want some, I promise I have it for you!" Bors' booming voice made the door tremble.

"Please, don't mind Sir Bors," Guinevere said, hoping to soothe these oddly anxious men. They had both cringed at the sound of Bors' voice. "He has some frustrations to work out after the events of yesterday. You were saying something about your budget?"

"No. Nothing at all, Your Majesty. All within budget. All exactly as agreed." Both men were alternatively nodding and shaking their heads. It was all very strange.

"Excellent. I am so glad to hear it because I have an unexpected request to make."

Was it her imagination, or did these men go somewhat weak at the knees? "I'm sorry, sirs. Are you both quite well?"

"Perfectly, Your Majesty. What request would you have of us?"

"I find the mood around Tintagel to be somewhat underwhelming this morning. It would seem sensible if we could get a little good humour going. How about we give mead away for free today? Just to get things going?" No, it definitely wasn't her imagination; these guys were flopping about all over the place.

"Free mead, Your Majesty? For everyone attending the first day of the tournament? That would be . . . wonderfully generous." Tasko said with all the enthusiasm of a man to whom it was suggested he set his testicles on fire.

"Can we achieve that and stay within our budget."

Both men laughed hysterically for a moment, then abruptly stopped as another incoherent threat from Bors was bellowed through the window.

"We can do that," the larger man hurriedly answered. His partner squeaked, then nodded.

"Excellent. Please let Sir Bors know if we need to increase the budget. I'm sure he will be willing to negotiate."

*

Sir Bors was currently negotiating quite loudly with no one in particular.

He'd been advised to spend a few days in bed following his wounds, but he was damned if a few little pinpricks were going to get in his way. He needed everyone to understand he was not going to put up with any more shenanigans and was doing that the best way he knew - by lots of shouting and offering to take it outside.

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So far, no one was taking him up on it.

Thus, it was hardly surprising that Tasko and Pæps approached him cautiously. "Sir Bors, could we have a moment of your time?"

"Go for it," he said, looming over them, spittle on the corner of his mouth and blood running in rivers down his chest to drip to the floor.

"The Queen has asked for all mead on the first day of the festival to be free. We have agreed."

"Excellent!" Bors turned to the stallholder behind him and gestured. "Gimmie!" Once his mug was filled, he downed it and then held it out for another. Once that was replaced, he held it up and shouted, "The booze is on these guys! One day only! Get pissed while stocks last!"

The entire courtyard came alive. Everyone who had been nervously staying in their rooms whilst Bors rampaged around was now slightly more motivated to have a good time. Violent death was one thing, but a free drink? That was quite another.

"Very generous of you, boys. Very generous." Bors slapped Tasko and Pæps on their backs. "I know what people say about you merchants, but you both are stand-up guys."

"Thanks," Tasko said weakly, watching the queues line up at the concession stalls. "We aim to please."

*

After a morning's uninhibited drinking, it was perhaps not ideal that the first heats were archery.

A rather tipsy group of men and women congregated at the lists. Amongst them was Queen Guinevere, who had chosen not to partake in the free-flowing booze this morning.

"You know," Bors said as they watched a series of attempts fall well short of their targets, "a more cynical man than me would suggest you may have got everyone else pissed so you can win this bracket."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Guinevere said, abruptly loosing her arrow where it flew to sit dead centre of the first butt. "Just sorting the wheat from the chaff."

There was certainly a lot of chaff.

After just a few rounds, only ten competitors were left—including the Queen—who had been capable of hitting the first row of targets.

As the bullseyes were set backwards fifty more yards, Bors glanced at the large number of men who had been eliminated. "You know, your little ego cheat has probably knocked out any number of archers we would have been able to use."

Guinevere handed her bow to a lady-in-waiting and stretched. "And tell me, how much use are archers that are more interested in filling their skins when they should be shooting?" she nodded at the small group that remained in the competition. "These are your archers."

Bors looked uncertainly at them. "If you say so, Gwin."

Guinevere took back her bow and went to join those in the second round. "If they're going to have my husband's back, you better believe I want them more interested in their craft than beer. Now run along. Mama has a competition to win."

*

Blæk kept one eye on Guinevere, cheerfully showing up some of the craftiest and wiliest poachers across the land and the other on the crowds around the mead tents.

As the archery competition—or, more accurately, the lack of it—showed, the lure of free alcohol was rather overwhelming, and there were only a few sober souls around Tintagel by the time the sun was at its zenith.

Of those still upright, most were either castle guards—who had been expressly forbidden to imbibe—or those trying, ever so politely, to stop the Queen from running away with the shooting competition.

Blæk had his other eye on the handful of other teetotallers.

He discounted three of them as threats immediately. Parsifal, Acanor and Galahad had not gone near the flowing stream of liquor and were keeping themselves largely to themselves. The Grey had been clear they had equipped themselves admirably during the last assassination attempt, and all the reports suggest they had dedicated themselves to joining the new Marghekyon.

So, he only had a couple of dozen of his shadows watching them. You could never be too careful.

No, it was the other non-drinkers that were getting his personal attention.

His instinct was to kill them all. Better safe than sorry, and after what had happened the day before, he was rather keen to follow that path.

At the back of his mind, however, he knew that more subtlety was required if he wanted answers about who was behind these attempts.

So here he was, watching anyone who seemed to be still sober enough to be a danger.

These two men, in particular, had attracted his notice.

They were doing their best to pretend not to know each other, but their indifference was too studied to Blæk's expert eye. Both were expensively dressed but not ostentatiously so. And they were armed.

Of course, most of those within the castle carried any number of weapons. But few had knives hidden beneath their cloaks, strapped beneath long sleeves and against their thighs.

These weren't here for any of the competitions. These were assassins.

Blæk reached out with his Qi - not that he would have understood it in such terms - and took hold of the hidden metal. Blades of any type had always spoken to him, perhaps even more so than the shadows did.

He knew from where the original ore had been extracted, which had been used to forge them. He could feel the blows of the blacksmith that had shaped it into its current shape. And he could feel the echoes of the uses to which these knives had been put.

All this meant he had a reasonable sense of where the knives had come from.

Blæk's eyes widened - even as he pressed down on the metal to open up the veins and arteries of those that carried them. It was always handy when men kept their sharp things so near particularly gushing spots.

No one remarked on the two men who suddenly dropped to the floor - it had been that kind of day so far - and it was several hours before the pools of blood beneath their bodies were felt worthy of notice. Again, it had been that sort of day.

Forgetting their bodies immediately, though, Blæk made his way to the archery lists. Finally, he had some concrete news to share.