The Alchemist of Souls

returned the ball in a high arc that sent the other man running sideways until he all but collided with the tambour wall. The spectators roared with laughter, and Grey flushed. He scooped his racquet under the ball as it bounced heavily on the wooden floor and sent it flying back to the service end. Mal stopped it with a neat backhand – too neat. Grey watched, grinning in anticipation, as the ball hopped over the net and bounced once, twice– “Hazard chase, second gallery!” the umpire announced.

The spectators clapped or jeered according to their allegiance and placed further bets.

“Got money on this one yourself, Catlyn?” Grey asked. “Or perhaps you’re not your father’s son after all?”

Mal bit back a retort. This is no different from duelling, he told himself. Better to keep silent and let the other man’s ill temper work in your favour. He served again, focusing all his attention on the flight of the little leather ball.

“So,” Grey said, “what have you been doing with yourself since you were sent down?”

Mal froze. “I was not sent down, I left.”

The tennis ball whistled past his head, hit the wall with a crack like a pistol shot and ricocheted into the dedans.

“Forty–thirty!” Grey smiled. “Change ends, Catlyn.”

From his vantage point halfway along the court, Ned