Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (17 page)

           
Then, as the plates were cleared,
Chazali announced that he would leave them, to find Temchen and check the
keep's defenses. The departure of the kiriwashen emptied the dining hall as if
on a signal, and Ochen, too, excused himself, leaving the four alone. They
might well, Cennaire thought, have taken their ease, enjoyed some degree of
leisure before departing on what seemed certain to be a long and hazardous
journey, but Bracht suggested they attend their horses and the others offered
no protest: they made their way to the stables.

           
Their animals had been watered and
fed, but stood in need of grooming, and it seemed still, from the attitudes of
the Jesserytes in the yard, that the larger horses, Bracht's great stallion in
particular, were regarded with awe, and more than a little nervousness. The
Kern laughed and set promptly to currying the black, crooning endearments that
were answered with snickers of contentment, as if man and horse conducted a
conversation in some language known only to them.

           
"I think," Calandryll remarked
as he set to work on his chestnut, Cennaire watching from the gate, "that
Bracht loves that horse near as much as he does Katya."

           
"And you?" she asked, the
coquetry slipping out unbidden, a habit. "Who commands your
affections?"

           
The stable was shadowy, but she
thought he blushed. Certainly, he bent his head closer to the gelding's glossy
flank, applying the brush with renewed vigor as he mumbled, "A man's horse
is a valuable thing ... it deserves care."

           
Cennaire laughed gently, looking to
dispel his awkwardness, asking, "Shall you choose a mount for me? I know
little of horses."

           
"Better that Bracht do
that," he replied modestly. "He's a far better judge of horseflesh
than I."

           
She nodded, choosing not to pursue
the conversation, content to simply stand and watch, sometimes handing him a
tool he needed, aware of his tentative smile as their fingers touched. It was a
companionable silence, and for a while she felt herself far younger, the
intervening years slipping away so that she could imagine herself a girl again,
watching a brother tend their plow horse on the farm she had almost forgotten.

           
It was a brief enough respite, for
soon the grooming was done and Bracht emerged from the black horse's stall with
the suggestion they practice their swordplay. Katya and Calandryll agreed
readily and they returned, not without difficulty in the maze of crepuscular
corridors, to their quarters, to gather up the weapons left there in deference
to the Jesserytes' hospitality.

           
The keep bustled now and they were
hard put to gain more than fleeting directions to a yard suitable for sword
practice, those men they encountered hurrying about their duties, with little
time to spare to call instructions over their shoulders as they trotted briskly
on. Consequently, the four found themselves often lost, wandering seemingly
deserted corridors lined with closed doors, often devoid of windows, helpless
until some other group of busy men was met. The place was unlike any fortress
Calandryll had seen, as if constructed of a single vast block of stone through
which passages and chambers had been cut, the exterior walls not separate but
integral with the interior parts, the courtyards found suddenly, where
corridors ended in balconies or windows, or low doors. It reminded him somewhat
of an anthill, the Jesserytes its hy- menopterous inhabitants.

           
Their social hierarchy, too, seemed
as rigid as the insects', for when the four finally descended a narrow stairway
into a yard where warriors clad in mail and leather drilled with swords and
hook- bladed pikes, they were turned away.

           
This was not, they were told by a
meticulously polite officer, a training ground suitable for such honored
guests. Better—the suggestion couched in terms that brooked no argument—that
they find the yard used by the kotu-zen. A man was ordered to bring them there
and they followed him along yet more twilit passages to a second yard, this
occupied by warriors in the jet armor worn by Chazali and Temchen.

           
All activity ceased as they entered,
abruptly frozen by their presence. Their escort bowed low and barked an
explanation that was answered with a grunt and a dismissive wave. He scurried
quickly away, leaving them facing an audience of the kotu- zen, whose stance,
Calandryll thought, expressed a mixture of curiosity and outrage, as though
some protocol was breached.

           
The warrior to whom their escort had
spoken raised his veil and bowed, his tawny eyes carefully impassive as he
studied them.

           
"What service may I
render?" he asked.

           
Bracht slapped his sheathed falchion
and said, "We'd unlimber our sword arms."

           
The kotu-zen's eyes rounded as his
gaze encompassed the saber hung on Katya's belt. "The ladies, too?"
Surprise lent his voice a roughened edge.

           
"Aye," Bracht answered
cheerfully, grinning in Katya's direction. "This lady wields a blade
better than most men."

           
The comment aroused a murmuring,
clearly shocked, among the onlookers, and Calandryll set a warning hand on
Bracht's arm.

           
"Is it not your custom?"
he asked.

           
The kotu-zen shook his head
vigorously, his expression suggesting he was torn between horror at so
outlandish a notion and the desire to remain polite. "No," he gasped
at last. "The women of the kotu do not ..." He caught himself with
visible effort. "They do not indulge in the manly arts."

           
"Manly?" Bracht shook off
Calandryll's restraining hand. "Ahrd,
man,
I'd wager this woman could take any of you."

           
More familiar now with the
Jesseryte's physiognomy, Calandryll saw outrage on the warrior's face. Quickly
he said, "In Cuan na'For and in Vanu— from whence my friends come—it is
the custom that women bear arms and understand their use. Does this offend, we
apologize."

           
He aped the Jesseryte's bow,
awaiting a reaction. The kotu-zen swallowed, clearly taken aback. He seemed to
find the idea preposterous. Finally he said, "Such is not our way."

           
Bracht opened his mouth to argue,
but Katya murmured, "I'd not offend our hosts. Best we leave it,"
stilling his protest.

           
Now the kotu-zen appeared
embarrassed, stroking a gauntleted hand over the oiled mustache he wore.
Calandryll smiled, seeking to put the man at ease, and suggested, "Perhaps
there is some private yard where we might practice?"

           
The warrior thought a moment, then
nodded, albeit a trifle reluctantly.

           
"And gear we might
borrow?" added Bracht.

           
Again the kotu-zen nodded, grunting
an affirmative, and spun on his heel to snap out brisk orders that sent two men
running to fetch jerkins of padded leather, instructing another to conduct the
out- landers to a more suitable ward. Calandryll and Bracht shouldered the
jerkins, voicing their thanks, and followed their armored guide from the
practice yard. Behind him, Calandryll heard someone mutter,
"Barbarians," and another, the voice disbelieving, "Their women
fight?"

           
Bracht chuckled, shaking his head in
disbelief; Calandryll threw him a warning glance, indicating their guide and
gesturing the Kern to silence. These folk did, indeed, seem strange, but they
were no less allies—vital allies—and it was as well to honor their customs.
And we,
he thought as they strode more
of the dim-lit corridors,
likely seem as
odd to them.

           
They were brought to a small yard,
the sky a rectangle of blue above, the walls high all around, and windowless,
as if the place were chosen for its obscurity, that none might witness this
breach of etiquette that put blades in the hands of women. Their guide bowed,
unspeaking, and left them there.

           
"Strange folk," Bracht
murmured as he tugged on a jerkin. "Do they cosset their women,
then?"

           
"It looks so." Calandryll
shrugged. "But while we go among them, we'd best respect their ways."

           
"Then best hope we go
unopposed." Katya laughed. "For are we attacked, I shall likely shock
them more."

           
"Or turn their ways
over"—Bracht grinned—"do their women take your example."

           
Cennaire, whose life was somewhat
more attuned to the ways of the Jesserytes, found it not at all odd that women
should not fight, and started in surprise when Bracht handed her a thick-padded
jerkin.

           
"You say you've no blade
skill?" he queried, and when she shook her head, "then as well you
learn a little."

           
The suggestion alarmed her, for she
thought such practice might well reveal her superior strength, and she
hesitated, her pause misinterpreted by Calandryll, who said gallantly, "No
harm shall come you."

           
"And your life perhaps be later
saved," added Katya, she, too, thinking Cennaire's reluctance stemmed from
some natural delicacy. "Look you, I'll work with you. Best we start with
knives, I think."

           
There seemed no ready escape and
Cennaire could only agree. She donned the jerkin, gingerly drawing the dagger
sheathed on her waist, thinking that did she forget herself, she could likely
cut clear through the leather Katya wore to wound the Vanu woman. Katya,
thinking her unnerved by the blade, murmured encouragement, explaining how the
weapon should be held, how her feet be placed to balance her weight.

           
"Forward and up," she
advised, pantomiming the move. "Drive the point in below the ribs, toward
the heart. Your thumb should rest against the quil- lon. When you strike,
strike from the shoulder, with all your weight behind the blow. Now, try
it."

           
Cennaire obeyed, holding back her
full strength, and was surprised to find her thrust deflected, turned aside by
a seemingly casual flick of Katya's wrist that sent her arm out to the side,
the tip of the flaxen-haired woman's dagger touching lightly on her jerkin.

           
"No signals," Katya
warned. "Your eyes told me of your intention, and your feet. Give no
warning of your move. Now, look you ..."

           
She proceeded to demonstrate and
Cennaire found herself intrigued by the lethal ballet, realizing that strength
alone was not enough, and that she might learn much from this tutor. She
applied herself, following Katya's instructions, seeing how a movement of the
wrist could turn a blow, how a feint could deceive and unbalance an attacker.
It was not unlike the learning of dance steps, and at that she had always been
adept; equally, it was a matter of anticipating her opponent's intentions, and
in that, too, her past life stood her in good stead. Soon she found herself
enjoying the lesson, her only concern that she limit herself to what a mortal
body might accomplish.

           
She was barely aware of the clangor
of steel on steel as Calandryll and Bracht set to with their swords, intent on
Katya, on the intricacies of step and counterstep, attack and parry and
riposte, finding it a fascinating game. One, she thought, that · might well
prove most useful in the uncertain future. It occurred to her that did she but
become adept, she would likely be unbeatable: to the advantage of strength she
could add those preternatural senses that would allow her to forecast her
opponent's moves, and thus few could defeat her. And if they did, what matter?
A blade between her ribs could not kill her. She resisted the temptation to
experiment, however, intent for now on learning the basic skills of this deadly
art without such secret reserves.

           
Time passed unnoticed, so intent was
she on the lesson, until Katya called a halt, smiling. "Enough for
now," she cried as Cennaire stood poised to attack again. "You learn
fast."

           
"Sufficient practice and she
could be a passable tradeswoman," Bracht said, and Cennaire turned to find
the Kern and Calandryll watching, their own weapons sheathed now.

           
"The gods grant she's no
need," said Calandryll, his face grave, as if he feared for her future
safety.

           
"Did I not do well?" she
asked.

           
"Excellently," he replied.
"But even so ..."

           
He shrugged, then staggered as
Bracht slapped him on the back, chuckling. "Ahrd," the Kern declared
cheerfully, "do you subscribe to this odd notion of our hosts now?"
and Calandryll grinned ruefully, shaking his head.