The Exile and the Sorcerer (16 page)

The rear of the hall was getting close. Tevi was running out of room. In a bid to gain space, she launched her own series of sharp jabs. Her opponent evaded them easily and immediately shifted back into attack. With lightning speed, the edge of his sword flicked upwards. Tevi blocked at the cost of yet another retreat, and her heel touched the wall. Her opponent smiled and took six paces backwards, generously allowing her more space. Tevi took a deep breath. The man was good, easily the best warrior she had ever fought. Hardly surprising—he was senior sword master to the Guild of Mercenary Warriors.

Their eyes met. The sword master raised his wooden sword and gestured with his free hand, inviting her to attack. Tevi clenched her teeth. She could not defeat the sword master by skill. He was quicker and vastly more experienced than she was. Strength was her only advantage. Dropping her left hand on the hilt, she leapt forward, swinging her whole body into a double-fisted stroke that caught her opponent by surprise. Still he managed to block and the two swords met with a resounding crack, striking close by the cross-guards. As ever, the sword master’s timing was perfect, but he was unable to withstand the force of the impact. The blow sent the wooden sword spinning from his hand. It bounced off the wall and skidded across the floor, finally coming to rest some thirty feet away. The sword master treated it to a rueful stare while shaking his jarred wrist.

From the edge of the hall came a burst of assorted noises indicative of both support and good humour. The sword master scowled in feigned belligerence at the three other nominees sitting at the side. The sounds ceased, only to be replaced by broad grins. Everyone knew the sword master was an amiable character, indulgent of high spirits. Consequently, he was well liked by all.

Once order had been re-established, the sword master turned back to Tevi. “Crude, but effective,” he granted. “You’ll do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But it’s risky to rely solely on strength. You must pay closer attention. I got you with some very simple traps. You can’t afford to let things like that through.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that I’ve been told that before?”

“No. So why haven’t you taken more notice of the advice?”

“I try, sir.”

“Not hard enough. Your sword teacher should have made more effort to help you work out the problem. Generally speaking, you’ve been well trained from an early age.”

“I started when I was three.”

“Quite right, too. You’d be surprised at the number of wide-eyed hopefuls who think they can pick up a sword and become a hero overnight.” He turned to include the other nominees. “Remember—swords are like some musical instruments. If you don’t start young enough, you’ll never develop the right muscles and reflexes. If a child hasn’t started training by the age of seven, they’ll never be anything other than a very poor average. So if ever you get an untrained teenager pleading with you to take them on as apprentice, don’t. You’re not doing any favours, just raising false hopes.”

The other nominees glanced towards Cayell. It was no secret that she was the worst swordsman among them. However, Cayell was unconcerned; her skills lay in other directions.

The sword master resumed his appraisal of Tevi. “You know, I’m loath to suggest it, but do you have any experience with a battle-axe?”

“Some. It was—” The rest of Tevi’s reply was drowned out.

“Tell him you’re a warrior, not a lumberjack.”

“Forget it.”

Cayell’s voice came loudest of all. “Axes are for warriors too stupid to work out which end of a sword to take hold of.”

“Ignore the hecklers.” The sword master waved his hand dismissively. “It’s true axes are unsubtle. They come down to how much force you can put behind them—which in your case is a lot. It was a classic axe stroke you used to disarm me. You’re not bad with a sword, but you can’t structure your defence. With an axe, you wouldn’t need to bother.”

Cayell was shaking her head vigorously. Tevi decided to talk to her later and gave a noncommittal response. “I’ll think about it.”

At that moment, the gong signalling the end of the morning session rang out. The sword master collected the practise weapons and dismissed the nominees, saying, “I’m going to pass you, Tevi. You can report to the assessor after lunch. But I want to see the rest of you back here.”

The four nominees left the practice hall and filed through the maze of buildings. Long ago, the mercenary guildhall had been laid out to an elegant plan, which had been modified and added to over the intervening centuries so that very little of the original design remained. It resulted in a bewildering network of passages and doorways sandwiched between the old and the new. Even after a month, Tevi had great difficulty finding her way around. In contrast, Cayell seemed to have the entire guildhall mapped out in her head. She was never lost for direction—or for something to say. Her body was lightly built but had an acrobat’s agility. Her footsteps were silent, but her personality was loud.

“Down here. It’s a shortcut,” Cayell called as she disappeared between two buildings.

“Are you sure?” asked Perrin, an affable young man with the general proportions, and appetite, of an ox. His six foot six inches of solid muscle made him the strongest of the nominees, apart from Tevi.

“Of course. Don’t you trust me?” Cayell sounded hurt.

“Well, yes, but dinner’s important. I want to be sure I’m in time for seconds.”

“And maybe thirds,” added Rymar as he pushed Perrin down the alleyway.

In the rear was Tevi. She studied her comrades’ backs as they walked in single file. Cayell was lost beyond Perrin’s bulk, though the sound of her laughter drowned out his bass rumble. Rymar was a head shorter than Perrin, yet broad-shouldered and athletic. They were a good bunch, Tevi thought, although Rymar looked to be a little too fond of beer and mayhem when let loose. He was on his best behaviour while being assessed, but the wildness showed through.

The air inside the guild refectory was thick with the smell of food and the hubbub of conversation. The tables held large pots of stew and trenchers of bread to use as plates. Tevi and the others wove their way to the table reserved for nominees. Referred to as “the babies’ table,” it left them in no doubt of their status. There were currently eight nominees for assessment. Apart from Cayell and Tevi, only one other was a woman—a fact that, as Tevi had discovered, fairly represented the male-to-female ratio of the guild.

Once they had sat down, Tevi addressed the table in general. “What’s so bad about a battle-axe?”

“Poor image.” Perrin was squeezed directly opposite.

Cayell joined in, a grin on her face. “Don’t worry, Tevi. You’re great with a sword. There are precious few nominees who’ve been able to disarm the sword master.”

“She didn’t!” someone else said in disbelief.

“She did,” Perrin affirmed.

“He might be right. An axe might suit me better,” Tevi said.

Cayell shook her head. “Women warriors with axes are a joke. Axe men tend to be warriors who are poorly endowed with brains—”

Perrin butted in. “Women are outnumbered in the guild, particularly as warriors. They usually specialise in a field that requires less strength—”

Cayell cut back in. “—and more intelligence. Like scouting. Me, for example.” She threw out her hands in an extroverted gesture that was met with jeers from the nominees and frowns from the other tables.

“I’ve got the strength for an axe,” Tevi pointed out.

“You’ve also got brains, and you’ll get work easier if you let people know it,” Cayell said.

“How does that follow?”

“Girls know they can’t count on developing the strength necessary for fighting. Boys can’t, either, but they’re more likely to. Most girls who want to be mercenaries try to specialise. Being a scout is ideal. Women are often smaller and lighter, so we make less noise. We can go farther on less food and can withstand harsher weather. Women warriors tend to be girls who lacked the brains to do anything clever but turned out lucky with the physique. Axe-wielding just compounds the effect.”

“Which could all work to Tevi’s advantage,” Dale, another of the nominees, said thoughtfully. He was a lanky lad whose serious face masked a mischievous sense of humour. People looked with surprise as he continued. “Just think. In a battle, someone would see Tevi with an axe and think, ‘Oh, yes, axe woman—not going to be too bright.’ Then Tevi could say something really clever and hit them while they were still stunned with astonishment.” Laughter and a few flicked peas greeted this idea.

“Someone told me that in the Protectorate, you don’t make assumptions about people based on their sex,” Tevi said.

Cayell looked blank, then shrugged and said, “I suppose it depends on what assumptions. Sometimes, you have to play the odds.”

“Like you don’t expect people from over the Spur to be particularly alert,” Perrin said—a playful dig at Rymar, whose accent marked him from that region. Tevi frowned. The indolence of people from the east of the Protectorate was an item of folklore she had already encountered, yet Rymar was one of the quicker nominees and astute enough not to rise to the bait.

Cayell laughed. “Or sorcerers who specialise in prophesy. For some reason, they tend to be...” She paused. “Now, what’s the word?”

Suggestions came from around the table.

“Neurotic.”

“Highly strung.”

“Unbalanced.”

Cayell waved a piece of carrot. “No, no. Sensitive. That’s the word I wanted.” She pointed the carrot at Tevi. “Now, remember, if ever you meet a Coven seer, the word is ‘sensitive,’ unless you have a desire to experience life as a toad.”

Tevi chewed thoughtfully. “I guess nobody dares to call axe men many names to their faces, either.”

“As long as the word has more than three syllables, you’re quite safe.”

The banter continued with a bawdy story about the mad axe woman of Rizen. Many of the jokes were lost on Tevi. She had not come to grips with the necessary slang use, but she got the general idea of the perception of axes and their users.

*

Once the meal was over, Tevi left the others and found her way to the assessor’s quarters, needing to ask directions only twice. When she got there, the clerk in the anteroom informed her that the assessor was busy with somebody else. Tevi wandered back outside and stood on the veranda at the front of the building, watching people pass through the courtyard. It was a mellow autumn afternoon. The sun shone on ornate stonework surrounding the open grass.

Directly opposite the assessor’s rooms was the infirmary. Many of the occupants had been placed in the open, to get what benefit they could from the sun and fresh air. The invalids sat on a bench, tightly wrapped in warm blankets. Some laughed and joked, swapping stories of their exploits. Some sat in silence. Tevi studied a gaunt young man, no more than a year older than herself. Both his legs ended in stumps just above the knees. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman, one side of her face a scarred wreck, undoubtedly blind in that eye.

Tevi was certain that the location of the assessor’s rooms, next to the infirmary, was no accident. All hopeful applicants had to walk past the grim reminder of what might await them. She suspected that the warning had little effect. Most mercenaries were overconfident, sure that the worst could never happen to them. Many were blind to everything they did not want to see. They would not know or care where the infirmary was until they were carried into it. They would begrudge the share of their income the guild took, unaware of where the money went, until they became the beneficiaries.

Ten minutes later, the door opened behind her, and a tall mercenary strode out, followed by a young woman. Neither paid any attention to the people sitting opposite. Tevi wondered if that did not hurt more than all the scars—to no longer be worthy of notice.

After a last look at the invalids, Tevi turned and entered. The clerk pointed her to a small room, where she found the assessor, a stout, elderly woman sitting in a high-backed chair beside a fireplace. Despite the warm day, logs burned vigorously in the grate.

“The sword master told me to report to you, ma’am,” Tevi said hesitantly.

“Ah, yes. Please.” The assessor gestured to a second chair and waited until Tevi was seated before continuing. “I’m happy to say we’ve decided to accept your nomination.”

It was the announcement Tevi was expecting, but instead of replying, she stared at the fire. Only the crackling of the flames broke the silence.

“You’re not looking overjoyed. Have you had second thoughts?” the assessor asked.

“No, ma’am. I’m pleased you’ve accepted me. It’s what I came here for. But I was watching the invalids opposite and I was thinking about them.” Tevi looked directly at the assessor. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s true that we prefer our members join with as few illusions as possible. We get too many young idiots dreaming of glory.”

“I don’t think I have any unrealistic hopes.”

“No, I don’t think you have.” The assessor watched Tevi thoughtfully before continuing in a brisker tone. “You realise, of course, that the assessment is not just about fighting skill. We could have evaluated that taking considerably less time than the month you’ve been here. If you join the guild, you’ll receive its mark—a single sword tattooed on each hand. With that mark, the guild is declaring that it believes you to be competent, honest, and reliable. Although we’re not yet backing our judgement with money. It will be some years before we’re likely to guarantee you and add the second sword.”