The First Blade of Ostia (14 page)

‘
H
ave you heard
?’ Bautisto said, his voice filled with a giddy excitement that Bryn had never encountered in him before.

‘Heard what?’

‘Mistria’s trainer contacted Amero. Mistria wants to fight an exhibition match with someone trained in the Estranzan style.’

‘Really?’ Bryn was too surprised to say anything else. Amero was lurking at the back of the salon, working against a practice dummy, so focussed that he hadn’t even looked up when Bryn arrived.

‘Indeed. Quite a thing, wouldn’t you say?’ Bautisto said.

It was an astonishing development. He thought immediately of the man he had seen at the arena, the one he thought to be Mistria. Had he been wrong about that? He preferred to think that he was mistaken rather than that Mistria had chosen Amero over him, but deep down he knew he wasn’t. Had Amero surpassed him in the time since they had left the Academy? Or was it his name, once again? The news felt like a kick in the stomach.

‘It’s fantastic news. Not just for Amero, but you,’ Bryn said. ‘You’ll have students flocking to your door after this.’

‘Ha. Assuming Amero acquits himself well. We’ll have to make sure that he does. Good news for you too, though. Every promoter will know of this salon and its style, and will want someone who can duel in it for their billings.’

Bryn felt his heart sink a little farther. With this match looming on the horizon, the focus of their training would all be on Amero; it had to be. As much as he wanted to help, it would be to Bryn’s disadvantage. There were a great many things he needed to focus on, but once again, dealing with them would be put off.

‘I want you to take the rest of the day off,’ Bautisto said. ‘Be back at eight bells in the morning. We’ve a couple of hard weeks ahead of us. This might be an exhibition match, but we will treat it as the opportunity it is. Don’t forget, if Amero does well, you will benefit also. Everyone will want to fight a student of the Estranzan School. And of this salon.’

‘
H
e will have fought
between three and five exhibition bouts before he gets to you. Even a man like Mistria will be starting to fatigue at that point. Speed and movement will be the key to beating him,’ Bautisto said.

‘I don’t think I’m supposed to beat him,’ Amero said.

Bryn smiled, but knew what the reward for laughing out loud would be so he bit his lip to stifle it.

‘If you walk into the Amphitheatre without the desire to win and the complete commitment to achieving that, then you have no right to be there. Win or lose, no matter. You are only truly beaten when you do not try your hardest.’

It was decent advice, and toned down from Bautisto’s usual attacking attitude, perhaps conceding the unrealistic quality of expecting victory. The momentary display of sensitivity did nothing to soften what Bryn knew was coming next. If Bautisto wanted Amero to try and tire Mistria out, it meant he would drive them into the ground over the coming days to make sure Amero could grind Mistria down.

B
ryn had arranged
to meet Joranna and her chaperone by the entrance to one of the parks in Highgarden. He waited by the wrought iron gates and stared at the swirling light of the mage lamp on the gatepost opposite him. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and leaned against the gatepost as couples passed by, entering and leaving the park. Still he waited.

The sound of the cathedral bell chiming eight times drifted across the crisp evening air, and that was enough for Bryn. It wasn’t especially cold, but he had been waiting there long enough for the tip of his nose and fingers to feel it. Puzzled, he started for home.

B
ryn sat
at the desk in his apartment, staring at a blank piece of paper, his pen poised to strike. He was angry, and knew it was never a good idea to put pen to paper when in a bad mood. There was also a lurking sense of worry. He hadn’t known Joranna all that long, but he felt he knew her well enough to be concerned by the fact that she hadn’t shown up.

He had thought about calling at her house, but decided against it. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let the matter go unaddressed—it was dominating his thoughts, and try as he might, he couldn’t push it from them. He was sure she had a good reason for standing him up, but somewhere in the pit of his stomach, doubt lurked. He grimaced, and set pen to paper.

B
ryn didn’t know
how Amero was feeling, but in the days leading up to the Mistria exhibition duel he felt virtually indestructible. The intense days of training had left them lean and finely tuned. Muscles that had been coated with a cushion of fat were now sinewy and defined. He had never felt as light on his feet or as fast in his reactions. He only hoped that he had a duel of his own soon, so he could take advantage of his superb conditioning, which he knew would be impossible to maintain in the long term without burning out. Amero had gained so much from his regular matches, far more than Bryn would have thought possible, so he knew training could never match the real thing. He needed regular duels of his own if he was to keep up, and soon.

As well as his concern about his professional prospects, Joranna standing him up was still playing on his mind. He had only sent her the note the day before, but had yet to hear anything back. Her behaviour came as a confusing surprise, and he could not help but wonder if the novelty of stepping out with an impecunious banneret had worn off.

T
he atmosphere
in the Amphitheatre was electric. With all the additional matches being fought that evening, admittance to the enclosure was limited, meaning Amero had only been able to take Bautisto in with him. It meant Bryn had to sit in the crowd with the other spectators, but he was enjoying the experience—the Amphitheatre was such an energising place it was difficult not to get carried away by the excitement.

The early arrangement of the exhibition match did not prove to be premature, as Mistria had achieved his one hundred and twenty-five points the week before it was due to take place. He had rounded up a half dozen proponents of different styles, the plan being to fight them one after another in a gala spectacular. It sent a tingle down Bryn’s spine to think that in a few moments he would watch a close friend step out into the Amphitheatre, the greatest of all the arenas in Ostenheim, perhaps even the world, and face one of the greatest swordsmen to have lived.

Mistria had already fought a Mirabayan, a Ruripathian, and an Auracian by the time Amero’s turn came. He defeated them all in fine fashion but in a way that made it clear this was an exhibition rather than a competition.

Bryn watched Amero and Bautisto go through their warm-up routine, keenly feeling left out. As cool as he had been up to that point, Bryn could see Amero’s face grow pale and his movement gave away how tense he was getting as his match drew closer.

The final match was to be the true highlight of the evening’s entertainment, the one after Amero’s. Mistria would face a Shandahari, from the exotic country far to the south. It had never been part of the long defunct empire that the other nations around the Middle Sea had once formed, and maintained a mysterious curiosity as a result. Bryn had never seen a Shandahari swordsman before, although he had read about them in his studies. Despite the fact that his friend was due to fight in what would perhaps be a career highlight, Bryn was looking forward to that final display the most.

Large and well built, Mistria was an imposing figure, even from the distant seat Bryn occupied. He stood alone in the centre of the Amphitheatre—as comfortable there, the centre of attention of tens of thousands of people, as he would be in private. He was the epitome of a champion.

Bryn glanced at the seat next to him, which was conspicuously vacant—he had considered inviting Joranna to come along, but decided against it at the last moment. He had still not received any response to his letter. It made him angry to think about it, and threatened to spoil the evening for him, so he did his best to forget about her.

The Amphitheatre’s atmosphere was always as much of an experience as the duelling itself. To see so many people in one place could be overwhelming. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to be out there in the centre of it all, with every pair of eyes fixed on you. He wondered how Amero would cope.

The noise was also something to take in. In the small arenas that Bryn had fought in, one could generally hear an individual’s voice. Here, with so many thousands, they blended into something entirely more potent. At times the sound was so powerful and so tangible it felt like a great wave rushing through the air. As the crowd waited for the next duel, their voices dropped to no more than a subdued murmur, like the sea receding from the shore in preparation for the next great wave.

When Amero took his first tentative step out into the sandy oval in the centre of the Amphitheatre, the volume and focus of all of those murmurs began to change, the energy behind them gathering like the heat of the morning sun.

He looked so lonely making his way out to Mistria who remained where he was, standing tall and confident, basking in the adoration of his audience and the success of his victories. The distance was more than twice that of any of the arenas either of them had previously fought in, and with each step Amero took, Bryn could feel his heart pound. It was a particularly warm evening, but that wasn’t the cause of the sweat on Bryn’s brow. He realised that his knuckles were white where he had been gripping the edge of the bench, as he lived each moment with Amero.

Finally Amero reached the black line, the Master of Arms, and Mistria. There was the usual brief discussion as both men were told the rules. Then they were facing one another opposite the black line, saluting. Bryn’s heartbeat hastened once again. It felt as though it was straining against the confines of his chest.

‘
D
uel
!’

Mistria danced forward, his blade flashing in the evening sunlight. It was clear he intended to put on a good show, and Amero was able to move backward—a little heavy on his feet, Bryn thought—and parry the challenge with no difficulty. He made a tentative riposte that Mistria seemed happy to encourage; swordsmen in the arena were not just warriors, they were also showmen. The accommodation seemed to give Amero confidence. His movement grew lighter, more fluid.

Mistria burst into a flurry of action. Fast, aggressive, dazzling; it was everything that he was famed for. Somehow Amero managed to avoid his blade, stepping away or parrying with aplomb. Bryn hardly recognised him as he dealt with everything Mistria had to throw at him. It was not the tight, economical movement that Bautisto had been beating into them for weeks. Far from it. There were flourishing follow-throughs and elaborate feints. It was something that Bryn had seen glimpses of when Amero was messing about, but never in such a polished form.

The engagement ended in stalemate. From Mistria’s movement it was clear that he had expected to score a touch and was both disappointed and surprised. The crowd seemed to feel likewise, their collective sound shaped into a puzzled murmur. Amero hung back, wary of his famous opponent but not appearing in any way unnerved by the intensity of the onslaught he had just been subjected to.

Mistria came at him again, stamping forward hard with his front foot as he cut at Amero with speed that was almost impossible to follow. His attack spoke his intention as clearly as though he had said it aloud. He would put manners on this young upstart. Bryn couldn’t hear the sounds of the blades clashing over the noise of the audience, but he knew it was there and his imagination filled in the missing pieces.

They locked blades, pressing against one another for a moment before pushing apart. Amero pounced; a leap forward brought him back within striking distance and he thrust. A touch. The first point conceded by Mistria in over twenty-five duels. Bryn had to remind himself to breathe.

The crowd gasped, as did Bryn. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. The match was an exhibition—the scores didn’t count toward the Ladder—but that did nothing to lessen what Bryn and the tens of thousands there that evening had just seen. There were many swordsmen considered great in their own right who had not managed to do what Amero had just done.

Mistria himself didn’t seem to be able to believe it. He stood motionless for a moment, before the Master of Arms gestured for him to take his place at the black line once again. They saluted and restarted.

Mistria pushed Amero back a dozen paces or more, attacking high and low, a deluge of steel that would overwhelm a lesser swordsman. From the intensity of the way he fought it was clear that Mistria no longer considered this to be a simple exhibition match. A low ranked swordsman had affronted his honour and he couldn’t let that stand. Bryn grimaced as he watched the exchange; Amero was running backwards as he attempted to stay out of the way of Mistria’s blade.

It wasn’t enough. Mistria’s sword found its way through and the score was one touch each. The crowd roared in appreciation as both swordsmen walked back to the black line. The audience was getting far more of a show for their admission fee than any of them had expected.

Amero still held his head high. What he had already achieved was beyond all expectation and surely the cruel whispers would be quelled now. As they stepped up to the black line they were both animated, gently bouncing on the balls of their feet. Both men wanted the win, and it was obvious they both thought they could get it. The Master of Arms spoke to them briefly and they were off.

Mistria didn’t seem content to let his young challenger have any respite. Once again he pressed Amero back the length of the sandy oval in which they fought. Amero didn’t retreat as quickly this time. His face was a picture of concentration as he parried Mistria’s blade each time it came for him.

His style came as the biggest surprise to Bryn. Amero had shown hints of it clowning around after training, but here it was in a complete and usable fashion. It was sweeping and flamboyant but at the same time there seemed to be nothing that was wasteful or without purpose. There was little Amero could do with it under such an intense barrage of steel, however. His defence faltered. The third touch of the match came and it was two to Mistria.

Amero wore a white doublet with gold embroidery. It looked dashing, but too ostentatious for Bryn’s taste. Amero’s concern for styling seemed to be greater than for function. The material looked too light to provide the protection a duelling doublet ordinarily would, and he was now enjoying the reward of that choice. The white cloth had parted, showing a red line of blood on his left breast. It required some effort to make an arena duelling blade draw blood; its tip was dull and rounded like a butter knife, but in a heated exchange it was possible to cut with one, intentionally or not, and even kill.

Bryn strained his eyes to see how severe the wound was, but Amero was too far to be sure one way or the other. The way he was moving suggested that it was little more than a graze, but as Bryn squinted in the evening light he could make out the expression on Amero’s face; the same twist of rage he had seen on it so many times of late. He was hurt, and that angered him.

As the Master of Arms reset the duel, Bryn could feel the tension in the audience ease. After the first touch, they had been agitated to a near frenzy. Now, however, the duel was falling into line with everyone’s expectations and the emotion waned. Mistria had retaken the initiative, and everyone expected the result to be a foregone conclusion.

It seemed as though Mistria thought the same as the crowd. There was less purpose in his movement when he made his way over the black line after the re-start, pushing Amero back with more showman-like blade work. Bryn watched Amero’s face, still unchanged from a moment before. Harsh. Against the flow of play, Amero struck, tight and precise, nothing showy—far more characteristic of what Bautisto was teaching them. Bryn felt his heart leap. Amero held the pose of a perfectly executed thrust, hand high, blade angled down. Mistria stood, looking down, his sword arm slowly falling.

Amero took a step back and returned to his guard position. Mistria fell to the ground. Only now did Bryn notice that the crowd had fallen silent. Utterly silent. He could hear the wooden bench beneath him creak as he shifted around to get a better view. The Master of Arms rushed forward to Mistria’s fallen form. Amero remained stock still, watching.

The Master of Arms gestured to the Bannerets’ Enclosure and several men ran out. One of them Bryn recognised, Caxto, a trainer he had spoken with the day that he had called at the salon Mistria trained in. Still the crowd was silent, everyone straining forward in the hope of being able to identify the gravity of the wound. No one could quite believe what they were seeing; the greatest swordsman of his generation, Mistria of One Hundred and Twenty-Five, the First Blade of Ostia, lying on the sand of the Amphitheatre having not just conceded a touch, but also a wound that had dropped him to the ground.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Bryn rushed down to the Bannerets’ Enclosure. Amero began his walk back there, casting looks back over his shoulder to the drama on the arena floor, uncertain as to what was happening or what he should do.

Bryn got to the boundary of the Enclosure where a guard barred his entry. Over the man’s shoulder he could see Bautisto, staring intently out at the commotion in the centre of the Amphitheatre.

‘Maestro Bautisto,’ Bryn shouted.

Bautisto looked toward the shout, audible against the backdrop of silence, and walked over. He spoke with the guard, who let Bryn through. Together they stood watching and waiting for Amero to get to them. Mistria had not moved since Amero stepped back, still lying on the sand, surrounded by his attendants. Gradually the noise in the Amphitheatre began to build, as people started to suspect the worst. All of those who had been lost for words found their tongues once more. It was not Mistria’s name on their lips, however. A great swordsman was loved by many; a great champion was loved by more, but one who would kill in the arena thrilled them all like no other.

When Amero reached them, Bautisto immediately went to examine the wound on his chest. Amero stood with casual indifference and allowed Bautisto to inspect the rent in his doublet without even so much as a look over his shoulder. His face had grown cold and impassive. A steward handed him a beaker of water. Amero handed his sword to Bryn with a nod of thanks and took the beaker, otherwise ignoring the steward. He took a long drink, gulping down half of the beaker’s contents. Only when a stretcher was brought out from the enclosure did he turn to take another look at what was happening on the arena floor.

‘Not much more than a scratch,’ Bautisto said. ‘You were lucky. Mistria, it seems, was less so. A damnable shame.’

His words were harder than Bryn would have expected. There was no hint of congratulation.

Amero was completely unperturbed by the scene unfolding out on the arena sand. Bryn was unsure if it was genuine insouciance or feigned out of a sense of professional experience. Swordsmen died in the arena; it was not the first time and it would not be the last. That didn’t make it any less tragic in Bryn’s mind. Amero’s countenance made him wonder if it was an accident or intended, though.

There was little sympathy on display from the audience as Mistria’s body was carried from the Amphitheatre floor. Conversation carried on as normal, and Bryn could have sworn he heard one person ask a steward if the final fight against the Shandahari would be going ahead now with Amero instead. It made Bryn feel sick. Moments before, Mistria had been their hero. Now he was a prone, covered shape on a stretcher and nothing more. A defeated hero was just defeated. An announcement had yet to be made to the audience, but there could be little doubt in anyone’s mind by now that Mistria had met his end on Amero’s blade.