The First Blade of Ostia (15 page)

Bautisto took Amero away, thinking it better that he was quickly gone in the event of the crowd turning nasty. Mistria’s body was brought though the Bannerets’ Enclosure, where those present showed their respect, all knowing that on a different day any one of them might be leaving the arena floor in a similar fashion. The audience on the other hand merely grumbled that their night’s entertainment had been cut short.

A
mero was lying
on his living room couch, his eyes closed as he visualised a combination of feints and attacks that he wanted to practice later that day. He swished his hand through the air, pronating and supinating his wrist to follow the imagined movements.

‘Is this how you spend your day?’

Amero opened his eyes with a start. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard his father come into the room. Amero would be sure to have words with his butler for allowing Renald in unannounced.

‘That was how I plan to win my next duel,’ Amero said. He stood and straightened his clothes, the skin across his chest still tight from the partly healed wound.

‘Any hope I had for keeping that carry on quiet has well and truly vanished. It almost amuses me, the lengths you will go to defy me.’

‘Is there a point to your being here? I would have thought it abundantly clear by now that I’m not leaving the arena until it suits me.’

‘You’re my only heir, so I can’t disinherit you, but if you stay in the arena it will be without my money. You’ll have to wait till I’m dead before you see another penny of it.’

‘You can stuff your money. I’ll be able to name my price in the arena now.’

Amero could see the vein in his father’s head pulse. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do. The threat of cutting off his allowance had come far too late.

Renald pursed his lips and took a deep breath. ‘What is it that so attracts you to the arena? There are plenty of other less public ways to defy me. If only you knew what was being said in the Barons’ Hall.’

‘If only I cared,’ Amero said. ‘Although I wonder how many of
them
are the topic of conversation for every man in the city? Imagine what could be achieved with that kind of influence.’

‘And how long do you think that will last?’ Renald said dismissively.

‘For as long as I keep winning.’

N
obody could have predicted
what the next few days would be like for Amero. He had gone from being talked about as a spoilt rich boy who was getting duels far beyond his worth to being the giant slayer, the most dangerous young blade to arrive in the arena since… ever. While he had been known among the elite of Highgarden for some time—the subject of conversation at expensive coffee houses, card tables, and brothels—beyond that, his profile had been low. To the crowd, the mob, the city’s masses, he had been an unknown. People would be aware of the name dal Moreno, some might even remember that there had been a duke by that name some decades before. Few if any would have known that the current heir of that family was making his way in the arena.

Now all of that had changed. Bryn thought it unlikely that there was a single person in the city who had not heard his name and what he had done, even if they wouldn’t have been able to put a face to it. There was a constant stream of callers to the salon and Bryn had to fight his way through a crowd of them—young women mainly—to get in each morning. Amero had been forced to sneak in through the back alleys and a window to avoid them, and for the sake of convenience Bryn was considering starting to do the same.

As well as the star-struck, there were also a number of serious individuals who condescended to pay a visit to the shabby salon in Docks. The first of these was the promoter from the Amphitheatre. Usually only those who graced the first few pages of the Ladder would ever have the chance to meet Ricoveri dal Corsi, a burly old banneret with a bushy white moustache and a waistline that in circumference appeared likely to exceed his height.

Not a week after Amero slew Mistria, dal Corsi breezed into the salon as though his arrival would be greeted with the same joy as one hundred beautiful women bearing pots of gold.

He walked a few paces into the salon, stopped and looked about, no doubt thinking that he still cut a dashing, youthful figure—if indeed he ever had—while in reality he appeared ridiculous, stitched into a civilian outfit of martial cut, as often favoured by those bannerets who had never gravitated toward military service. The sword strapped around his waist looked pathetically small in comparison to his significant rotundity.

Two assistants followed on his coattails, both unremarkable in all regards other than bearing the appearance of those who have had any notions of independent thought beaten out of them.

‘I am Banneret Ricoveri dal Corsi. Where is the Maestro of this salon?’ He addressed Bryn as though he were talking to a disliked servant. ‘And the hero of the hour, dal Moreno? Where is he?’

His demands placed, Bryn held no more interest for him. He continued to look about with apparent disdain, no doubt expecting that his words would be acted upon with haste. Bryn did as he was requested grudgingly, aware of the fact that rubbing dal Corsi up the wrong way could negatively impact his own career. Amero had yet to arrive at the salon; since the fêted day, he had been making his appearance at increasingly late hours. When he did arrive his eyes were red and carried black bags beneath them. He stank of smoke and booze, and on more than one occasion Bryn was confident that he was still wearing the clothes that he had been in the day before.

All of the old aristocratic friends that had been too busy to see him after his bad behaviour were suddenly available once again, and the resulting contact with their idle and decadent ways appeared to be having an impact on him. It seemed that the very habits he had declared himself to be going to the arena to avoid were those that he was now increasingly drawn to.

Bryn fetched Bautisto from the back room where he was going through some paperwork.

‘I am Maestro Bautisto.’ He wiped ink from his fingers with a rag as he walked toward the new arrival.

‘Ah, the Estranzan, good. I want to discuss appearance terms with your protégé. Get him into the Amphitheatre regular.’ Dal Corsi spoke in the clipped sentences favoured by the older generation in Ostenheim, but that style of speech had long since fallen out of fashion and Bryn found it difficult not to see him as a parody of a bygone generation. At his weight and age, it was something of a wonder that he was not bygone himself.

Bautisto gestured to Bryn, who stood to his right. ‘I appreciate your offer, but I think my protégé here would benefit from a little more time and experience at modest venues before making that step.’

It took dal Corsi a moment to realise that Bautisto was referring to Bryn. It took him a moment longer to realise that Bautisto had known that it was Amero he was referring to, and that Bautisto was trifling with him.

‘Not him, you bloody fool. The giant killer: dal Moreno. I don’t appreciate being toyed with. You’ll get the same rates that I offer all newcomers to the Amphitheatre, and less if you try and lead me a merry dance. Now where is he?’

There was something innately unpleasant about those accustomed to always getting their own way. This was all the more so when that individual held too much influence to be told where to stick their demands, as Bryn would be sorely tempted to do were he in Bautisto’s position.

The window rattled as it was opened and Amero stumbled through, bearing the same bedraggled appearance that he had each morning since fighting Mistria. He walked toward them and looked to Bryn with raised eyebrows and bloodshot eyes.

‘This is he,’ Bautisto said.

Dal Corsi stepped forward, clicked his heels and bowed his head, the mark of respect a banneret made when not holding a sword, and the first social grace displayed by him thus far. ‘Pleased to meet you, young man. I am Banneret Ricoveri dal Corsi.’

It seemed that he felt that this was all the introduction that was necessary. Granted Bryn had recognised the name; Amero on the other hand did not.

‘So?’ Amero said, looking to be caught somewhere between puzzled and irritated.

‘Banneret dal Corsi is the scheduler for the Amphitheatre,’ Bryn said, quietly.

Not missing a beat, Amero picked up the cue, his demeanour changing instantly. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Banneret. How may I be of assistance?’

‘It is I who will be of assistance, young man.’

Dal Corsi clearly saw gold coins fluttering through the air each time he looked at Amero. Bryn felt his loathing for the man grow.

‘After your magnificent show the other day the duelling committee at the Amphitheatre are in agreement that it would be a frightful waste for you to have to return to backstreet arenas until you’ve worked your way up the ranks of the Ladder. Already there are many top tier swordsmen clamouring for the chance to face you. I think they’re worried people will think them afraid of being shown up by a young upstart.’ He chortled, sounding and looking very like one of the walruses at the city menagerie.

‘That’s a very attractive prospect,’ Amero said. ‘The terms?’

‘Ha! Straight to business. Excellent. It’s always easier to work with a swordsman who knows business is as important as steel.’

Dal Corsi beckoned to one of his assistants, who scurried forward and took a page from his satchel. Amero took it and began to scrutinise it with his red, tired eyes. The smell of alcohol, smoke and the crumpled clothing seemed to have had no impact at all on dal Corsi. Amero’s potential to generate money outweighed any other considerations.

Bryn tried to catch a glimpse of the terms without being too obvious. He caught himself mid breath when he saw the figure being paid for an appearance. He didn’t even have to win to earn it; a winning purse would be greater still. Money like that would solve a great many things for Bryn and he would have taken an offer like that with such enthusiasm that he would have ripped off the proffering hand.

Amero looked up from the page and smiled. ‘I’ll think on it a while.’

Bryn clenched his teeth to stop his jaw from dropping, but realised that Amero had never been in this for the money. Dal Corsi was surprised also; it seemed he was not often given this answer, which was understandable enough.

‘Don’t think on it too long, lad. There may be hordes of young females outside clamouring to get in today, but tomorrow? Memories are short in this city. Just ask someone who Panceri Mistria was.’ He whirled around, his cloak billowing out about him and headed for the door, followed by his assistants without so much as a by your leave.

Bryn watched them go before turning to Amero. ‘Do you really need to think about it?’

‘Of course not, but I’m not going to jump onto the fat old fart’s lap like a grateful puppy. I’ll sign it and have it sent over in a day or two. Otherwise, I’m going back home, I feel bloody awful.’ Without another word he stuffed the contract into his doublet and made for the window through which he had entered.

When he was gone, Bautisto turned to Bryn. ‘Be patient. Luck doesn’t favour us all, but hard work and ability earn their rewards eventually.’

Bryn looked at Bautisto, a man on the other side of middle age, and then at the salon in which he eked out a living with only two students. Those rewards seemed far less certain than he would have liked.

A
mero didn’t show
for training at all the next day, and Bryn was concerned. An increasingly bad temper, heavy drinking and a sword close to hand were not a healthy combination. Bryn worried his behaviour was leading him toward trouble. Emeric was still around, so Bryn was confident that any trouble would not be severe, but his current lifestyle would lead him to ruin of one sort or another if not knocked on the head soon.

After training, he decided to call at Amero’s apartment and give him a talking to. He didn’t look forward to Amero’s reaction but it had to be done, and Bryn was the only person to do it. They were still best friends after all.

The door opened the instant he pulled on the bell-rope, and Bryn’s initial reaction was surprise at the speed of the servant’s reactions. The door wasn’t being opened for him, however. A lady was departing; Amero’s most recent conquest no doubt, and probably also the reason for his absence from training.

When his eye’s fell on Joranna’s face, Bryn was unable to contain his surprise. Her face was flushed—not from the surprise of seeing him—and her hair was not quite as neatly styled as he would expect if she was out making calls on friends.

‘Bryn… I. What are you doing here?’

Bryn said nothing and pushed past her, taking the stairs up to Amero’s apartment two at a time. He burst in through the door, where Amero was lounging on his armchair, wearing nothing but his britches, smoking a twist of tobacco. There were several empty bottles of wine sitting on the table.

‘Back for more?’ Amero said, in response to the sound of the door opening. Only then did he look over and see Bryn standing in the doorway. ‘Ah. Bryn. What brings you over?’

Bryn said nothing, trying to separate rage from his decision-making.

‘Oh. You saw her then,’ Amero said.

‘I saw her,’ Bryn said, in as measured a tone as he could manage.

‘Well, I did warn you about her.’

‘You utter bastard. Why did you do that?’

‘Did you a favour, if you’re asking. She’s just like all the rest of her type. I warned you, and this is proof that I’m right. The first chance of a step up the social ladder and they drop their skirts. Told you to go after the daughter of a burgess or such like.’

‘You utter bastard,’ Bryan said again, unable to think of anything else.

‘Now listen here,’ Amero said. ‘You’re a bank clerk’s son. What were you thinking getting mixed up with a nobleman’s daughter anyway? Did you really think that would ever work out?’

Bryn thought about drawing his sword. It was the way swordsmen settled things like that, but Amero’s words rang true. Bryn
was
the son of a bank clerk. Whatever the result of a duel between them, or a fight there and then, it would end badly for Bryn. If he killed the son of an elector count he would be in the city dungeon or on the headsman’s block before he even had his sword sheathed again. Reason had to prevail. He had to be responsible and provide for his mother and sister. He couldn’t do that incarcerated or dead. The whore wasn’t worth it. Neither was Amero. He took a deep breath and swallowed his anger.

‘Fuck you,’ Bryn said, before turning and leaving.

B
ryn was amazed
when Amero turned up for training the next day. He looked healthier than he had in some time; clean clothes, no bags under his eyes, and no stench of booze.

‘Surprised you’re showing your face around here,’ Bryn said.

‘It’s where I train, isn’t it?’

‘Warm up quickly please, gentlemen,’ Bautisto said. ‘We’ll start with some sparring when you’re ready.’

Bryn started into his warm up routine, glowering at Amero, who ignored him. Whenever he looked at Amero, all he could think of was Joranna and her deceit, and Amero’s arrogance in the way he just took whatever he wanted with no thought for others. Bryn couldn’t think of ever hating anyone more. After years of friendship, that was what it had come to; Amero’s blatant lack of respect for Bryn. The thought made him light-headed with rage, and he struggled to maintain his control.

‘That will do, gentlemen. Take your guards please,’ Bautisto said. ‘We’ll start with basic patterns. I don’t plan on anything too strenuous today.’

They began without another word, and Bautisto regarded them both curiously. As they worked their way through the basic parries, disengages and attacks, Bryn found himself striking with more force than he ordinarily would in those exercises. He could tell by Amero’s expression that he noticed it.

‘That’s enough,’ Bautisto said. ‘Normal sparring now.’

Amero did nothing to disguise the new style he’d used against Mistria. He had proven it now, and obviously no longer cared about Bautisto’s reaction. He came at Bryn much the same way he had with Mistria. The attacks were fast and precise, with flourishes, sweeps and just enough showmanship to make it visually appealing to the untrained eye. Far more so than Bautisto’s workmanlike functionality.

‘Rubbish!’ Bautisto shouted.

Bryn felt incredibly satisfied at Bautisto’s criticism and pressed Amero a little harder to see if he could provoke more of his ostentatious swordplay.

‘If you wave your sword about like that, it will be the end of you! A waste of time!’ Bautisto shouted, his voice laced with a rare show of anger.

Amero responded to Bryn in kind, ignoring Bautisto’s commentary. Bryn pressed harder again, relishing the tongue lashing that Amero was getting and giving in to his own desire to cause his former friend physical harm. He upped the tempo and attacked aggressively. His move could not be mistaken by anyone with even the slightest knowledge of swordplay, and once again Amero responded.

Were it not for the fact that they were using blunt swords, there was nothing to differentiate their sparring from a serious duel. Try as he might, Bryn couldn’t find a way through Amero’s defence. One good, hard whack was all he wanted. That would be enough to demonstrate his feelings on the matter. Once he had that, he wouldn’t train with Amero again. Ever. He attacked again, but Amero parried and riposted, taking the initiative and pressed Bryn back across the floor behind a blur of clashing steel.

Bryn hadn’t expected such a quick turn around, and realised that he had allowed his anger to cloud his swordplay.

‘Enough!’ Bautisto walked between them as soon as the blades stopped moving. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I said spar. Not try to kill one another. And you.’ He turned to Amero. ‘What have I said about the flourishes?’

Amero shrugged obstinately.

‘They’ll get you killed. And you’ll look like an idiot in the process,’ Bautisto said.

‘Worked well enough against Mistria,’ Amero said.

‘Well,’ Bautisto said. ‘Perhaps Mistria wasn’t all he was made out to be.’

Amero lowered his sword and turned to face Bautisto. His face twisted in anger. It had been some time since he had spoken back in the salon.

‘I’m sick of your fucking criticism. Do this, do that. The same old shit every day. The same old hackneyed swordsmanship. Some of the crap you’re peddling should be gathering dust by now. What I’m doing is new. No one’s seen it before. I know it’s far from perfect but you’ve already seen what it can do. Imagine what it will be like when I have it down. I won’t have a greasy little Estranzan prick like you talk down to me any longer. Who the fuck do you think you are anyway? If it were up to you I’d still be nothing more than a circus attraction to be mocked in Lowgarden. Well no more.’

Amero was still holding his sword, but somewhere in the midst of his tirade he had raised it again. Both Bryn and Bautisto’s eyes were locked on it.

Amero realised what they were both looking at and his face relaxed a little. ‘Oh really. As if I’d waste the effort on either of you.’ He flung the practice sword across the room where it clattered into a wall and fell to the floor. Gathering up his things, he stormed out.