The First Blade of Ostia (26 page)

E
ven the thought
of magic disgusted Bryn. Every child heard stories of how wicked the mages were in the days of the Empire. Tales of their evil acts were told to frighten naughty children, and when he grew older and read the histories himself, Bryn realised those tales only hinted at the true horror of their deeds.

The Mage Wars, how the Bannerets came to be and how they turned on the mages and rid the world of their foul presence featured regularly in the lessons at the Academy. Bryn always counted himself lucky to live in a time when they were long gone, and the practice of magic was highly illegal. The dark-cloaked Intelligenciers one could occasionally see about the city worked tirelessly to ensure that magery could never re-establish itself.

Nonetheless, there were those in the city who practised magic in a limited way—small tricks to entertain paying spectators, or help recovery from injury or illness. Bryn wondered how these people escaped the Intelligenciers’ attention; if Bryn could find them, surely the Intelligenciers could too. The only conclusion he could come to was that these people were not seen as a danger and were thus ignored.

It didn’t change the way Bryn felt when the idea of seeking one out in hope that they might be able to help with his injuries came to mind. It nauseated him, but faced with no alternatives the temptation grew too strong to resist.

It didn’t take much asking around. In a city like Ostenheim, there was always someone in the know. Bryn scraped together every last penny he could find—the mage’s services did not come cheap—and spent several hours battling with himself as to whether this was really the option he wanted to take. Even the Black Carpet seemed more favourable, although he knew that he would in all likelihood be killed the instant he set foot on it. The Black Carpet was no place to try to earn a living while injured.

He hesitated every few steps on the way to the address he was given, and again when he arrived at the door. He hadn’t told anyone about what he was doing, but convinced himself that it was the best choice. In his gut he couldn’t shake the terror that the magic would do something to him, change him in some way or take something else from him. He was probably being silly—he knew of many people that had used a mage to help them with an ailment, including the neighbour who had given him this particular address. None of them seemed any the worse for it.

He knocked on the door and felt his heart race. There was a rattle behind it a moment later, and the hinges creaked as the door opened. Bryn almost jumped in fright. His jaw dropped when he saw what awaited him on the other side.

‘Can I help you?’ a woman said.

She was in later middle-age, well dressed and well presented. She looked not unlike someone who would be in his mother’s circle of friends. Nothing like what Bryn had imagined.

‘I’m not sure I have the right place,’ Bryn said. ‘Sylvester Tanzi gave me this addre—’

‘Come right in,’ the woman said, smiling warmly. She stepped back from the door and beckoned for Bryn to enter.

He did so, unable to conceal his reluctance.

‘I take it this is your first visit to someone like me,’ she said, as she led Bryn into her small, modestly appointed apartment.

‘Yes,’ he said, awkwardly.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘Now. Tell me what your problem is.’ She gestured for him to sit, which he did.

‘I injured my arms and shoulders. They’ve healed some, but my movement is restricted and I lose feeling in my hands sometimes.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Before we start, there’s something I need to explain.’

Bryn felt a chill run through him. He hoped she wasn’t going to insist on him sacrificing anything. That would be too much for him, desperate or not.

‘People often come to me with unrealistic expectations. All I can do is hasten a process that is already underway in the body, and even then only to a point. My help will only go so far, and in some cases it will stop the body’s own healing.’

Bryn furrowed his brow.

‘What I mean,’ she said, ‘is that sometimes it’s better to leave things be and let nature take its course. That will be a decision for you to make once I’ve examined you.’

Bryn nodded, fear replaced by burgeoning disappointment. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. We can begin then. My fee is five crowns.’

Bryn pulled the coins from his purse, all that he had but one, and gave them to her. Then he started to unbutton his doublet, his fingers clumsy.

She smiled and held up her hand. ‘There’s no need for that.’ She reached forward with her hand and held it over Bryn’s shoulder for a moment, before slowly working down along his arm. ‘How long ago did the injury occur?’

‘Eight, nine weeks. The time immediately after is a bit of a blur.’

She nodded. ‘There’s already much healing here. I suspect that’s in part the cause of your trouble moving. The bad news is there’s not much I can do for that. I can’t undo what’s already done.’

Bryn closed his eyes and cursed silently. There was a warm, tingling sensation in his right hand, more feeling than he had experienced in it in weeks. He opened his eyes and looked down. The woman held her hand over his, and for a moment he thought he saw a blue glow between them, but it seemed to disappear as soon as he became aware of it. She lifted her hand away and gestured for him to try his.

He lifted it and flexed his fingers. He could feel everything, the stretch and fold of the skin as the fingers bent, and the nails pressing against his palm. He laughed and greedily held out his left.

The woman smiled and held her hand out over that one too. There was the same tingling sensation, and the senses in his hand were reinvigorated. He held them both out in front, flexing and stretching, revelling in the sensations that had been lost to him for so many weeks.

‘That’s amazing,’ he said, fixated on his hands. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for my shoulders?’ He looked up at her.

She smiled wistfully and shook her head. Bryn’s eyes widened as he saw how tired she looked, as though she had aged a decade in the last minute.

‘If I interfere now, there will be no more healing in them. Nature may well do more for them than I can.’

Bryn nodded, concerned by how frail looking she had become. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I just need to rest.’

She let the comment hang in the air, making it clear to Bryn that it was time to leave.

E
veryone had left
the apartment when he woke the next day. He lay in bed for some time, staring at the ceiling, flexing his hands. As happy as he was to have them feeling so much better, he rued the fact that nothing could be done for his shoulders beyond exercising them and hoping. He wondered how different things could be if he had seen the mage sooner.

He thought of the applications he had sent for the other jobs, and wondered if he should go to the Bannerets’ Hall to see if there were any responses. There seemed little point in checking; he wouldn’t be able to take on any jobs and would most likely end up embarrassing himself in an interview.

He started to feel claustrophobic cooped up in the apartment, so he went out in the hope that a walk would clear his thoughts and help him find an answer. He wandered the streets until he found himself standing outside Bautisto’s salon. He strained to hear if there were any sounds of training coming from inside, tempted to go in, but holding himself back for some reason.

‘Bryn?’

Bryn turned to see Bautisto standing behind him, carrying an armful of long, cloth-wrapped bundles, which Bryn took to be training swords.

‘Maestro Bautisto,’ Bryn said.

‘I was told you had been killed.’ Bautisto’s voice was incredulous.

‘You weren’t the only one,’ Bryn said. ‘I wasn’t though. Obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ Bautisto said, giving a rare smile. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘I suppose so,’ Bryn said. He had nothing else to do, so why not?

He followed Bautisto inside. It was much the same as when Bryn had last seen it.

‘When did you get back to the city?’ Bautisto said, as he began unwrapping what were indeed new training swords.

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘What happened out there? We were told the supply convoy you were with disappeared, and everyone was presumed to be dead. Killed. I called on your family a couple of times to see if there was anything I could do.’

‘That was good of you. I appreciate it. It’s a long story. Not an especially interesting one. I was lucky is all. Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

Bryn walked over and picked up one of the new training swords. They were nice, better than Bautisto had when Bryn was training there, so he must have been doing well. Bryn was happy for him. He took his guard and made a thrust and parry.

Bautisto raised an eyebrow. ‘Out of practice?’

Bryn shook his head. He raised the sword high. As his shoulder stretched, his grip became weak and it fell from his hand.

Bautisto frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Who knows?’ Bryn said. ‘I spent a while hanging from a tree. That’s as good as it’s been since.’

Bautisto reached forward, picked up the sword Bryn had dropped and handed it to him. Puzzled, Bryn took it.

Bautisto picked up another. ‘Take your guard.’

Out of habit, Bryn complied immediately. Bautisto attacked him. Nothing taxing, just the type of routine they would have used for a warm-up in the past. Bryn’s arm was slow and stiff, but he was able to keep up. Bautisto came at him again, faster and more aggressive this time. As Bryn stretched his arm, he felt the sword slip in his grip on the second parry. On the third it flew from his hand. His shoulder was so tight that he couldn’t maintain a hold on it.

Bautisto lowered his sword and put his hand on his hip. ‘I see. Is it strength or feeling you lose when you move to extremities?’

‘I just lose my grip when I stretch my arm. I can’t move my shoulders nearly as well either,’ Bryn said.

‘Well. You can’t fence the way you used to anymore, not unless the condition improves. We’ll have to come up with something different until it does, or that will suffice if it doesn’t. I’m busy today. Come back first thing in the morning and we will start.’

With that, Bautisto disappeared into the back room, indicating that their conversation was over. Bryn had never before felt so elated by Bautisto’s brusqueness.

A
mero’s ultimatum
of no less than one match every two weeks expired that day, and there was no sign of a match being arranged for him. The top ten seemed to be happy to jostle amongst themselves for second place. Amero was confident that eventually one of the cowardly curs would fancy their chances, but he wasn’t willing to wait. Perhaps he had overdone it with the mage in the early days. He speculated that it had advanced his training by four, perhaps even five years. That was the point at which most swordsmen peaked, and it made Amero wonder what he would be capable of then. If the others were all so afraid of him humiliating them now, what would it be like then?

Perhaps it was time to consider bringing someone in from abroad, a foreign champion. He thought about what dal Corsi had said, calling him a sure thing. The old fart hadn’t said it outright, but Amero could read between the lines. Ticket sales weren’t the only thing that fuelled the duelling business. Gambling took pride of place in that regard, and if Amero was such a sure thing no one would take a bet against him. They were the ones holding back his career. He knew he could fill out the Amphitheatre just by turning up.

He had achieved the fastest one hundred and twenty-five, and defended his title of First Blade a number of times. Perhaps he should lose. The shock it would cause would have the city talking about nothing else for weeks. His comeback afterward would fill the Amphitheatre. The thought galled him, having to pander to the whims of the filthy touts who lurked around outside the arena. A few large, but discreetly placed bets and then intentionally losing would ruin some of them, and that thought was very appealing, but Amero wasn’t willing to let his winning streak come to an end yet, not until it was an unassailable record that would stand long after he had died. There had to be another way to draw so much attention to his duel that it could not be refused.

‘
A
gain
!’

Bautisto had not altered his approach to training during Bryn’s absence. Brusque, harsh, dictatorial; Bryn hadn’t realised how much he missed it.

He was exhausted and his limbs burned like they were on fire. He wanted more than anything to be able to be master of his sword again. Too many years and too many dreams had been devoted to it. He refused to give up, but each hour of agony tested his resolve.

‘I can’t,’ Bryn said.

‘Of course you can. You just won’t.’

Bryn wiped the sweat from his brow and heaved his arm back up into the guard position. There was only so far he could move it, so Bautisto had focussed their efforts on improving his agility with blade in hand. His sword still needed to get to all the places his arm couldn’t reach, so he had to compensate by developing greater forearm strength and forcing flexibility back into his shoulder. Bautisto’s chosen method for achieving the former was hard training with a heavy sword and for the latter, hours of painful and mind-numbing stretching exercises.

Bryn hoped it was working; he even dared to think that it might be, but feared he was getting his hopes up unrealistically.

The style they were developing was different. It built on the economical Estranzan techniques that Bautisto had spent their first months together beating into him, dispensing with all unnecessary movement, creating something that was plain and workmanlike to the eye—ugly even—but it reduced the amount of movement required of Bryn’s shoulder. It placed more strain on everything else, but it seemed to work.

As they slowly moved through the patterns that Bautisto had devised, he was able to cover far more space than he had expected. Bautisto was the first to acknowledge that his system was a work in progress but to Bryn, with all his fears, it seemed like a work of genius. For the first time in weeks he had hope.

When Bautisto’s other students arrived, Bryn slipped into the background, tidied up, did whatever needed to be done to keep the salon clean and standing. It was the only way he had to repay Bautisto’s kindness. He actually enjoyed having something to do when Bautisto’s financial considerations dictated he work with paying students.

B
ryn got home late
every evening, exhausted but encouraged by the progress he was making. His style would change completely with the training they were doing, but he was convinced that it would be just as effective, and saw the hope of matching his old self as tenable. His shoulders felt looser as each day went by, and the new movement patterns came more easily.

The days stretched into weeks, and claiming that he was spending his time job hunting was quickly wearing thin. He wasn’t convinced anyone at home believed him anyway. With all that had happened they were giving him space, but he knew that wouldn’t last for long. The hours spent at the salon meant he hardly saw anyone at home, and Ayla was spending an ever-increasing amount of time at the house in Highgarden with her wards. They had barely exchanged more than a few words in some time, and Bryn had no idea of how to cross the gulf that seemed to have formed between them. At times he actually longed to be back on the road, or even in the shack, when it was just the two of them and nothing else mattered.

Faced with the prospect of regaining what he had thought lost to him forever, it was difficult to think of anything else, even eating. As hard as it had been to accept the idea that he might never be able to competently use a sword again, in his darkest moments he had. To have the prospect of being able to get it all back was intoxicating—but the requirements were a jealous mistress with whom there was room for nothing else.

There were restrictions on him now that Bryn was coming to realise would remain with him for the rest of his life. There were ways around this, however. It was merely a case of being willing to make the changes required. Few swordsmen would agree to erasing every trace of style and flair from their swordplay and fundamentally altering the movements ingrained by a lifetime of practice, but that was the challenge Bryn had to accept.

Every movement—even only so much as a hair’s breadth—had to have a purpose, whether offensive or defensive. There would never again be room for flair or stylistic embellishment. His swordplay would never again inspire admiration, nor could it be called a thing of beauty, but so long as it worked, it could give him his life back.

H
e had taken
to changing before and after training at the salon to help hide what he was actually up to, but the deceit was starting to weigh on him. Now that he had confirmed to himself that what he was doing was not a delusion or a waste of time, he wanted to come clean. He hoped they would be as enthusiastic as he was about it.

‘How’s the job hunting going, Bryn?’ his mother said. It was her standard question every evening before they ate.

‘I’ve stopped looking for the moment, actually,’ he said.

Gilia and Ayla both paused mid-chew and looked at Bryn.

‘I’ve been helping Maestro Bautisto out in the salon.’

His mother’s face hardened. ‘How is loitering around a salon going to help you get work? You said yourself that you can’t use a sword anymore. Don’t you think it’s time to accept that and start working toward something you can do? There’s no dishonour in a banneret working in the Chancellery. The pay is good too.’

Bryn swallowed hard, knowing how what he was going to say next would be received. ‘Actually, Maestro Bautisto believes I might have been hasty in deciding that I can’t fence anymore.’

‘So you’re training again?’

‘Yes,’ Bryn said.

His mother’s face went from hard to dark. ‘How long has that been going on?’

‘A few weeks,’ Bryn said.

‘I knew you were up to something. But even I didn’t fathom you could be that stupid. Haven’t you had enough of all this yet? Can’t you see the trouble it’s caused not just you, but all of us?’

‘I’ve spent my entire life training to be a swordsman. You of all people know the sacrifices that involved.’

‘You trained to be a banneret. Playing with a sword isn’t the only thing bannerets do. That’s only for the ones too stupid to make a better career for themselves. I’d have thought you’d have learned that lesson by now. How much more misery will it take to beat that into your thick skull? Get a job. Stop being such a bloody fool.’

This time it was his mother who stormed out of the house. Bryn dropped his head into his hands. She was almost correct on one thing—some bannerets were drawn to the excitement and adventure of a life by the sword. Others were indeed not clever enough to earn their living any other way. His academic scores had long since told Bryn he was in the latter group.

T
he argument
with his mother had hammered home the fact that he needed to get paying work of some description, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had to stop training with Bautisto. The work they had already done had brought Bryn far. He still had a long way to go, but felt that lower level tutoring jobs were now a reasonable consideration. If he could get one, his mother would soften her position. It put him out of harm’s way, would earn him an income and allow him to continue using a sword to make his livelihood. As he improved, he could look for jobs with more advanced students. It was not where he wanted to be, but it was a start that put him in the right direction.

Before heading to the salon for the day, he called back to the Bannerets’ Hall and sent off another half dozen responses to the situations vacant register.

He returned on his way home that evening, pleased to see that there were two notes asking him to call on the senders at his earliest opportunity. One was from an aristocrat in Highgarden, the other a grand burgess in Lowgarden. He prioritised the appointment in Highgarden, for no other reason than he thought he would be able to charge a higher rate.

He wasn’t sure what kind of reception awaited him at home, but armed with yet another job prospect, he hoped that he would be able to deflect some of his mother’s ire.

B
ryn felt
nervous as he waited for his appointment in Highgarden. Memory of his previous interview flitted through his mind, as did the laughter of the men at the Wagoners’ Guild house. Things that he had taken for granted could no longer be counted on. He knew he was as well prepared as he could be. His prospective pupil was only twelve years old, so the job would not be nearly so taxing as instructing one preparing for the Academy’s entrance tests.

‘Baron dal Ventro will see you now.’

Bryn could feel his heart skip as he stood and followed the servant through to his interview.

Dal Ventro sat at his desk with another man sitting to his right. Dal Ventro was older than Bryn expected, old to have so young a son.

‘Thank you for coming, Banneret Pendollo,’ dal Ventro said. ‘I’ve been through this process a few times now, and I find the most efficient way to deal with things is to have you spar with Banneret Giaco here, and if you’re up to scratch, I’ll fill you in on the details.’

Bryn nodded. ‘A good idea.’

‘Excellent. Banneret Giaco was tutoring my son, but he’s also my steward and has more pressing demands on his time these days.’ Dal Ventro stood and led Bryn and Banneret Giaco through to a gallery at the back of the house. ‘Are you ready to go, Banneret Pendollo?’

‘I am.’

Dal Ventro took two blunt training rapiers from a wall hanger and handed one to Bryn, the other to Giaco. ‘In your own time, Bannerets.’

Banneret Giaco advanced on Bryn, attacking with thrusts from his arm alone. Bryn moved back at a steady pace, parrying with the minimum amount of arm movement necessary. He made two quick thrusts to change the direction of the swordplay.

Memory and years of repeated practice were hard things to set aside, and he found himself wanting to make attacks that he knew were no longer available to him. He focussed on the things he had been working on with Bautisto; minimal movement, precision, speed. He felt his blade flex as it connected with Banneret Giaco’s chest. Banneret Giaco nodded in acknowledgement of the hit. It was ungentlemanly to make a showy display in victory, and it took effort to stop himself from smiling. It was the first time he had fenced against anyone other than Bautisto since taking on this new style, and it seemed to be working. The feeling of putting a scoring hit on someone again was almost overwhelming. Right up until the moment he had felt the hit, he hadn’t really believed that he would ever be able to manage it again. Every second of pain and every drop of sweat in the salon were worth it.

‘I think that will be enough. Do you agree, Banneret Giaco?’ dal Ventro said.

Giaco nodded.

‘Thank you, Banneret Pendollo. That’s an interesting style you have. I’ve not seen anything like it before, but it seems to be very effective.’

‘I’m well versed in several styles, and am happy to instruct in any of them,’ Bryn said. ‘Ostian, Ruripathian, Estranzan, and of course also my own style, which is something of a work in progress, but as you say, appears effective and promising for further development.’

‘I recall your name,’ dal Ventro said. ‘You did some duelling in the arena, did you not?’

Bryn felt his heart sink. ‘Yes. I’m not duelling anymore though.’

‘Well, I like what I saw here today. I’ll be in touch. My man will show you out.’ He gestured to the servant standing by the door.

Bryn didn’t know what to think, but having dal Ventro remember his name didn’t feel like a good thing. Elation to disappointment in only a moment.

T
he second interview
in Lowgarden seemed to go better. The boy’s father didn’t recognise Bryn’s name, and having not been to the Academy himself he was far more impressed with Bryn’s title than someone who had would be. Bryn felt more relaxed over the course of the interview as a result, which didn’t involve any demonstration—his title was more than enough to convince the Grand Burgess of his ability.

It would be a day or two before he heard back from either of them, but he wasn’t hopeful about the first interview. The second seemed more promising, and a Grand Burgess was likely to be able to pay just as well as a baron. He felt close to being able to stand on his own two feet, to finally be able to help support those who had done so much for him.