The First Blade of Ostia (4 page)

He decided to leave his search at that, cheered by the prospect of having a cook waiting back at the apartment.

A
s Bryn walked
it occurred to him that he would be passing by one of the other salons on his list and it would be lazy not to stop there on his way home.

The quickest route back to the apartment from Crossways was straight toward the harbour, around its edge and over the Westway until he reached the old city walls, which marked the boundary of Oldtown. The salon was in Docks, the part of the city that was filled with warehouses, trading companies, mixed with apartments, inns and taverns that were frequented by a tough crowd; dock workers, sailors, thugs, and mercenaries. It could be a rough part of the city, hosting some of its least salubrious streets, and rents were appropriately low. It did not bode well for the salon Bryn was investigating, but he would give it the benefit of the doubt. At least it would be cheap.

The address brought him to a small building tucked between two larger warehouses. It was rundown and looked as though it hadn’t been in use for some time. The windows were grimy and the woodwork was bleached and rotting. It had obviously been many years since anyone had thought of painting it. His first thought was that the building was derelict and that any salon had long since closed.

Out of curiosity, he pushed on the door. It creaked open to reveal a large open plan interior, punctuated by the wooden pillars that held up the roof of the single storey building. It was bright and airy, with a number of open skylights in the roof letting in both light and fresh air.

There was no sign of damp or water damage on the floor, so they couldn’t have been open for long. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, which was swept clean, but any traces of varnish had long since vanished. He looked around and realised what an ideal space it was for training in. Perhaps he should try to see if the lease was available and set up there himself. Amero would be more than able to provide the meagre funds that would be needed. His planning was brought to a halt by the sound of footsteps that were not an echo of his own.

‘Can I help you?’ a voice said.

Foreign. Estranzan perhaps?

‘Yes,’ Bryn said, as he turned to face the direction of the voice. It belonged to a man of average build and cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He had a thick moustache that had been left much to its own devices, contrasting strongly with Bryn’s own finely sculpted effort. He was standing at the doorway to another small room at the back. ‘I was told that there’s a fencing salon here.’

‘You have been informed correctly,’ the man said.

Bryn didn’t speak for a moment, expecting something more in the way of information but it didn’t appear to be forthcoming. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find the salon’s master.’

The man’s clothes had seen better days; they weren’t rags, but they were shabby which gave Bryn to presume that he was merely a caretaker.

‘I am the master,’ he said. ‘This is my salon. Banneret of the Starry Field Baltasar Bautisto at your service.’

An Estranzan then. Bryn’s initial guess had been correct.

‘I’m Banneret of the Blue Bryn Pendollo. I’m looking for somewhere to train. I thought I’d come to have a look at your salon.’

Bautista eyed him suspiciously. ‘What is the nature of your training?’

‘I’m planning on competing in the arena. I’m looking for a basic salon where there will be few distractions. Coaching also.’

‘This isn’t the most well-appointed salon that you will find.’ Bautisto walked forward from the doorway and gestured to the open space of the room with both hands. ‘I dare say it might be the worst. But it is clean and dry, and there are no distractions to be had other than the whores who ply their trade on the street outside after dark.’

It was hardly the most compelling sales pitch. ‘Thank you for your time, Maestro Bautista. I’ll give it consideration. I’ve viewed several salons today and will need time to make my decision,’ Bryn said. He felt uncomfortable being the only other person there, and a sense of something akin to pity for a Maestro with no students. Despite the emptiness of his salon, Bautisto didn’t seem particularly motivated to entice one.

‘You would consider a salon without testing it?’ Bautisto said, cocking his head inquiringly.

‘Well, I suppose not.’ It struck Bryn that he had been slipshod in his approach thus far. He knew what he was looking for in terms of facilities by sight, but the only way to truly gauge a salon’s worth was to train in it.

Bautisto ducked into the back room without another word and re-emerged a moment later carrying a rapier and matching parrying dagger. Neither were particularly ornate, ‘tools rather than jewels’ as Dornish would have called them.

‘The arena is generally fought with both sword and dagger, I suggest that is what we use now. I have practice blades if you would prefer…’

An unusual approach, but Bryn was willing to play along. ‘Live steel will be fine,’ he said.

He undid the fastening of his cloak and allowed it to drop from his shoulders to the ground. He unsheathed his rapier and dagger and dropped his sword belt on the cloak.

‘Shall we begin?’ Bautisto said.

Bryn nodded and dropped into a low, wide stance, flexed at his knees with his body leaning forward. He held his dagger out in front of him at waist level, his rapier farther forward and a little higher. It was a neutral posture, that of a man not sure what to expect.

‘Fine form,’ Bautisto said, before launching into an attack of a precision and speed that surprised Bryn. It was a little more enthusiastic than he would have expected of a friendly spar with sharp blades, but nothing he couldn’t cope with.

Bryn parried with both sword and dagger, stepping back with each attack to invite Bautisto to overreach himself. He was not to be easily drawn however, moving forward lightly on the balls of his feet, never over-committing his weight and always remaining balanced.

He paused to invite attack and Bryn was only too eager to oblige. He thrust forward from his low guard, stepping forward with his rear foot to follow in with a secondary attack with his dagger. Bautisto danced backward, swatting both out of the way but instantly reversed and launched into a perfectly executed counter with his rapier that almost caught Bryn off guard. He parried it out of the way but took two fast steps back to give himself a chance to reform his guard, both surprised and impressed by the Estranzan’s ability to change tempo. Bryn found himself enjoying the bout.

They continued back and forth for several more exchanges before Bautisto stopped, stood straight and lowered his blades.

‘Excellent form all-round,’ he said. ‘I can see some areas that might need work, but I think you have a very solid technical foundation. Should you choose my salon I would be very pleased to work with you.’

Bautisto was agile and fast. His technique was exceptional, albeit distinct from what was the norm in Ostenheim. Before they sparred Bryn had been trying to get out of the salon as quickly but as politely as possible, now he found it hard to imagine training anywhere else.

Bautisto had easily been a match for any of the tutors in the Collegium and it was only with strenuous effort that Bryn had been able to keep up with him. There was no doubt that he would learn from Bautisto and he felt that the man’s skill was enough to make up for the grotty location. Hopefully Amero would feel the same way and agree to train there. The consideration of cost never even entered his mind. This was the right place.

B
ryn felt
his anxiety build as he and Amero turned the corner onto the street where Bautisto kept his salon. He had been deliberately cagey in his description of the place, knowing that the only thing to speak in its favour was the man himself. The salon could be improved upon without much difficulty, but as it was, there was little to recommend it on first glance.

He stopped outside and it took Amero another two steps before he realised that they had arrived. He looked at the shabby exterior and then to Bryn, a bemused expression on his face.

‘This is it?’ he said.

‘This is it,’ Bryn said. He stepped forward and opened the door. His memory had done little to alter the first impression given by the interior, neither embellishing nor degrading it. Clean, but grotty and run down. He cleared his throat loudly, but there was no response.

‘Maestro Bautisto?’ he said.

The Estranzan master swordsman appeared from the back room and walked toward them.

‘Banneret Pendollo, I had not thought to see you again,’ he said. From the sound of his voice he was genuinely surprised. ‘This is the friend you spoke of? I am Banneret of the Starry Field Baltasar Bautisto.’ He gave a curt bow of his head, not offering his hand.

‘Banneret of the Blue Amero dal Moreno, pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He returned the saluting nod, but there was no mistaking his disdainful countenance. ‘I wonder if you might excuse us for a moment, I’d like to have a word with my friend.’

‘Of course, gentlemen, take all the time you need,’ Bautisto said. He wandered off toward the back room leaving Bryn and Amero alone.

Bryn could feel his body tense.

‘Are you serious?’ Amero said. He clearly wasn’t looking for an answer. ‘A short-arse Estranzan with a head like a pot scrub and a salon that looks more like a convalescent home for rats? What are you thinking?’

‘Just give it a chance,’ Bryn said. ‘The salon is clean, bright and large. Everywhere else I went was crowded, expensive and full of distractions. As new members, we wouldn’t have been able to get access to the maestro in those salons for months at best, if ever. Bautisto is good. I sparred with him yesterday and he’s as good as any I’ve come across. I promise you that we’ll both learn from him. Give it a month, and if you don’t agree, we can go somewhere else.’

Amero looked around for a moment, very obviously not happy. His plans of a little training intermixed with relaxed socialising would not be realised here—but he had not dismissed it out of hand, which Bryn took as a good sign.

Amero let out a deep sigh. ‘One month, and if this little ponce doesn’t have me winning duels with both hands tied behind my back I’m going to be signing up at Cavzanigo’s faster than you can say “greasy Estranzan shyster”.’

‘Fine. I really don’t think you’ll be disappointed,’ Bryn said.

‘
A
gain
!’

Bautisto’s Estranzan accent was beginning to occupy a regular place in Bryn’s nightmares. Bautisto ran both he and Amero harder than Bryn thought was possible. Nothing he had done before, either in the Collegium or in preparation for the Competition, had come close.

Sweat pooled at his eyebrows and his arms burned. Holding his sword out in front of him took supreme effort. From the expression on Amero’s face, it appeared that he felt much the same way.

After two weeks of training Amero had yet to make another complaint about the salon or their trainer, other than the occasional offhand remark about him having missed his true calling as a slave driver. It could have been down to the fact that he was simply too tired to moan and trek across the city to find himself a nice spot on a couch in Cavzanigo’s, but he had not complained and that made Bryn feel satisfied.

Bryn pulled his tired and meandering thoughts back to the present and responded to Bautisto’s command. He dropped back into what Bautisto referred to as the ‘first guard’, the position he favoured for both initiating and receiving attack. Bryn’s feet felt as though they were attached to blocks of lead and he just couldn’t move them quickly enough to satisfy Bautisto.

‘Faster!’ Bautisto yelled. When he became particularly animated, which was something in itself considering how energetic he was ordinarily, his face went bright red and the veins in his forehead bulged. It could be distracting and at times Bryn felt genuine concern for his health, but to give any indication that he was not concentrating fully would result in a tongue-lashing or another routine of exhausting exercise.

He tried to move his feet faster, but they burned and felt so heavy nothing made them move the way he wanted. His sword felt like it had doubled or tripled in weight, and the ache in his shoulder provided an unwelcome distraction from the pain in his feet. A child with a wooden sword could have bested him with little difficulty.

‘That is enough for today. Eat, and sleep at least ten hours. I will see you in the morning.’ Bautisto turned and went back to his small room, leaving Amero and Bryn wavering with exhaustion. Amero slumped to the ground and sat cross-legged and hunched over, drawing in deep breaths of air. Bryn spiked the ground with the tip of his training sword and leaned on it, trying to shift some of his weight from his legs onto the makeshift support.

They hobbled home, as they did each afternoon once Bautisto was done with them. They must have seemed like two drunks as they swayed on exhausted legs and bumped into one another. Amero’s cook had been told to have food ready for them when they arrived back. They would eat in silence, then Bryn would fall asleep mid-afternoon, either on one of the couches in the living room or if he had the energy left, he would crawl to bed.

B
ryn had spotted
Mistria’s name on a billboard for a duel in one of the city’s larger arenas, one of those in the tier directly below the Amphitheatre, and was determined to go and watch no matter how tired he was.

Amero had arranged for them to meet some old Academy friends later in the evening, but he would have time for a nap between the two events.

Bigger arenas drew larger crowds and higher profile duellists. Bryn hadn’t recognised the name of Mistria’s opponent, but in this arena there would be no ambitious thugs or double-jobbing soldiers. They would all be bannerets. It seemed that there was a young generation of duellists starting to come to prominence. During his time at the Collegium, Bryn had been far too busy to keep abreast of who the promising up-and-comers were, so there were few names on the billing that he did recognise, all bannerets who had been a few years ahead of him at the Academy. The prospect that they might all be as good as Mistria whetted his appetite for the spectacle to come, and he hadn’t felt that excited about attending a duel in some time.

Mistria’s duel was the second on the billing. The first was impressive; both swordsmen knew what they were about and were hungry for the victory. There could only be one winner however, and the match ended in a three touches to two score. It made him regret that he would not be able to stay any longer than Mistria’s duel, knowing that he would need at least an hour’s sleep if he was to make it back out to meet his friends that evening.

The arena’s stands were full by the time Mistria walked out onto the arena floor. There was a strong response to his appearance, and he was definitely the man Bryn had passed on the stairway at Valdrio’s salon.

The Master of Arms raised his hands and lowered them to hush the crowd. ‘Banneret Mistria of Maestro Valdrio’s Salle, and Banneret Aureo of Maestro Cavzanigo’s Salle. Banneret Mistria has achieved a perfect score in his last fifteen duels.’

Bryn raised his eyebrows at the announcement. Mistria’s opponent was from Cavzanigo’s, one of the salons he and Amero had looked at and one he had immediately dismissed as being a vanity salon. He was curious to see what Banneret Aureo was made of.

The second reason for his interest was Mistria’s track record, and the explanation it gave for his appearance in the small arena. A duellist’s previous twenty-five matches were counted for his Ladder ranking. A perfect score, where the duellist did not concede a single touch, earned five points. It was not unheard of for a duellist to inflate his score with a few easier matches with low-rank opponents in back street arenas. To do it too often would draw the ire of the Bannerets’ Commission, though. It was crafty, but it was accepted within reason.

It was rare for a duellist to achieve the maximum one hundred and twenty-five points, but it did happen. To do so was to be numbered among the greats, and have your banner hung in the Bannerets’ Hall in pride of place. It was a huge achievement and a lofty dream. Thinking about it made Bryn’s heart race.

On the Master of Arms’s signal, Mistria took the initiative. He danced forward with his quick, light-footed grace, and thrust. Aureo was no slouch. He parried and riposted, but Mistria had already moved back to a safe distance. Bryn felt a tingle run along his spine when he heard the first clash of steel. Excitement coursed through his veins, tempered only by his jealousy that it was them on the arena floor and not him.

B
ryn was still elated later
that evening as he headed to the tavern in Docks to meet with Amero and his former classmates. He had not managed to sleep at all, despite telling Amero to go on ahead and that he would join them later. The duel had energised him and filled him with confidence that he had made the correct career choice. He wanted to take his place amongst the duellists in the arena more than anything.

The Sail and Sword was a dump, but it was an Academy favourite and the tavern keeper generally turned a blind eye to the students’ excesses—and was even known to allow them out the back way in the event of a raid by the City Watch.

Students at the Academy proper were not supposed to be out in the city after ten bells. It was an accommodation reached between the Master of the Academy and the Captain of the City Watch centuries before, due to the danger of having so many trained swordsmen carousing around the city drunk out of their minds as young men were wont to do when at their liberty. It was a concession to nostalgia that the Sail and Sword was the chosen venue that evening.

The others were all there when he arrived, propping up the bar and laughing raucously. Bryn was well known enough to be acknowledged by the tavern keeper when he entered and to have a mug filled for him without having to ask. He walked up to the others and slapped Amero on the back.

‘What are a bunch of upstanding gentlemen like you doing in a place of ill repute such as this?’ he said.

‘Waiting for your sister,’ one of the others said, to a chorus of laughter and baiting.

Caught without a comeback, Bryn nodded, acknowledging his defeat to the smiles of his opponent.

They hadn’t seen each other in several weeks, so the banter continued hard and fast along with rounds of drinks until the early hours. They had each taken a different career path since leaving the Collegium, and it was strange to think that after so many years in each other’s company—they had all entered the Academy together as Under Cadets, what seemed like a lifetime ago—it was unlikely that they would all be together at the same time again.

Two had joined the army, and one was due to leave Ostenheim the following week to continue his studies at the Academy in Humberland, on the other side of the Middle Sea. The conversation turned to what Bryn was doing.

‘I’m training for the arena,’ he said, wishing he had at least one duel under his belt at that point. It wouldn’t seem real until he had. ‘So’s Amero here. Hopefully it’ll keep him from mischief.’

One of the others, Barago, laughed. ‘I thought after the Academy you’d have retired to the family estate to chase the maids and farm girls until your dotage.’

‘I thought you’d have realised swordplay wasn’t for you and answered your true calling as a rent boy,’ Amero said.

They all fell silent. The banter and ribaldry had been non-stop all night, but it had all been in good humour. There was venom in Amero’s voice now though. The uncomfortable silence continued until Bryn broke it.

‘Well, I think we’ve all had our fill of booze for one night,’ Bryn said. ‘Perhaps this’s a good point to call a halt.’ He smiled, hoping the tension would diffuse, but his words and friendly manner had little effect.

‘Indeed,’ Amero said. He took a long drink from his mug, slammed it down on the bar and with a mock salute, stumbled out of the tavern.

When he was gone, the others all looked at Bryn. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He’s been acting a bit tetchy ever since he visited home when we graduated. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Just a few too many drinks.’

‘
T
oo flashy
! Too flashy!’ Bautisto shouted. He paced around Bryn and Amero as they sparred, hands on hips and his brow furrowed.

‘Too flashy’ was a phrase that Bryn was hearing all too often, but thankfully it was never directed at him. For Amero, it was not just the result of a bout that mattered. The look of how he got there was just as important to him. Unfortunately, the punishments that his flourishes brought were equally shared.

Bautisto had a distinctive technique; Bryn had noticed it the first time they had sparred. It was the Estranzan style, characterised by economy of movement and precision. There was nothing flashy about it and if he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t particularly interesting to watch. There was no sustainable argument to be made against its effectiveness however, and Bryn could certainly appreciate that. He would take whatever advantage he could with him into the arena.

Amero was of a differing opinion. He had always revelled in the flourishing style of some of the old Ostian masters; sweeping cuts and extremely angled thrusts mingled with spins and twists that when properly executed were a joy to watch. It was something that Amero excelled at, and with their new trainer espousing a different approach he was finding it difficult to adapt—or he was not willing to try.

Amero lowered his sword and stepped back. ‘Who gives a damn if it’s flashy if it works?’

‘I didn’t tell you to stop,’ Bautisto said.

It was the first time Amero had clashed with Bautisto head on and Bryn was curious to see how it turned out.

Amero glared at Bautisto for a moment before taking his guard once more. Bryn was a little surprised that Amero backed down so quickly, but thus far it was difficult to find fault with anything Bautisto had done in their training. They were both greatly improved since they had started working with him; even Amero could not deny this despite their philosophies of swordsmanship running contrary to one another.

‘Good. Continue,’ Bautisto said as he recommenced his slow circling.

Amero came at Bryn with a wide cut that Bryn was easily able to parry. His counter, a quick thrust that was more akin to the Estranzan style than the Ostian one failed to find its way through. So the exchange continued.

‘Cardolo,’ Bautisto said without breaking step.

At first Bryn couldn’t work out what Bautisto meant. Cardolo was one of the Estranzan fencing masters, one that Bautisto had him studying.

Amero came at him again with a sweeping cut, one of his favourite attacks and one that he always executed to perfection. Bryn parried with one of Cardolo’s favoured guards and countered with the appropriate thrust. A touch.

Bautisto stopped walking. ‘I think that will be all for today.’