Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (10 page)

So he had gone out, but hadn't taken the kind of long, arduous hikes he
would
have done, had he been conditioning himself at home. Not that he was weak and shaky; he'd been putting himself through a course of physical exercise since that first hour of getting himself out of bed and looking out the window. He knew, far better than the Healers did, what he was and was not capable of, and he knew very well that he was still young enough that his body would respond to being pushed to the limit by increasing where that limit stood. So at this moment he was as fit as he had ever been, if a bit thinner and paler.

As it turned out, it was a very good thing that he was.

Jadus led him through the gardens to a long, low building set off by itself. He had very little attention to spare for what were probably quite lovely gardens, once he realized just what that building
was.

There was really no mistaking it, not when he saw the practice field laid out beside it, with archery targets, pells, and other equipment.
Then
the lack of ordinary windows, and the placement of clerestory windows instead, made sense.

This was a salle, a building devoted to the teaching and practice of arms. The kind of building that had been home to him for longer than any actual “home”—three years in the little hut he'd shared with his mother, then the rest of the time in the little inn where she worked as a serving girl and cook's helper.

Indeed, he must have spent half his life in a similar building. As a cadet, he had divided all of his waking hours among formal classes, reading and studying on his own, and weaponswork. He had never really taken any time for the recreation that the others did. As a low-born bastard, he was not the social equal of
any
of the others in his year, and he had figured out quite early that if he excelled in fighting, no one would bother him. He had already had a certain advantage in knowing all the dirty tricks he could pick up in the alleys and stables; it wasn't long before the rest of the cadets knew better than to pick on him. And while no one was particularly friendly with him, they treated him with respect. Two of the weapons instructors, seeing his diligence, actually unbent enough to act as his mentors. It wasn't exactly paternal, since they were still very strict with him, but friendly, in a distant fashion, and certainly encouraging. When it came down to it, probably he'd spent the best times of his cadet period in the salle. . . .

There was a line of solemn-faced children in gray uniforms practicing archery under the supervision of an older boy. He clearly knew what he was doing, Alberich noted with approval—correcting the stance of one, the grip of another, the aim of a third. But he hadn't been brought here to watch them; Jadus led him into the building itself without a pause. It was of a pattern with every other salle that he had ever been inside, from the sanded wooden floors to the mirrored wall to the clerestory windows above. It was superior to the salle he had been trained in, for the mirrors were silvered glass rather than polished metal. But the furnishings were exactly the same: dented and chipped wooden benches and storage boxes that doubled as seating. Practice armor, of padded leather, hung on the wall; racks of wooden blades were beside the armor. Even the smell was the same: clean sweat, leather, leather oil, a hint of sawdust.

The salle was empty except for a single Herald, an old, gray-haired man, slightly twisted and with swollen, arthritic joints. He sat on a bench with some of the padded armor over his legs, a threaded leather needle in his hand, and looked up as they entered.

“Jadus,” he acknowledged. “That's the new one?”

“Weaponsmaster Dethor,” Jadus nodded. “This is Herald-trainee Alberich, Chosen of Kantor.”

“Kantor, hmm? Sensible lad, that one; can't see
him
making a mistake. Well, Jadus, what did you have in mind besides the usual?” The Weaponsmaster stood up, and Alberich winced inwardly. The man was in pain—hiding it, but clear enough to Alberich's eyes. He'd seen this before, in men who'd fought too many fights. The joints would only take so much damage; too much, and as the years set in and the pains of old age crept on, all the places that had been abused would suddenly become doubly painful, swelling until it hurt to move even a little.

“Since he was a Captain of the Karsite light cavalry, I did have a notion about him. Test him, and we'll both see if I'm right,” was the enigmatic reply. “Isn't Kimel about? He's usually here this time of day.”

Instead of answering directly, the old man barked, “Kimel! Need your arm out here!”

Alberich expected another Herald, but instead what appeared from a door at the back of the room was a man in a midnight-blue uniform, similar to the Heralds' in cut, but trimmed in silver. “I was about to go back to the barracks, Weaponsmaster,” the man said. “Unless you've found someone to bout with me after all?”

The old man jerked his chin at Alberich. “Don't know. Need this one tested. Jadus seems to think—Well, just arm up, and we'll see.”

The man glanced at Alberich, then did a double-take, eyes widening. Alberich braced himself for a negative reaction, but the man showed nothing. “Interesting to see which rumor is true, sir,” was all the man said, and motioned to Alberich. “If you would suit up and—”

“Standard sword and shield, first,” the Weaponsmaster directed, and put his mending aside, his eyes narrowed and attentive in a lean, lined, hard face. Alberich might look just like him one day. He hoped he would not have the swollen joints to match. . . .

He pushed that thought aside and selected leather practice armor and a wooden sword. There was more of the former to choose from than he'd thought; evidently, this man Kimel wasn't the only adult coming out here to practice. The wooden swords and shields were much of a muchness, nothing to choose among them except for weight, and Alberich picked ones that were the most comfortable for him.

Then he walked warily to the center of the room to face his opponent.

Alberich then went through the most exhausting weapons session he'd had since he'd graduated from cadet training. It began with sword and shield, progressing through every other practice weapon stored in the salle and their corresponding styles. Then, as he waited to see what else the old man wanted him to do, the Herald directed Jadus to lock the doors.

Alberich was sweating like a horse at this point, a bit tired, but by no means exhausted, and he gave the Weaponsmaster a startled glance.

“Live steel next,” the old Herald said shortly, in answer to the unspoken question. “I don't want some idiot child wandering in here with live steel out and two real fighters having at each other.”

“Ah.” Alberich was perfectly satisfied with that answer; the Weaponsmaster was right. If mere untutored children had access to the salle, and he assumed they must (since having a Weaponsmaster implied that all of the young Trainees got some sort of weapons training), there was
always
the chance that one would blunder into the place at the worst possible time. Even in a bout rather than a real fight, he knew his concentration was focused, and he wouldn't necessarily notice anything but his opponent until it was too late. He followed Kimel to the cabinets on the wall and took out real armor and real weapons.

Working with live steel always gave him an extra—the pun was inevitable—edge. His awareness went up a degree, and everything seemed just that much clearer and sharper. Even his reflexes seemed to improve. He suited up, took the rapier in his hand, and faced his opponent with energy renewed.

He assumed that he was expected to pull his blows when necessary, and given the way that the bouts had gone so far, he knew it was going to be necessary. Kimel was good; very, very good in fact. Alberich was better. And Kimel was tiring faster. He wasn't going to be able to ward off everything that Alberich could throw at him.

And he didn't. Alberich had chosen the rapier for that reason; the lightest of the “real” swords, it was the easiest to “pull” when a blow actually fell instead of being countered.

The Weaponsmaster called a halt to the bouting when Kimel was clearly on his last legs. “That enough practice for you, my lad?” he asked, a certain ironic amusement in his voice.

The young man pulled off his helm, showing that his dark hair had gone black with his sweat. “Enough, Weaponsmaster,” he admitted. “No matter what else you do,
please
make sure this fellow has a candlemark or so free every couple of days so I have someone to bout with from now on. I'm getting soft, and by the Havens, it shows.” He actually smiled briefly at Alberich.

“I'll do that,” the old man said with immense satisfaction. “It's about time I found someone to put you on your mettle.” He turned to Alberich as the young man dragged himself toward the storage lockers to divest himself of his armor. “Well!” he barked. “Are
you
too tired for more work?”

Whatever was in this man's mind, Alberich was determined not to disappoint him. “No,” he said shortly, then added, “sir.”

“Good. Jadus, you can unlock the door. Trainee, we'll see how you are with distance weapons.”

Ah.
Alberich was already impressed with this Weaponsmaster; he had to assume the man had trained Kimel, and Kimel was
good.
Not quite as good as Alberich, but then his own Weaponsmasters had trained many boys that were good, but few as dedicated to their craft as Alberich. There were those that were naturals at the art of war, and Alberich was one of them—but being naturally good at something only took one
to
a certain point. It was dedication and practice that took one beyond that point. Or, as his own Weaponsmaster had said, “Genius will only take you to ‘good.'
Practice
will take you to ‘Master.'”

Now, this Dethor was a Master; it showed not only in that he had trained Kimel, but
how
he was testing Alberich's level of stamina, strength, and expertise. The point here was that the Weaponsmaster had waited until Alberich was tired to test him at distance weapons, when his aim might be compromised by arms that shook with weariness, and eyes blurred with exhaustion.
Clever. Very clever.

Now, under the curious eyes of the youngsters as well as the critical eye of the old man, Alberich showed his mettle—with the longbow, with the shorter horse-bow, then finally with spear, javelin, ax, sling, and knife. He always hit the target—not always in the black, but he always hit the target. By now he had an audience of wide-eyed youngsters, ranging in age from child to young adult. It wasn't likely that they were in awe of his targeting skills; it wasn't as if he was putting missile after missile into the same spot. Presumably they were dazzled because they had never seen one man use so many different distance weapons before.

:You're enjoying yourself,:
Kantor remarked with pleasure, and to his surprise, Alberich realized that the Companion was right.

:This—is what I do well,:
he admitted.
:I am not ashamed of doing it well.:

:Did I suggest you should be?:
Kantor retorted.
:You are what you are: a warrior. Some
must
be warriors, that others may live in peace. You do not enjoy killing, but you are proud of your skill. I see no difficulty with this.:
A thoughtful pause.
:Better that you should be proud of your skill. When need drives, you cannot hold back.:

Sensible. Quite sensible. He placed a final knife in the center of the target, and turned to Jadus and Dethor. Jadus was looking at Dethor with an expression of expectation.

Dethor was looking at Alberich. “Right,” he said. “Karsite. What's the job of a Weaponsmaster?”

“So that those he teaches, killed or injured are not,” Alberich said instantly. And bluntly. “However, whatever works, so that learn, they do, and well. Shouts, scolds, b—” He paused. “Not beating, perhaps.
Some
times, gentle. Not often. Out in the world, there will no gentleness be. Better harshness to see here, and live, than softness, and die.”

“Na, these're none of your Karsite thugs. No beatings.

But all else, aye, and treat 'em gentle only when they're little, scared sparrows. Gentle pats and cosseting—that's for them as will never need to fight for life.” He turned a somewhat grim smile on Jadus, and the eyes of the children—the Trainees—were getting round and apprehensive. “Right. By the Havens, I've got one now, and who'd have thought it'd be soft-handed peace-minded Jadus who'd be the one to find him,
realize
what he was good for, and bring him to me?”

Alberich was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea of what was up, and the Weaponsmaster's next words clinched it. Dethor turned to him. “Trainee Alberich, you're on notice. There'll be no riding circuit for you, and no riding internship. You'll be interning, starting now, with me, as the next Weaponsmaster. Call it—well, it's no apprenticeship, for you're nothing like an apprentice. Call it whatever you like; you're going to be a Trainee in name only.”

“But—the classes—” he managed, as the children looked even more apprehensive, if that was possible.

Dethor flapped his hand, dismissing the entire curriculum of the Collegium as inconsequential. “Oh, you'll take 'em. You see to it, Jadus, but no more than three classes in a day, and I'd prefer one or two rather than three. And no housekeeping chores and no dormitory for him either—we'll have him out here, in my quarters, and he can start doing what I can't anymore. Kernos' bones, what you thought you'd be doing, putting a grown man in amongst a lot of boys, anyway—”

“It's been done before,” Jadus ventured.

Dethor just snorted, and looked Alberich pointedly up and down—then at the children, who had put a careful space between himself and them.