by A. C. Cobble
The Blademaster’s Baby was, shockingly, a clean place. The food smelled decent, and the ale wasn’t soured. When they entered, Ben paused to admire a team of harried-looking women keeping the common room constantly swept out.
Rhys glanced at Towaal and winked. “I have learned a few things in my years.”
The mage grunted. She appeared to still be dubious about any inn the rogue would lead them to, but she didn’t complain when the innkeeper began describing the clean beds, hot baths, and fresh food.
The next thing Ben noticed about the place was that it was filled with blademasters, more of the sigil-wearing men and women than he had ever seen in one location before. He couldn’t decide if it was odd they were in a place named the Blademaster’s Baby or if it made sense.
“College of the sword,” remarked Rhys after they’d settled in. “Must be tutors there.”
“What is the college of the sword?” asked Ben, his eyes fixed on a table of men. They wore dark cloaks, which were certainly practical in Venmoor. They had steel grey tunics, black boots, and black belts with black gloves tucked into them. He couldn’t help but mentioning, “They look to be a cheerful bunch.”
“For a fee, the college will teach you how to use a sword,” explained Rhys. “In Venmoor, it’s not a small fee because Venmoor has the most prestigious college in Alcott. As well as the locals, they attract a lot of the highborn sons from Whitehall, the City, and Northport.”
“Half the highborn men in Whitehall have spent a few months here,” added Amelie.
Rhys nodded. “It’s a right of passage for young highborn boys, making a tour of the famous colleges. It’s supposed to make them better rounded swordsmen. They spend time training intensively under different masters, or at least that’s what they tell their wealthy parents. Most of the younglings I’ve encountered at the colleges spend their time drinking. Like me, I guess. But everyone knows Venmoor’s college has the best blademasters doing the teaching.”
“If they have several blademasters,” stated Ben, “then it must be pretty good. I never realized there were so many blademasters anywhere.”
Rhys snorted. “A blademaster in one of the colleges isn’t like a blademaster you’d find elsewhere. They square off in organized duels. They go to blood, sometimes, but usually it’s just sparring. The purpose of learning the sword is to fight with it, combat. These men treat it like exercise, like they’re jumping horses or some other frivolous pastime of the wealthy.”
Ben frowned, his eyes still on the table of blademasters. Before he’d left Farview, he’d dreamed of meeting a blademaster. Now, he’d met several and even sparred with a few. He found he was still intrigued, though. A sense of adventure was woven into Ben’s being, and the idea of a blademaster embodied that sense.
“You want to get your sigil?” asked Rhys.
Ben blinked.
“I’m not sure we have time for that,” remarked Amelie.
“What’s a sigil?” asked Prem.
“Look at their scabbards,” said Rhys. “See that marking, the leaf and the slash? That’s the blademaster sigil. They earn it when they defeat another blademaster. It’s a mark of distinction. It lets others know how talented they are.”
“I don’t understand,” said Prem. “My father taught me that when fighting, it is always a good idea to allow your opponent to underestimate you. Alerting them that you are dangerous seems, well, it seems stupid.”
Rhys grinned. “It is. Like I said, these aren’t real fighters or swordsmen. They’re just in the business of it. Look at it this way. Letting an opponent know you’re dangerous is not a good way to win a fight, but it is a good way to win a commission from some highborn.”
“Saala wore his sigil,” challenged Amelie.
“Aye,” agreed Rhys. “It got him a commission from your father, didn’t it?”
Amelie blinked uncertainly.
“If they’re in the business of it,” wondered Ben, “would they go fight for anyone?”
“Like mercenaries?” inquired Rhys.
“Would they?” pressed Ben.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Rhys. “They’re not your typical sellswords like that jackass Ferguson who accompanied us through the Sineook Valley. Here, in the college, they lead a pretty comfortable life. Why risk your life if you don’t have to?”
“We can give them a reason,” said Ben.
“What are you thinking, Ben?” asked Amelie.
“Tomorrow, let’s go to the college of the sword before we see Lord Vonn.”
Ben woke up to the clanging of bells. He sat bolt upright and dashed to the window, the dim light in the room confusing him and flashbacks of Indo running through his head. Slowly, the clanging of bells resolved into the pounding of hammers on metal, and the dim light was due to the thick cloud of soot hanging overhead, obscuring the early morning sun.
He yawned, his jaw cracking, and he stretched, working out the last of the sleep. There was no attack, no reason for alarm, just a bunch of over-eager blacksmiths at work at the crack of dawn. Behind him, Amelie stirred in the bed but didn’t wake.
Ben crossed the room to a bowl of lukewarm water and splashed it on his face. They’d drank the night before. Not heavily, had been the plan. Rhys was never one to stick to a plan, though, and he’d dragged Ben and Amelie along with him.
As more hammers joined the metal chorus, Ben realized with a sinking feeling that his brewing headache wasn’t going away until they left the city. All the more reason to get to it. He buckled on his longsword and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving Amelie slumbering in the bed. When she woke, she’d know where he was.
Two cups of kaf and a breakfast of runny eggs and undercooked bacon later, she’d come down, and they were ready to leave.
“How do you suggest we get the blademasters to listen to us?” asked Rhys.
The rogue was squinting and holding a hand up to his head as they stepped out of the inn. He looked torn between blocking the sunlight from his eyes or the constant clanging from his ears.
Ben grinned. It was possible, that for once, Rhys was more hungover than he was. He replied, “I’ve got a proposal for them.”
“To hire some mercenaries?” asked Rhys. “Hiring more than one or two of them will take all the coin we’ve got. Convincing two of them to stand against a demon army is going to take more guts than I’ve got.”
Ben shook his head. “We’re not going there to hire anyone. I’m going there to enroll.”
Rhys coughed and stumbled.
“You can play my father. Towaal can be my mother. Both proud parents coming to see me off to blademaster school.”
“It’s called a college of the sword,” complained Rhys.
“I don’t look anything like your mother,” retorted Towaal more fervently.
“I take after my father,” quipped Ben.
“You don’t look like me either,” rejoined Rhys.
“My real father,” said Ben with a broad grin.
“Ben,” interrupted Amelie. “What do you hope to accomplish by enrolling in this place? Surely you don’t mean to stay.”
“Of course not,” he agreed.
“Then why enroll?” asked Amelie.
“We need them to listen to us. When we were talking last night, I had an idea. I spoke to one of those blademasters, and I think it will work.”
His friends looked at him expectantly.
“To enroll, there is a test of skill, a sparring match to determine where you stand in the school. I’ll beat them,” declared Ben. “Whoever tests me, I’ll beat them badly enough that we draw the attention of the leaders of the place. I’m sure they’ll want to speak to a student who is better than their teachers. You said you thought I could beat one of them, right, Rhys?”
“It’s risky,” rumbled Rhys. A smile crept onto his face. “But I like it.”
Half a bell later, they stood in front of a massive stone edifice. It rose four stories tall and was elevated above
the street by five wide stairs. Beside the structure was a huge arena, but early in the morning, it was locked and quiet. The college itself was quiet too, just a handful of young men jogging in and out.
“They’ll have admissions at set times of the year except for special cases,” advised Rhys.
“How do you become a special case?” inquired Amelie as they ascended the stairwell.
“You’d best get that coin purse ready,” suggested Rhys.
Amelie grimaced and complained to Ben, “This had better work.”
He smiled back at her, trying to hide his nervousness. They were counting on him to defeat an instructor at one of the most prestigious colleges of the sword in Alcott. Rhys seemed confident he could do it, but it was a risk. There was a very real possibility that the day would end in embarrassment for Ben. If he failed, getting the blademasters to listen to them would become much more difficult. He rolled his neck, stretching the muscles and, he hoped, helping to clear the dull ache at the back of his skull.
At the top of the stairs, they found a colonnade that ran along the front of the building. Underneath was a series of nondescript doors. A handful of people rushed in and out, but they didn’t see an obvious main entrance anywhere. Ben caught the arm of one of the young men who was heading in.
“Admissions?” he asked.
The boy eyed Ben distastefully and advised, “South end. Big open gate. Has a sign out front. It’s labeled ‘admissions’. Try there.”
Ben chose to ignore the boy’s unfriendly tone and led his friends to the south end of the building. There, as the boy suggested, they found an open gate with a small office next to it. Inside, a clerk was sitting at a desk, looking bored. Over and over, he’d flip a small dagger. He watched the little blade spin. Then, he would snag it out of the air by the hilt. It was the kind of game you could become very adept at if you spent bell after bell, day after day, with nothing to do.
“I’m here to enroll,” declared Ben.
The man caught the dagger one more time and laid it on the desk.
“Fall enrollment closed four weeks ago,” drawled the clerk, eyeing Ben up and down and then turning his gaze to Amelie and Prem. Without looking back at Ben, he continued, “Winter enrollment won’t start for another two months.”
“I’d like a special enrollment,” said Ben, suddenly nervous that a special enrollment didn’t actually exist.
The man behind the desk sighed dramatically. “The fee is double if you do that.”
“I understand,” agreed Ben. “I’ve come a long way to be here. I’m told it’s worth it.”
The man yawned and then continued, “There’s a test to see which class you’re appropriate for.”
“Of course,” responded Ben.
“First month’s tuition is due before I administer the test,” claimed the man.
Ben glanced at Amelie and Towaal. Towaal frowned but dumped out a handful of coins. The man held up five fingers, and Towaal passed him five shinning, gold discs.
The man barely glanced at the remainder in the pouch, which was still a lot more coin than Ben had ever seen before he’d left Farview. He supposed that at a place like this, the man was used to highborn coming in and throwing around extra coin to get what they desired. Compared to Reinhold’s wealth, for example, what Amelie and Towaal carried in their pouches was a rounding error.
The man stood, and Ben was surprised to see how graceful the motion was. He was tall, too, a hand taller than Ben. The man slipped the metal discs into a lockbox and then opened a wardrobe at the back of the office. Ben saw it was filled with wooden practice swords.
“You know what type of blade you prefer?” asked the clerk. No, more than a clerk, Ben saw. This man didn’t merely collect the coins.
“Longsword,” answered Ben.
“I’m a student,” he said, his back to Ben. “I work this desk instead of paying tuition. That’s what you were wondering, isn’t it?”
The man turned and tossed Ben a wooden blade. It was chipped from use, but it felt sturdy in his hands. Ben shifted his grip, testing the weapon. He thought it was a bit light and weighted more toward the hilt than he’d prefer, but it’d get the job done.
They walked outside the small office, and the man led them a dozen steps to a wide, flagstone courtyard. It was surrounded by four stories of walkways that were filled with young men and a few young women. None of them were paying attention to what happened in the courtyard, but Ben saw everything that happened would be within view of plenty of people. He smiled to himself and glanced apologetically at the man. It turned out that for a clerk, he wasn’t such a bad sort. It was unfortunate he needed to serve as a demonstration of Ben’s skill.
“Just do your best,” suggested the man. “No one is a blademaster on the first day. This is merely an assessment to determine which class you should be in.”
“Are you a blademaster?” Ben asked.
The man chuckled. “Of course not. Ready?”
Ben discarded his cloak and actual sword and nodded at the man.
“Good luck,” whispered Amelie.
The clerk closed quickly, jabbing a thrust meant to test Ben’s quickness or maybe to test whether Ben could fall into the standard forms of defense. He didn’t bother. Instead, Ben surged forward to meet the clerk’s charge. He feinted and slashed.
The man, likely used to timid students who were nervous about proving themselves, threw his weapon up in defense, but he was too late, moving a heartbeat behind Ben. Ben’s sword smashed into the side of the clerk’s and the momentum carried it through to crack against the man’s head. The clerk gave a startled squawk and awareness flickered out of his eyes. He flopped onto the flagstones, unconscious.
Ben stood by him, holding his practice sword confidently. At first, no one said anything. Then, a murmur of conversation started on the walkways above them. Ben glanced around the courtyard, but no one was nearby. He knelt beside the unconscious clerk and looked at the angry red welt on the side of his head. He hoped he hadn’t cracked the man’s skull, but he’d needed enough force behind the blow to leave him unconscious.
Around him, he heard stunned cries as people started to understand what had happened. In short time, a trio of well-dressed men came bustling out.
“What is the meaning of this?” the first one demanded. He had thinning black hair and a sprout of silver-sprinkled beard jutting from his chin. It was oiled into a sharp point. He wore baggy clothing, but Ben could see he moved confidently underneath it.
“I’m here for a special enrollment,” explained Ben. “This man was testing me, but I’m afraid he’s been knocked out.”
The silver-bearded man blinked at Ben before asking incredulously, “What?”
A young woman, a student by Ben’s guess, skittered closer.
“Master Velt, what he says is true,” she said. “I watched it happen. This boy took one swing, and Joshua went down.”
One of the other well-dressed men was kneeling beside the clerk, Joshua.
“He’s out cold, but nothing appears to be broken,” said the man. He chuckled. “I don’t envy the headache he’ll have when he wakes.”
“Or the tongue-lashing Reginald is going to give him,” barked the third man, mirth lacing his voice. “Knocked out by an incoming candidate. I don’t think I’ve seen the like.”
The first man directed the student to run and find one of the physics to drag off Joshua. Ben guessed they had plenty of those around.
“So, ah, how do I know which class I’m assigned to?” asked Ben.
The silver-bearded man turned and asked, “You have experience with the sword?”
“Some,” responded Ben, hoping to be unhelpful.
“Well,” huffed the man. “Our freshman class may be suitable for you.”
“What was Joshua?” inquired Ben innocently. “Was he a freshman?”
“He’s got a point, Velt,” claimed the third man. “If he can lay out a sophomore with one stroke, then he
’s no freshman.”
Master Velt sighed and glanced around the courtyard. The space was filling quickly as students, curious as to why the masters were hovering over an unconscious body, came to see what was happening.
“You!” barked Velt, pointed at a heavily muscled young man. “Spar with the candidate. I’ll watch and assess his skill.”
The young man stepped forward, brushing a lock of blond hair back from his eyes. Ben briefly wondered why he kept it so long in the first place. It seemed a terrible idea. He grinned when he heard Amelie muttering the same under her breath. The blond man took Ben’s smile as an affront, though, and his chest puffed out.
“A longsword, eh?” he remarked coolly, stooping to collect Joshua’s fallen blade. “A commoner’s weapon but one we must learn, I suppose.”
“It is common,” growled Velt. “The most common weapon in Alcott.”
“So we’ve been told,” replied the blond man airily.
He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to a girl in the crowd. She flushed, appearing uncertain if she should be pleased he chose her or offended.
“Are you a freshman or a sophomore?” asked Ben.
“A senior,” scoffed the blond man.
His arms were chiseled like they’d been fashioned out of stone. His neck was so thick that he reminded Ben of a bull. Strong, quick to anger, and dumb as a rock. Ben heard Rhys guffawing behind him.
“This will be easier than we thought,” whispered the rogue.
“Are you ready?” Ben asked the blond man.
“I ask the questions, candidate,” he snarled.
He advanced quickly, assuming an aggressive stance that Ben swore he recognized from Whitehall’s guards. The man was big and clearly strong. He probably used his strength to bully the other trainees around the yard. If they were quick, they’d get in a strike here and there, but on the practice field, a man his size could take a few blows and keep coming. Ben decided to stop him quickly, and he felt a lot less guilty about it than the clerk earlier.