Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor

by Mercedes Lackey

“At any rate, you won’t be seeing nearly as much of me, Alberich,” Jadus continued, “You’ve got another guide coming, a fellow called Elcarth, a bit of a scholar. You see, we reckoned he’d be the best one to help you over some of the classes I’m hopeless at. I’m to bring him around to meet you in the morning.”

  :Which really means, what?: he asked Kantor. :What isn’t he telling me?:

  :That you aren’t everyone’s favorite Trainee,: Kantor replied promptly. :Elcarth is in line to become the Dean—that’s the head—of the Collegium within the next ten years or so. He doesn’t look like much, but he’s as sharp as a poniard, and nothing gets past him. If he approves of you, no one is going to openly contest your being here.: Kantor paused, and Alberich “felt” him ruminating. :Our Kings and Queens, you see, don’t rule so much as reign, and not at all autocratically. King Sendar will probably have trouble over you with his Council for some time to come. But Elcarth—well. Elcarth comes from one of the most powerful families in the land, and he has a reputation for sharpness, as I told you. The Dean has a traditional place on the Council, but Elcarth is the one who’s actually taking the seat for the Dean in absentia. That gives us a majority if we need it.:

  Alberich kept his face straight and showed no sign that Kantor had imparted this amazing information to him, but he had a very hard time doing so. The Priests of Vkandis had things so completely under their hands and wills that he couldn’t imagine a ruler who didn’t rule completely. Oh, of course, there was a King in Karse, too, but he was no more than an impotent figure who didn’t rule so much as preside over a gaggle of wealthy aristocrats and would-be aristocrats with nothing better to do with their time than vie for position in a do-nothing Court that was little better than an elaborate social club. It was the Son of the Sun who held the real reins of power, and behind him, so far as Alberich knew, ranged the solid phalanx of the Sunpriests, who fulfilled the Son of the Sun’s orders with nary a murmur of discontent.

  Then again, what do I know of what goes on behind the closed doors of the Temple? It might be the same there. Really, the most astonishing thing might not be so much that there was contention in the King’s court, but that ordinary people seemed to know about it. That would be unheard of in Karse.

  So much had happened to him in a few short marks. This morning he had been quite willing to walk out of here forever; now he wasn’t merely a Trainee, he had a real position here. It felt a bit dreamlike, as if days had passed in the course of the morning. He had gone straight into the life of this place without a pause for breath. That wasn’t like him. It made no sense. There was only one way to account for it. That blasted Kantor.

  :Me?: his (his!) Companion replied, oozing innocence. :Don’t go laying your so-called conversion at my doorstep. I gave you every opportunity to escape. I even had Talamir tell you the great secret—that you could have shaken our bonding loose if you really decided you couldn’t bear this life. How many people have been told that in the course of our history?:

  :How should I know?: Alberich asked rhetorically.

  :I was about to tell you. No more than a dozen, that’s what. You’re here now—:

  :Because you laid a trap for me, you and your precious Heralds, and baited it with the one thing I’d find irresistible.:

  “Then that leaves him free, this afternoon?” Dethor asked, gesturing with a slice of buttered bread. “Good. We’ll start you in as my assistant right now, Alberich. Get the youngsters used to seeing you as my assistant first before they start hearing rumors about the evil Karsite Trainee.”

  Alberich nodded. Well, what else was he to do? He knew it was going to happen—the “evil Karsite Trainee” business. How could it not? If the situations were reversed . . .

  Not that they could be. The first sight of a white uniform, and the wearer of that uniform would find himself the object of target practice. Thoughtfully, he bit off a hangnail.

  “The difference, I see not,” he offered. “The Weaponsmaster, if good he be, always hated is.”

  Dethor smiled wickedly. “Better to have ’em hating you as the tyrannical Weapons Second, the brutal taskmaster. That way there’ll be no room in those rattling little skulls for the evil Karsite Trainee.” He finished his bread in a way that suggested the devouring of small children.

  Alberich smiled, just a little. The Weaponsmaster was absolutely right, of course. Children—and, to be fair, a great many adults—were apt to label people and stick with the first label they’d come up with. “A brutal taskmaster, I surely will be, as ever,” he replied, with a touch of grim humor. “My recruits, ask.”

  Dethor rubbed his hands together. “I’ll keep the small ones, but you—ah! You, I intend to unleash on the older ones. I’ve been easy on ’em—too damned easy, tell the truth. I can’t bout ’em anymore, and there’s never anyone here consistently that can give ’em proper workouts. And—oh, glory!—you’ve fought real fights. None of this court fencing, oh no! That’s the trouble with the teachers the highborn have; they learn to duel, to do fancy court fighting, but not how to fight. Plenty of Heralds do, of course, most of ’em trained by me, but they’re needed out there, and can’t be spared.” He shook his head reluctantly. “And, truth to tell, it takes more than knowing how to fight to make a Weaponsmaster.”

  Kantor put in a few words of his own. :The “older ones,” the best fighters among them, anyway, have been getting above themselves lately. We have a flock of them that are one, maybe two years from getting their Whites that were almost all out of the highborn, noble families. Before they were Chosen, they got private swordsmanship lessons, and those continued even after. They think they’re masters of the sword now because they’re so much better than the rest of the Trainees; Dethor can’t give them the sort of workout they need to show them that they aren’t.:

  Alberich knew exactly what Kantor meant, and was beginning to warm to his new task. And as for Dethor, well, it was clear that he was doing more than merely “warm” to the task. He bordered on gleeful.

  Alberich caught some of his spirit. It wasn’t malicious, but there was a certain edge that suggested that there were a couple of these adolescent Heralds-in-training who were due for a comeuppance. Thought themselves immortal and invincible, and it would have to get pounded into their skulls that they weren’t. The usual adolescent hubris, of course. Over and over, they came into the Sunsguard, sure of their skill, and thinking only of glory and fame. Time after time, if they did-n’t learn that war against bandits was dirty, perilous, and inglorious, they got their fame by having their names inscribed on the Tablets of the Fallen in the Great Temple. At least none of these youngsters would be looking to make a name for himself by taking their officer out in a practice bout—or worse. Worse was an ambitious and unscrupulous recruit who was hoping to advance himself by removing the obstacle that Alberich represented. Or to do the same, at the behest of one of Alberich’s under-officers.

  “That sort, I have seen,” he said shortly, and left it at that.

  But he did get a bit of a shock when they finished their meal—a relatively light one, appropriate for two men who would be doing very physical work, shortly—and he followed Dethor out into the salle again. Of the six adolescents choosing practice weapons or limbering up, two were female.

  Girls! True, one of the Heralds that had first found him had been a woman—he vaguely recalled that now—but it hadn’t really occurred to him intellectually, even though Kantor had reminded him of that fact, that he would be teaching girls. Females just didn’t put themselves forward. Not in Karse, anyway. Females had very clearly defined roles in Karse, which did not include being fighters.

  :Don’t hold back with them,: Kantor said instantly. :You won’t be doing them any favors.: And when he still hesitated, Kantor added sharply, :There are barbarians in the North, pirates and slavers in the West, and bandits in the South. And they will probably face all three before they’re middle-aged, if they live that long. It will be one woman and one Companion out t
here, alone, and you have to prepare them for that.:

  :Yes, I do see that.: It made him feel a little sick, but Kantor was right; they were Trainees, they would be Heralds, and he would do them no favors at all by going easy with them.

  In fact, he might well kill them. Or worse. There was always the probability of an “or worse.” It was a simple fact that the probability was higher for a female.

  :Or both,: Kantor added grimly. :They can’t be as strong as the boys; you’ll have to give them skill to make up for that. If anything, the girls will need your skills more than the boys.:

  “Well, Trainees, I have a little surprise for you,” Dethor said cheerfully. He gestured at Alberich, who lingered near the door. “This is my new Second—and from now on, he’ll be putting you through your paces, while I watch.”

  Alberich had no difficulty in keeping his face expressionless. This was no different than facing a line of new recruits. Even the ages weren’t that dissimilar; he guessed these youngsters to be between sixteen and eighteen years of age. He’d had recruits that young, although, since he’d been in the mounted troops, they’d all come from some background where they’d been riding since they could walk. And, mostly, the cavalry came from recruits rather than conscripts. He supposed Trainees probably fell under the same banner as recruits; surely he was the only Trainee who had ever felt as if he’d been conscripted against his will.

  :Not exactly the only one, but very nearly,; Kantor said.

  In their turn, they eyed him without any shame. Mostly with curiosity, although two of the boys had challenge in their eyes. Well, they’d soon see what he was made of. They were the two oldest, he guessed. Definitely the two tallest. One very dark, muscular, and blocky, the other half a head taller, with brown hair and knowing eyes. Of the other four, the girls were a pretty creature, blue-eyed, with a smooth cap of brown hair cut no longer than her earlobes, and a smaller, lighter girl with blue eyes, a generous mouth, and blond hair done in a knot on the top of her head. The boys were both brown-haired, one of medium height and one short, both with grave faces.

  But it was the first two that held Alberich’s attention.

  :Just as you thought, those are two of your problem children. Mind, all you need to do is disillusion them. They’ve got good hearts, they’re just, well—:

  :Arrogant in some ways, because they’re ignorant and don’t know it,: he supplied.

  :Exactly. I can tell you that they are currently the despair of their Companions. Nothing Trevor and Mik can say shakes them out of their conviction that they are never going to find themselves in trouble that they can’t come out of, covered in glory.:

  At least he wouldn’t have the problem with these boys that he often had with recruits—bad attitude, bad breeding, either spoiled by indulgent parents and thinking that everything should be given to them, or beaten as youngsters, figuring it was every man for himself. Too many of the Sunsguard troops were like that; hardened, with no morals to speak of.

  :Why, Chosen—I believe you are beginning to like your decision to stay with us!: Kantor said with gentle mockery.

  Alberich ignored him.

  “I Alberich am,” he said gravely, and waited for Dethor to give him his direction. Dethor, after all, was the Weaponsmaster here; it was Dethor who should set the lessons, and Alberich who should carry them out.

  He didn’t notice any reaction to his name, which was nothing like a Valdemaran name, or at least, so he supposed.

  “It is the new Weapons Second I am,” he continued, meeting their eyes, each in turn. “Chosen by Master Dethor. Himself. Who now, direct us will.”

  Dethor quickly divided the group into pairs and set them working with each other. Interestingly, he paired the girls, not with each other, but with two of the brown-haired boys. The last two—the boys Alberich had marked as being a possible source of trouble—Dethor motioned to join Alberich.

  “Sword and shield, and make them work, Alberich,” he said shortly. “These lads are ahead of the rest by a bit; treat them as trained, because they are. They can go two-on-one against you.”

  The boys exchanged a look; the darker, more muscular one with a touch of smug glee, the other, (the one who was taller, less blocky, and brown-haired) with a look of dawning misgiving, which was replaced by anticipation when he saw the expression on his friend’s face. His friend was wildly optimistic about their chances, and he had come to trust his friend’s judgment.

  Alberich knew that look of old. Overconfidence, poor young fools, because they were large dogs in a pack of small dogs, and had never been shown any better. They thought that they were the kings of the world, and immortal. An attitude like that would get them killed—

  Unless Dethor and I can knock some better sense into their heads.

  “Sir,” Alberich acknowledged, and picked up a practice sword and shield from the piles at the side of the salle, while the boys did the same. They looked cocky. Alberich figured that they must have had sword training from the time they were barely old enough to hold a practice sword and shield. Five or six, maybe. From families of wealth or the nobility, he figured these were part of that “flock” of youngsters that Kantor had described; they had that particular healthy, confident, well-fed look that only being well-nourished from infancy imparted. Maybe only someone who as a child had never been certain whether there would be a next meal would have noticed the difference, but Alberich had learned early which were the well-fed children (and thus, dangerous, for they could bully him with impunity) and which the starvelings like himself (which he could defend himself against without fear of retribution).

  “Standard or—special, sir?” he asked Dethor, when the boys had finished arming themselves. He had not bothered with padding, arm- or shin-guards, or even a helmet; they had prudently taken advantage of all of these. At least that showed some sense of self-preservation. They were shortly going to be very glad of every bit of that protection.

  “Oh, special, Second,” Dethor replied airily—and he must have known or guessed just what Alberich meant by “special.” “Tammas and Jahan have had plenty of standard training. I believe it’s time they learned what real field fighting is like.”

  “Sir,” Alberich replied, and without a pause, whirled and laid into the nearest.

  He didn’t go at them as if this was a pitched battle, because he’d have taken them both out in moments. They’d been expecting the usual polite exchange of salutes, followed by a measured opening to the bout—not an attack right out of nowhere, with no warning, and that had been enough of a shock for them; he didn’t need to go after them full-out.

  And the way they reacted was telling; they both stood their ground, but neither close enough to defend each other, nor far enough apart to make him work harder to reach both of them. They might think they were trained, but they weren’t, not really. So Alberich knocked the first one’s shield aside with a brutal blow that nearly knocked it from his arm, without regard for “lines” and the “rules” of swordplay. He followed it up by ramming the boy with his own shield. The lad stumbled backward, and before his friend could come to the rescue, Alberich sidestepped, made a wide, low sweep with the flat of his practice blade, and knocked his legs right out from under him. It was a good thing the boy was wearing shin-guards—though he couldn’t have been expecting the low blow, or he’d have guarded against it.

  He turned back toward the first as the second scrambled to his feet. Once again, Alberich rushed the boy, this time herding him toward his friend with a flurry of blows. Predictably, they got tangled up with each other, and he backed off to let them sort themselves out, though the next time he did this, he wouldn’t give them the respite. Then he simply chased them around the salle for a full circuit of the place, using all the dirty tactics he knew, and hitting them just hard enough that they would have bruises to show for it, even under the padding and protection. He made their ears ring a time or two as well, with unexpected blows to the helm. Neither of them, of course, got so
much as a love tap on him. He hadn’t bothered with a helm, because he wanted to be able to see them easily; he trusted to his reflexes to keep him out of trouble. Oddly enough, he would have worn the helm and padding had they been utterly untrained, for there would be no predicting what they would do. Part of their problem now was that they were rather too well-trained. If they were going to come up against lads who’d been trained by fighting and killing, instead of by self-styled Masters of the Sword or fellows with equally fancy titles, they were going to have to unlearn some of what was now ingrained. Good habits—if all you were doing was fighting other gentlemen. But very bad if you were going out to kill brigands.

  By this time he was just feeling warmed up, and beginning to enjoy himself. Not a chance that they could even get a tap on him; not only because he was a far better fighter, but because they were so shocked by his tactics that they couldn’t think. They were shocked, the patterns they knew were all disrupted, and they hadn’t yet seen that what appeared to be random attacks had patterns of their own, more primitive and brutal, but the patterns were there.

  Not that fighting—in the frontline, basic, dirty fighting—had much to do with thinking. It was all muscle memory at that point, because before a mark was up, you’d be so tired that it had better be your muscles that remembered what to do—your mind would be numb with fatigue and no longer working properly. But what Alberich was doing was what any good bandit fighter would do, two-against-one. He certainly wouldn’t stand in one place and slug it out, nor would he move forward and back in a single, straight line.

  The other Trainees stopped their practice and watched him chase his two victims around the perimeter of the salle. They watched with their mouths hanging open in amazement, and no little shock and surprise. Dethor didn’t make them go back to trading blows, so Alberich concluded that this, and not what they’d been assigned to do, was the real lesson today.

  Good. Let them think about it. Not now—they were as shocked as his two victims—but they would remember, and talk about this in their rooms together, later. If they were smart enough, they would learn from what they watched now, and the next pair he chased around the salle would be better prepared for what he was going to do to them.