There were two names on the list for that night that Bryn immediately recognised; both held high rankings on the Ladder. The others, though unfamiliar, would have all occupied respectable positions within it and it was beyond doubt that Amero, even with his artificially high position, was the lowliest ranked duellist there that day.
His rank was not going to be the talking point in the audience though; it was his name. His grandfather had been Duke of Ostia. His father was an elector count. He was the heir to one of the twelve most powerful families in Ostia, the closest thing to royalty that the city had.
Bryn realised how much hard work it was going to take him to get to an arena like that. He felt the rumbling of jealousy stir within him again. He took a deep breath and tried to push the thoughts away. He didn’t get to attend duels as often as he liked, so it was a treat to get to spend an evening at such a comfortable arena. The bonus of being part of a competitor’s entourage was that there was no admittance fee, which in that plush arena was extortionately high.
He could feel Amero’s tension from several feet away. There were two small areas where the swordsmen sat in wait for their duels, the opponents being separated. It was in marked contrast to the arena that Bryn had fought in, where he had to wait for his duel in the stands with the rest of the crowd.
The quality of the swordsmanship on display was the other remarkable factor of that small arena. It was exceptional. The first duel was over quickly, the speed and precision with which the swordsmen fought doing good service to the reputation of all that held a sword.
Amero was to fight in the third duel of the evening. Each duel that preceded his had been a model of gentlemanly conduct, a factor that attracted the polite appreciation of the equally genteel crowd. As a child and youth, Bryn had attended the Amphitheatre many times. It was the largest of the arenas in the city and was famed for the heights of passion that the audiences reached. Raucous shouts and jeers occasionally made themselves heard over the general noise of a crowd of tens of thousands and it had an atmosphere so pronounced that it was almost palpable.
The citizens reached such fervour that fights were known to break out within the audience. The most famed swordsmen attracted devoted followings and their legions of fans occasionally boiled over in their enthusiasm to the point of riot.
Here the atmosphere was significantly more subdued. Muted applause with the occasional hushed comment of appreciation was all that a swordsman could expect from a crowd such as this. The contrast amused Bryn. It seemed more like a library than a duelling arena.
Amero’s duel finally came around and he walked from the waiting area out onto the perfectly manicured sand. Between each duel, several men rushed out to rake smooth any of the imperfections that had been caused by the previous fight, ensuring it was pristine for each subsequent match.
Amero’s opponent was called Arno Banda. He had graduated from the Academy five years before they entered, so he was something of an unknown. He was coming into what many would consider the prime years for a swordsman and would have to be taken seriously.
Amero looked incredibly alone as he walked out to the black line in the centre of the arena. Whereas Bryn had been able to fight his first duel in relative anonymity against a swordsman that he knew to be inferior, with no pressure other than his own expectations, Amero carried the weight of his family name out onto the sand and every eye in the arena was fixed on him.
Up until that moment, Bryn hadn’t fully considered the effect all that additional pressure must have. He thought of his own nerves in the lead up to his first duel, and he wondered if he wasn’t the luckier of the two. A great many of those in the audience would probably be known to Amero’s family and those that were not would know who he was. This was confirmed by the whispers that Bryn could hear being exchanged among the crowd behind him. None of them were kind. That it was a small arena with only a few dozen spectators must have been little comfort for Amero.
As if all this were not enough of a burden, Amero didn’t have the advantage of crossing blades with an inferior swordsman. His opponent had a solid record and a respectable ranking that was testimony to his ability. He would be a hard challenge and would not give up touches without a fight. Bryn pitied Amero his position.
Amero took his place at the black mark and Banda did the same. The Master of Arms gave his instructions, inaudible to those in the audience and the duellists saluted one another.
‘Ready? Duel!’
Amero danced back several paces quickly, causing Banda’s initial attack to meet nothing but thin air. Undeterred, Banda pressed forward until the blade of his rapier connected with steel. There was a flurry of clashing metal, none of it dictated by Amero. Bryn could feel his heart race and realised that he was holding his breath as he tracked every move Amero’s opponent made, watching for any of the traits that they had identified in training and worked so hard to take advantage of.
Eventually Bryn spotted one; Amero did also. He thrust low, angling his blade up, trying to weave it past his opponent’s defence. Banda was good though; too good to be taken in so quickly. He parried and moved back, allowing Amero to seize the initiative and dictate the next few clashes of blades.
Unable to find a way through, Amero dropped back to catch his breath. He appeared to be fitter than Banda, which was the only advantage that Bryn was able to identify. Giving his opponent any opportunity to rest was a mistake.
Amero lashed forward with sudden speed that Bryn had rarely seen from him, catching Banda still enjoying the breather. He was unable to defend against it, and Amero’s sword struck home on the left side of his chest.
‘Still too bloody flashy,’ Bautisto said, louder than was appropriate for the otherwise subdued environment.
Bryn hoped that Amero was too far away to have heard it.
The duellists both returned to their respective sides of the black mark and took their guard. Amero was visibly more relaxed having scored his first touch, but Bryn was curious to see how his opponent reacted to having conceded a point to an arena novice.
As soon as the bout restarted, Banda fired in two quick thrusts, both striking at Amero’s sword and both intended as a challenge rather than attacking swordplay. Amero was playing a clever game though, and would not be baited by it. Cunning had always been a strength of his swordplay.
They circled one another for what seemed like an age. Bryn could feel the tension build in the audience. From the mutters he had heard when Amero first walked out onto the sand, it was obvious that he was expected to fail. It was also obvious that there were many sitting in the arena that would have delighted in seeing it happen. It was probably the only reason they were there.
Banda exploded into motion. After so long a lull in the fighting, everyone in the audience was caught off guard. As was Amero. He made a valiant attempt to defend but he was driven back across the arena floor struggling to keep up with the deluge of steel.
Bryn felt his heart leap each time Banda struck. He sighed with relief when Amero managed to get one of his blades in the way. The emotional turmoil was almost too much to bear. Bryn wanted to jump to his feet to shout out in support of his friend, but he knew it wasn’t appropriate in that arena and might result in him being thrown out. He wouldn’t have cared were it not for the fact that he was there as part of Amero’s entourage, and it would reflect badly on him, rather than Bryn.
As each one of his attacks was foiled, Banda followed in with a second and then a third. The intensity of the exchange was showing on both men, their gasps audible and unrestrained. Loud and overly emotive swordplay was considered crude and it would only be overlooked in the most extreme of circumstances; nobody took any notice of it now.
Eventually the inevitable happened; Amero was too slow, his opponent too fast. The previously restrained audience sighed in unison as Amero conceded a touch. Banda returned to the black mark without a pause, a look of satisfaction on his face. Amero’s face was a picture of frustration as he follow
ed, his head down. There was nothing more that he could have done; he had been thrown into deep water and it would be a challenge for him to stay afloat. Bryn could see that Amero was rattled by losing the point.
The Master of Arms reset them and Banda, buoyed by his success in the previous point, came at Amero right away. Amero’s face was set with grim determination and Bryn found himself wondering if he would have been able to beat this opponent.
Amero showed true class fending off the attacks, working at his limit just to hold his own. He moved backward, slowly. He flicked his wrist to parry a strike, but it was a feint, and he realised too late. He couldn’t even react to the true strike, and stood dumbly as it hit him, knowing it was coming, unable to do anything about it.
Bryn’s heart was in his throat. Amero returned to the black mark trailing one touch to two, and Bryn feared that the match was all but over. One more touch and his opponent would win.
Banda wasted no time after the reset. Attacking quickly and aggressively, it seemed that he wanted to teach this young upstart a lesson; to show him that his name, and nothing else, had earned him his place in the arena that day. At first it looked as though Amero was being forced into the same situation that had cost him a point. Bryn could see that there was something different this time, however. Instead of the strained look that had been on his face previously, there was a focussed, calculating expression.
Just when it seemed as though his defence was going to falter—an opinion shared by the audience who were starting to whisper to one another that it was all over—Amero twisted out of a parry, locking both of Banda’s blades together and countering with his dagger. Banda was unable to get his weapons free in time enough to defend, and Amero scored his second touch.
As they both walked back to the black mark, Amero cast a brief glance toward Bryn and Bautisto. There was a hungry, predatory look on his face. The next touch would win it, one way or the other. Amero’s face said he had the measure of his opponent. His swordsmanship and experience might not yet be the match of Banda, but his cunning was superior and he would use this to his advantage.
They reset, but this time Banda looked doubtful, hesitant. He clearly didn’t know what to make of Amero. He must have known that he was a novice in the arena, that he was most likely there due to his being the heir to an elector count rather than having the experience of many foreign duels under his belt. Banda had expected an easy fight of it, or as easy a duel as can ever be expected when facing a Banneret of the Blue. Conceding the first touch might have just been a fluke, something he had probably felt was confirmed by the way he was able to take back the next point. But despite his greater experience, he was on the verge of losing the duel.
Banda resorted to his previous tactic, a furious and intense attack intended to wear down his opponent. It was foolish; it was already clear to everyone watching that Amero was the fitter of the two. Bautisto’s vomit-inducing sessions were paying their dividends yet again.
Amero was better prepared for Banda now; he had seen this approach once already, and while it had worked against him that time, Bryn was confident that it wouldn’t a second. Amero dropped back as he had before, but his face betrayed no strain. He was focussed and thinking; despite Banda appearing to dictate matters, Bryn knew his friend well enough to recognise that was not the case.
Amero put a foot wrong and stumbled. Banda saw his chance and moved to take advantage of it, a smile spreading across his face as he lunged forward to take the match. Amero danced out of the way, his stumble merely a ruse, and executed a quick thrust to his opponent’s midsection. The winning touch.
CHAPTER 10
They went out after Amero’s victory to celebrate. Bryn thought that Amero would be in high spirits after his win, but he was sullen and moody. Bryn was beginning to wonder if there was anything that would satisfy him. He had won a difficult fight, and his career was starting at a level many duellists would never reach. The change in Amero since leaving the Academy was marked, but Bryn was puzzled. All things considered, he saw no reason for it.
After Amero’s outburst on the previous occasion in the Sail and Sword their other friends had all coincidentally found themselves to be busy, but Bryn was able to rally up a few who hadn’t been there and had not heard about Amero’s behaviour.
Bryn and Amero arrived before the others, and Bryn ordered a round of drinks. Amero had said hardly a word all evening, and when the two mugs of ale arrived he leaned against the bar, staring into the glass.
‘You won. You should be happy,’ Bryn said. ‘He was tough opposition. You did well.’
‘I was lucky,’ Amero said. ‘I might not be the next time. I need to be better then. All those bastards sitting there, waiting for me to make a fool of myself. A fool of my name. A fool of my father.’
Was that it? If so, Bryn thought Amero was being a little too sensitive. The crowd adored it when a duellist made a fool of himself in the arena. It was the same for everyone, Bryn included. There were even those who went purely in the hope that they would see a swordsman killed—an infrequent, but not unknown occurrence.
‘Ho there, gentlemen Bannerets,’ came a voice.
It was Rofier Cando and two others from the Academy, the sum total of friends that Bryn had been able to gather up for the evening.
In the instant of their arrival, Amero’s demeanour changed from dark to light. It was as though he put on a mask and became an entirely different person. Bryn was surprised but said nothing, joining the conversation with the others. He was bemused by what he’d just witnessed, never having seen anyone change their mood so quickly or convincingly before. Anyone seeing Amero now would think he was walking on air after his victory in the arena. One face for himself, one for everyone else. It was jarring.
‘So where’re you living now that they’ve turfed you out of your room at the Academy?’
Bryn was so caught up in his thoughts it took him a moment to realise the question was directed at him. His delay gave Amero enough time to answer for him.
‘He’s enjoying the hospitality of the House of Moreno. And a lucky fellow he is too. I brought one of my father’s cooks back, one of the better ones.’
Bryn flushed with embarrassment. Amero was still talking, light-hearted, jovial, and entertaining, but with Bryn as the butt of his jokes. It was the condescending, dismissive way he said it that irked Bryn most. Amero had asked Bryn to stay with him, and there hadn’t been any discussion on the topic of rent since Bryn made it clear he would pay when the offer was first made. He didn’t like their friends thinking that he was a charity case, or that he was dependent on Amero’s goodwill.
He had enough money to rent his own apartment now. There was no need for him to be in a position where he could be condescended to. He would get up early the next day and look for one.
‘And you’re both duelling now?’ Rofier said.
Bryn’s attention returned to the conversation. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice tinged with pride. ‘First match under the belt. A three-one win. Finally on the Ladder.’ He intended to show he was not sliding into the role of Amero’s retainer.
‘And how about you, Amero?’ Rofier said.
Bryn cringed, hoping that Amero wouldn’t be provoked into another outburst. They would quickly run out of friends if he kept that up.
‘Had my first duel too,’ Amero said.
He was still cheerful, upbeat. If it was an act, it was a convincing one. From moody to top of the world in a heartbeat.
‘How’d it go?’ Rofier said.
‘Three-two win, so I’m happy enough. Against Arno Banda. He’s well thought of by all accounts. It was a tough match. Tougher than Bryn’s at any rate. Can’t remember that fellow’s name. He was a bit of a hack and slasher, wasn’t he, Bryn?’
‘Nava Nozzo. He knew what he was about,’ Bryn said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t happy that the skill of his opponent was being called into question. It was bad manners to publicly disparage another Banner
et’s skill in any event, but to do it now, to a friend was insulting, hurtful, and on the fringes of what Bryn would tolerate.
‘Yes, but he wasn’t a patch on the chap I fought. I mean, you don’t exactly get the cream of the crop in that dump you had to fight in, do you.’
Bryn couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but Amero seemed completely oblivious to the offence he was causing. Oblivious, or he just didn’t care.
‘Well, I think I’m going to call it a night,’ Bryn said.
He’d had enough, and ignored the moans of him being a lightweight and a boring git, but he wasn’t going to stand there while Amero continued to talk himself up and run him down.
* * *
BRYN GOT up early the next morning and went out to look at apartments. While the comforts on offer at Amero’s apartment in Oldtown would be hard to give up, he found their situation claustrophobic and after the way Amero had behaved the previous night, Bryn couldn’t even bear to look at him. Spending all day training together at the salon and then the rest of the day at the shared apartment was too much. He needed his own space; somewhere that he could be alone with his thoughts and somewhere that was his, not dependent on the goodwill of someone else. Particularly not if they were going to be in the habit of pointing that fact out.
Perhaps he had been getting on Amero’s nerves, and that, coupled with the pressure he was obviously under, was what had motivated his behaviour. One way or the other, if their friendship was to survive Bryn had to move into his own place.
Now that he had a victory under his belt, he could expect his career to get underway properly. He didn’t think it was expecting too much to have a duel at least every couple of weeks. He would still have to work his way up through the dross, so it would be some time before he could expect large prize purses, but a victory every two weeks would bring in more than enough to support himself, pay his rent and salon fees and have enough left over to put aside or enjoy.
The First Blade Of Ostia Page 7