The First Blade Of Ostia

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  She walked around looking at the bare walls before turning to him and smiling. ‘The luxurious life of an arena star.’

  ‘I haven’t really been here all that long, there hasn’t been time to—’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘Boys are rarely good at making their domains look any better than a cave. I have three cousins in the city. Their apartments make this one look like a palace.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t have anything to offer you to drink; I’m not accustomed to visitors.’

  ‘No, that much is obvious,’ she said. ‘I’m not thirsty though.’

  ‘No chaperone tonight?’ Bryn said. He was unsure of what she was doing there, and was trying to tread carefully. He had sneaked girls back to his room at the Academy on occasion, but then, the worst an unwanted suggestion had garnered was a slap in the face. He didn’t want to make a mistake with Joranna.

  ‘No, I’m in disguise. Hence my rather lovely travelling cloak.’

  She swirled it about and Bryn wondered how she had come by such a mouldering old rag. He also wondered what possessed her to allow it anywhere near the rest of her clothes, which were of a far finer order.

  ‘So,’ he said, letting the word hang on the air for a moment. ‘What brings you to my cave-like dwelling at this late hour?’

  ‘No chaperone. In disguise. What do you think?’

  * * *

  AMERO WAS ALONE in the salon; Bautisto was out arranging a match and Bryn had scuttled off as soon as training had finished to spend time with dal Verrara. His own matches had been growing increasingly difficult, but he was coping—and doing better than he had expected. The daunting prospect of fighting far more experienced duellists had passed and the odds against him no longer seemed insurmountable.

  On graduating from the Academy, he had felt as though he knew everything. He had finished second in his class, the highest ranking that any member of his family had ever managed to achieve, and was one of very few who had gone on to take the Blue. He had no doubt that if he had applied himself a little harder, he would have taken that year’s sword of honour for graduating first, an accolade that had gone to Bryn. The amount he had learned since leaving astounded him. The sessions with the mage allowed him to train longer and harder, to pack years into months.

  He realised now that the Academy was only a beginning. The true learning came after, and he felt that the quality of his opponents had accelerated the process. He knew that Bryn thought himself the better of the two. Even his friends thought, deep down, that he was nothing more than the product of a fortunate birth. It was difficult to remain friends so long as Bryn held that opinion, but Amero knew that he would not be able to do so for much longer. Each day their sparring grew closer. There was little to separate them now, if anything.

  He knew that his father expected him to have long given up on the idea of duelling. They had not spoken since Renald had appeared at the arena that evening, and that bothered him. He knew that Renald had not let the matter go, and it worried him that he had not encountered his father’s involvement. Renald was planning something, and the not knowing was worse than having to deal with it.

  All he had planned to do was express his independence. The Academy had shielded him from his father’s control for so long, but he always knew it would be waiting for him when he graduated. Defying Renald had felt good, but that was all it had been about. At first.

  Now, there was far more to it than just the opportunity to assert himself. Amero had gotten a thrill from duelling, a rush of excitement that was both intoxicating and addictive from the outset. The fear of making a fool of himself—the danger of being considered an idiot, an idler and a wastrel—had stirred him like nothing before. He was hungry for the chance to stick it in the face of everyone who tittered behind their hands at the idea of an elector count’s son making a spectacle of himself like a common banneret in the arena. It fuelled his desire to succeed. That initial thrill faded with familiarity, but it was replaced with something far more enrapturing. Power.

  Many duellists spoke of the effect a crowd could have on them. How their support could lift them to snatch victory from the jaws of certain defeat, and fill them with such energy that they kept coming back to the arena for that reason alone. It was always what former duellists said they missed the most.

  What none of them ever commented on, at least not to Amero’s knowledge, was the power. A truly talented swordsman, one with flair and a sense of the dramatic, could grab hold of a spectator and take them on an adventure of every emotion. He could inspire such love or hatred that they would fight in the stands, riot on the streets, and murder each other in tavern arguments. The boost their passion could give in the arena was all well and good, but it was inspiring that fervour that caught Amero’s imagination. It gave him a hold over people. Control. With it, a man could do anything.

  He thought of the powerful men of the city, the Duke, the Master of the Guilds, the head of Austorgas’ Banking House. Could any of them incite tens of thousands of people to the heights of passion in a few moments? He knew that they couldn’t. He also knew that he could. He thought of his father, running all across the Duchy at the Duke’s command like a faithful hunting dog, convinced of his infallibility but never seeing that he was merely a servant himself. With the arena, Amero could wrap the mob of Ostenheim around his little finger. The man who could control the masses had the real power. What would his father, with all his schemes and plots and intrigues in the corridors of the Barons’ Hall, think of that?

  He smiled and went through the movement he had been working on again. He could only practice it in private, when neither Bautisto nor Bryn were around. Bautisto would lambast him for being too flashy, and Bryn would tut at him for not doing as he was told. Both would question how he was able to cope with the additional workload.

  Bautisto’s technique might be effective, but it was dull. His swordplay would never inspire the passion of a spectator, probably the reason he was reduced to teaching two students in a rundown little salon thousands of miles from his home. It might win duels, but winning alone was not enough. Not for Amero.

  He took from Bautisto what he thought was useful: economy of movement, superb fitness and a ruthless approach to taking points, and blended them with ideas of his own. Sweeps, flourishes, twists and spins could all be injected if a swordsman was clever about it. There was no need to mire himself in stolid swordplay so long as he was careful. A flourishing follow through after a scoring touch did nothing but inflame a crowd. He just needed to be sure of the scoring touch first. Leaving himself open after a miss would quickly lead to disaster. Everything needed to be perfect before he could risk using it. That was the reason for his secret, after-hours practice.

  Amero heard a knock at the door, but was so focussed on what he was doing it had opened before he had the chance to react. He expected Bautisto to walk in, so he immediately reverted to the economical movements the Estranzan espoused; anything like what he had just been doing would attract heavy criticism. It was not Bautisto however, but a man Amero could not recall seeing before.

  ‘I’m looking for the maestro of this salon,’ the man said.

  Swordsmen, young or old, always had a particular bearing about them—good posture and an expression that some might call haughty—and this fellow was no different. The man’s hair and moustache were both salt-and-pepper grey, but there was no mistaking that he had once been, and perhaps still was, a regular practitioner of swordsmanship. He had the athletic bearing of a man who spent little time at rest and the confidence of one who knew how to handle himself.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here,’ Amero said.

  ‘Ah. A shame.’ The man looked around the warehouse that passed for their salon, but his face didn’t betray what he was thinking. He nodded to Amero before putting his wide brimmed hat back on and making to leave.

  ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance. I could pass on a message if you like,’ Amero said, intrigued by wh
at might bring a man like that to Bautisto’s all but anonymous salon.

  ‘Yes, that would be kind of you. I am Banneret of the Blue Arfeni Caxto, I’m an assistant to Maestro Valdrio, trainer to Banneret of the Blue Panceri Mistria.’

  Amero nearly dropped his sword. What was this man doing in Bautisto’s dump of a salon?

  ‘A student of this salon has come to Banneret Mistria’s attention, as has the Estranzan style he uses. The Banneret would very much like to test himself against this technique. The swordsman I’m looking for is Banneret of the Blue Bryn Pendollo.’

  For a moment Amero had dared hope that it was he who Caxto was looking for. A fight against Mistria would be of massively high profile. To win against him would be momentous. In one duel, he could achieve what would take him a year or more otherwise. There would not be a single person, aristocrat or commoner who could lay a single valid criticism against him after that. The mob would be speaking his name for weeks. How in hells had Mistria spotted Bryn fighting in rural and back alley rat-pits?

  ‘I’m afraid that Banneret Pendollo no longer trains here,’ Amero said. ‘He’s moved out onto the provincial circuit. I’m sure with a little effort he could be tracked down…’

  ‘No, I don’t think time would allow for that. It’s a pity. Banneret Mistria was hoping to make the duel something of an exhibition of the disparate styles shortly after he achieves one hundred and twenty-five.’

  ‘Well, I’m trained in the Estranzan style. Until recently Banneret Pendollo was my training partner.’

  ‘Really? Your name?’

  ‘Banneret of the Blue Amero,’ he hesitated before saying his surname, ‘dal Moreno.’ He expected to feel guilt grow inside him, but he felt nothing.

  Caxto’s face didn’t show any sign of reaction. ‘I believe I’ve heard your name mentioned. I shall have to consult the Banneret, but that might be acceptable. He’s eager to show how the Ostian style of swordsmanship is superior to all others. An Estranzan style is the only one remaining for me to find, and there seems to be a dearth of Estranzans in the city. I’ll call again with the Banneret’s response, one way or the other.’

  Amero thought fast. ‘As no doubt you can see from the state of the salon, we’re in the process of moving to new premises. It might be easiest to contact me at this address.’ He walked forward quickly and proffered one of his calling cards, which would direct Caxto to his Oldtown apartment.

  Caxto took it and gave the card a cursory glance. ‘Very well.’ Caxto clicked his heels together and nodded. ‘Good day.’

  As he exited, Bautisto arrived. He nodded politely to the departing man before entering the salon.

  ‘Who was that?’ Bautisto asked.

  Amero hesitated for a moment. ‘Just someone looking for directions.’

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Have you heard?’ Bautisto said, his voice filled with a giddy excitement that Bryn had never encountered in him before.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Mistria’s trainer contacted Amero. Mistria wants to fight an exhibition match with someone trained in the Estranzan style.’

  ‘Really?’ Bryn was too surprised to say anything else. Amero was lurking at the back of the salon, working against a practice dummy, so focussed that he hadn’t even looked up when Bryn arrived.

  ‘Indeed. Quite a thing, wouldn’t you say?’ Bautisto said.

  It was an astonishing development. He thought immediately of the man he had seen at the arena, the one he thought to be Mistria. Had he been wrong about that? He preferred to think that he was mistaken rather than that Mistria had chosen Amero over him, but deep down he knew he wasn’t. Had Amero surpassed him in the time since they had left the Academy? Or was it his name, once again? The news felt like a kick in the stomach.

  ‘It’s fantastic news. Not just for Amero, but you,’ Bryn said. ‘You’ll have students flocking to your door after this.’

  ‘Ha. Assuming Amero acquits himself well. We’ll have to make sure that he does. Good news for you too, though. Every promoter will know of this salon and its style, and will want someone who can duel in it for their billings.’

  Bryn felt his heart sink a little farther. With this match looming on the horizon, the focus of their training would all be on Amero; it had to be. As much as he wanted to help, it would be to Bryn’s disadvantage. There were a great many things he needed to focus on, but once again, dealing with them would be put off.

  ‘I want you to take the rest of the day off,’ Bautisto said. ‘Be back at eight bells in the morning. We’ve a couple of hard weeks ahead of us. This might be an exhibition match, but we will treat it as the opportunity it is. Don’t forget, if Amero does well, you will benefit also. Everyone will want to fight a student of the Estranzan School. And of this salon.’

  * * *

  ‘HE WILL HAVE FOUGHT between three and five exhibition bouts before he gets to you. Even a man like Mistria will be starting to fatigue at that point. Speed and movement will be the key to beating him,’ Bautisto said.

  ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to beat him,’ Amero said.

  Bryn smiled, but knew what the reward for laughing out loud would be so he bit his lip to stifle it.

  ‘If you walk into the Amphitheatre without the desire to win and the complete commitment to achieving that, then you have no right to be there. Win or lose, no matter. You are only truly beaten when you do not try your hardest.’

  It was decent advice, and toned down from Bautisto’s usual attacking attitude, perhaps conceding the unrealistic quality of expecting victory. The momentary display of sensitivity did nothing to soften what Bryn knew was coming next. If Bautisto wanted Amero to try and tire Mistria out, it meant he would drive them into the ground over the coming days to make sure Amero could grind Mistria down.

  * * *

  BRYN HAD ARRANGED to meet Joranna and her chaperone by the entrance to one of the parks in Highgarden. He waited by the wrought iron gates and stared at the swirling light of the mage lamp on the gatepost opposite him. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and leaned against the gatepost as couples passed by, entering and leaving the park. Still he waited.

  The sound of the cathedral bell chiming eight times drifted across the crisp evening air, and that was enough for Bryn. It wasn’t especially cold, but he had been waiting there long enough for the tip of his nose and fingers to feel it. Puzzled, he started for home.

  * * *

  BRYN SAT at the desk in his apartment, staring at a blank piece of paper, his pen poised to strike. He was angry, and knew it was never a good idea to put pen to paper when in a bad mood. There was also a lurking sense of worry. He hadn’t known Joranna all that long, but he felt he knew her well enough to be concerned by the fact that she hadn’t shown up.

  He had thought about calling at her house, but decided against it. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let the matter go unaddressed—it was dominating his thoughts, and try as he might, he couldn’t push it from them. He was sure she had a good reason for standing him up, but somewhere in the pit of his stomach, doubt lurked. He grimaced, and set pen to paper.

  * * *

  BRYN DIDN’T KNOW how Amero was feeling, but in the days leading up to the Mistria exhibition duel he felt virtually indestructible. The intense days of training had left them lean and finely tuned. Muscles that had been coated with a cushion of fat were now sinewy and defined. He had never felt as light on his feet or as fast in his reactions. He only hoped that he had a duel of his own soon, so he could take advantage of his superb conditioning, which he knew would be impossible to maintain in the long term without burning out. Amero had gained so much from his regular matches, far more than Bryn would have thought possible, so he knew training could never match the real thing. He needed regular duels of his own if he was to keep up, and soon.

  As well as his concern about his professional prospects, Joranna standing him up was still playing on his mind. He had only sent her the note the day before, but had ye
t to hear anything back. Her behaviour came as a confusing surprise, and he could not help but wonder if the novelty of stepping out with an impecunious banneret had worn off.

  CHAPTER 23

  The atmosphere in the Amphitheatre was electric. With all the additional matches being fought that evening, admittance to the enclosure was limited, meaning Amero had only been able to take Bautisto in with him. It meant Bryn had to sit in the crowd with the other spectators, but he was enjoying the experience—the Amphitheatre was such an energising place it was difficult not to get carried away by the excitement.

  The early arrangement of the exhibition match did not prove to be premature, as Mistria had achieved his one hundred and twenty-five points the week before it was due to take place. He had rounded up a half dozen proponents of different styles, the plan being to fight them one after another in a gala spectacular. It sent a tingle down Bryn’s spine to think that in a few moments he would watch a close friend step out into the Amphitheatre, the greatest of all the arenas in Ostenheim, perhaps even the world, and face one of the greatest swordsmen to have lived.

  Mistria had already fought a Mirabayan, a Ruripathian, and an Auracian by the time Amero’s turn came. He defeated them all in fine fashion but in a way that made it clear this was an exhibition rather than a competition.

  Bryn watched Amero and Bautisto go through their warm-up routine, keenly feeling left out. As cool as he had been up to that point, Bryn could see Amero’s face grow pale and his movement gave away how tense he was getting as his match drew closer.

  The final match was to be the true highlight of the evening’s entertainment, the one after Amero’s. Mistria would face a Shandahari, from the exotic country far to the south. It had never been part of the long defunct empire that the other nations around the Middle Sea had once formed, and maintained a mysterious curiosity as a result. Bryn had never seen a Shandahari swordsman before, although he had read about them in his studies. Despite the fact that his friend was due to fight in what would perhaps be a career highlight, Bryn was looking forward to that final display the most.