The First Blade Of Ostia

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be a fine governess,’ Bryn’s mother said, sensing that the mood had taken a turn in the wrong direction.

  * * *

  WHEN GILIA and Ayla had both turned in for the night, his mother sat with him in the living room.

  ‘Were you going to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’ Bryn said, already knowing what she meant.

  ‘About your arms. Ayla said you were hurt.’

  Bryn nodded.

  ‘That’s why you weren’t able to do anything about the guildsmen?’

  Bryn nodded again.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Bad,’ Bryn said. ‘Bad enough that I worry if I’ll ever be able to use a sword properly again.’

  Even his mother, usually good at dealing with unexpected news, was visibly taken aback. His family had gone without for years to put him through the Academy, assuming that they would benefit from having a banneret in the family. It took her a moment to compose herself.

  ‘How will you teach if you can’t use your sword?’

  ‘I’ll come up with something. I have to. A critical eye and the ability to correct flaws is important. I can still do that. Perhaps it’ll be enough.’

  His mother nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. ‘You’ll have to see a physician,’ she said. ‘There must be something they can do.’

  Bryn had to admit that the time for hoping the injury would heal on its own was past. He didn’t think they could afford the expense, but he was running out of options. He nodded. ‘In the morning.’

  * * *

  ‘HMM. Yes. I see.’ The physician raised one of Bryn’s arms again and studied his shoulder as he did.

  He had done it a half dozen times, among other tests, but had not uttered a single conclusive statement, nor anything that gave Bryn any encouragement. Eventually he stopped, rubbed his chin and frowned. In that moment Bryn knew that whatever the physician suggested would be a complete waste of time.

  ‘Still stiff and constricted despite several weeks of healing? And intermittent sensation in your hands?’ the physician said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bryn said. It was the fourth time he had told the physician the same thing.

  The physician went to a cupboard and took out a glass jar filled with a pale yellow substance.

  ‘Apply this ointment to the affected areas three times a day until it’s finished. If the symptoms haven’t faded at that point, come back to me for another jar.’

  Another jar. Bryn wondered how much they cost.

  ‘That will be one crown,’ the physician said, as though he had read Bryn’s thoughts.

  Bryn paid reluctantly, but waited until he got outside before opening the jar. He didn’t even need to hold it up to his nose to catch the smell of its stench. Vomit, shit or rotting vegetables? He couldn’t decide which came closest. He dropped the jar on a pile of rubbish at the side of the street and continued on his way, ruing the waste of time and money.

  * * *

  BRYN LAY AWAKE IN BED, unable to sleep and wondering what the following day would bring. Doubt clouded his thoughts and he grew more agitated. He had to know what he could do before his interview. With no chance of getting any sleep until he did, he dressed and headed for the Bannerets’ Hall.

  Although it was late, the Hall was open every hour of the day. There would be few people around, which suited Bryn perfectly. It was unlikely anyone would walk in on him in the training hall and see him make a fool of himself.

  The late-night attendant barely gave Bryn a second look when he blustered in. They were well used to the bannerets staying there coming in at all hours, often the worse for drink. Bryn gave him a curt nod and headed straight for the training hall.

  It was huge, echoing and in the dark, cavernous. His boot falls thumped out like beats on a great drum. It took a moment for the mage lamps to react to his presence and illuminate, filling the hall with their warm light. The hall had a couple of drones, training tools filled with the same magical energy that powered the mage lamps. They responded to basic instructions, and Bryn had used similar ones many times at the Academy. They would be an ambitious start however. For that night, all he wanted to do was test himself against a stationary target.

  His heart raced as he stood before one, a wooden mannequin with a number of targets marked on it. It bore far fewer signs of use than those at the Academy, looking almost unused. Bryn thrust tentatively at one of the targets, gritting his teeth in preparation for the pain he expected. He breathed a sigh of relief when there was none. He had completely missed though.

  He tried again, slowly, willing his arm along the path he desired. The tip wobbled and he strained to control it, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. He felt tension spread through his body, a combination of fear and frustration. He took a moment and forced himself to relax and focus. He couldn’t expect to pick up exactly where he had been. Only patience and perseverance would see him through.

  He spent two hours standing in front of the wooden mannequin, slowly striking at each of the targets, training the movement back into his arm as though he was back at his very first lesson. There was little satisfaction to be taken from it though. That his shoulder only ached rather than hurt was something, as was the fact that he could move his arm through most of the basic positions. It was all well and good doing it against a wooden practice dummy, but against another person, even if they were only a student?

  CHAPTER 43

  Bryn dressed in his best fencing clothes and made absolutely certain that he arrived at the address punctually. Ayla had left the apartment early to start her new job, and he had to admit a certain sense of rivalry. She had found a job almost as soon as she arrived in the city. He wanted to make sure he got one quickly too.

  He knocked on the door and a deferential servant admitted him to the house, then led him through to a study to meet with his prospective employer.

  ‘Banneret of the Blue Bryn Pendollo, sir,’ the servant said, before leaving them alone.

  ‘Good morning, Banneret,’ the man said, standing. ‘I am Banneret Ollo dal Rari. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Bryn said, giving a curt bow of his head, the appropriate salutation to a banneret of lower rank.

  ‘Please sit,’ dal Rari said, doing the same himself. ‘As my advertisement stated, I’m looking for a tutor for my son. He’s seventeen, and will be making his first attempt for the Academy at the next admissions.’

  ‘How long has he been training?’ Bryn said, hoping that the lad had actually started in some fashion many years previously, or his job would be all but impossible. As a banneret, dal Rari should have a good idea of what would be required of his son.

  ‘Naturally he’s been taking lessons since he was old enough to hold a sword. He had three terms at Candario’s and two at Birend’s but now that we’re getting so close, I wanted to engage a Banneret of the Blue to put the final polish on him, as it were.’

  Bryn nodded, impressed at the names of two such prestigious schools being dropped so casually. If the young man had lasted for more than a term in each of them, he had plenty of talent and Bryn’s task would be considerably easier.

  ‘I think that should be possible. I’ll have to assess him first of course. I couldn’t take the position under the false pretence of promising the impossible.’ Bryn had never been the most diplomatic, but even at the risk of offending, he had to make it clear from the outset. Not all young gentlemen were meant for the Academy; it was not unheard of for half of those that gained admission to fail at the end of their first year.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘While having earned your colours speaks volumes for your ability, I will require a short demonstration from you. I need to be certain that your style will be compatible with my son’s. At this late stage I don’t want to expose him to too much new material. All we want is to enhance what he already has. The rest can come after he’s admitted.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ Bryn sai
d. He felt the flush of panic again. What would the demonstration involve? Would he be able enough for it? Perhaps he should have been honest with himself and fully tested the extent of his ability at the Bannerets’ Hall. He silently cursed himself for his stupidity. Bluffing his way past a nervous teenager while hiding behind his vaunted title of Banneret of the Blue was one thing, proving his worth to an Academy graduate was another.

  ‘Excellent. We can use the gallery upstairs. Follow me,’ dal Rari said, as he jumped up from his chair and set off with enthusiasm.

  He led Bryn up a staircase carpeted in a thick red weave that his foot sank into with each step. The gallery was a long room that ran along the front of the house on the first of its five floors. Bryn had been in more impressive mansions in Highgarden, but the dal Rari family were obviously extremely wealthy.

  Galleries such as this one often doubled as ballrooms in Bryn’s experience. It had a polished wooden floor, a high ceiling and plenty of space. One side was lined with bay windows, while the other bore the paintings of what Bryn assumed were ancestors of the dal Rari dynasty.

  Dal Rari took two training blades from a stand and offered one to Bryn. ‘I value my blood,’ he said, ‘and would rather not have any of it spilled on the floor.’

  Bryn forced a smile. It was meant as a joke, but he was too tense to take it that way. He inspected the sword dal Rari handed him. It was blunt and had a button tip, with a flexible blade and a good point of balance. As training swords went it was as fine an example as he could hope for. There could be no blaming it if things did not go well.

  They both took their guard and dal Rari stood waiting for Bryn to initiate. Bryn went through the motions of a standard three stroke attack, the type that would be taught to a budding swordsman at an early stage. Dal Rari parried all three attacks, moving backward with each one.

  His arm felt all right, and hope kindled within him. It had not been a taxing move, but he had felt nothing in his shoulder that hinted at trouble to come. It was better than he feared it might be.

  ‘Come now,’ dal Rari said. ‘There’s no need to go easy on me. It may have been a few years since I’ve trained in earnest, but I’m able for more than that.’

  Bryn bowed his head and took a step back before launching into another combination, slightly more ambitious, but not something that would ordinarily have required any thought or much effort on his part. Again dal Rari parried with little difficulty. He raised an eyebrow at Bryn, who nodded once again.

  This time he tried to push himself, nothing especially complex, but something that required precision, speed, and reach. It felt like the bottom fell out of his stomach as he launched into it. Of precision, there was little. His blade was wild and the tip bobbed about like a cork on rough water. Dal Rari parried his first attack. Of speed, there was none. Dal Rari parried the second, able to take his time. Of reach, there was not enough. As dal Rari moved back with each attack, Bryn’s final thrust, the one intended to strike, fell short by more than a hand’s span. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his shoulder to move through the same range as it had before the tree. It was much as he had feared it might be after his session at the Bannerets’ Hall the night before.

  Dal Rari countered with a respectable combination that drove Bryn back and put him under far more pressure to defend against than he would like to admit. He only narrowly diverted the final thrust and felt beads of sweat form on his brow.

  Bryn countered back and tried to push himself to something that could at least be called respectable for a Banneret of the Blue. The best he could describe it as was a shambles. His arm didn’t move as smoothly as it once had; his joints seemed stiff and his movement mechanical. He couldn’t extend his arm as far forward as he needed, nor draw it back as easily. His speed was something that he didn’t even want to think about.

  Bryn thrust, extending as far as he thought he could, and tried to press beyond that point. His attack stopped short, and he felt his grip loosen involuntarily. The sword dropped from his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bryn said. ‘I appear to have strained something in my shoulder.’ He gathered his things as quickly as he could, and left.

  * * *

  PANIC CHURNED in Bryn’s gut as he walked home. He had been a fool to seek out work so soon, but he felt under so much pressure to start earning that there had seemed little other choice. He had hoped that teaching might be the least taxing avenue open to him, but he was wrong. What else was there? Was there any job that he could bluff his way into, and then hide his restrictions for long enough to recover or find a way around them?

  Everyone was sitting around the table drinking tea by the time he got home. They were chatting happily; Ayla’s first day at work had gone well. He shuffled in and sat down with no more than a nod to them. Ayla mentioned two unfamiliar girls’ names several times, her new wards Bryn assumed. His mother and sister were clearly delighted with how it had gone. After an awkward first couple of days, Ayla was fitting in well with them. His sister had gotten over her initial resentment of having to share her room once again, something she had not had to do since his elder sister had married and left the city, and now seemed to view Ayla as a replacement.

  Bryn was happy for her, but so worried about his situation that it was difficult to think of anything else.

  * * *

  LATER THAT EVENING, when both Gilia and his mother were in the kitchen, he was left alone at the table with Ayla. The distance he had tried to put between him and everyone else made things difficult between them. His mood had nothing to do with her, but he couldn’t separate himself from the disappointment and fear of continued failure that dominated his thoughts. Making it all worse was the raw wound of the humiliation he had suffered from the guildsman. He felt as though he had promised her something that he could not deliver.

  ‘Will you take me for a walk?’ she said. ‘There’s still so much of the city I haven’t seen.’

  That at least was something he could do. He knew he wouldn’t make good company, but that he had to try his best. He told his mother and sister that they were going out and they headed in the direction of Highgarden.

  They reached one of the parks that was popular with couples for romantic evening strolls. Were it not for the fact that Ayla and Bryn walked separately they would have appeared no different to anyone else there.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, no,’ Bryn said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been distant, things are just difficult for me right now. It will be better once I’ve managed to get work.’ It wasn’t a good excuse for the way he was behaving, but he didn’t see any way out of his problems, and try as he might, he couldn’t put them out of his mind.

  She nodded but said nothing.

  CHAPTER 44

  Even the thought of magic disgusted Bryn. Every child heard stories of how wicked the mages were in the days of the Empire. Tales of their evil acts were told to frighten naughty children, and when he grew older and read the histories himself, Bryn realised those tales only hinted at the true horror of their deeds.

  The Mage Wars, how the Bannerets came to be and how they turned on the mages and rid the world of their foul presence featured regularly in the lessons at the Academy. Bryn always counted himself lucky to live in a time when they were long gone, and the practice of magic was highly illegal. The dark-cloaked Intelligenciers one could occasionally see about the city worked tirelessly to ensure that magery could never re-establish itself.

  Nonetheless, there were those in the city who practised magic in a limited way—small tricks to entertain paying spectators, or help recovery from injury or illness. Bryn wondered how these people escaped the Intelligenciers’ attention; if Bryn could find them, surely the Intelligenciers could too. The only conclusion he could come to was that these people were not seen as a danger and were thus ignored.

  It didn’t change the way Bryn felt when the idea of seeking one out in hope that they might be able
to help with his injuries came to mind. It nauseated him, but faced with no alternatives the temptation grew too strong to resist.

  It didn’t take much asking around. In a city like Ostenheim, there was always someone in the know. Bryn scraped together every last penny he could find—the mage’s services did not come cheap—and spent several hours battling with himself as to whether this was really the option he wanted to take. Even the Black Carpet seemed more favourable, although he knew that he would in all likelihood be killed the instant he set foot on it. The Black Carpet was no place to try to earn a living while injured.

  He hesitated every few steps on the way to the address he was given, and again when he arrived at the door. He hadn’t told anyone about what he was doing, but convinced himself that it was the best choice. In his gut he couldn’t shake the terror that the magic would do something to him, change him in some way or take something else from him. He was probably being silly—he knew of many people that had used a mage to help them with an ailment, including the neighbour who had given him this particular address. None of them seemed any the worse for it.

  He knocked on the door and felt his heart race. There was a rattle behind it a moment later, and the hinges creaked as the door opened. Bryn almost jumped in fright. His jaw dropped when he saw what awaited him on the other side.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a woman said.

  She was in later middle-age, well dressed and well presented. She looked not unlike someone who would be in his mother’s circle of friends. Nothing like what Bryn had imagined.

  ‘I’m not sure I have the right place,’ Bryn said. ‘Sylvester Tanzi gave me this addre—’