Garet slid the pole under the canvas and straightened up. “Is she your teacher?” he asked.
“Of course!” Marick replied, smiling. “Only the best for the best!” He looked down the trap to make sure the coast was clear. “She may be the Training Master, but she doesn’t think she’s lowering herself to train mere Blues.” He listened for a moment. “Come on.”
They went down the ladder, closing the trap door behind them. The storeroom below was empty, except for a few pieces of broken furniture that had been dumped here rather than carried down three flights of stairs.
“Aren’t you glad I showed you this place?” Marick teased.
“Very,” Garet replied. He cracked open the door to check the hallway. Only a few rooms were occupied on this floor, and the corridor was empty. “You’re a good friend, Marick.” He started to leave the room but was stopped by Marick’s hand on his arm.
“Thanks, Garet,” he said quietly. His face was serious, and he looked down before he spoke again. “You’re like Dorict, he’s the only other friend I have here.” He looked back up and his smile returned, although it seemed a bit wistful. “Except for Salick, maybe. I know I’m better at making enemies than friends, so I have to value the few friends that I have.” He slipped out and disappeared down the hall, leaving Garet standing in the doorway.
After a moment, he followed. Marick had already vanished down the stairs into the noisy life of the Banehall. A quick meal and then back to my lists, Garet thought, but the knowledge that Marick was willing to help him escape such mindless tasks and train him to be a real Bane was heartening. It gave him the courage he needed to descend into a world run by people like Farix and the Hallmaster.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CITY LESSONS
Garet’s tasks soon became, if not lighter, at least more meaningful. Another month had passed since Marick had joined him on the roof to begin his weapons training. Farix eventually excused him from the stamina-building exercises because, Garet suspected, the other Blacks thought he set too hard a pace for the rest of them. He still exercised, but only on the rooftop, sweating through the complex training pole forms Marick had taught him. What time was left over he spent finishing the Demonary and studying for his Blue Sash tests.
He was at his small desk, copying the illustration of a Crawler Demon, taking care to ink in each of its armour plates, when Marick raced into his dormitory room.
“Marick!” he gasped, “You almost stopped my heart!” He pulled out the notes he had jammed under the desk. “I thought it was Farix.”
“Not likely!” his friend said. “Farix never moved this fast in his whole life.”
Garet grinned in agreement. The Gold preferred a stately progression down the rows of beds, stopping only to criticize a wrinkled blanket or a dropped sash. “But what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at practice until lunch?”
“I am at practice,” Marick said, grabbing his arm. “Come on, Tarix wants to meet you.” He pulled Garet up from his desk, barely giving him enough time to hide his notes beneath the mattress. “Come on!”
He led Garet at a gallop down two flights of stairs to the main level of the Hall. The Greens and Golds on the stairs, most just coming back from weary harvest duties in the fields around the city, saw Marick coming and stood aside, a resigned expression on their faces. When they reached the bottom floor, Marick took him down a narrow hall to the Blue Sash gymnasium. Garet saw that Marick was avoiding the more direct route, one that would have taken them by the Masters’ Rooms, where Adrix directed the operations of the Banehall.
Tucked in a corner of one of the wings, the gymnasium intruded into the floor above, giving it a spacious feel after the claustrophobia of the hallway. The Blues were clustered at one end of the gym, swinging their poles at bags of sand suspended from a frame. With each hit, the bags made a muffled thump of a sound. Garet could see Dorict at one end, sweating and puffing as he attacked his bag with a grim determination.
“Marick!” a voice called from the middle of the gym. “Bring him over here.”
A woman sat in a strange chair, waiting for them. The chair had four small wheels instead of the usual legs. The Training Master reached down and pushed to one side with a short crutch, forcing the chair to turn in their direction. She surveyed them calmly. Her hair, gold with a few strands of grey, was tied in a tight braid at the back of her neck. Her face had a pleasant, open feel to it but was marked by a scar reaching from her lip to her left ear. Garet, remembering her angry outburst on the night he arrived at the Hall, was relieved to see her smiling as they approached.
“Master,” Marick said, pushing Garet forward and grinning at his stiffness, “this is Garet.”
“Yes, I remember,” she answered. “I saw you on your first night in the Hall.” And seeing Garet’s blush, she added, “Garet, you have no cause to be ashamed because of that night.” Her eyes held his, forbidding him to drop his head. “It is we who should be ashamed of how we treated a new Bane.” She broke off her gaze to check on the Blues striking the practice bags. “Charet! Use your hips, not just your shoulders!”
The Blue she had corrected turned and gave a slight bow to acknowledge the order. When he resumed his attack, twisting his hips as directed, the noise each strike made was noticeably louder.
“Come with me, both of you,” she said, picking up a second crutch from her lap and twisting the chair again to align it with a door on the far side of the gym. The sound of wood on sandbags faded as they entered a spacious office. A cluttered desk was placed beside the door, and Tarix carefully maneuvered her chair in front of it. There was little else in the room save training bags, empty of sand, and a rack holding a bewildering variety of long and short weapons. Garet ran his eyes along them greedily. The weapons of a true Bane! Now that he knew something of the origins of the early Banemasters, he was not surprised to see versions of rather homely tools leaning in the rack. Beside the fisher’s trident were spears hooked like orchard pruning tools. Flails for threshing grain, their wooden heads now bound in ridged iron, stood with axes and hammers that would not be out of place on a village farm. The one or two weapons that broke with this unglamorous tradition were so bizarre as to not seem to be weapons at all. Slightly dented shields such as Mandarack wielded lay among spiked gloves, weighted nets and hooked ropes. But what he had expected to see, swords and bows, were missing. If they had started a Banehall in Three Roads, he wondered, would copper pots be displayed in the armoury?
The crutches that Garet had seen Tarix use on that first night, longer than the pair she used to move her wheeled chair, leaned against the weapons rack. Tarix followed his gaze. “On good days, I can get around on those,” she said, indicating the crutches. “On bad days, I’m trapped in this.” She patted the arms of the chair and then her legs. Even though they were hidden under the trousers and boots of a Bane, Garet could see that they were not quite straight. He swallowed and quickly looked up when she spoke again. “Five or so years ago, a Basher ran me over in the stockyards of Ward Six. One of the less pleasant consequences of being a Bane.” Her voice held no bitterness or anger. Garet nodded, thinking of the scarred face of Senerix who kept the stores in Torrick Banehall.
“But from what I understand from Marick,” she continued, a slight smile on her face, “all the consequences of you becoming a Bane have been unpleasant.”
“No, not at all, Master,” Garet answered. “I want to be here.” He glanced over at Marick, knowing that the young Bane would be enjoying his discomfort. “My friends are here, and I want to be…” He struggled for the proper word.
“A hero?” Tarix asked. There was no smile on her face now.
“No,” he replied honestly. “I guess that I want to be useful, to be a part of something greater than a farm and a few sheep.”
She nodded at that and picked up a piece of paper from the untidy desk. “Marick tells me that you have been studying the Moret Demonary.” She held a hand up at his look of sudd
en guilt. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Farix.” She picked up a brush and dipped it in an open pot of ink. “What is the main attack of a Horned Demon?” She tapped off the extra ink while she waited for an answer.
“A charge, Master,” Garet answered. “They use their head horns like a bull.”
The brush made a small mark on the paper. Garet could not see what she was writing.
With the brush held ready again, Tarix asked, “And what will a Shrieker do if cornered?”
Garet thought for a moment before answering. “Moret says that a Shrieker will try to climb a wall to escape, but,” he hesitated before gathering his courage to continue, “I have never seen a Shrieker try to escape.” He stood ready for a charge of disrespect towards the ancient scholars of the Hall.
“Neither have I,” Tarix replied. She made another mark. “Shriekers are not only the least common demons, they are also the most aggressive.”
“But Moret says they are the most common!” he protested and then stopped, aghast at having contradicted this imposing Master. Another mistake to mark down, he thought with a sigh.
“They are indeed the most common, Garet.” The brush made another mark. “What are the tactics used to fight a Rat Demon?” she asked.
The interrogation went on for half an hour. He was now so familiar with the Demonary that there were only a few questions he could not answer. When she finished with her questions, Tarix thanked Garet for his patience and told Marick to take him to the kitchens, on her authority, to eat a late lunch. Surprised, Garet realized that he had not even heard the bells for the mid-day meal. Tarix handed Marick a scrap of paper with her permission brushed on it and waved them out.
Marick was grinning from ear to ear as they left the gym. They ran into Dorict, still red from his battle with the sand bag, as he returned from lunch.
“Dorict!” Marick called and waved him over. “Come to lunch with us. Tarix gave us a note to eat in the kitchen and it doesn’t say how many.”
Dorict’s face brightened noticeably, and he fell in with them immediately. Dropping his voice, he whispered to Marick, “Did it work?”
Marick clapped his hand on Garet’s shoulder and whispered back, “He was amazing! I swear that he’s memorized that clawed book.”
Dorict’s expression was smug. “I told you it would work. Salick knows Tarix better than either of us.” He smiled up at Garet. “Congratulations!”
“For what?” Garet asked.
Marick pulled him into a cubby hole below the staircase. Dorict followed them. The space under the stairs was just wide enough for all three to crouch together, barely.
“Don’t want to stand in the halls where any lazy Gold can give us a job,” Marick said, then turned to Garet. “Why do you think Tarix was asking you all those questions?”
Garet sneezed at the dust they had raised and rubbed his nose. “She was probably deciding whether or not to let me keep reading the Demonary.” He rubbed his nose again. “I was afraid she would confiscate it, but I guess I must have made enough progress to satisfy her.”
Dorict laughed quietly, and Marick shook his head.
“You just passed your Blue Sash test, you idiot!” Marick hissed, trying hard to keep from shouting out the news. He rolled his eyes at Garet’s look of incomprehension. “Part of the test is a basic knowledge of the Demonary.”
“Part of it?” Garet asked. “Then the test isn’t over?” His thoughts were spinning: Farix had dropped so many dark hints about the Blue Sash tests that Garet had expected something, well, much more frightening.
Marick turned towards Dorict. “Have you talked to Salick about the physical test?”
Dorict shifted in the cramped space. “Yes. She thinks that Garet will be excused, thanks to Farix.” He ground out the name of Garet’s supervisor. “That fool made it simple by excusing him from exercising with the other Blacks.”
Garet looked at him curiously. He had never heard Dorict insult anyone except Marick. The stout Bane’s expression was grim, and from the noise, he seemed to be grinding his teeth.
Marick poked him in the ribs. “Don’t worry, Farix’s day is coming.” He saw Garet’s questioning look and said, “Dorict hates Farix because he’s a bully and loves tormenting the new Blacks.” Dorict nodded in agreement. Marick continued, “But Farix is also one of Adrix’s followers. That’s why he won’t be on top forever.”
Garet’s face must have kept its look of confusion for Marick, after a moment of hesitation, offered one more, cryptic comment. “You were there at Old Torrick, remember?”
The young Bane would say no more but pushed Garet out of the dark space and led him to the kitchen. Dorict trailed happily along, all his past bitterness about Farix forgotten in the anticipation of an extra meal.
Later that day, after supper, Salick came to find him. He had been sitting outside on the benches in front of the Banehall, watching two teams play kickball in one of the many sports fields in the Banehall plaza. The Demonary lay forgotten in his lap. A leather ball, as big as his head, moved back and forth across the field according to mysterious rules. Just when he was sure nothing had happened, the spectators shouted in joy or anger and the field master would throw his feathered wand into the air, signalling a goal. Garet sighed, promising himself to pay more attention next time.
In contrast to the glory of the palace and temples, and the busy commerce of the market stalls across the river, the Banehall plaza had a relaxed, playful atmosphere. The Banehall itself was imposing enough, four stories at its centre and three at the sides forming a ‘U’ shaped courtyard facing the river. There was a gate of iron bars and spaced wooden timbers to defend that courtyard, but Garet had never seen it closed. The rest of the plaza was uncrowded. The people who played on the grass fields or walked among the low-pruned gardens had none of the frenzy they displayed in the other plaza. Like Garet, they had come here to relax and enjoy a crisp autumn evening. He often sat in the plaza after supper, finding it, like the rooftop, a place where he could escape the worries of his life and just think.
He had a lot to think about. According to Marick, he was now a Blue, although his friend hadn’t told him how he was to get a new sash. Thinking of how he had acquired the black one he now wore, he smiled and thought he had better ask Dorict instead. And there was still the matter of his physical test. He had already guessed that he could pass such a test easily, especially considering the lack of strength and stamina in the other Blacks. Since they were unlikely to pass a test that would be too difficult for him, he would pass the physical, unless Farix hated him so much that he failed them all. That thought brought a new flutter of nerves, but Dorict had hinted that he wouldn’t have to take the physical exam. Garet idly thumbed the pages of the rewritten book and thought of his frail dormitory mates. No dragon-fighting heroes there. Like himself, they were depressingly normal. Whatever whim of Heaven chose Banes, it left out magnificent specimens like the ones that guarded bridge gates or swaggered about with Duelist’s swords on their hips.
Then another, more unpleasant thought rose in his mind: Adrix. The Banemaster obviously hated Mandarack, and might use Garet to undermine or embarrass him. Sitting here and thinking in the quiet of the low autumn sun, he now understood what Marick had been hinting at under the stairs. There was a split in the Shirath Banehall, similar to what had occurred in Old Torrick’s Hall. Adrix was obviously the leader of one group, but who led the other? Master Tarix had some similarities to the winning Master in Torrick, Corix, but in Garet’s mind she didn’t fit the part. She was too gentle. Could it be Mandarack? He helped force the change of power in Old Torrick, and Adrix certainly saw him as an enemy. Garet sighed. He knew that he owed more loyalty to Mandarack than any other Master. Whether he wanted to or not, circumstances were making him choose sides in this struggle, and probably suffer for his choice.
“Garet!” a voice called, stirring him from his thoughts.
He looked up and saw Salick coming towards his bench w
ith another Bane, a Gold. It was Farix! Why would she be bringing him to see me, Garet wondered as he jammed the Demonary into his tunic, got up and sketched a slight bow for Farix’s benefit.
Salick barely waited until she stood by Garet’s side before she launched a question at the Gold. “Now did you or did you not excuse Garet from physical training?” Her voice was sharp, and Farix straightened as if being addressed by a Master rather than a lowly Green.
“I did, but what business of that is yours, Salick?” He looked flustered, and Garet realized that Salick must have dragged him from the Hall for this meeting. In the background, a cheer went up as one team put the ball through the wicker circle at the end of the field.
Salick pressed on. “By doing so, were you saying, as his supervisor, that he already met the requirements?” She crossed her arms and waited for his answer.
“No! I…” Farix replied, and then stopped. He looked hard at Salick and then Garet while he considered his response. “Yes,” he said finally, drawing out the word as if he hated its taste. “He met the requirements—barely.” With that, he turned on his heel, but Salick’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Don’t forget to record that in the register.”
Farix didn’t turn, but gave a short nod of his head before striding away.
Salick gave that stiff back a savage smile. “Got you!” she said in a lowered voice. She turned to Garet. “That’s that. You’ve passed all the requirements for the Blue!” She dropped down onto the bench, and he slowly sat down beside her.
“Why did Farix agree, Salick?” Garet ran his hand through his hair and tried to put this new development into place with everything else. It didn’t fit. Farix would never let him off easily, nor would Adrix.
Salick waved her hand at a pair of Banes leaving the Hall for nightly patrol. Vinir, just returned from Bangt, waved back and called something inaudible. The Red she accompanied, a short, bearded man, waited impatiently. Salick motioned her on and turned back to Garet. “If he said you weren’t fit enough after letting you off the exercises, he could be accused of not training you properly.” She leaned back and turned her face to the gold-tinted clouds above the city, obviously pleased with herself. “I gave him no choice, if he wanted to remain a supervisor, and Farix couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t have some Blacks to boss around.”
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 117