Hearts and Stones (Celta HeartMate)

by Robin D. Owens

  "Thanks!" Excitement lit within the man. Holm had done that, and it felt satisfying. In the first minutes he'd met with the man, Holm had inspired his new student.

  "How long of a course do you wish to sign up for?" Holm asked.

  "As long as it takes." Allspice set his chin.

  "I think you'll find as we go along, that you will like the movement of your body, the exercise, the discipline, and want to make it a part of your lifestyle. Not only will I be offering lessons, but I will be opening the studio as an athletic club and offering such things as group melee nights, ah, et cetera. There will be membership levels."

  "Sounds really good. Can we start right away? I brought some casual clothes, but I'll need some standard training robes. And belts, I want to win colored belts as I advance." More anticipation from the GraceLord.

  "That will happen," Holm assured him. Mostly the guy had energy he needed to smooth out, and physical training would certainly do that.

  After Allspice went into the Men's Dressing Room, Holm crossed to the front door and closed it, put a keep-warm spell on the caff and cocoa, and placed the pastries in a special glass no-time, an appliance that would keep the food as fresh and the same temperature as it went in.

  It had been a long, long time since he'd been a raw beginner, beyond his own memory, but occasionally he'd seen G'Uncle Tab give a lesson or two to newcomers. And Holm had listened when his younger brother, Tinne, who was to have inherited The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon, was being instructed by Tab in how to train ...

  Then Allspice came back ... in ragged clothes Holm would never be seen wearing, even within his own home. The GraceLord was sensitive to his physical appearance, and with being thought of as manly, but cared nothing about the statement his clothes made. He also knew his job well, or T'Ash wouldn't work with him, and Allspice had the pride and confidence of a successful man. Now Holm had to learn that kind of self-made confidence, too.

  That he had such an interesting man as his first pupil pleased Holm.

  He took the GraceLord back to his early childhood grove study physical exercises and basic defense, then worked up to more impressive moves. By the time they finished a septhour and a half lesson, one hundred five minutes, Allspice could work through a simple drill pattern with enough proficiency that Holm told him he could practice it on his own with few mistakes.

  After the lesson he and Allspice talked in the atrium. The GraceLord authorized payment to Holm and signed up for twice weekly private evening sessions for three months. A good start, but Holm had thought he'd have a whole class by now ...

  Then loud and raucous young male voices projected into the building from outside the front door Holm had opened.

  "Food!" One shouted.

  A slap. "Not before we test the mighty Holm Apple!" sneered another.

  Tension built between Holm's shoulders. He rolled it out.

  When the owners of the voices swaggered into the entryway, Holm saw a group of six expensively dressed and groomed teenagers—perhaps new adults at seventeen. Surviving SecondPassage and becoming an adult tended to put an arrogant step in a young man's stride.

  Holm relaxed. Just. Easy.

  He smiled with casual good humor. "Greetyou," he bowed, "boys."

  Snarling and scowls. The largest, but not the oldest, strode forward, chin jutting and chest out. "We're here to see your studio and if you can teach us anything."

  Holm could teach him manners, for sure. Instead he raised a brow and said, "Do you have names, or do you prefer to be anonymous?"

  With superior attitudes, all of the youngsters stated their names and titles. All Heirs to a noble House, as Holm once had been. At a couple of the introductions, Allspice's face went immobile and he faded back against the wall. The merchant had recently gained his noble title, a GraceLord, and Holm recognized higher ranked boys than Allspice and those from longer established Families. Both of which counted in Celtan society.

  "Greetyou." Holm inclined his head. "I'm honored you grace my studio." Only Allspice seemed to hear the slight sarcasm. That one smiled.

  "And how much training do you have?" Holm asked the teens ranged in front of him.

  "Enough to beat you, handily," said the highest ranked one, a GrandHouse Heir of the oldest Family, one whose main Residence was located in Druida City with a secondary estate here in Gael City. Holm knew of the young man's father, the consort of the GrandLady holding the title, but that GrandLord didn't patronize The Green Knight in the capital city. Holm couldn't figure where the youngster got his training.

  And they would beat him? Handily? Holm suppressed a laugh. He waved to the dressing rooms. "Do you care to change into fighting robes?" If they did, he'd be able to gauge each's skill by his belt. He already knew none of them had a natural Flair—psi power—for fighting, like all of the Hollys.

  He noticed GraceLord Allspice staying and watching, lines in his forehead as if worried. Holm winked at him and the man calmed and leaned against the wall.

  "Nah," said the largest young noble. "We won't be sweating or harming our clothes."

  The most elegant took the time to brush a tiny lint speck from his cloth trous.

  So be it.

  "All right," Holm said. "Sounds like you prefer a melee, with the rules as stated in The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon?" He paused, "And followed by other studios, training halls and salles of note."

  The teens shrugged up and down their line. "Yeah, sure," said the largest. With a Word his shoes fell from his feet and he walked into the center of the training room in his non-slip liners, stretching as he went. All the others followed. Holm noted two didn't activate spells on their liners to keep traction. The new mats weren't as slick as the polished wooden floor, but a guy could certainly misstep and slip.

  Holm had coated his bare feet with general fighting and anti-injury spells developed by the Holly Family.

  First he'd take the two youngsters foolish enough not to coat their liners properly. Three of them stood around, not warming up. He anticipated all of the teens would make beginner mistakes. Or what would be considered beginner mistakes by his G'Uncle Tab and the rest of the Hollys.

  Strolling out on the floor and shaking out his limbs, Holm stood before the semi-circle of young men. He didn't need to warm up since he'd been active the last septhour. With a glance at Allspice, he said, "GraceLord Allspice, would you do us the honor of timing us for a ten-minute free-for-all-melee-match and giving us the start notification?"

  "Certainly," Allspice said, touching his wrist timer. He looked at Holm, who winked.

  "Go!" Allspice said.

  Two rushed Holm, he pivoted, blocked their hand blows, grabbed one and spun him into the other, pushed them both at the next two charging toward him. All went down, one tumbled right off the far edge of the mat—out of the fight.

  Five.

  Holm waited and watched the upright two dance forward with poor footwork. He hopped forward, swept out a leg and caught them both. They went down, one with a harsh, "Ooof," the other with a long riiipp of costly fabric. "My trous!" yelled the most fashionably dressed. Yes, he'd split the crotch seam in the back, showing an ass covered in a pale blue breechclout. Holm grinned.

  The young man flushed, hurried away to the side of the room, off the mat, clapped his hands to his butt and began muttering a mending spell.

  Four.

  Who all sped at Holm at once. He moved toward them, fighting left to right, blocking kicks or blows, sending them off the mat and out of the fight, then stood solitary in the middle of the room, not even breathing hard.

  "Two minutes gone," GraceLord Allspice said with a satisfied lilt.

  One stayed on the floor groaning, but the rest, with the energy of youth, hopped to their feet and stood on the far side of the room, looking angry and dazed and confused.

  Holm clapped his hands sharply, pointed to the space in front of him. "You new adults, come here and make your formal bows to me."

>   Slowly, more from their spinning wits than any reluctance, Holm thought, the young men walked to the center of the room and lined up before them. They bowed in a ragged line, but made proper bows to him as Master.

  Holm studied them. "If any of you have problems with training with me, leave now. I don't need to teach those who don't respect me, particularly since I've demonstrated my skills to you."

  The biggest, most truculent said, "I'm staying."

  "Master," Holm corrected.

  "I'm staying, Master."

  Holm scanned the line, thought more than peer pressure kept them together and here. Curiosity, an ambition to win against him someday. That might happen, years from now. Meanwhile he'd given them goals, as individuals and as a group.

  Then he bowed in return, flicked a hand at the dressing rooms, "Clean up. Dismissed."

  The teens galloped into the men's dressing room to shower—and compare bruises, and brag. Holm went over to where Allspice stood.

  "That ... that ..." Allspice shook his head. "That was an education. Worth the gilt I already paid, for sure." He held out his arm in greeting-goodbyeing and Holm clasped it after a quick Banish Sweat spell. This time the GraceLord's grip revealed the underlying firm confidence of the man.

  "Papa?" called an even younger voice than the new adults, this one female.

  "Coming, Dica," Allspice replied and gangled toward the atrium. Still, to Holm's eye, the GraceLord already moved better. Holm would settle that always-too-cerebral man into his body.

  "You said to meet you here and I came and have been waiting and waiting!"

  Holm glanced at the man who gave him a lopsided smile. "Our part-time nanny would have dropped Dica off about five minutes ago. I'm very late in taking her to GroveStudy and arriving at my own shop, but some things are worth changing plans for."

  Holm smiled and a spurt of satisfaction rushed through him. He'd pleased GraceLord Allspice, who'd tell all his friends about Holm's studio.

  Allspice greeted and kissed his daughter who sat on a chair against the wall, a wide-eyed child of about five delicately munching on an almond pastry, then the man went over to pour himself a caff.

  Holm crossed to where the girl sat on a gold-painted, tapestry-cushioned chair only a female would choose, and squatted before her and held out his hand. "Greetyou, I'm Holm Apple." And for the first time ever, it was easy saying those words. Because the child would never have heard of him before, probably never heard of the Hollys, and would judge him only on what she saw and heard and how they interacted.

  She took one hand away from the large pastry, looked at cinnamon and powdered sweet on her fingers and said a spellword to clean them, then held out her free hand to him.

  He kissed her small fingers and she giggled, high and delightfully. After he let her hand go, she immediately went back to eating, and Holm said, "You know, your father is training with me to learn to move better. To dance better," he amended.

  Dica swallowed and announced, "Papa's a GraceLord now. He tested and he passed, like in grove study, and we are all nobles. Me, too!"

  Holm nodded. "That's an achievement."

  She put the last, too big bite, into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, cleansed her hands with a spell couplet and jumped down from the chair. "I can dance!" She whirled, then marched, then stepped a partial pattern of a formal dance, and finally hopped up and down waving her arms.

  "Very nice," Holm said. "I can dance, too." He did the same pattern of the formal dance, suppressing memories of his old life, then smoothly transitioned into a simple fighting kata.

  "Oooh!" Dica gasped, put her hands over her mouth, dropped them and said, "Can I learn that?"

  Holm noticed Allspice giving him the beady eye of a man getting hustled. Holm rolled a shoulder. "She's not too young to start training."

  "Hmmph."

  A roaring group of young men exited the dressing room into the large training room behind Holm and Allspice. There came an, "Oof, watch it, clumsy!" and a body hitting the mat, rolling to his feet and stomping after his friends, then "You watch it, stupid!" Shoving.

  Holm didn't see the action but could predict it accurately enough, and he'd heard sounds like that all his life.

  Allspice scooped his child into his arms. Holm tucked his thumbs into his maroon and sky blue belt — the highest color and level a fighter could wear—it might not be Holly green, but he'd won the right to wear the belt, and would do so. He smiled at the GraceLord.

  "Training is good for defending herself, too," Allspice said gruffly.

  "Or just avoiding pushy-shovey."

  "Handling it easily." Allspice nodded. "I'll consider it."

  Holm rocked back on his heels, met Dica's gaze. "You could bring your friends, I could start a Young Beginners group." He'd have to tap his G'Uncle Tab for advice, but by the time Holm set up the class, he'd know what to do.

  With narrowed eyes, Allspice said slowly, "Training here would also mark my change in status from Commoner to GraceLord." His gaze flicked to the doorway to the large chamber where Holm sensed the young men standing.

  "Duels and feuds aren't common here in Gael City but a man holding a title must be able to defend himself." Holm's voice went flat despite his struggle to pretend to be unaffected by recent events.

  "That is so." The GraceLord stood straighter, prouder. "There are expectations of what a GraceLord is and can do."

  "I'm a GraceMistrys," Dica enthused. "GraceMistrys Dica Allspice."

  "Yes, absolutely," Holm said, and bowed to her.

  Allspice set his girl down and took her hand, bowed to Holm with the correct inclination of his torso for Holm's status. "We'll think on it."

  "I want to be the only one studying," Dica stated. "Not my sister. She doesn't get to come here and learn to dance and avoid pushy-shovey."

  "She must be busy with her HeartMate and arranging her marriage," Holm said. He and his HeartMate hadn't had a formal ritual ... yet. Something to think of, but the very thought of Lark eased emotional aches.

  "That's right," GraceLord Allspice said.

  The young men hovered around the threshold between the training room and the atrium, several casting glances at the sidebar and drinks and pastries.

  Setting his hands on his hips, Holm swung on his heel to snag the gazes of the teens as well as Allspice. "What you all must know is that the final status in this studio depends upon one's fighting ability, not one's outside rank." A couple of the young men were Heirs to a GrandHouse, a higher level of nobility than Allspice's new GraceLord title.

  "And because you are the teacher, you know the most!" Dica said.

  "That's right," Holm stated. He rolled his shoulders again and knew everyone in the building now understood that he could take them all, and all at once.

  "Come along, Dica, we are late for our daily activities," Allspice said.

  "Yes, Papa." She glanced over her shoulder. "Merry meet, Holm Apple. That's the proper goodbye, now, 'Merry Meet' and you have to say—"

  "Merry part," Holm repeated the ingrained words, bowed to her as her station allowed.

  "And merry meet again!" she caroled, then traipsed with her father outside to the sidewalk and to the north.

  Holm waved GraceLord Allspice and his daughter off, well-pleased that he'd gotten their business. The GraceLord would tell his merchant friends of Holm. More, when he began moving better, others would recognize good training and come.

  The most skilled, but not the largest, young man paced forward. "I was wrong in thinking I could best you at fighting. My apologies," he said.

  "Accepted," Holm said. "It takes a strong man to apologize for his mistakes." Holm's father, T'Holly, couldn't manage that, disinherited Holm instead.

  The youth relaxed, smiled. "Thank you. I would like to sign up for an intensive course for the full year, and the highest level of membership to the studio athletic club."

  "Fine." Now Holm conjured the business calendar sphere he'd prepared the day befor
e, and they worked out the details.

  Each one came forward to apologize for their hubris, either in clear words or a grumble, and set up instruction. Holm quoted the young men the price for a yearly course and membership to the salon, and not one of them blinked at the cost. As he would not have two months before. He'd always been able to buy any item, any service, he wanted at the moment he wanted.

  After the young men tromped out of the building, still loudly discussing the quick melee, the studio fell quiet.

  Holm could not recall when The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon had ever been quiet. For the first few minutes he busied himself with refreshing the drinks, and adding tubes of fruit juice, and revealing hearty sandwiches in the glass no-time.

  When the studio remained empty, he made notes about his new students — seven — and the fighting levels the teenagers stated they'd attained. He would test them all, and since they liked being in a group, he'd plan more melees for them.

  As for Dica Allspice, Holm sensed that her father would enroll her in a young beginners class. Holm would definitely ask his G'Uncle Tab for a class syllabus.

  His G'Uncle Tab and Holm's brother Tinne and his wife supported him. Of his immediate Family and good friends, only Holm's parents shunned him. Bad enough.

  He couldn't even put on standard music that played through the day, commissioned by The Green Knight. Because his Mama had written the tunes and just hearing them hurt.

  The outer door swung open and a middle-aged noble lady and her grown son entered, and Holm picked up one more student, the son. Men would come first, he understood, since Celtan males remained larger and stronger than women, more aggressive.

  The rest of the day people dribbled in and out, mostly looking around or consulting with him, four signing up for a few months of classes.

  Holm stayed two septhours after WorkEnd Bell to enable those with regular hours—middle class and merchant class—to drop by. He hadn't planned a fancy reception for folk to stop in and look around, and maybe that had been a mistake, but he felt better projecting a business-like image than a social club that offered training. His studio placed the social club factor strongly in a secondary position.