Ranph had seemed on edge since the announcement was made. At first Soren had wondered why, but was then reminded of the evening he had saved him from attack. There were many things that Soren did not understand about Ostenheim, most of which had never had any cause to affect him when he had lived in the orphanage or on the street. He had understood the dangers of the rivalry between various street gangs, and that these rivalries seemed to work their way up through society to some degree. Organised crime and occasionally violence between the guilds was as much as he had ever witnessed but it appeared to him that wherever there was power to be had, people would fight over it, even aristocrats.
Ranph asked Soren to stay close by him for the duration of the ceremony. He explained that it was not likely that anything would happen, but just in case. He did not elaborate on what ‘anything’ might be, which bothered Soren. He knew his friend was probably not able to elaborate, but it would have been nice to have an idea of what to look out for.
The ceremony consisted of a triumph through the city gates and a march down Northgate Road with an honour guard to Crossways and the Cathedral. The Academy students would line the steps of the Cathedral to honour the recipients of the awards. The banners of the swordsmen receiving their awards fluttered proudly from flag poles at the top of the steps. That of Ranph’s father took pride of place in the centre, a little higher than the others. It was a pleasant affair, but Soren took Ranph’s comments seriously and he was not able to relax.
As it transpired, nothing happened. The honour guard entered the Cathedral while the students remained in their positions outside. A modest crowd had gathered, perhaps not as large as one would expect for the award of the Grand Cross, but the size and significance of the battle had clearly been played down for whatever reason, and none of the men receiving awards would have been known to the citizens, with Count Bragadin being the only likely exception.
When the ceremony was finished, the awardees all left, with the Duke being hurried to his awaiting carriage by his personal bodyguard of half a dozen men. After the nervous energy of expecting trouble, Soren felt somewhat deflated when the event ended with no incident. Ranph had clearly been more worried than he had wished to appear and Soren doubted that any threat he spoke of had been imagined. When the son of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world feared for his safety, despite being well able to take care of himself, Soren realised that there were forces at work in Ostia that were beyond his awareness or ability to influence.
Nevertheless, Count Bragadin and his retinue returned to their townhouse, and Soren, Ranph and the other students returned to the Academy safely.
In the days since their picnic on the island, Soren had found it difficult to think of much else. He had seen Alessandra a number of times since, but only briefly. Their respective responsibilities had kept them from another outing like the picnic. It had been the perfect day. In class he daydreamed of her, the sound of her voice, the way she laughed, the smell of her hair. In practice he imagined she was watching him, and he pushed himself to ever more flamboyant swordplay. His skill and speed with a sword was all that he had to offer her. With no money, land or titles, it was all he had to set himself apart from all those who he knew had far more to offer than he ever would. As long as it was not enough to support himself, how could he ever contemplate being able to keep a girl like Alessandra?
When he was in a normal practice class, this ostentation was fine. By now there was not another student in his class who could match him. It was different in his private lessons with Master Bryn.
Bryn had long since acknowledged Soren’s skill. Master Dornish had always made it clear that Bryn’s evaluations of him had been exemplary. Although each of their duels in training were close, Soren was beginning to come out on top by ever greater margins. When he introduced unnecessary flourishes into his swordplay, it enraged Bryn, who would hurl abuse at him for being a popinjay and for the dangerous openings they left. Soren knew they were there, knew the danger existed, but was also certain that he could get away with them. Bryn knew it too. In point of fact, every time he did try to exploit one of the openings, Soren easily parried and countered, further angering Bryn.
Bryn was an angry fighter. He had a flawless technique, but there was a deep-rooted anger in every attack he made, as though each time he struck, it was not his opponent he saw, but some other person or event. It intrigued Soren, but he was well aware that it was unlikely that he would ever find out its cause.
He made to leave the salon at the end of the evening’s practice, a spring in his step as he was going down to the Sail and Sword to see Alessandra.
‘Soren!’ Bryn shouted. The towel he was using to wipe the perspiration from his face muffled his voice somewhat. Soren paused, his hand hovering over the door handle. Bryn stared over at him, his face hard, the towel held just below his face. ‘One day you will meet a man who is at least your match. On that day, do not let your arrogance kill you.’ He returned to wiping his face and neck as Soren left the salon.
As he knew that it was likely Alessandra would be busy again this evening, he brought Ranph along for company. She was, as he suspected, rushed off her feet and only had time to give him a warm smile as he passed by the bar with Ranph to take possession of the booth by the fire. A convoy had arrived the previous week and its sailors were still in coin enough to pack out every tavern around the harbour. It was great for business, but it meant that Soren would not get to spend time with Alessandra for some days yet.
She always got a lot of attention from the patrons at the bar and this gnawed at Soren. He knew that there was nothing he could do about it and for the most part he pushed it from his mind. Most of her admirers were men of little means and would have even less to offer her than Soren did. The regulars never bothered him, former sailors and stevedores on their guild pensions with nothing better to do, but the crowd for the past few days was different. Merchants with money were in town, and they were spending it readily.
There was one man in particular that stood out, one that Soren could not ignore and put down to just being another example of him being overly sensitive to the inadequacy of his own means. He was a grown man and he could not stand on his own two feet, let alone provide for a girl like Alessandra and that chafed at him. Until he graduated, he was still a nobody with no more to show for himself than he had when living on the street. His position was entirely dependent on Amero’s continued goodwill and generosity. His livelihood and success after graduating would almost certainly also be dependent on Amero.
At first Soren had thought the man to be Captain Varrisher, but he was mistaken in this. He was just a prosperous looking merchant who dressed similarly and held himself with the same overconfident swagger. He looked a little too wealthy to be in a place like the Sail and Sword though. From his finely tailored clothes with silver thread embroidery, Soren would have thought him more comfortable in one of the expensive inns elsewhere in the city. From the way he watched Alessandra though, it was clear why he was there.
‘How can I ever hope to compete with the likes of him?’ Soren said idly. ‘What do I have to offer her?’
‘Well, you can cross good looks, charm and talent off the list for starters!’ replied Ranph, hoping to lighten the mood. He did not succeed.
Soren continued to watch the merchant as he tried to make conversation with Alessandra every time she passed near. He wished that he had the money to be able to take her out regularly, or to get her something that would show her how much she meant to him. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he had something already.
The award ceremony at the Cathedral was not the only formal occasion for Soren that term. He also had his own, in the form of his initiation into the Blades Society. Only the other Blades were present, and several of the masters who had been Blades in their student days. He was given a fine platinum badge of crossed swords and a perfect sapphire set in the centre, the same shade of blue as the city’s.
&nb
sp; It was a moment of enormous pride for him. He had achieved this on his own with his own skill and hard work. No amount of influence from the Count of Moreno could have won him this place. It was reserved for merit alone and was proof of his acceptance by his peers.
C h a p t e r 2 9
A QUESTIONABLE OPPORTUNITY
Soren slipped out of the Academy early and stopped at a silversmith’s shop on his way to the Sail and Sword. He had Alessandra’s name engraved on the reverse of the huntsman’s amulet he had been given in Ruripathia. Aside from the block of Telastrian steel that would not have made an attractive gift to anyone other than a swordsman, it was the only thing of value that he owned.
The prosperous looking merchant was there again when Soren arrived. He regularly bought rounds for the other sailors at the bar. His sailors, Soren assumed. As he had been on the previous night, he was propped up against the bar, joking with Alessandra every time she was there, watching her hawkishly when she was not. He was the focus of attention at the bar, the type of man who was friends with everyone. Money was the key. Without it, charm was useless. It was the only way he could keep Alessandra, to show her that he would be able to give her a good life. As he watched the merchant another man caught his eye and a solution to his problem formed in his mind.
‘Mr Braggock?’ Soren asked.
‘Just Braggock, lad,’ he replied, his face breaking into a smile that did not seem to suit him.
‘You mentioned before that you might have some work. I’m a student at the Academy,’ said Soren.
‘I did indeed. What’s your name then?’
‘Soren.’
‘Soren?’ asked Braggock.
‘Yes, just Soren.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll tell you what, Soren, come back to me in a day or two, and I should have something for you. The work pays well, lad, but I’m not going to lie to you, it’s dangerous,’ said Braggock.
‘I know how to handle myself. I’ll see you here in two days then.’
Braggock turned back to his drink at the bar and Soren cast a look to Alessandra, who was still laughing with the merchant, although he thought he caught her give him an unusual look. He waited for some time to talk to Alessandra, to give her the gift, but as was always the case these days, the tavern was busy and she could not afford him anything more than a warm smile.
It grew late and he could not remain there any longer. On his way out, he gave the small paper packet that he had put the amulet in to her uncle, the tavern keeper, and asked that he give it to her, which he said he would. He left the tavern and walked out onto the street. The air had more of a chill in it than he had noticed recently, the bite making him think fleetingly of Ruripathia.
He had only gone a few paces up the street when he heard a voice calling his name. He turned to see Alessandra standing by the door.
‘Going already?’ she asked, smiling.
‘Your rich merchant friend seems to be keeping you occupied. I need to get back to the Academy to train,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t be like that. You know I have to be nice to the customers. My uncle would tan my hide if I wasn’t,’ she replied, detecting the sulky tone in his voice.
‘Well, I need to go,’ he said.
‘Will you come tomorrow?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I promise that I’ll have some time for you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll try,’ he replied. He turned again to walk away, but she called out to him again.
‘Promise me you’ll stay away from that man you were talking to. He’s bad news.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, ignoring her request, before walking on into the darkness of the night.
He did not go back to the Sail and Sword the next night. Instead he spent it with Bryn in the salon, channelling his frustration into each attack, discarding his flourishes for determined thrusts. He tried desperately to find a way to consciously bring on the Gift, the Moment, or whatever it was, but it seemed that the harder he focussed on it, the more nebulous that it became. He felt that the Gift was influencing him, but he could never clearly identify how much, and no matter how hard he reached for it, he could not bring on the Moment, if that was in fact what he had experienced when fighting the belek.
He attacked relentlessly, without rest or fatigue, constantly willing on his ability to envelop him completely, so that he could demonstrate to Bryn exactly how good he could be, and in some way prove to himself that he was enough for Alessandra. His determination was such that he had even earned a grudging nod of approval from Bryn as he left to return to his room.
C h a p t e r 3 0
DELIVERING THE PACKAGE
He returned to the tavern the next night to keep his appointment with Braggock. When he arrived, Alessandra was not yet there, but Braggock was.
‘Ah, Soren. I had wondered if you would show, but I see I worried unnecessarily. Come, we have much to discuss,’ he said. He gestured to one of the more secluded booths, and nodded to the barman to bring more drinks.
They sat, and Soren felt a growing sense of unease. Not only of the possible mistake he had made in meeting with Braggock, but also for fear of being seen with this man by Alessandra. The confident determination with which he had set out to make this arrangement was fleeing him, but it was too late to turn back now.
‘Now, my lad, down to business. There is a package being delivered from one of the ships in the outer harbour to my associate on the docks two nights from tonight. He will need an escort to ensure he gets home safely with it. Are you up to it?’
Soren responded in the affirmative, but with a degree of hesitation that he did his best to conceal from Braggock. The barbarian dressed in the fashion of a citizen of the Duchy, but his manner was still that of a plainsman. It both made him fit in and seem out of place at the same time, which unsettled Soren.
‘There shouldn’t be any killing involved, but you might have to frighten off a thug or two chancing his arm. All the same, I’d bring a set of blades if I were you. A fright is all most of them need, and the glimpse of steel is usually enough to take care of that. If it comes to it though, do you have the stomach to draw some blood?’ asked Braggock.
Soren nodded, keeping his face a mask.
‘Good. Forty crowns for you, shouldn’t take more than an hour. Half now and half when you’re done.’
Soren nearly inhaled the ale he was drinking. Forty crowns was more than a dockworker would make in a month. What could be of such value? Then it occurred to him. Dream seed; the zombie maker. The slums were littered with addicts, who lived only to breath in the sickly sweet fumes it gave off when burned. They wandered about all day, like zombies, searching for their next fix. It was also said to be popular among the aristocracy, although the purer, more expensive form they enjoyed had fewer of the unpleasant side effects experienced by the poor. It was imported from the south, one of the many far off lands that Soren was only vaguely aware of. Doctors could import it by special licence; otherwise it was highly illegal.
‘Agreed,’ Soren said, his mind snapping firm to the decision.
‘Meet him by the steps on the slip in Oldtown at sundown. Give him this to identify yourself.’ He handed Soren a small metal disc, not much bigger than a florin coin with some symbols etched onto both sides. ‘My associate will be looking out for you. Wear dark clothes and the best of luck to you,’ Braggock said, with that smile that looked out of place on his face.
There was still no sign of Alessandra, so Soren left with a mix of relief and disappointment swirling in his gut. Relief that she had not seen him with Braggock, disappointment that he had not seen her. He passed the side door of the tavern that led to the residence above and heard the squeak of hinges.
‘I got the evening off,’ said a voice from the darkness that made Soren jump.
He turned to see Alessandra standing in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that merchant. How can I compete with him, all his money and
fine clothes?’
‘Silly boy!’ she said, stepping forward and cupping his face in her hands. He noticed she was wearing the pendant he had given her. ‘Money is nice, but it isn’t everything. I love the amulet you gave me, it’s absolutely beautiful, but I would far rather you had given it to me yourself. It’s the meaning behind it that matters, not the value. I’d trade it in a heartbeat if it meant being able to spend more time with you, but we are so busy, and I have to do what my Uncle asks of me. He’s been so good to me since father left and he desperately needs the help. There’s nothing to be jealous about though. I like you because you’re different to all the others, the merchant included.’ She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder and then looked back to Soren. ‘My uncle will be busy in the tavern tonight. Will you come in?’ she said, and then with a brazen look in her eye and a cheeky smile on her mouth, ‘I’ll show you how little you have to be jealous about.’
C h a p t e r 3 1
A FRIEND IN NEED
Soren was sitting on one of the more comfortable couches in the common room of River House idly flipping through a book on cavalry tactics that he was finding it difficult to engage with when there was a commotion at the door. He looked up to see Ranph enter the room, red faced and flustered.
‘My house is on fire!’ he said.
Soren immediately thought that he was talking about Stornado, which, while certainly unpleasant was not likely to have put Ranph into the state that he was in. It had not been long since Ranph’s father had been awarded the Grand Cross, and he was still in the city attending to his affairs. The cogs of Soren’s mind turned slowly that lazy afternoon, but he quickly enough came to the realisation that it was not Stornado that Ranph was talking about. He bounced to his feet and made off after Ranph who had already turned and left, grabbing a random sword from the rack of ‘old beaters’ in the hallway as he left.
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