by Joseph Lallo
“She is a child.”
“A young lady, yes, but you should see her with a stiletto.”
“She came through the cave?”
“No, no. The young lady was born here. It earned her a few extra years of training, but cost her some lessons in how members of a civilized society comport themselves. Anything else?”
“She said the man called my ears . . .”
“Dishonest? I apologize for the deception. Dishonest isn't quite the best word either. He was suggesting that you had an unfair advantage. I assure you, he was indeed admiring the ability. Now, a few questions of my own. Your native language is Tresson and you know a bit of Crich and Varden, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you'll need to work on the northern languages. 'A bit' won't do. From there, you'll move on to the rest. Can you read in any of those languages?”
“No.”
“You shall need to work on that as well. If you'll take my advice, I'd suggest beginning there, as it will take some time to master it. Find someone on Wizard's Side to teach you. That is more their specialty.”
“I only wish to be a more skilled assassin. Why would I need to learn any of this?”
“Because whether your goal is assassination or espionage, or really any other worthwhile pursuit, the difference between success and failure is often information. Knowing weaknesses, knowing locations, knowing the truth when you are being lied to, these things are at least as important as knowing how to defend or attack when the time comes. And, unfortunately for you and I, we do not get to choose how that information comes to us. It may be spoken, it may be written, and it may be in any language. To be truly prepared, we must learn as much as we can. For you, that means tracking down a willing teacher and learning to read some Tresson, Crich, or Varden. However, combat is a part of it, so I must ask: what weapons do you prefer?”
“I've used a few blades.”
“Swords? Daggers?”
“Whatever I could find.”
“An opportunist, excellent. We'll take you to see Croyden Lumineblade, then. He's been working on something for me.”
“I thought you said Croyden was the name of the man who made master-level weapons.”
“He is, but he insists on seeing newcomers. He claims that there is no one better suited to determining what hand should be holding what blade.”
It was only a short distance to the cluster of huts dedicated to the fabrication of the many, many weapons used by the denizens of Entwell. They were unique among the huts in their area, built a bit taller and with a greater proportion of stone than the rest. The huts dedicated to metalworking had stout chimneys poking out of their roofs, and from within there came the crackle of intense flames. The hammering of metal upon metal was now and again replaced by the hiss of water turning to steam, and from other huts came a chorus of sawing, chopping, creaking, and grinding. Taken as a whole, the half-dozen huts felt like the center of a thriving industry.
Leo led the way to a hut near the center of the cluster, situated between two similarly-equipped workshops. The one on the left was belching black smoke and had the distinctive sound of puffing bellows and grunting apprentices. At first, Shadow thought that the others were not in use, as there was no smoke or commotion, but there was certainly plenty of heat rolling out of the door, here and there the blow of a hammer.
The pair of assassins-in-training stepped inside to find it rather crowded and utterly stifling. Huddled around the furnace were three young men dressed in red tunics similar to the tiny outfit worn by Fiora. Each held a crystal, two with their bare hands and one at the end of a stone staff. Their eyes were shut tight and the staff-wielding one was quietly muttering arcane words. Presumably as a result of their combined efforts, a white glow too bright to look at pulsed within the clay dome of a quality furnace. Ducked low with his head turned aside and his teeth clenched was a dwarf of indeterminate age. He wore thick leather apron and pair of gloves and held a hefty set of tongs, maneuvering an iron rod within the glow. A wiry human with similar equipment was standing at the ready. Judging from the fact that he was looking anxious and was missing an eyebrow, he was probably a less experienced apprentice.
Supervising them was an elf. He had sharp, hawk-like nose, pointed ears, and a build close to the work-hardened elves Shadow had known from the plantation. His hair was dark, and his expression stern. One hand held a hammer, the other a pair of tongs, and he was watching with squinted eyes as the metal rod was heated.
“Master Croyden,” said Leo.
The elf turned to the door, then recoiled somewhat at the site of his visitor. He made a comment in his native tongue that, though Shadow did not fully understand, seemed to have a passing familiarity. After a moment, he realized he'd heard Goldie and Blondie utter a similar phrase regularly. Presumably it was their own word for malthrope or, judging from his expression, “mally.”
“He's been here for a few days, but we only discovered him yesterday.”
This new information raised the weapon crafter's eyebrow. “Tresson?” he asked.
Shadow nodded.
“Go out back and wait,” Croyden stated, before turning to his apprentices and delivering a long sequence of precise instructions in his own language.
Leo led the way to a courtyard of sorts. It was an open patch of ground behind the ring of crafting huts, and seemed to serve as a storage and testing area. Racks held weapons and armor of various types, and in all states of completion. The more complete pieces were kept in enclosed cabinets to keep the weather from them. There were painted signs indicating the contents—but for now, at least, those signs were meaningless to Shadow.
Croyden emerged after a minute or two and marched with purpose to one such cabinet. Inside were a few weapons that even to an untrained eye were magnificent. The metal was gleaming, the edges clean and precise. Most were swords of various shapes and sizes, though an ax and an assortment of daggers were on display as well. He selected a thin saber and swiped it through the air a few times. He then approached a rack with some weapons that, while quite well-made, certainly weren't to the same level of craftsmanship. Three identical swords were stored there. They were an odd shape, with double-edged blades only about as long as Shadow's forearm, and two-handed grips. It resulted in a weapon that was nearly as much hilt as blade and looked more like an oversized dagger than a proper sword.
Croyden selected one of them and, without a word of warning, heaved it toward Shadow. The malthrope managed to catch it by the grip with ease.
“Defend,” Croyden stated.
Without another word, the elf launched himself forward, sword slicing through the air. Shadow managed to raise the sword to block the first attack, and after a second one nicked his ear he blocked the third and fourth. Croyden was unrelenting, almost manic in his assault. There was none of the grace or cunning one would have suspected from one of his kind. His attacks seemed almost random. The weapons clanged and clashed, no slash but the second managing to taste blood, but most coming close. Finally, the assault relented as quickly as it began. Shadow's eyes were wide and his teeth were bared. He was unsure if he was meant to return the attacks in kind.
“No skill,” Croyden decreed, replacing his own blade, “but a fair amount of talent, and excellent reflexes. You are not ready for one of mine yet, but perhaps soon. Keep the trainer. That should do for now.”
The elf then left the courtyard without further comment, leaving Shadow still confused and out of breath from the unprovoked attack. He looked to Leo, who grinned a bit wider and shrugged.
“By now it should be clear that such things are to be expected here. There is very little pretense. We have curiosities and we address them. It can be a bit off-putting at first, but once you are accustomed to it you'll see that it is quite liberating. At any rate, start working on those language skills, and become comfortable with that weapon. I'll check on you in a few days, but don't waste any time. After a week, you'll be thrust into the th
ick of it.”
With that, Leo was off. Shadow stood for a time, bleeding from the ear and weapon in hand. He wasn't certain what was more unnerving to him: the fact that a villager had assaulted him without cause or warning and then walked away as though nothing had happened, or the fact that he was standing in the center of a community of warriors with a weapon in his hand and was not currently running for his life. Rather than press his luck, he decided to hurry to his hut and work out what needed to be done.
#
Shadow did his best to find a routine. Several years of having to scrape out a living for himself had left a deep impression upon him, and the reality of a place where food and water would always be available was slow to take root. Out of habit, he remained hidden through most of the day. He spent the time skulking in the shadows, watching warriors training and sparring. When night descended, he ventured out. Even at midnight, food was available in the designated hut, though in the form of lukewarm cauldrons of the day's leftovers. Despite the fact that he at least appeared to be in no danger here, sleep continued to come in light and fitful dozes scattered throughout the daylight hours, as though if he ever let himself fall into a truly deep slumber he would awake surrounded by hunters.
This, at least, proved to be accurate.
To the other students of Weste, Shadow's considerable powers of detection were an irresistible challenge. Each made an attempt to get the better of him. Deena had been clinging to the rafters of his hut one night. The man who had dubbed his ears “untrustworthy” took to following him. None of the students managed to escape his notice for more than a few moments.
For many, the concept of being perpetually stalked by trained killers would have been a horrifying and debilitating distraction. For Shadow, it was the most familiar and comforting part of this entire experience in this place.
As dawn was nearing on the third day, Shadow was sitting at the edge of the village's lake near the seaside cliff. His sword was by his side and his eyes staring at the reflection of the moonlit clouds in the surface. In response to a tugging in the back of his mind, he twitched an ear, then turned his head to the south. A barely perceptible motion in the tall grass slowed and stopped.
“Leo,” he said quietly.
“Confound it!” cursed Leo in a lighthearted fashion, “I've got half a mind to swing by the Wizard's Side and pick up some trinkets to give me the edge on you.” He stood and walked toward the malthrope. Out of habit or training, he moved almost silently despite being discovered. “I've been asking around the village. It seems you've been remiss in your assignments.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven't approached anyone about teaching you anything.”
“I've been watching and listening. I've learned a great deal of how to handle the blade.”
“Watching and listening . . . no doubt you can learn quite a bit in that way, but if you step forward and ask, you shall be shown where to start and pointed in the right direction. All you need to do is ask.”
“This is my way.”
“Perhaps, but it is not the Entwell way. And what of reading and writing? Have you been watching people do that?”
“I don't see the need.”
“Don't you?” Leo looked around, spotting a pair of blue-clad villagers from Wizard's Side making their way along the shore of the lake. “Well, let us see.”
He ducked down and slid smoothly through the tall weeds until he was near enough to touch the students. They remained oblivious to his presence, even after he stepped out behind them and plucked something from each of them. In a few moments he was beside Shadow again, two parchments in hand.
“Tell me,” he said, flipping the parchments open and glancing over them. “Who are those two, where are they going, and why?”
“They are dressed in blue. The water wizards seem to wear blue. I imagine they are going to train, since most people here start their day at dawn.”
“Correct. But these parchments tell me that they are heading to the southernmost tip of Entwell, where they will meditate on a very powerful and very volatile spell. They are doing it under the instruction of a mid-level water mage named Narrel. They perform this task at dawn on alternating days, and report back to Narrel by noon. Other days they are to rest and collaborate with Narrel on the improvement of the spell.”
“Nothing that I could not have determined by observing them for a few days.”
“Certainly, but if you'd read these, you wouldn't have needed to. Three days of surveillance replaced by a few moments. Keep it in mind. I've got to return these.”
Shadow thought for a moment before calling after him. “Can you teach me to use a sword?”
“I could, but I wouldn't be doing you any favors. It isn't my strongest subject,” he called back. “And I haven't really got the patience for teaching, it shames me to say. There are plenty more able than me. Just ask!”
He vanished among the weeds, chasing after the wizards he had pick-pocketed. Shadow thought back to his attempts at bounty-hunting. In the larger cities, the bounty offices posted the descriptions they read each morning. Though the list of bounties were read only once, they were updated throughout the day. If he had been able to read them, he could have had hours of head-start over the other hunters. Other mistakes that might not have been made and opportunities that might not have been missed came to mind. He turned to the north, sniffed the air, and set off.
Following a scent on the breeze, he found his way to a tree on the opposite end of the village. Its bark was scorched here and there, and the whole of the trunk and many of the branches were wreathed in morning glories. The flowers on the vines were just beginning to open in the rising sun, and there was a clump of carefully arranged twigs, leaves, and woven vines over a crook between two branches that, to a trained eye, looked quite like a roof. From the darkness beneath came a slow, regular trill. He grasped a low branch and hoisted himself level with the nest.
Inside was the sleeping form of Fiora. Her head was toward the “entrance” of her little home, and the sound was evidently a fairy-sized snore.
“Fiora,” he said.
The trilling stopped abruptly and the tiny head shifted upward. Its little eyes shot open and it released a startled chirp, darting backward and nearly demolishing its shelter with the flutter of its wings. After a moment the shock of coming eye to eye with a fierce creature many times her own size lurking inches from her door, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Mr. Malthrope, sir,” she said breathlessly. “You startled me.”
“I apologize.”
“No! It is fine.” She straightened her tunic and drifted out of her home, allowing Shadow to drop back to the ground. “It was nearly dawn anyway. I would have had to wake up soon. How can I help you?”
“You said that you owed me a favor.”
“I certainly do. Master Solomon complimented me on my initiative when I brought you to him! Do you know how difficult it is to get praise out of a dragon?” she said. “Why, did you have something in mind?”
“Can you read?”
She crossed her arms. “What sort of a wizard would I be if I couldn't read? I read every language I speak, plus two more besides.”
“I need you to teach me.”
She smirked and put her hands on her hips. “That's your favor? You don't know much about Entwell wizards, do you? You are giving me a chance to teach! Do you know how long I would have had to wait to get a student of any kind?” She clapped her hands in delight. “This isn't returning the favor. Not hardly. I almost owe you two favors now. I don't, mind you, but almost. I've got a full day of my own studies ahead of me, but I can help you at sundown. I'll meet you at your hut, we'll go to the library, and we'll get started. For now, if you'll excuse me, I need some breakfast.”
He watched as she fluttered up to the first fully-open flower and leaned into it, partaking of the nectar within.
One problem solved, Shadow made his way back toward Warrior's
Side. He hefted the sword in his hand as he went, judging its shape and attempting to spot someone using a similar one. There were not very many. Croyden had referred to it as a “trainer.” If it was truly a weapon intended for those just beginning their training, then it was possible that no one in the village was as fresh to swordcraft as he. There were plenty of masters instructing students, and plenty of people sparring or engaging in solo drills. Likely he could approach any one of them and request instruction, but every time he thought of reaching out to one of them, something inside of him recoiled. Even becoming comfortable with being seen by others was a steep hill to climb. Actually reaching out to them for help without something to offer in return seemed insurmountable. His frustration began to flare, both with the way this place worked and the fact that he couldn't adapt to it.
When he heard an unnatural shuffle of a foot and felt the familiar burning of observation, it was the last straw.
“Stop following me!” he snapped, spinning on his heel and pulling a black-clad figure from the shadows. It was the gap-toothed older man who had “admired” Shadow's ears. The man smiled and uttered a foreign remark that didn't sound like an apology. The raised voices drew the attention of the others in the area, but for now Shadow didn't care. “Do you speak Tresson?” The man nodded, grin still firmly in place, as though he was delighted with the situation. “Then speak it! I don't speak your language yet and I'm through relying on an interpreter.”
“Hot temper on you. Makes sense,” the man said, pulling out of his grip.
“What is your name?”
“Sama.”
“Why do you keep following me?”
“You keep finding me, I keep following you. I need to find a way around those cheating ears. Same for all of us. What was my mistake?”
Shadow growled, then looked to Sama's belt. There was a sword there. It wasn't the same sort, but close.
“Do you know how to use this sort of sword?” he asked, holding up the one he had been provided.
Sama nodded. “Simple.”