Sword Fight

by Nathan Van Coops

  Her sword struck steel.

  Her father had intercepted her sword with the flat of his own blade and was now looming in front of her. “You’re not focusing.”

  “Why doesn’t Henry ever have to do Burning Sky practice? It’s so boring.”

  Her father studied her, then dropped to one knee in front of her to be at her level. “Your brother is a boy. He has to fight like one. You’re a girl.”

  “I can do anything he can do,” Valerie argued. “Why don’t you teach us the same?”

  Her father’s eyes softened. “Henry’s path will always be different from yours.” He reached out and gripped her sword, his big hands overlapping hers and tightening around her fists. “No two warriors ever fight the same battle. Each of us has our own fight. How we train for it must also be different.”

  “You just like him better because he’s a boy.”

  He released the sword and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll tell you a secret. I never even knew how much love my heart could hold until the day I held my baby girl and she smiled at me. That little girl was you.”

  “I’m not smiling now.”

  Her father laughed. A hearty sound that welled up from his chest. His dark beard quivered and his shoulders shook. He stood and wrapped an arm around her. “You ever stop to think that maybe Henry gets extra practice because he needs it? Maybe he’s not as tough as you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Valerie argued. “He’s always been stronger than me.”

  “There are many ways to show strength.” He held up his sword. “Take Durendal here. You know how it got so strong?”

  “No.”

  “It was beaten with a hammer and heated in a raging fire, then it was quenched in water and beaten some more. If it hadn’t gone through all of those things, it would never be the weapon it is today.” He tightened his grip on her shoulder. “One day, you’ll be the weapon. But first, you have to be tested.”

  Valerie stared at the legendary blade in her father’s hand.

  “I’ll be like a sword?”

  “One day. If you keep practicing.”

  “Does it have to be Burning Sky?”

  “Maybe we can add in a few more forms,” he said. “Get your sword ready. I’ll teach you a new one.”

  “What’s this one called?” Valerie asked.

  “Burning Sky part two.”

  Valerie groaned.

  Her father laughed.

  11

  News

  Valerie blinked at the ceiling, then slowly sat up on the cot. She would have given anything to be waking up at home, and to discover that the last forty-eight hours had been a dream, but the dimly-lit storeroom was oppressively real.

  Ambient light from the grimy slit of a window in the bathroom was the only indication that morning had arrived. That and her headache.

  She eased her way off the cot and over to the bathroom, taking time to wash her face in the utility sink. The bar of soap was just a sliver, and the hand towel was missing, but she made do.

  Valerie rubbed the creases of her fingers. Her skin was clean, the blood gone, but in her mind they were still pressed to his chest, covering the wound.

  The girl staring back at her in the mirror was barely recognizable. The swelling around her eye had gone down but had left a colorful bruise. She probed it gingerly and decided it was best left alone. Her usually straight hair was a rat’s nest. She combed it with her fingers and managed to calm it down, but she was still a far cry from her usual reflection.

  “The morning is for making new plans,” she muttered.

  What was her plan? After a solemn staring contest with herself, she decided there was nothing she could do without the proper tools, the first of which was coffee.

  She slipped out of the storeroom and into the bar. The front door was propped open, allowing the morning light in. The back door was open as well, and the breeze flowing through brought the sound of seagull cries and the smell of cut fish.

  Valerie shuffled to the far end of the bar where Janet was already at work tallying receipts. A few clinking noises came from the kitchen.

  “The excitement starts early around here,” Valerie said.

  “Always,” Janet replied. “You want some coffee? I have a pot going.”

  “You’d be my hero.”

  While Janet located a mug and poured her a cup, Valerie’s eyes roamed over the tournament posters pinned up behind the bar.

  The King’s Tournament. A Showcase of Honor.

  In the chaos of the last day, she had almost forgotten about the tournament. One poster featured an illustration of two rugged-looking hot rods racing past a finish line, and another had two gallant swordsmen locked in a duel. She knew there were lesser events in a king’s tournament—archery, jousting, and the like—but it was the car races and the sword melee that drew the crowds.

  “You want cream?” Janet set the cup of coffee on the bar.

  Valerie shook her head. “So, I know it’s a king’s tournament, but is King Logan really coming to Port Hyacinth?”

  “That’s the rumor. The winner of the tournament gets to fill a spot at the Round Table. People around here are thrilled. It’s the first time a king’s tournament has had an open list in as long as anybody can remember. Anyone with a car and a sword has a chance.”

  “A war car,” Valerie clarified. “How many commoners have one of those?”

  “You might be surprised at the ingenuity of the builders around here. As soon as the announcement came out, you could hear the engines coming to life in places you never would have thought. There’s good money on a couple drivers from the Underside causing an upset.” She gestured to a lower-quality dueling poster featuring the angry-looking face of a man named Connor Kane.

  Valerie tried to imagine the reaction of the high-born to a commoner winning the tournament.

  “Would anyone really want a commoner seated at the Round Table?”

  “Certainly better than the lot we have now,” Janet said. “When was the last time the nobles at court did us any favors? We need someone who will actually speak for the people.”

  Valerie studied the poster’s place of prominence behind the bar. Janet’s politics were no doubt popular here, but there was a lot of altitude between a rim village and the high houses of the city. She doubted many of the nobles shared her enthusiasm. “You expect to get a lot of business for the tournament?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s already the busiest we’ve been in years. All the shops and restaurants along the waterfront are getting ready. Of course, the rich folk and their entourages will stay inside the city walls, but we’ll get our share of itinerant knights and travelers. Tidewater’s not likely to get a windfall like this for another decade.”

  “Is that what they call this village? I didn’t know the outer-wall villages had names.”

  “Everyone is from somewhere.”

  Valerie fidgeted with the coffee cup. “So, I was wondering, with all that extra business you were talking about . . . do you maybe need some help around here?”

  “I can always use help. You have someone special in mind?” Janet cocked an eyebrow.

  “Well, I was thinking that maybe I could stick around for a little and try to . . . I don’t know, work? Just until I get things figured out.”

  Janet set her completed stack of receipts in a basket and tucked it away on a shelf beneath the register. “You ever work a bar before?”

  “No.”

  “You ever work anywhere before?”

  “I’ve been away at school,” Valerie replied.

  “You study anything that qualifies you to work here?”

  “Not really. I mostly studied engineering. I want to design my own race cars one day.”

  Janet leaned on the bar. “The thing about hiring help is, I don’t like to spend the time training someone only to have them vanish on me the first time they get paid. And there’s not a lot of what I know about you that suggests employment lo
ngevity.”

  Valerie nodded. “I know. Last night, all I wanted was to get out of this city. My car is impounded, and if it wasn’t stuck in there, I would have left town as fast as I could drive. But I think I was wrong.”

  “How so?” Janet asked.

  “Someone I love was killed by the Sterlings. My brother. And he deserves justice. The only place I can get justice is here.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Janet said. “I’ve certainly known my share of people who’ve regretted run-ins with the Sterlings. But what makes you think you’ll get justice for your brother by hanging around here?”

  Valerie pointed to the tournament poster. “That. No one I know will stand up to Jasper Sterling, so I’ll need to go straight to the top. I’ll have to talk to the king.”

  Janet laughed and shook her head. “The king? Sorry, I was wrong. It sounds like you will be here for a long time if that’s your plan. You think the king will just let you walk up and explain your story, and he’ll clear everything up for you? Is that how life has worked for you so far?”

  “He’ll give me justice. It’s what kings do.”

  Janet crossed her arms. “This plan is a fool’s errand. How will you get an audience with the king when the Sterlings are hosting him? And what makes you think he’d believe your word over theirs?”

  “I’ll get proof.”

  “You know where to find proof?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d say that’s a mighty big question mark.” Janet wiped her hands on a rag. “But, fine. As long as you can work your justice-seeking around normal bar hours, I’ll find some work for you to do. That way, your time won’t be completely wasted. But if you’re going up against the Sterlings, you’ve got your work cut out for you. And we have enough troubles. If your crazy idea starts causing any kind of problems, you’re out. Got it?”

  “I understand,” Valerie replied.

  Janet pointed to a nook behind the bar. “You’ll find a broom and dustpan back there. When you’re done with that coffee, make yourself acquainted with the floors. We’ll see what other uses we can find for you later.”

  Valerie reluctantly finished the coffee and slid the mug back across the bar.

  She took another long look at the tournament posters, then set to work sweeping.

  While it wasn’t glamorous work, the repetitive monotony gave her mind something to do other than think about her losses of the past two days. She kept at it until she had worked all the dirt in the place over to the front door. She spotted a waste bin on the sidewalk outside and began relaying the dustpans of dirt out to it, wrinkling her nose with each load. When she was on her third trip outside, a low rumbling caught her attention, and she noticed a stream of vehicles making its way across one of the bridges overhead. Armored trucks and other rugged-looking war cars were flying the banners of House Johansen.

  “Thea’s family,” Valerie muttered.

  Other banners followed. She recognized crests from several northern houses in the caravan as well.

  The wide suspension bridge that connected the city gates to the other side of South Bay was a lot like the bridge she and Henry had crossed to drive into the city, but her view of the high road had drastically changed. Tucked among the barrier pilings and jetties, she imagined the village she was in now wouldn’t even have caught her notice from so high up.

  “Hey, new girl!”

  Valerie turned around to find the purple-haired cook, Carlyn, standing on the front step. “You’re supposed to help me prep in the kitchen this morning. Boss’s orders.” Valerie dumped her dustpan load in the bin and made her way back inside.

  “Any idea what that’s all about?” she asked, indicating the parade of vehicles making its way across the bridge.

  Carlyn squinted as she looked skyward. “We’ve been getting caravans into the city for weeks. Early arrivals to help with the tournament setup. Come on, we’ve got to get to work. New people in town means new customers.”

  Carlyn guided Valerie into the kitchen and pointed her toward the sink. “Get the rest of the dishes cleaned up from last night, then you can help me start lunch. We open at eleven, and I expect we’ll be busy.”

  Valerie made her way to the sink and stared at the dirty dishes, unsure of where to start. She gingerly picked up a dishrag with two fingers, then set it back down.

  “What’s the matter?” Carlyn asked. “You never washed dishes before?”

  “Um. Not really,” Valerie said. “We had maids for that at school.”

  Carlyn walked to the hook on the wall and snatched up an apron, then tossed it to Valerie. “It’s not brain surgery. Figure it out.”

  Before long, customers began arriving for lunch, and Valerie was kept busy running plates of food out to the bar, assisting Carlyn with chopping vegetables, and of course, washing more dishes.

  It wasn’t long before Valerie’s stomach was growling, inhaling the scent of fresh-baked bread and Carlyn’s popular lunchtime concoctions. The customers were mostly sailors, but there were itinerant knights as well, mercenaries avoiding the high prices of uptown by staying in the lower-cost waterfront district. Valerie thought the clientele looked rough and dangerous, but Janet supervised the group with a watchful eye, and Carlyn’s food kept everyone civil. By the time the lunch rush was over, it was mid-afternoon, and Valerie’s fingers were pruney from scrubbing.

  Janet came into the kitchen and surveyed her work. “I’m moving you to the front of the house tonight. I’ve got enough kitchen help coming in, and I want to see how you do at serving. Get something to eat, take a break, but be back before the dinner rush and ready to work, got it?”

  “Okay.”

  Janet vanished back into the office.

  Valerie scooped some cheese and egg into a warm hunk of bread, then angled it toward her mouth.

  “Did you toast the bread?”

  Valerie turned and found Carlyn staring at her.

  “If you make an egg-and-goat-cheese sandwich in my kitchen, you have to do it right.” She held out her hand.

  Valerie relinquished the sandwich.

  Carlyn threw the contents of the sandwich onto the grill, added some peppers, then buttered each piece of bread before pressing it. She lifted the lid on a saucepan that was simmering at the back and ladled a spoonful of creamy sauce over the eggs. When the bread was thoroughly browned, she scooped the contents of the sandwich up with a spatula and deposited them back in the bread. She handed the whole assembly to Valerie, then walked off without another word.

  Valerie studied the now-dripping sandwich and took a bite.

  She immediately moaned in delight.

  Carlyn’s disembodied voice came from around the corner. “You’re welcome!”

  Valerie savored another mouthful of the sandwich, trying not to drip it on her shirt, then made her way out the front door, pausing on the stoop. In daylight, the village had a different feel to it. The streets were muddy, and the shanties still leaned precariously on their stilts, but the morning fog had dissipated, and the sun was warm on her shoulders.

  While the streets had mostly dried overnight, the few pedestrians she spotted were keeping to rough, board walkways that connected the various buildings. Under cover of the shingled walkway roofs, the citizens appeared oblivious to the view of the immense bridges overhead. She thought that was a shame.

  Descending the steps of the tavern and stepping into the street, Valerie tilted her face skyward, marveling at the way the sun shone from the gilded emblems on the support columns. She was turning in place when something warm and wet splattered across her forehead.

  She lifted her fingers to her hair, and they came away white and reeking of fish guts. “Ugh,” Valerie moaned.

  It was only then that she spotted the gulls roosting in the recesses of the bridge supports.

  Frantically flinging the bird excrement from her fingers, she dashed out of the street and onto the covered walkway.

  A toothless, old woman
sitting on a bench smiled and nodded. “And now you’ve been christened. Welcome to Tidewater.”

  Valerie pulled up the end of her apron and used it to wipe at her face and hair.

  “Could be worse. You might have walked under the drains.” The old woman pointed toward one end of the village where pipes that jutted out of the city walls dumped runoff into the street. “But that’s life on the Underside. Best get yourself a rain slicker.”

  Seeking to escape the scene of her embarrassment and guard what remained of her sandwich, Valerie worked her way along the covered walkway to the next road before spotting a row of automotive garages. This street sat farther up from the high-water line, and the buildings didn’t bother with stilts, but they all sported large awnings and covered walks despite the shade from the city walls.

  There was an old car with its hood up in front of one of the garages, and two men were standing in front of it arguing about something. One of the men was Rico. The other was a towering brute of a sailor with muscles that seemed poised to rip his shirt. A menagerie of ocean-themed tattoos decorated his arms. Valerie eased along the street and listened in to their conversation.

  “It’s twice what I’d pay on the Northside,” the man was saying. “You trying to rip me off?”

  “This is a low-mileage, competition pump,” Rico replied. “Variable displacement and automatic leaning capabilities. I overhauled it myself. If you want your fuel lines to cavitate and vapor lock as soon as your engine hits peak temperatures, go right ahead and buy whatever they’ve got on the Northside. But you’ll be watching from the shoulder while someone rocking this pump goes blowing by you. I guarantee it.”

  The man considered the part in his hand, then grunted and reached for his wallet.

  “I’ll put it in a bag for you,” Rico said. A fabric sack materialized from his back pocket. He bagged the fuel pump and exchanged it for the cash the sailor offered.

  The man bunched the handles of the bag into his meaty fist and aimed a free finger at Rico’s chest. “If it doesn’t work, you’ll be seeing me a lot less friendly.”