by David Gross
“Tal,” said the voice.
It was a sound he should recognize, he thought briefly, but he was more interested in the scent. He moved toward it and found the bars. He was too big to press between them, so he turned to find another path. He turned and turned again, finding nothing but the narrow spaces.
The other animal kept speaking, low and urgent. He felt the sounds should mean something, but they were unimportant. It was the borders that vexed him. He could not stay trapped. He would not stay trapped.
He called out for help, and a voice answered. It told him to stay, to remain calm, but it was not trapped as he was, and it would not help him.
He forced his head between the bars and pushed. They would not yield. He leaped up upon them, shouting to frighten them away. They did not run. Instead, the blood roared in his ears, and a red cloud filled his eyes. Rather than blind him, it gave him the hunter’s sight—he could sense every movement in the room, despite the bright spot of light.
The other animal was out there, and it was keeping him confined. He wanted to get at it, to tear and bite at it, to kill it for holding him here.
Again and again he threw himself against the barrier, raging and howling in the darkness.
“Halt!”
Tal remained utterly still as Master Ferrick strolled among the four ranks of students. At just over five and a half feet, he was shorter than his reputation led most to believe, though his hawkish nose and imperial gaze gave him an air of authority. More than sixty years had left their trails across his tanned face, but his compact body was that of a man half as old. He moved with a quiet grace, never hurrying.
When he first joined the school eight years earlier, Tal found these slow, deliberate inspections excruciating. His twelve-year-old arms could not hold even a foil steady for so long, and he dreaded attracting Ferrick’s attention. Fortunately, he had earned Ferrick’s correction only rarely in recent months. The man’s keen eyes spied every imperfection, and he noted them in terse syllables as he passed each offender.
“Overextended,” he told one student. “Grip,” he said to another.
Silence as he passed was all the approval he was likely to give. Tal accepted his gratefully, keeping his eyes on his imaginary opponent as Ferrick passed. The instructor completed his inspection and stood beside Radu Malveen. Even in his peripheral vision, Tal detected Ferrick’s faint nod. The instructor’s foremost student was the only one worthy of acknowledgement. Despite frequent absences, Radu retained the mantle of first student. He had never lost a challenge.
It was no longer a secret that Tal wanted to change that standing.
Ferrick snapped out another string of commands.
“Return. Cross left. Advance. Retreat. Half advance! Cut four! Parry eight! Recover!”
The words never formed completely in Tal’s brain. Instead, his body moved before he could think, but always in the right direction. Action without thought was one of the best things about fencing drills, and he had become much better at it since Feena’s arrival. Learning to ride the moon was a difficult and often disturbing process, for each morning after he remembered more and more what it was like to have been a wolf. The rage he felt at confinement was frightening, but he knew it meant he was gradually asserting his own will over the wolf’s mind.
Sword drills had become Tal’s greatest pleasure. He was beginning to spend as much time at Ferrick’s studio in the Warehouse District as he did at the Wide Realms, though it was in the playhouse that he choreographed endless fight scenes in anticipation that Quickly would put them in one of her plays. His creations were equal parts fighting and fancy, and his fellow students would surely sneer to see them.
While he did not share the scrupulous ideals of his fellows, Tal tried to ensure that the stage fencing was as plausible as possible. Sometimes he went too far, and Quickly chided him for making it so realistic that it was boring to watch. What was exciting to do, he realized, was not always exciting to show.
The students who had seen his performances at the Wide Realms used to scoff at Tal’s showy technique, but fewer were scoffing lately. Since the month of Ches Tal had challenged his way out of the middle ranks and into fourth place among Ferrick’s students. His three-month rise won him both admirers and rivals, and he reveled in the praise and scorn alike. In truth, he had never much liked most of his peers. Like his brother, Tamlin, most young nobles were more concerned with fashion and gossip than skill at arms.
One of the few exceptions was Radu Malveen. He rarely spoke to the other students, a reticence usually attributed to his family’s questionable past. Tal thought of him as self-sufficient rather than haughty, though he sympathized with the family history.
The Malveens were still on the recovery after their involvement with pirates cost them the head of the household, Velanna Malveen, as well as her eldest son. A similar catastrophe would have obliterated House Uskevren but for Thamalon’s tireless efforts to restore both the wealth and the reputation of his family. Even so, all of the Uskevren had been subjected to subtle reminders from their peers that theirs was a lineage on which the shadow of villainy still fell. How much worse would it have been for Radu, had he dared to engage his peers socially. Far better to remain apart from them, thought Tal, who had his own reasons for avoiding his peers.
Tal imagined that he and Radu were similar in other ways. Radu’s younger brother was a notorious wastrel, not entirely unlike Tamlin except for his reputation as an eccentric artist. His bizarre paintings were notorious for their unsettling abstractions, which naturally put them in high demand among the art-conscious nobles of Selgaunt. Laskar, the eldest of the Malveen brothers, had a reputation for integrity and fair dealing that rivaled that of Tal’s father. Tal imagined that he must be equally insufferable to Radu.
“Armor and masks,” commanded Master Ferrick. As his students complied, he clasped his bronzed hands behind his back and gazed out the window toward the bay.
Tal grabbed a pair of towels and tossed one to Radu, who caught it neatly and without acknowledgement.
“Did you have a good journey?” said Tal.
Radu raised an eyebrow.
“You were away on business, I heard,” said Tal, hoping to strike up a conversation. “I hope it went well.”
Radu pressed the towel to the back of his neck, where his long black hair descended in a simple braid. Tal noticed that Radu perspired very little.
“It is concluded,” said Radu.
“Say,” ventured Tal, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for your advice.”
Radu raised one eyebrow and awaited an explanation.
“About my fencing,” said Tal. “You remember, last winter. I was clowning around with Chaney, and you reminded me of the difference between stage fencing and real fighting.”
Radu said nothing while he donned a thin white tunic and his padded armor, but Tal could see that he remembered the conversation. At the time, Radu refused even to practice with him until Tal demonstrated more respect for the dueling circle.
“Well,” said Tal, his easy manner faltering in the face of Radu’s indifference, “I took it to heart, and it’s helped—both here and at the playhouse.” He shrugged on his own armor.
“Good,” said Radu.
Without invitation, Tal secured the straps on the back of Radu’s armor, then turned to receive the same help.
“Who knows?” said Tal. “If I win today, maybe I’ll be ready to challenge you in a month or two?”
“Who knows?” said Radu. He made a brief smile, but it never reached his eyes.
Master Ferrick called the students to the circle for the challenges. There were sixteen in this, the most advanced class. While they sometimes drilled with the less experienced fencers, challenges were the exclusive province of those who had proven themselves.
“First challenge,” called Ferrick. “Talbot Uskevren and Perron Karn.”
Tal stood on the outer ring, while the defender took the center. Perron was
Tal’s second cousin on his mother’s side, a stout man of thirty-four years. His reddish beard curled up on all sides, giving him the appearance of a man caught in a sudden gust of wind.
The swordsmen bowed to Master Ferrick, then saluted each other before donning their masks.
“Begin!”
Both advanced at once, Tal shifting left while Perron cut at his legs. Tal parried and feigned a high thrusting riposte. Perron ignored the bogus attack and cut at Tal’s wrist, forcing Tal to open his upper right guard. Perron’s blade darted toward Tal’s shoulder, but Tal let his knees sag and rapped Perron on the elbow.
“Challenger’s point,” announced Ferrick.
Perron rubbed his elbow. It had been a smart blow, harder than necessary. Beneath his mask, Tal smiled.
“Mind your control, Talbot,” warned Ferrick.
Tal’s grin vanished, and his face flushed hot. He already knew he could defeat Perron. What he wanted now was to make the man concede or to win a perfect round, but all he had managed was to earn a rebuke in front of the entire class. Worst of all, he’d done it in front of Radu Malveen, whom he’d wanted to impress.
“Begin!”
Tal’s mind had drifted, and he was not prepared for the second pass. Perron’s vertical cut forced Tal’s blade down against his mask and pressed hard. As Tal pushed back with all his strength, Perron stepped back and executed a perfect horizontal stroke across Tal’s padded chest.
“Two points defender,” declared Ferrick, holding one finger toward Tal and two toward Perron. A growl rose from Tal’s chest, causing Ferrick to give him a questioning glance. Tal set his jaw and took his place, focusing on his opponent.
“Begin!”
Tal rushed forward and beat Perron’s weapon aside, then smashed it again as Perron brought it back in line. He made no attempt to move beyond Perron’s guard, only to batter it from all directions. At last, Perron saw the flaw in Tal’s attack—there was no attempt to guard low. He faded back and slashed at Tal’s knees.
Which was exactly what Tal had been expecting.
Tal leaped over the sweeping blade and struck the top of Perron’s mask. The blow made a resounding crack.
The other students stifled their laughter, but Tal saw hands fly up to cover smiles. Only Radu and Master Ferrick seemed unimpressed.
Perron was already in position on the middle ring. Tal took his place. Ferrick pointed his fingers, three and two. “Begin!”
Tal expected Perron to be more cautious this time, but the older man surprised him with a quick, feinting advance. Tal parried and retreated, concentrating on defense. Perron persisted with a steady stream of careful thrusts at Tal’s wrist and arm. As long as Perron’s attacks remained so modest, Tal had to maintain his own defense.
Perron suddenly shifted to a flurry of high cuts. When Tal deflected them and riposted with a thrust, Perron beat Tal’s blade so hard it struck the floor. His own sword nearly found its target before Tal recovered with an awkward full-center parry.
Tal nearly laughed. Perron wasn’t a small man, but he couldn’t beat Tal in a contest of strength. Still, if that was how he wanted it …
Tal met the next attack with his own, lunging forward even as Perron came at him. The wooden blades cracked as they came together. The top foot of Tal’s snapped away, and the splintered remainder ran through Perron’s guard and into his mask. Tal felt the thick, sickening impact as his shattered blade passed through the wicker bands and into his cousin’s face.
Horrified, Tal let go of the blade. It stuck fast through the mask.
Perron fell to his knees and clawed at his mask, but it wouldn’t come off. A trickle of blood ran out from under his bib, down the front of his white armor.
Tal reached out to help, but someone got in the way. He couldn’t see who it was, because all the faces in the room whirled about more quickly than he could recognize them. An oceanic roaring filled his ears, and he heard distant voices shouting his name and “get away!” Then he felt hands pulling him, and he had no more strength to resist them.
Later, they called it an accident. In the hours after the event, Tal heard Master Ferrick’s opinion. He knelt as the sword-master lectured him for nearly two hours after the others had left. Tal’s knees hurt, and his legs turned numb, but he did not complain. He deserved far worse and knew it would come later.
When he was dismissed, Tal bowed one last time to the master, recovered Perivel’s sword from where he’d left it in the dressing room, and walked quietly down the stairs for the last time.
It was an hour after noon. The street was hot, and the Warehouse District stank of fish and tar. Tal headed west on Larawkan, stamping his feet to force some feeling back into them. The rhythm of hitting the cobblestones soon became hypnotic as Tal imagined the punishments he had yet to face.
There was no way Thamalon would protect him from whatever just retribution the Karns demanded. Even his mother was unlikely to stand long between him and the righteous anger of her family. Even after paying the temple for healing Perron’s mangled face, there was the matter of the eye. Regenerative magic was neither common nor cheap. This would mean the end of Tal’s relative freedom in the tallhouse. It was just the excuse Thamalon needed to cut off his stipend and force him back to live at Stormweather Towers, where they could keep an eye on him.
Tal noticed that people where scurrying out of his path. He looked back, expecting to see a drover trying to regain control of a panicked ox or perhaps a captive griffin breaking out of its chains on its way to the Hulorn’s Palace, but there was nothing frightening back there. The people were avoiding the huge thundering dolt who was muttering to himself.
“Wonderful,” he said aloud. “Let’s frighten everyone in Selgaunt.”
He tried to relax and walk in a way that didn’t suggest he was on his way to a murder. Once he even forced a smile at a pair of young women, but they took one look at him and crossed to the other side of the street.
As he turned onto Alaspar Lane, Tal heard a whistle from an ivy-laden trellis. Crouched behind it was Chaney Foxmantle.
“Over here!” hissed Chaney. “Hurry!”
Tal hurried to join his friend, and together they peered around the foliage to look toward Tal’s residence.
Standing a block away from the tallhouse were two men in Uskevren livery. Tal did not recognize them, but he was becoming increasingly unfamiliar with the house guard since he visited Stormweather so rarely. They stood a respectable distance from the tallhouse, but their frequent glances left no question about their business. They were waiting for Tal.
“I deduced from their arrival that the Old Owl wanted a word,” said Chaney, “and I thought maybe you’d like the option to postpone it.”
“You are a gentleman and a scholar,” said Tal.
Despite his black mood, he was happy to see Chaney. Only now that they saw each other only a few times a month did he realize how inseparable they had once been.
“Don’t forget devilishly handsome and irresistible to women.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Tal. “I should check in at the Realms.”
After Ferrick’s blistering lecture, Tal was not ready to hear more of the same from Thamalon. They faded from Alaspar Lane and headed for the anonymity of streets less traveled. Winding their way through lanes and alleys, they eventually came to the Wide Realms Playhouse.
From a distance, the Wide Realms looked like part of a larger structure. It was surrounded by other businesses, including a bath house, a scribner’s, and several buildings shared by artisans who could not afford their own establishments. Some of them worked on commission for Quickly, making costumes or props for the players. In return, they were some of the Wide Realms’s most frequent customers.
Unlike the opera audiences on the other side of town, the playhouse crowd didn’t mind mingling with the common folk. Most of them were laborers and tradesmen, gaining admittance to the grounds for a mere five pennies. For a silver raven, they c
ould sit in one of the galleries, sheltered from the sun. Those willing to part with more silver or even a golden fivestar could sit in the balconies behind the actors or on the stage itself, to be seen by all. Some of the more dissolute young nobles were becoming regular attendees, though they were apt to fall asleep when they weren’t heckling the players for the amusement of their companions. Tal’s brother, Tamlin, was one of these. Thankfully, he had not yet appeared at one of this season’s productions, and Tal was hopeful that his brief interest was now a past fancy.
They walked past the main entrance to find the stage door open. They crossed through the backstage clutter, following the sound of voices from the stage beyond.
“Let me play the prince,” cried a muffled voice, “or I’ll cut off your other head!”
Waving Chaney back, Tal peered around the corner to see what was happening.
The idiot half of the grotesque ettin’s mask rested on Sivana’s shoulder, Lommy’s slender green legs poking out beneath the neck. On the floor by Sivana’s feet was the vicious head, growling up at the heavens. Sivana swung a ridiculously large spiked ball and chain while lurching toward their opponent.
The other actor was obviously Ennis Lurvin, a big man usually cast as a fool or a warrior. He was about Tal’s size, so they were often cast as guards to stand on each side of a king’s throne or given the same simple part to play alternately. He brandished a glowing sword, the favorite prop of all the actors. Upon command it would light up, burst into flame, or ring with celestial music. It was also kept quite sharp since the previous winter and not to be used recklessly. Tal was not concerned about the sword, however. What attracted his attention was the mask Ennis wore, a fresh creation of papier-mâché that Tal had never seen before.
It was the gigantic head of a savage wolf.
“Grulok not afeared of werewolf of Selgaunt!” yelled Sivana in a deep, silly voice. She stalked forward as Lommy pulled the handle that made the mask’s eyes roll and the tongue loll.