Cold Iron

by Miles Cameron

She smiled. ‘Excellent. What will you do if I give you the rest of the day?’

  ‘Swordplay,’ he said. Then he paused, almost stricken. ‘Blessed Rolan! I have a message from Malconti for the General and I have never delivered it.’

  She sighed. ‘Go see Myr Tribane. She is in the City – probably at the Crystal Palace. Do you have court clothes?’

  ‘No.’ He rubbed his beard. Weeks of living with soldiers had given him a rich, full beard like his father’s. Courtiers were generally clean shaven.

  She shook her head. ‘Couldn’t you confine yourself to smoking stock or political dissent? Go, and don’t die.’

  He bowed deeply. Somehow, in an hour’s conversation, she had lanced the boil of his disquiet. He felt better than he had since he’d seen the first dead Easterners.

  Dahlia was another source of discomfort. He had enough empathy to see that, from her point of view, he’d used her badly. He felt guilty, in fact; too swept away in his own concerns, which must, to her, seem petty. Like work.

  He collected his sword from the corner behind Edvin’s desk. The man was writing at his usual incredible rate.

  ‘How’s your copying?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t copied a word in two weeks,’ Aranthur admitted. ‘She gave me the day.’

  Edvin raised his eyes. ‘I’ve missed the quaveh. And you. And there’s a rumour that you met Malconti, the world’s most fascinating man. So be early tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, syr.’

  Aranthur turned to leave and there was Syr Ansu, in Megaran clothing. The young Zhouian bowed, his hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘I am afraid I owe you money and have not troubled to repay my debt,’ he said.

  Aranthur returned the bow, keeping his eyes on the Zhouian as he’d learned in their week together.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, I know better now, Syr Timos. I am very sorry.’

  Aranthur grinned. ‘If you are accepted, you can come and live with me. No one else will, apparently.’

  Ansu nodded. ‘You mean, I should give up half a wing in the Crystal Palace for a curtained bed on the sixth floor of an ancient brothel? Eh?’ His impassive face developed a very slight smile. ‘I cannot refuse such a hospitable offer.’ Suddenly he flashed his real grin. ‘Besides, I’m sick to death of the palace.’ He bowed, and leant close. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘I told the Magistera she should accept you.’ Aranthur paused. ‘Do you know Myr Tribane?’

  Ansu laughed and showed his black teeth.

  ‘We’ve been lovers,’ he said. ‘And we’re on good terms.’

  ‘I need to see her.’

  ‘Nothing easier. Where can I find you in an hour?’

  ‘The salle of Master Sparthios.’ Aranthur picked up his sword, winked at Edvin, and headed for the salle. ‘I’m testing.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ansu said, suddenly eager. ‘May I watch?’

  Three hours later he found himself standing opposite Mikal Sapu in the salle, sharp sword in hand, as he was required to demonstrate the nine gardes and nine attacks of the arming sword as if teaching a student. He demonstrated the first and the second Rules, the long, dance-like sequences that Master Sparthos used to teach postures and simple responses. The audience was small, but there were a dozen people there, including Ansu and Tiy Drako.

  ‘What is tempo?’ Sparthos snapped out, as if giving orders to an army.

  Aranthur took two breaths, a trick that the Master of Arts had taught him.

  ‘Tempo is time, Master,’ he said. ‘The time an action takes, whether mine or an opponent’s, whether the turn of my hand, or a step …’ He looked at the two impassive teachers, hoping to see if he’d said enough. He took another deep breath. ‘And sometimes in a passage of arms there is a tempo, like music or dance, and that tempo can be manipulated.’

  Sparthos nodded. ‘Acceptable. Tell me of mesura.’

  Aranthur took two more breaths. Sapu had drilled him on mesura – it was a core concept in the master’s teaching.

  ‘Mesura is the distance between the opponents,’ Aranthur said. ‘But there are different measures, dependent on the length of my arm and my blade, my opponent’s arm and her blade, length of stride, and angle.’

  The master leant back. ‘What is out of measure?’

  ‘The distance at which neither I nor my opponent can strike.’

  ‘Which is faster? A long sword or a short sword?’ Sapu asked.

  ‘A short sword turns faster, but …’ Aranthur gazed at a very faint crack in the plaster of the wall above the master’s head. ‘But it seems to me that a long sword, by closing measure, is faster in a thrust.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The master had a slight smile. ‘Djinar says you acted as a government informer. Is this true?’

  Aranthur’s heart slammed against his chest like a hammer on an anvil.

  ‘I am a soldier in the militia,’ he said.

  The master made a noise like a cough.

  ‘You did better on tempo and mesura. That’s a simple answer to a difficult question.’

  Aranthur took two breaths. ‘Master, I did what I thought was best, for the people …’ He paused. ‘For people I love.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ the master said. ‘You took a side. So did Djinar. You certainly chose wisely, but he will challenge you. Will you fight him?’

  Aranthur’s heart was going fast enough to endanger his breathing.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Interesting. Good. Show me a little of this poise that Sapu speaks of.’

  The master waved his baton. A servant opened the doors of the salle and a dozen more people came in to watch. Aranthur didn’t look at them. He was trying not to see them.

  Aranthur considered how similar the Master of Arts and the Sword Master were in many ways. They unbalanced him. They also restored his balance.

  He took a garde.

  Sapu came forward one step, and then, without pause from the end of the step, he attacked with a single, deceptive thrust. The point of his weapon tapped gently against Aranthur’s blade, crossing to the right, scraping down at the speed of thought. Then, faster than an observer could see, Sapu turned his wrist. His point transcribed half a circle as small as a young girl’s ring and his sword blade changed sides of Aranthur’s blade.

  Aranthur over-parried, using far too much force against the deception, sweeping his own blade in a half-circle to the left. His cover defeated the deception and when Sapu attempted to reverse his blade Aranthur stepped back out of range.

  Aranthur immediately came forward with a head cut, drew the expected high parry, and whirled his own blade through a half-circle much larger than Sapu’s against his outstretched leg.

  The leg vanished, pulled back by Sapu as he counter-cut to the head, which Aranthur parried. Having expected that counter, a standard school counter, he tried turning Sapu’s blade. His timing was just barely off; the blades locked a little too long, sharp edge to sharp edge. Instead of taking Sapu’s blade and winding it for a cut to the inside of the instructor’s thigh, he found himself almost hilt to hilt with Sapu.

  He grabbed the other man’s sword wrist just as Sapu took his. Both men went for a throw, and there was a sharp struggle. Aranthur was stronger, and taller, but Sapu knew tricks. Both men attempted to put knees in each other’s groins …

  ‘Halt!’ roared Sparthos. ‘You look like men in a bar fight, not a salle.’

  There was a spatter of applause, and some boos.

  ‘Silence,’ said the master.

  Sapu was grinning, which Aranthur took as a good sign.

  They saluted. Aranthur was covered in sweat; Sapu gleamed.

  Sapu took up a middle garde. Aranthur left his blade behind him on the right side, the so-called Long Tail.

  Sapu smiled. ‘Aha.’

  Someone laughed.

  Aranthur ignored him, and circled. Sapu tried to close the measure, and Aranthur didn’t let him. Aranthur sought to keep the measure eve
n …

  Then, in one small step to the left, he closed the measure and struck, a gliding step with a rising cut from his low garde. Sapu had to make a heavy parry, because the blow was hard.

  Aranthur had had a plan, but it vanished as nothing happened as he expected. He reached with his left hand as he turned his blade …

  Sapu stepped forward, turning his own blade off the heavy crossing. Suddenly the two men were very close. Sapu lifted his blade, a small cut from the outside. Aranthur crossed it, and as his hand was forward and his body aligned, he slammed his left hand into Sapu’s sword elbow, lifting it. But Sapu was lithe and fast and canny. As soon as he felt the pressure he was moving back, his balance stable, and he even managed a defensive thrust, imbrocatto, to cover his retreat. Aranthur covered it.

  Both men stepped back and saluted.

  Aranthur stepped forward as he formed his garde. Sapu struck like a serpent, closing the distance and cutting Aranthur lightly on the inside of his sword wrist.

  Most of the onlookers laughed.

  ‘Madar ghahbe! مادر قهبه,’ spat Aranthur, cursing in Safiri. But he made himself bow and salute.

  ‘You need to learn not to fall for that,’ Sapu said. ‘You come forward, not yet in garde, not yet prepared. You do it often, especially after a difficult passage.’

  ‘Well said,’ the master nodded. ‘Nonetheless, the first two phrases were played well, were they not?’

  Aranthur flushed.

  Sapu smiled. He saluted. ‘You really almost had me with the wrist grab. Any idea what you should have done?’

  ‘I should have pulled, so you were off balance and couldn’t retreat.’ Aranthur sounded whiney, even to himself.

  Sapu bowed. ‘I fear that with your size and speed you will soon be my teacher, and I hope we will remain friends. Of course, you will have to stop offering me a wrist cut.’

  Sparthos got up out of his chair and produced a yellow silk garter from his purse.

  ‘I took the liberty of expecting you to pass,’ he said. ‘You are shaping well.’

  Aranthur bowed.

  There was some applause.

  ‘It seems to me you merely cheapen the value of your garters,’ Djinar said.

  Aranthur hadn’t noticed him; perhaps he’d been sitting with the observers all along.

  ‘Let us see, Syr Djinar,’ Sparthos said, and his voice was flat, emotionless. ‘Why don’t you pick up a weapon and engage him? We’ll see which of you is better.’

  Djinar narrowed his eyes. ‘I plan a meeting that is a little more … permanent … for your scholar.’ He turned to the other students. ‘He’s a government informer. A toady. A spy.’

  Sparthos raised both eyebrows and turned to Aranthur.

  ‘Is this true?’ he asked in mock ignorance.

  ‘You lie,’ Aranthur said.

  The words emerged without his volition. Or rather, the moment they were uttered, Aranthur knew he’d been manipulated to this moment by the master.

  Djinar was, for once, taken aback.

  ‘You say I lie?’ he asked.

  Aranthur nodded. ‘Yes. You lie. You are a liar.’

  Djinar nodded his head a fraction. ‘We will need a licence, Master.’

  ‘A licence I happen to have,’ the master said.

  There was an excited rustle among the observers.

  Aranthur turned to Sapu. ‘Will you be my second?’

  Sapu nodded. ‘If you promise not to succumb to a wrist cut.’

  His warm smile did more to calm Aranthur than all his training.

  He walked across the salle floor and spoke to Djinar’s friend, Srinan. They bowed to each other.

  A servant served wine.

  Sapu came back. ‘Very civilised. First blood. I’ll wager he means to kill you, but that’s his problem. My advice, as your second? Engage, land a scratch and walk away. His father owns more land than all the temples in the City. His second’s the richest boy in the salle, and there will be trouble otherwise.’ He nodded at Srinan. ‘Understand me?’ he asked quietly. ‘You’ve fought before. So has he.’ Sapu raised an eyebrow. ‘How many men have you killed?’

  Aranthur winced. ‘Three? Or four.’

  Sapu shrugged. ‘You should stop, before it becomes a habit. You are getting … hard.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Aranthur took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The Master of Arts had forbidden him to fight …

  ‘Good,’ Sapu said. ‘Do you want one of the salle duelling blades, or your own?’

  ‘I’ll use my own,’ Aranthur said, painfully aware that it had rust from hanging on the wall in an unheated garret and there were untouched nicks in the blade. Nonetheless, it was clean enough.

  He went to his scabbard, hanging on the wall, and drew. He walked back across the floor. Djinar was already armed and waiting, stripped to his shirt. Aranthur was naked from the waist up as salle rules demanded.

  Srinan stood on one side, and Sapu on the other. The little crowd was perfectly silent. Master Sparthos nodded.

  ‘My friends,’ he said softly. ‘As this is a legal duel between willing adversaries, I do not need or tell you that this is a sober occasion. I will stop the fight if I hear a word or sound from you.’

  He turned. ‘Salute,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Djinar said. ‘He is not my peer, and I do not need to salute him.’

  Aranthur saluted, nonetheless.

  ‘How childish,’ Sparthos said, his lip curling in a sneer.

  ‘Perhaps the master should declare a bias and remove himself,’ Djinar said.

  Sparthos bowed with exact correctness and went to the gallery, where he sat.

  The two seconds looked at each other.

  Sapu bowed. ‘Since your principal is so very concerned, I cede you the right to give the word to commence.’

  Srinan’s face was frozen. ‘Very well. Commence.’

  Whether by mistake or on purpose, Srinan omitted to invite the duellists to take their gardes. Djinar had been standing in a casual pose, legs together, weight on his back foot. Suddenly, explosively, he leapt forward and exploded into a lunge. Aranthur wasn’t quite caught by surprise. He had Sapu’s last attack very much on his mind, and he had already taken up a garde – sword low, left leg forward.

  Djinar’s lunge contained within it a deception, but Aranthur’s low garde and simple, sweeping parry enveloped the deceptive thrust. Like many opponents, Djinar had underestimated the strength of Aranthur’s wrist. His rising parry with the back of the blade lifted Djinar’s thrust. He sidestepped with a counter-cut, a small wrist roll, to cover his garde change, turned …

  Sapu stepped between them. ‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Take your man, syr.’

  Aranthur couldn’t see anything through Sapu. In retrospect, he had felt some resistance to his tip cut. He couldn’t see Djinar, but there was a great deal of blood on the straw matting of the floor.

  Suddenly, Djinar fell, arterial blood spurting from the inside of his wrist.

  He didn’t look angry, or formidable.

  ‘I can help him,’ Aranthur said.

  Srinan bowed stiffly. ‘I would appreciate your … support,’ he admitted.

  Aranthur knelt in the blood, and Srinan took his hand. Aranthur provided power and Srinan, a much more advanced student, drew some, and worked.

  The blood stopped spurting.

  Srinan stood. ‘My thanks,’ he said, and that was all.

  Sapu led Aranthur away to the dressing room, and provided him with a cup of wine. It was a heavy red, and it looked a little like blood. Aranthur stood there for a moment with a terrible version of the corpses in the woods floating before his eyes. He put his head down because he thought he might vomit. Then he shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think I’m made to be a duellist,’ he said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Sapu said. ‘You didn’t even know you hit him?’

  ‘No.’

  Sapu nodded. ‘Drink it. Do y
ou have a friend here to walk you home?’

  Aranthur nodded. ‘The Zhouian, Ansu, is my friend.’

  Sapu shook his head. ‘What a little bundle of surprises you are. Prince Ansu has just put down a purse of silver to be a student here.’

  Aranthur left with Ansu. Srinan and Djinar were long gone.

  ‘You were very good. You strike like a serpent. I liked it.’ Ansu was grinning. ‘I am excited to try this Byzas way of the sword.’

  ‘Different from your own?’ Aranthur asked.

  Ansu shrugged. ‘Swords are swords and bodies are bodies. But you thrust and we cut – that is a difference. Have you been to the palace before?’

  Aranthur nodded. ‘The first week of First Year, they take you for a tour. The Greeting Hall and the Hall of the Gods.’

  Ansu smiled. ‘Imagine; I will be a First Year in a few months. They will take me on a tour of the palace.’ He laughed. ‘Myr Tribane has her own apartments.’ He put a warm hand on Aranthur’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

  Aranthur shook his head. ‘I need a moment. And everyone will know. The Master of Arts will have me eviscerated. She ordered me not to fight.’

  Ansu shrugged. ‘Bah. How can we not fight? We are people of the sword.’

  Aranthur finished the wine, drank two cups of water, and found his heart rate slowing.

  Aranthur was as dazed by Master Sparthos’ praise, delivered at the doorway of the salle, as by the events of the duel.

  ‘Food,’ Ansu insisted.

  They walked out into the late afternoon and ate noodles.

  ‘Now the palace,’ Ansu said. ‘Listen, I must tell you something.’

  Aranthur was still in a daze; he found it difficult to do more than shrug.

  Ansu looked embarrassed. ‘My name is not, strictly speaking, Ansu. Ansu is more of a title … It’s my royal name. Listen – Zhou is as complicated a place as Megara, perhaps moreso. My name is pronounced 靖江安肃王; I suppose I am Jingjiang Ansu Wang to you, although Wang is also a sort of title …’

  Aranthur nodded. ‘I’m not sure I can even say that as you do.’

  ‘My sister would call me “Zhu Jingfu”,’ the prince said. ‘If she wasn’t muttering dark obscenities or using sweet nothings like blockhead.’ He shrugged, as if at a happy memory. ‘I miss them. You are all so … alien.’