The silence of it was the most eerie thing to Yusek. All she could hear was the snap and flutter of the monk’s sleeves and the hiss of the wooden sword. Neither man gasped or yelled or snarled. Even their feet shifted noiselessly over the sands. At first she’d thought this some sort of a duel, but she saw now that it was more of a sparring match — the exchange of known moves and countermoves, each now faster than the last, each testing the other.
Finally, at some signal or agreement between the two, they spun apart to face one another.
Amazingly, neither betrayed the least hint of exertion. Neither’s chest rose more than before; neither breathed loudly at all.
Both bowed. Sall now stepped up, his blade held low at his side, his right leg back. The monk matched his step. Swiftly, Sall thrust the wooden sword through his belt and faced the youth with his hands at his sides.
The youth’s large brown eyes shifted to the woman leading the practice; she gave another small nod. The youth raised his hands again, ready.
This time when Sall moved Yusek missed it. So too did his partner. One moment Sall stood with his hands at his sides, empty. The next he held the blade one-handed against the youth’s neck.
A soft grunt escaped Lo.
The young acolyte’s eyes grew huge and after taking a moment to digest what had just happened he bowed to Sall.
So ends the lesson.
But apparently not. For the woman who had been leading the practice now approached Sall. She bowed and waved in an unmistakable try that with me gesture.
The woman, Yusek noted with interest, was no taller or heavier than herself. Her hair was cut short and her bare arms were extraordinarily lean and muscled. Sall’s mask turned towards Lo, who, his arms across his chest, gave a small flick of one hand. Sall bowed to the woman, accepting.
The two faced off. Sall pushed the wooden sword through his belt once more. The woman struck a ready pose exactly like that of her student. The acolytes stood frozen, silent, and their watchful intensity reminded Yusek of the Seguleh themselves.
Sall shifted his sandalled feet in the sand a few times, as if unhappy with his stance, then stilled. This time Yusek almost caught it. One moment Sall was motionless. Then, in the next, he was off his feet describing an arc through the air over the back of the spinning woman, who had thrown him flying high to land in a great swath of bursting sand.
Sall sprang to his feet, sword still in hand, and to Yusek every line of his body shouted of his utter astonishment.
A clenched hiss sounded from Lo and the man walked away.
Yusek looked to Sall; the youth’s masked face followed Lo’s retreat, then fell. Yusek did not need to see his expression to recognize the crushing shame that hunched his form. Bowing, he handed over the sword, then walked off in the opposite direction. Yusek followed.
She found him sitting on a ledge on the very lip of the cliff the monastery occupied. Before his feet the mountain swept down thousands of feet into misted emptiness. Yusek sat next to him. The frigid cutting wind buffeted both of them. Yusek’s cloak snapped.
She was not used to such dizzying heights and a sickening vertigo gripped her as she clutched the stone she sat upon. ‘Not that bad, is it?’ she offered, trying to make light of things.
After a time the Seguleh youth let out a long, pained breath. ‘You do not understand, Yusek.’
‘Try me.’
‘I lost. I have shamed Lo. I can no longer be considered among the Agatii.’
‘The Agatii?’
‘The Honoured Thousand. The select warriors of the Seguleh.’
‘So? Have to turn in your mask or some such thing?’
At least he snorted a weak laugh at that. ‘No. But … I will have to repaint it.’
‘Well, so what? I mean, it’s not like it was deliberate, or some kind of crime, or something.’
The lad sighed, his breath almost cracking in its suppressed emotion. ‘You don’t understand, Yusek. Lo is Eighth! He sits with Jan among the ruling Ten, the Eldrii.’ He clenched his hands, held them where the mask curved to expose the mouth. ‘But one other thing … he is my father.’
Yusek stared, speechless. Ye Gods … the poor kid. What a burden! That’s just fucking cruel, that’s what that is.
She selected a small stone, tossed it over the edge. She watched its stomach-turning descent for an instant then glanced away, her throat burning. She swallowed sour bile. ‘Listen, Sall — so what if some woman beat you in some match. Who the fuck cares? C’mon, she wasn’t even armed!’
The lad turned to study her directly through his mask. His brown eyes appeared even more pained. ‘Exactly, Yusek. She wasn’t even armed.’
‘Well … so what? Big deal. It wasn’t for real. You weren’t prepared for it, were you?’ She nudged his shoulder. ‘It’s a valuable lesson, right? Listen. I was thinking. When I head out I want to be able to handle myself better … won’t you teach me a few moves?’ She nudged him again. ‘Hey? What do you say?’
If anything his masked head hung even lower. ‘I’m not worthy of teaching anyone anything, Yusek. Ask that woman.’
‘Well, I’m asking you. C’mon. You know more than I do about it all, right?’
‘It would be improper …’
‘Never mind that. Just the basics, hey?’
‘Not right now.’
‘Naw … tomorrow, hey?’
He let out another long-suffering breath. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Yeah. All right. Tomorrow.’ She stood, brushed the dust off her bottom, and left him to sit alone for a time. Poor bastard. Obviously thinks the world of his father. And to think she’d travelled with them all these days and hadn’t even the first suspicion they were father and son! What an odd people.
Personally, Krute of Talient did not want to honour yet another request from this particular client, but the communication had percolated up through standard channels thereby ensuring that enough of the guild knew of it to make it impossible for him to simply ignore it. Of course as Parish Master of the Gadrobi district he had a measure of influence on which contracts to pursue — but it was a short-lived master who neglected the fundamental truth that, in the end, everyone was only in it for the treasure.
And so come the mid-night he found himself stepping carefully through the empty and eerily quiet yards of the Eldra Iron Mongers. It was an unnatural sensation; to his memory the works had never been still. The Legate, however, had commandeered all labour for his city works projects, leaving Humble Measure with no one to run his forges, furnaces and mine.
All very deliberate and calculated, of course, as a sort of unannounced war had broken out between the two: the successful political protege and his former patron and sponsor. And this kind of falling-out always generated the most vicious and wilful vendettas. His boots loud on the scattered gravel as he peered around at the dark sheds and silent furnaces, it occurred to Krute that his reservations might all be for naught; surely even this man’s legendary wealth must be exhausted by now. There could be no way the man could offer enough to tempt the guild anew. In point of fact, he wouldn’t be all that surprised to turn a corner in one of these cavernous warehouses and find the man hanging from a rafter.
No such easy resolution confronted him, however, when he pushed aside a great slab-like door to enter a silent smelting shed. The tang of smoke still clung to everything and he fancied he could still feel a residual heat leaking out of the great furnaces.
Undisguised steps sounded from the front of the shed and Krute turned to see the proprietor, Humble Measure himself, at the door. The closing of his works had obviously not been kind to him. His hair was unkempt and soot marred his face. The black of the soot cast the whites of his eyes into a bright, almost fevered, glow. His clothes were likewise askew, torn and soot-blackened. It appeared as if the man was attempting the impossible, and frankly insane, task of single-handedly keeping the works going.