His "style" was a mixture of disciplines-a kind of catch-all, "anything that works," devious, dirty, and deadly. The Queen's Own Herald, Talia, had learned quite a bit from him, but no one had ever thought to have him teach Elspeth as well. At least-not that. He had taught her knife throwing, which had saved her life and Talia's, but even Queen Selenay had been horrified a few short years ago at the notion of her Heir learning street-fighting. Elspeth had begged but to no avail.
Many things had changed in those few years. Among them, the arrival of Kerowyn, who had sent one of her commandos to prove to Selenay that she and her daughter needed the kind of protection only instruction in the lowest forms of fighting could provide. Alberich undertook the Queen's instruction; Kero and Skif got Elspeth's. The lessons were frequently painful.
Dirk's taught me a thing or two since the last lesson- she told herself as she circled him warily, testing her footing as she watched his eyes. and I bet neither of them knows that.
She sensed the pile of armor behind her, and tried to remember what was topmost. Was it something she could throw over his head to temporarily blind him?
"Pick up the pace, boy," Kerowyn said. "Take some chances. You only have a few more moments before she either calls for help herself with Mindspeech, or her Companion brings the cavalry." Skif lunged just as she made a grab for the nearest piece of junk, a leather gambeson. He waited until she moved, then struck like a coiled snake. He caught her in the act of bending over sideways and tackled her, both of them flying over the pile and landing in a heap on the other side of it. Her knife went skidding across the floor as her cheek hit the gritty floor, all the breath knocked out of her.
She writhed in his grip and grabbed the edge of his hood and tried to pull it down over his eyes, but it was too tightly wrapped. She struggled to get her knee up into his stomach, clawed at the wrappings around his head with no effect, and kicked ineffectually at the back of his legs. He simply pinned her with his greater weight, and slapped the side of her head at the same time, calling out "Disable!" Damn. She obediently went limp. He scrambled to his feet, heaved her up like a sack of grain, slung her over his shoulder and started for the door.
She watched the floor and his boots, and wondered what her Companion was supposed to be doing while the "assassin" was carrying her off.
"Not that way," Gwena said calmly in her mind, right on cue. "I've got the front door blocked, and Sayvil has the rear. The only way out is by way of the roof."
"No good, Skif," Elspeth said to his belt. "The Companions have you boxed in."
"Well, then I'll have to abort and follow my secondary orders," he replied, "Sorry, little kitten, you're dead." He put her down on her feet, and she dusted herself off. "Crap," she said sourly. "I could do better than that. I wish I'd had my knives." She couldn't resist a resentful glance at Kero, who had made her take them off when she entered the salle.
"Well," Kero told her. "You didn't do as badly as I had expected.
But I told you to get rid of those little toys of yours for a reason. They aren't a secret anymore; everybody knows you carry them in arm-sheaths.
And you've begun to depend on them; you passed up at least a half dozen potential weapons." Elspeth's heart sank as Skif nodded to confirm Kerowyn's assessment.
"Like what?" she demanded. She didn't-quite-growl. It was ironic that a room devoted to weaponswork should be so barren of weaponry.
There was nothing in the room; at least, nothing that could be used against an enemy. The salle's sanded wooden floor stood empty of everything but the bench she sat on and the pile of discarded armor. There were a few implements for mending the armor that she'd brought in from the back room. There were no windows that she could reach; they were all set in the walls near the edge of the ceiling. Even the walls were bare of practice weapons, just the empty racks along one wall and the expensive-but necessary-mirrors on the other.
"The bench," Skif said promptly. "You were within range to kick it into my path."
"You should have grabbed that leather corselet when you went off the bench," Kero added.
"Any of the mirrors-break one and you've got a pile of razor shards."
"The sunlight-maneuver him so that it's in his eyes.
"The mirrors again; distract me with my own reflection."
"The leather-needles-"
"The pot of leather-oil-"
"Your belt-"
"All right!" Elspeth cried, plopping down heavily on the bench, defeated by their logic. "What's the point?"
"Something that you can learn, but I can't teach in simple lessons," Kerowyn told her soberly. "An attitude. A state of awareness, one where you size everyone up as a potential enemy, and everything as a potential weapon. And I mean everyone and everything. From the stranger walking toward you, to YOUR mother-from the halberd on the wall to your underwear."
I can't live like that," she protested." Nobody can." But at Kero's raised eyebrow, she added doubtfully, "Can they?" Kero shrugged. "Personally, I think no royalty can afford to live without an outlook like that. And I've managed, for most of my life."
"So have I," Skif seconded. "It doesn't have to poison you or your life, just make You more aware of things going on around you."
"That's why we've started the program here," Kerowyn finished. "A salle is a pretty empty room even with repair stuff scattered all over it; that makes YOUR job easier. Now," she fixed Elspeth with a stern blue-green eye, "before you leave, you're going to figure out one way everything in here could be used against an assailant." Elspeth sighed, bade farewell to her free afternoon, and began pummeling her brain for answers.
Eventually Kerri left for other tasks, putting Skif in charge of the lesson. Elspeth breathed a little easier when she was gone; Skif was nowhere near the taskmaster that Kerowyn could be when the mood was on her. Heraldic trainees at the Collegium used to complain of Alberich's lessons; now they moaned about Kerowyn's as well, and it was an open question as to which of the two was considered the worst. Elspeth had once heard a young girl complain that it was bad enough that the Weaponsmaster refused to grow old and retire, but now he'd cursed them with a female double and it wasn't fair!
But then again, she had thought at the time, what is?
Skif grilled her for a little longer, then took pity on her, and turned the lesson from one on "attitude" to simply a rough-and-tumble knife-fighting lesson. Elspeth found the latter much easier on the nerves, if not on the body. Skif might be inclined to go easy on her when it came to the abstract "lessons," but when it came to the physical he could be as remorseless as any of the instructors when he chose.
Finally, when both were tired enough that they were missing elementary moves, he called a halt.
In fact, she thought wearily, as he waved her off guard and stepped off the salle floor, I doubt I could be a match for a novice right now.
"That's... enough," he panted, throwing himself down on the floor beside the bench, as she slumped down on the seat and then sprawled along the length of it, shoving the forgotten leather armor to the floor.