Recording your thoughts makes for a very interesting experience sometimes. For instance, I keep noticing things about myself and my habits, how my mind tends to work. I write descriptively about food at great length and find myself suddenly famished, or I recount the performing of some dashing piece of burglary and my shoulders tense up as I feel the undercurrents of excitement and energy, as if I were in the process of doing the entire thing again.
There are also the things that are left out. For instance, I didn't write too much about my bedchamber, because really there's no point to describing it. Likewise, I suspect that nobody reading this is truly interested in the exercise routine that I engage in every morning, or how many pull-ups I'm able to do.
It's the unconscious omissions that get me from time to time, cause me to think “Hang on!” when I go back and review a certain detail or another.
For instance, there is very little information I've given about my basement, the place where I spend most of my time. I've barely touched upon it except to say that it is large, made from stone, that it used to be a banquet hall, has a wooden fencing run in the middle, a wall that contains various pieces of combat cutlery and fencing apparel, chairs and benches upon which to sit, large constructed wooden forms that can be...
Actually, I suppose I did a fair job, now that I stop and think about it. Well done, Vincent.
Ah, but what of Tucat Keep itself? The details are embarrassingly sparse. Is there but a single level to the stone structure, or are there many? How many people live within its walls? I've barely even scratched the surface, for some stupid reason believing that the words “Tucat Keep” would be sufficient.
I mention this both in order to apologize for omissions I may have made, and because I’m about to do it again ... for every Haraelian possessing eyes has seen the architectural marvel known as the Circles.
If you have not, I cannot do it justice with these humble words – poets and painters have tried.
Quickly, it is an arena. The arena, if you will.
Built against the back entrance of the palace, it’s shaped like a bowl that has been tipped towards you, as if one end were buried beneath the sandy earth. The main entrance is here, and walking through the gates you cannot help but feel as though you are inching forward to do battle, about to be cheered by thousands, regardless of your reasons for being there.
In addition to the multitude of sculpted benches and other seats available for spectators within the bowl itself, it has nearly a dozen large dueling circles set into the dirt at the heart of the arena floor.
Near the back in the spectator area, there are countless shops and food kiosks that provide access to every kind of delicacy imaginable, from every culture. They even have those fiery red kebab-like morsels from Vereet, the ones that are spiced to such an extent that you cannot tell whether what you’re chewing on is lamb, vegetable, or a still burning coal from the oven.
The only other structures of note are the North and South towers (where ever did they come up with those names?) which are mostly frequented by Lords and rich merchants who do not feel it necessary to mingle with ordinary folk when watching dueling contests, as well as an oddly shaped two-story building known as the Stables.
The Stables was where the real action was – where the duelists practiced, instructors taught, and blacksmiths plied their trade. It was also where someone could simply find a seat and relax, swap stories with other swordsmen and discuss strategy, technique, any aspect of dueling you wished. Everyone at the Stables was a kindred spirit of sorts, someone with an appreciation for anything pertaining to the art of swordsmanship.
It should be fairly obvious which area I tend to visit most often.
“Gentlemen,” I said as I walked through the entrance to the Stables, spying a small group of duelists I recognized from my long hours of training and coaching with them. Three heads turned and were almost simultaneous with their smiles of recognition.
“Vincent!” the nearest of them, a shorter dark-haired fellow named Mouser called out happily. “I haven't seen you in a dog's age!”
“Mouser? You're still alive?” I chuckled at the familiar joke, extending my hand to him in greeting. He beamed at me, and stood up to shake it vigorously, as he always did.
“Absolutely! Coming off of six wins in a row, too! As a matter of fact,” Mouser looked briefly to Ashkin and Ismir, both of whom remained seated at the table, “can I tell him?”
“Mouser,” Ashkin said patiently, the blond giant of a man grinning sideways at his friend, “you can tell whom you like. I keep telling you, you're not going to hurt my feelings. You've earned it.”
“Gods ... Vince!” Mouser said excitedly, “You will hardly be able to believe it yourself!”
“Believe what?” I asked.
“I was on run number four this morning with foils, practicing against Ashkin. He ... I've got a move! It's like ... when you go around – okay, let's say that I'm you, and you're attacking me. No, wait,” he said, bubbling with excitement, “if I'm me and you're you that'll make things less confusing. Only, you're Ashkin. Okay, wait. Uh...” Mouser paused mid-thought, brow furrowing as he pondered how he might be able to explain it.
I was fairly used to this sort of thing from him by now. I raised an amused eyebrow at Ashkin and shrugged one shoulder in a 'care to explain?' gesture.
“What our comrade is trying to say is that he nicked me. Bad. With practice foils, no less ... using a move that Ismir and I figure was half accident, half brilliant. Got me early this morning, he did,” the large man said, lifting an already elevated leg onto the bench he was half-reclined on so that I could see the mass of bloody bandages that had been tied around it.
“That, from practice foils?” I asked incredulously, staring at the red-stained linen. Then I peered closer and added, “Calf!? You got him on the calf that badly with a practice foil?” I spun to face Mouser, who was beaming with immodest pride.
“It was the damnedest thing, too,” Ashkin said in an amused, rueful tone, gesturing towards his slight companion. “I was doing an overhand crescent, angled to my left because we were trading parries back and forth ... and the little bugger decides to do a shoulder roll over to my right to avoid me entirely so I'd overextend a little and turn. Except he muffs it up and his sword gets stretched out behind him because he forgot where to hold it when he does a roll, and he's half on his back and facing the wrong way suddenly, so he spins on his knees with his arm behind him to turn at me and his hand just kind of naturally...”
He made a sideways chopping gesture with his hand. I winced.
“I felt so bad at first!” Mouser grinned, obviously not feeling at all bad now. “He was bleeding pretty heavily, and I yelled for some other trainers, and when they got there they could hardly believe it themselves.”
“We had him try it again so we could figure out exactly what happened, and it turns out he can make the exact same silly mistake every time he tries. It's deadly. Ismir just barely managed to hop out of the way in time, and he was watching for it.”
“Sneaky, it is,” Ismir agreed, nodding to his injured companion. “All but for knowing, had I not? Same again for me, I think.”
“We were just sitting here having a drink and discussing its merits,” Ashkin said, gesturing invitingly towards an empty wooden stool at the table. “It's not something that we'd want to practice daily or allow to get well known, but it could be useful under the right circumstances. We were thinking of ways it could be blocked safely.”
I took the proffered seat with a nod of thanks, grabbing one of the stoneware mugs that rested on the table beside the pitcher of warmed beer they were in the process of enjoying. It's vile, bitter stuff, and my cheekbones always seem to hurt when I first taste it, or even when recalling the taste. It was, however, what most everyone drank while down there in the Stables, and it had a knack for taking the edge off tired, aching muscles. I think they also use it to remove rust from swords, to be honest.
“Well, I'm assuming that thrusting the point of your sword in the ground would do it,” I said, bringing the cup towards my lips and bracing myself for a mouthful of the sour, metallic-tasting beverage. “It would stop him in mid-spin, I would guess.”
“Bah, you're always trying to be too dramatic, Lord Tucat,” Ashkin snorted, “Sticking your sword in the ground is a terribly awkward position to put yourself in, something I'd never do. For one thing, when-”
And we were off. I was at ease and enjoying myself, talking shop with the boys. I found myself listening, talking, arguing, laughing ... an hour eaten away by conversation. Ashkin, with his deep booming voice, would describe some strategic situation in terms of cause and effect, and sly Ismir with his Vereetian accent would interject from time to time to point out some exception to a rule Ashkin was quoting.
Mouser, still in the throes of excitement, demonstrated his move a few times for me. It looked silly and awkward, like a completely inept shoulder roll ... right up to the point where his sword was forced to whip around with enough force to cut the legs out from under you. I was impressed despite myself.
It was interesting, if not surprising, that Mouser had come up with something new completely by accident. The other two larger swordsmen were quite expert - you knew what to expect. They practiced form, perfected lunges, and critiqued each other's footwork. When Ismir was focusing on practicing Western-style fencing (much different than his own, native style of swordplay) you could watch the two figures move in almost perfect unison.
Mouser was not like that at all. Erratic is simply not a strong enough word to describe it. Watching him, there were days that you seriously doubted he'd ever manage a proper lunge. Practicing would be a waste of time for him, had it not the added benefit of a workout.
The instant he took up arms against an opponent though...
Amazing.
There was no difference in how terribly he performed during a match - he was just as awful inside a dueling circle as he was outside of one. However, the effect that these terribly executed and seemingly haphazard moves had on his opponents was remarkable. It threw their timing off completely.
Combine this with an incredible clarity of mind during fights and a bafflingly strong defense, and you end up with a small fellow who has turned his own ineptness into a unique and dangerous talent. It was uncanny, and left many a duelist filled with self-doubt.
Other swordsmen either embraced his chaotic nature and loved the wide-eyed little guy, or they hated him with an unholy passion. There was no middle ground.
Despite his placement among the ranks of swordsmen, however, his services were hardly ever secured professionally. People with upcoming duels just weren't very keen on the idea of spending hundreds of gold marks on a duelist who looked as though he were a complete duffer.
Speaking of upcoming duels...
“By the by,” I interjected when an opportune moment presented itself, “have you all heard the details concerning my upcoming altercation? Duel,” I added hastily for Ismir’s benefit.
“You mean besides the fact that you're fighting a duel against some kid for Lord Greybridge for free,” Ashkin said blandly, “presumably robbing an honest swordsman of the opportunity to earn a half year's wages in a single bout?”
“Well ... as to that, there were some mitigating circumstances I can't really get into at the moment. Long story short, if I hadn't agreed to fight the duel for him, he'd be paying one of you chaps for the opportunity to duel me instead.”
“I'm fine with that,” Ashkin smiled. “I'm pretty sure I could still take you ... and you'd probably net me a tidy chunk of change. Asking price for you was getting steep there for a while, if I recall.”
“Well, sorry to have quashed your financial plans like that. Perhaps we could spar for a bit, five gold marks a touch? Oh wait,” I feigned disappointment, gesturing at his leg, “I forgot about your injury. Perhaps another time...”
“Like I said,” Ashkin, who stretched his mighty arms behind him and grinned good-naturedly at me, “I'm pretty sure I could still take you. As a matter of fact, the injury might make me feel better about collecting my winnings.”
“What winnings? I'd just start jogging whenever you got within ten feet of me,” I smirked. “Still, this kid wouldn't be much sport for you from what I'm given to understand, unless you've suddenly gone in for stuff of the nasty variety. Scars on the arms and face, humiliation, whatnot?”
“No,” he said, seriously, “and you're right, to be honest. I've turned down contracts like that because they're just not my style, and I would have turned this one down if it had been offered with that sort of 'teach him a lesson' caveat. I'm not a butcher, or a bully. Humiliation, putting a scar on a man, Lords don't get over stuff like that very easily. You of all people probably know that.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, ignoring the brief looks of concern both of Ashkin's mates gave him. One of the things I liked about this place, and Ashkin in particular, was the ability to discuss anything frankly and openly. Ashkin made no apologies for referring to my scars, nor did he shy away from the topic when it came up. To him it was a cosmetic part of a person, like the color of their hair.
“No, much better that someone like you gently let a kid down, no lasting harm or any nonsense like that. Unless you want to, of course ... entirely your right, according to the code,” he said, shifting in his seat so that he might adjust how his leg was propped up.
Mouser looked uncomfortable for a second and anxiously offered assistance, which was waved away. Ismir grabbed the now empty pitcher of beer, stood up with a nod and headed towards the beer vendor's booth located not too far away.
“Yeah, let him off easy. No point in making an enemy for life, neh? Young kid, just getting into the game, doesn't really know what he's doing yet. Something like this might just smarten him up. As it is, with what he tried, there's going to be some talk of my restraint if I don't end up giving the young Lord Teuring a scar or permanent reminder of some sort.”
Ashkin spluttered beer over his cup mid-sip, and began coughing as if choking. I sat up suddenly and looked to the burly man with concern.
“Oh, gods!” Mouser cried from my left, suddenly doubling over, head disappearing under the table. Ashkin began to turn red, breathing coming in labored rasps and short, barking coughs.
I was half convinced the beer we were all drinking had been poisoned, until I realized that they were both laughing.
“Vincent,” Ashkin said in a now raspy voice, hand wiping away the lone tear that had formed in the corner of his eye, “you really must warn me when you do that.”
“Do what?” I asked, half annoyed, half alarmed.
Instead of answering, the large blond-haired man leaned back on his stool and tilted his head far to the side so he could observe Mouser, who had collapsed on the floor.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked.
The only response I could make out was an awkward, breathless laugh that reminded me of chicken clucks. Ashkin smiled and sat back up in his seat.
“Yeah, he'll be a minute or two,” he chuckled.
“Okay, could you please explain what in Hades name is so damned funny?”
“My apologies, Lord Tucat. I heard you had a duel, but I didn't hear it was against Lord Teuring. He was here this morning, practicing on one of the wooden crosses. If you could call it practice.”
“Bad?”
“Hmm, let's see,” he mused, chuckling. He leaned back in order to address his friend on the floor. “Hey, Mouser. What did you think of that kid's self-riposte? Or that lunge he tried?”
The laughter from the floor increased in intensity, stretches of silence doubling in length and punctuated by the occasional explosive gasp for breath.
Mouser was laughing hysterically at the fencing moves he'd seen earlier that morning.
I mean ... Mouser!
The very man who instructors occasionally used as their “how not to parry” prime example, whose form was so legendarily bad that it was doubtful he could perform a proper forward extension even if he was offered a thousand gold marks and all the girls his tongue could cope with ... he was laughing at how bad Teuring was!
Oh my.
I had originally supposed that he wasn't an experienced swordsman, it was true ... but to be so bad that even the most erratic of swordsmen fell to the floor amid peals of laughter just because you'd mentioned his name ... ye gods!
Theo was right ... this kid wasn't going to be any problem for me to handle. I felt a small smile find its way to my lips, and my shoulders began to relax marginally, releasing tension I hadn't even been aware I'd been holding there.
Hell, I even started to enjoy my sips of beer a little. Either that or my taste buds were starting to go numb.
“Ismir!” Ashkin yelled, attracting the notice of the darker-skinned man who was standing at the counter with the empty pitcher. “Hey, remember that kid who got disarmed by the wooden practice dummy? He's dueling Vincent!”
And yes, even the quiet, cool and unexcitable Ismir was not immune. Eyes wide with sudden understanding, he grinned uncharacteristically. A second later I could see his massive shoulders shaking in silent mirth.
Wow.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Ashkin laughed. “If only I had known, we could have booked a private arena, arranged to sell tickets ... made some money!”
A very red-faced Mouser slowly clawed his way back up into his seat, still laughing as he clutched the edge of the table for balance, eyes awash with the remnants of laughter-inspired tears.
“Alright,” I said, “so, through my keen powers of observation I have managed to glean the impression from you fellows that my opponent is less skilled than myself. Was he down here trying to find some swordsman willing to work for him, asking prices and whatnot?”
“Not from what I was able to see ... and I was here all morning, too. He stalked in here just as I was doing my warm-up stretches, scowling and looking blue murder at everyone until his fencing partner arrived. Didn't seem too happy to see him either – dressed him down for being late, wasting time. While waiting, though, he'd pulled out a practice foil and, well...” he chuckled.
“How bad?”
“Take the worst swordsman you can imagine, and blindfold him. I’d bet even money on him against Lord Teuring.”
“You can't be serious!” I laughed.
Mouser, still flushed and teary-eyed but having recovered his composure, was once more able to contribute to the conversation.
“Oh Vincent, it was so funny. He ... he disarmed himself! Tried this terrible half-thrust with his sword edge, and it caught on the wooden dummy as he was pulling his hand away. His grip was too light, and it bounced and-” Mouser said, trying to keep his voice even as he spoke, “it almost pinned his foot to the floor! Point came down and missed his boot by a fingers-breadth!”
“Practicing against a wooden dummy? You're joking!”
“No word of a lie, gods steal my voice,” he swore, giving a quick throat-slashing gesture with his thumb. “I couldn't stop laughing. Even some of the fellows who felt sorry for him were having difficulties keeping a straight face after a while.”
“Well then,” I said, sliding my stool back and putting my boots up on the table, “I guess I may just be able to relax a little for this one. Take a day off or something. Still, disarmed by a wooden dummy? The skeptical side of me wonders if you're pulling my leg.”
“Believe not, you come,” said Ismir, who gently set down the full pitcher of beer in front of us with a clunk. He beckoned towards me with his now empty hands, an eager smile on his face. “Something of this, you must have a see. Come! Come with!”
“What?” I said, perplexed. Then I felt my features go slack with understanding. “He's still here? He's still around, practicing?”
Ismir was nodding as I bolted to my feet in childish glee, already heading in the direction he was pointing.
Mouser rose to his feet as well, while Ashkin shifted forward in his seat as if to stand, groaning slightly and wincing with a pained look of realization, momentarily forgetting he was too badly hurt to stand.
“Good idea! You stay here and guard the beer, Ash,” Mouser said with an impish grin, dancing out of Ashkin's reach a moment later.
I grinned a look back at Ashkin and then hurried to follow Ismir, who was walking quickly and purposefully to the last fencing run at the very edge of the building.
The soft clinking of swords coming over the rise of the last wall contained awkward pauses between strokes, making it sound as though the world had slowed to one tenth its normal speed. I heard a quiet, gentle voice said “Good! Other side.” during one of the longer pauses, and the soft, timid sword-on-sword sounds began anew at the same slow pace. We turned the corner of the last wall then, the three of us, and looked down the narrow strip at the two figures occupying it.
The instructor facing us was about fifteen feet away and near the center of the run, attention absorbed by the movements of his fencing partner. The sweaty, bedraggled, curly-haired figure who had his back to us was wearing a familiar ill-fitting garment embroidered with two linked circles.
“Good! And one last time,” said the instructor, encouragingly, beginning an extremely slow attack-block routine that covered the four primary zones that you could perform a basic cut and basic block if fighting one-handed. You attacked while your opponent blocked, and then reversed, a string of eight moves in total, designed to get you comfortable with the notion of stopping a sword blade with your own.
I learned it when I was nine.
Halfway through the routine, as we all stood there watching, young Teuring attempted a clumsy cut at the second position, producing a louder clang than the others he'd made. Then, unbelievably, he reacted to the sudden sound and unexpected vibration of metal on metal with alarm, pulling his arm gingerly to his chest.
Without the fencing blade.
It hung there in the air for a split second, and with sudden realization of what he'd done he reached desperately for it as it fell to the ground, his dark curls springing frantically about his face as he lurched forward to catch his weapon.
Catch it he did. By the blade, just above the hilt.
“Gahh! Damn!” he yelped, flinging the foil to the ground with a clang and pulling his injured hand to his body, arms and elbows all but disappearing from sight as he curled himself protectively around his injury.
There was no helping it. We all laughed simultaneously. Poor Mouser sounded like a marsh-cat keening for a mate.
Teuring spun to face us, his face a twisted mask of pain and rage. His eyes widened as he recognized me, and yet his face barely changed with the acknowledgment. As a matter of fact, he managed to look even more enraged and murderous.
I can't help it. I have that effect on some people.
“Oh, please forgive the intrusion, but I'd heard so much about your proficiency that I had to come and see for myself,” I laughed, shaking my head in mock solemnity. “Now that I have, I fear I must seek out a priest, for I am now flooded with thoughts of my own mortality.”
Ismir chuckled, while Mouser appeared to be well into the throes of another spasmodic laughing fit, face frozen in the most remarkable sort of expression.
“A priest? Capital plan,” said Teuring, an arrogant sneer now replacing the incensed look of pain and fury as he clutched his hand to his chest. “Why don't you run along and do that now. The next time I see your scar-streaked face, it had better be in the arena!”
There was silence, and even the fencing instructor seemed taken aback by the comment. I smiled a dangerous little tight-lipped smile at him, feeling a momentary flash of anger that such words could still have an affect on me.
He seemed to be under the impression he might actually win. I decided to disabuse him of that notion.
“Indeed.” I strode forward to the middle of the run, watching with amusement as Teuring took an involuntary step backwards at my approach. “You intend to be merciless, I can plainly see that now. No doubt the dropping of your blade was a well timed, well practiced move designed to give me a false sense of hope as we dueled. Fie, young men can be so cruel.”
“Make jokes while you can, Tucat,” he sneered.
“Oh, I make no joke about it. Doubtless you wanted it to be a dramatic moment, sword on the ground before you, when ... may I?” I gestured at his foil on the ground.
He glared murder at me and ground his teeth, still clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. I decided to interpret that as a 'yes'.
“Why thank you. Where was I? Oh yes ... the dramatic moment. I come rushing forward, and you-” I slid my foot underneath the blade where it met the guard and lifted the foil upwards with a quick kick. The sudden scrape against the ground caused the blade to sing as it leaped up into my outstretched hand.
Pausing long enough to cast a meaningful look at the bewildered instructor, I swung with exaggerated slowness towards him. He came out of his momentary stupor to make the obvious block.
“At this point, with the element of surprise, you would simply have to back-cut,” I said, performing the move as I called it out, “followed by a sweep-cut left, then right...”
The sound of clanging metal produced by the practice blade was now very loud, and very deliberate.
Calling out each move I was performing, I went into a complicated routine featuring a stop-cut, a dangerous spinning upwards slash, and a series of follow up lunges. The instructor, while competent enough, looked flabbergasted to find himself fencing against someone other than his pupil.
“And then, once you've driven me back and can see the fear plainly upon my 'scar-streaked face', you make your move and perform a magnificent overhand crescent-” I said, heaving the blade upward from behind my back, steel whistling as it cut the air. The instructor tried the obvious block, bracing for heavy impact...
...which never arrived. Arm high in the air and blade at an awkward angle, he looked down his nose in genuine surprise at my foil, which now had its point at his chest.
“-that you'd pull at the last possible instant, leaping forward with your point, concluding the fight. Indeed,” I said, lowering the foil from the chest of the unfortunate instructor, whose face was now flushed with either exertion or suppressed embarrassment, “there's simply no way I could survive a well-executed routine like that. I'd be a goner.”
I looked at Teuring with amusement, the pale youth looking anything but amused. His eyes were glassy and his jaw muscles were clenched, but his eyebrows were no longer set in an expression of anger. They lifted slightly upwards, apprehension and fear apparent.
“Sorry, did you not catch all of that?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “Tell you what, I'll do it again with my left hand, because you're standing over there. You'll probably be able to see better that way.”
“Milord Teuring,” said the instructor unsteadily, “is this the man you spoke of dueling two days hence?”
“Yes,” he spat, recovering his poise enough to begin glaring at me once again.
“Have you considered a duelist, Milord? I could not in good conscience allow you to-”
“Shut. Up.” he growled venomously, turning towards the older man, who now wore a distressed look.
No matter what his level of professional detachment, there was likely nothing comfortable about the prospect of training someone just well enough to get them humiliated or killed. I guess it would be kind of like sending a small boy out to kill a rock lion armed with nothing but courage, a dead pheasant, and sharpened wedges of fruit.
“Milord, please ... I-” he began again.
“You will do nothing except what you have promised to do, and that is to instru-” he paused and gritted his teeth, as if annoyed for momentarily having misspoken, “to practice with me so that I might sharpen my skills for my upcoming duel. You,” he said, whirling and pointing a bloody finger at me, his hand still displaying evidence of his previous error in judgment, “will cease bothering me here. I wish to train uninterrupted, away from your sarcastic jibes and your disrespectful, ill-mannered temper. Fail to grant me this, and I shall take my grievance to the Prince. That goes for your friends as well!” He waved his blood-soaked digit towards the two men behind me, who had been watching the exchange in sniggering amusement.
“Fair enough,” I said, stabbing the foil point-first into the wood of the fencing run and stepping away, my hands raised in mock surrender. “I'm probably not doing myself any favors being this close to a master swordsman like yourself. Doubtless I'll be up for hours, pacing nervously in my room. Gods, the sweet, mocking embrace of death ... it all seems so unavoidable now.”
Turning my back to him, I began walking towards the two duelists who had accompanied me, both of whom appeared to be enjoying themselves mightily. I noticed for the first time the presence of a long buck-skin bag that lay on the floor tucked neatly against the wall, the kind with a shoulder strap that were not uncommonly used to haul equipment to and from the stables. It looked as though it contained something slender and sword-like within.
“Before I go, Teuring, I shall do you this one singular favor,” I said, hopping over to his bag and crouching down before it, fingers working the drawstring. “I'll show you which end of the sword is the dangerous one. It's pointy, and it's sharp, and judging from your hand you haven't quite figured out which-”
I stopped once the leather flap had been pulled aside, a little stunned by what I saw before me.
It was a sword handle and hilt. No real surprise in and of itself I suppose, seeing as how these bags are designed for such a purpose. However, the handle of this particular sword demanded attention, leather grips well-worn with age and cunningly stretched over recessed metal filigree to form a pattern that would be both elegant and useful when fit into the hand.
And beautiful! The hilt had a guard crafted to look like two leafy branches snaking their way outward, the detail on the leaves so perfect that each one seemed to dare you to touch it, if only to prove to yourself that you beheld metal, and not some new form of silvery metallic plant.
It was older than I was, without question, and it paid mute tribute to a time when the art of crafting weapons of violence was taken so seriously that a single sword would take a craftsman months to make, sometimes years. It was gorgeous.
What was more, it was not alone. Behind the first there appeared a second sword handle, which had leaves as well, and-
Teuring was suddenly there, far more quickly than I'd thought possible, throwing the buckskin flap back over the ancient metal in anger.
“Get out, I say! Leave us, now! I'll not suffer your presence a moment longer!” he shouted at me, standing protectively over the bundle. There was a different tone to his anger now, an edge that hadn't seemed to be present during our previous exchanges.
“Sorry ... I only thought to help,” I said, raising my hands in mock innocence and stepping away with an apologetic look. He stood there, a study of furious anger, watching me.
Giving one last sarcastic chuckle, I turned back to my fellows, who were grinning and turning back towards the main hall as I approached, the amusing spectacle having reached its conclusion.
Ismir had put one hand on my shoulder as we walked and was shaking his head sadly. “Not for him otherwise, with the yelling and proud, but in this ... I feel sorry,” he said. He was getting much better with the language in even the relatively short time that I'd known him. I smiled.
Part of me refused to smile, however.
A familiar uncomfortable, nagging feeling in my shoulders was back. It had been lessening ever since I'd arrived at the stables, and had almost disappeared entirely while I was there. It was back now, even stronger, and I didn't understand why.
The swords? What did they mean? They'd carried with them a sort of feeling, something I couldn't place. Surprise, perhaps, like their presence didn't add up somehow.
He'd need a sword in order to fight a duel though - I had assumed that there was a sword in the bag when I saw it. Opening the bag and revealing a sword, even two, should not have come as a surprise at all.
Troubled, I made my way back to the table where Ashkin waited patiently for our return. Mouser had rushed ahead and was already in the process of telling his friend what had happened, describing Teuring's ineptness in glowing detail.
I sat, only half-listening, taking the opportunity that Mouser's fine storytelling provided to consider things.
Those swords were wrong somehow. Why?
I needed answers, I realized.
As luck would have it, I was best friends with exactly the kind of person who might have the answers I was looking for.