The First Blade Of Ostia Page 3

  As he began to plan, drawing up a list of all the areas he would need to address, it became clear to him that he would need some form of training facility. The thought had been in the back of his mind for some time, but only now did it need to be addressed directly. He considered going back to the Academy and asking Major dal Damaso to allow him to train there when the halls were not being used, but that was not his preferred solution. He wanted to move forward, not back.

  In order to do well in the arena he would also need regular access to skilled training partners. A private salon was the usual route for duellists, but Bryn couldn’t afford the fees. If there was no other option, he would have to see if his family could help him, but that was a course he’d rather not take. He wanted money to flow from him to them now that he was no longer a student. He would explore all the other options before he started looking into private salons.

  As he considered the reality of what had seemed like a very attractive career choice, the problems kept mounting up. The best option he could come up with was to go to the Bannerets’ Hall and look around to see what was on offer there. As a banneret he was a member—but the only time he had been there was to get his licence and the place had struck him as being little more than a club for bored aristocratic bannerets to while away their days reminiscing about old feats of swordsmanship that grew greater with each passing year. It was not an activity that Bryn had any time for, but it had decent training facilities, and he was running short on alternatives.

  Bryn sighed and looked down at the blank piece of paper. Staring at it wasn’t getting him anywhere. He needed to get out to clear his mind. He grabbed his cloak from the finely crafted brass hook by the door and headed out into the city.

  CHAPTER 3

  In a city where duelling was an obsession, a match could be found at almost any hour of any day of the week. The arenas ranged from dank, dark cellars where down-on-their-luck bannerets and thrill seekers would fight to the death on a stretch of floor painted black to hide the blood stains in illegal duels, to the Amphitheatre, where the very finest exponents of the sport plied their trade.

  In between, there were numerous arenas of varying size in the city, encompassing those that could accommodate a few dozen spectators to the boutique arenas on the fringes of Highgarden, where the exclusive audiences sat on silken cushions.

  Bryn stopped at the first small arena he encountered, paid the admission fee and went in to watch. He wasn’t expecting much on a weekday afternoon. It would be jobbing swordsmen trying to make some extra money for the most part, men who made up the lower end of the Ladder, the city’s fencing ranking system.

  He bought a packet of candied nuts and sat on the wooden plank that served as a seat and tore open his folded paper parcel. A duel was already underway and he absently chewed on the nuts as he watched the duellists in an equally distracted fashion, his thoughts still dominated by his own nascent career.

  The combatants weren’t up to much. There were a couple of exchanges that made Bryn cringe. It didn’t look like either man had any formal training. They were probably soldiers, as they didn’t have that thuggish look that the toughs from the city’s streets and criminal gangs tended to acquire through broken noses, cauliflower ears and knife fight scars. Their swordplay might have sufficed when mingled with kicks, punches, elbows and knees, but as physical contact was forbidden in the formal duels of the arena they left a great many openings in their defences, none of which were exploited by the other.

  There were no more than a dozen spectators in the arena, and Bryn could see why if this match was illustrative of the standard. The duel ended on the expiry of the time limit, the result inconclusive. Both men—Bryn had a hard time calling them duellists—had worked up a good lather of sweat in the afternoon sun, but no excitement or appreciation in the audience. They saluted and made their way from the sandy arena floor to their payment of a few florins for their exertions.

  The next pairing came out onto the floor, and Bryn could see that this match would be different. The first man looked little different to the previous pairing. He was a scrapper rather than a dancer, as Dornish would have put it. The second man was the complete opposite.

  He was tall, slender, and broad in the shoulders. Completely bald and with a jet-black, pointed beard, it looked as though he shaved his head by choice rather than necessity. He had perfect posture and moved lightly on the balls of his feet, as though his well-built frame weighed nothing at all. Bryn shifted onto the edge of his seat, his attention grabbed by his expectation of what was to come.

  The Master of Arms walked onto the arena floor and gestured to both duellists to take their places on either side of the black mark at its centre. The small audience chatted critically and in lacklustre tones about the previous match.

  ‘Banneret Panceri Mistria of Maestro Valdrio’s Salon, and Corporal Selvo Septra of Count Bragadin’s Second Regiment of Light Foot,’ the Master of Arms said. That done, he retreated to the edge of the arena floor to watch for breaches of the rules.

  ‘Duel!’ he shouted.

  The audience ceased talking and returned their attention to the duel. Mistria danced back three steps, anticipating Septra’s flamboyant slashing attack. Mistria was gone before Septra had even swung his sword, confirming Bryn’s expectation that he would move well. Septra’s was the type of weapon handling that got soldiers on the battlefield killed, but it was something that Bryn had noticed a number of times with professional soldiers. When they got to the arena, they left all the common sense beaten into them in battle at the door, and tried to conform to some ostentatious notion of what was expected of professional duellists.

  As Septra came to the end of his attack, now within the reach of the taller Mistria, the banneret’s arm shot out—no other part of his body moving even a fraction—the rounded tip of his sword moving smoothly with precise direction, connecting with Septra’s chest over his heart. Septra nodded in concession of the touch and returned to the black mark without needing to be told by the Master of Arms.

  So the duel continued. It was a master class in swordsmanship and Bryn was surprised that he had not encountered Mistria before, or at least heard his name. Mistria was clearly five or so years older than Bryn, which could have put them at the Academy at different times. However, for a man of that skill to have gone unfêted in the arena for any length of time was surprising. It was possible that he was new to it, in which case Bryn felt certain there were great things in store for him.

  Bryn left after that match, returning to the ominously blank piece of paper. He still had no idea what to put on it. After seeing Mistria duel, he did however have a greater sense of urgency. That was what he wanted from his career, that unharried sense of mastery and control, and he wasn’t going to get there sitting around procrastinating.

  * * *

  WHEN AMERO RETURNED THAT EVENING, he found Bryn sitting in an armchair, fingers covered in ink and several crumpled balls of paper lying around on the floor.

  ‘What in the gods’ names are you doing?’ He breezed into the room, followed by two servants carrying baggage and didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The bad news is, I can’t cook,’ Amero said. ‘I’ve known you long enough to be quite confident that you can’t either, and the idea of eating the mystery meat special in taverns every night doesn’t fill me with much enthusiasm. The good news is, I managed to pinch one of the cooks from home. He’s installing himself in the servants’ quarters above and will come down to cook us up something as soon as he’s finished.’

  Cooks? Servants quarters? What next? Even being exposed to members of the more privileged classes while in the Academy had not given Bryn any idea that life in Amero’s apartment would be like this. While in the Academy, everyone had much the same living conditions irrespective of position in society, the only real differences being down to seniority. Being in the Collegium had put Bryn at the top of that pile.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,’ he said.

/>   ‘No, I hadn’t planned on it, but I decided to come back this morning,’ Amero said. ‘Countryside’s too quiet at this time of year. Got bored. So, what have you been doing when not dipping your fingers in the inkwell and crumpling up paper?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out how to best train for the arena. I can use the facilities in the Bannerets’ Hall, can’t I?’

  Amero scrunched his face in distaste. ‘Yes, if you want to choke yourself on dust and poison yourself on rusty old blades. I doubt if anyone has been in the hall there in a century. All the old farts in there spend half the day asleep in armchairs in the lounge, the other half talking up what great swordsmen they were in their youth. Never heard of anyone going there to train.’

  It confirmed Bryn’s opinion that it was little more than a social club for bannerets. ‘Any ideas then? I really need to find somewhere. Not to mention a training partner, or at least access to some sparring partners.’

  ‘Well, I think I can help you on the training partner and sparring front. I had a think about it when I was at home, and I quite fancy the idea of duelling myself. Father wants me in the army.’ Amero’s face darkened for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. ‘A nice uniform’s all well and good, but to be honest the idea of getting hacked to bits by some bloody barbarians gods-only-know-where doesn’t sound as nice as the adulation of all the young women of the city. You’re too much of a prude to take advantage of it, and it would be a shame to let it all go to waste. Point is, I’m going to go to the arena too. I can’t see any reason not to continue training and sparring together as we did in the Collegium; that worked out quite well for both of us.’

  ‘What are you going to do for a licence? It takes ages to get one—months at least, often longer,’ Bryn said. ‘I was lucky to get one from the Competition.’

  ‘Taken care of,’ Amero said. ‘I got in touch with an old pal from the Academy who owes me a favour. His father has some pull with the Bannerets’ Commission, so I asked him to speed my licence along. I expect to have it by the end of the week.’

  It was nice to have contacts, Bryn thought. Were it not for the fact that he had gotten his licence by default, he would have been waiting half a year at least. However, there was something odd about the way Amero was behaving. He seemed awkward, ill at ease. Bryn would have suspected him to be lying, were there any reason for him to do so. Perhaps he was tired after the journey back to the city.

  ‘What does your father think of that?’

  ‘Not much, but it’s not up to him anymore,’ Amero said. ‘So, training?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds good,’ Bryn said. ‘Any ideas of where we might train?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ Amero said. ‘I think the best plan is to spend a couple of days taking a look at the private salons around the city. There are a few better known ones that might be worth a look, but anywhere with the space that isn’t too busy and has enough equipment to keep us going should be fine. We can think about a coach or a trainer at a later point, once we’re up and running.’

  Bryn cringed at the mention of the private salons, but they did seem to be the only realistic option. Hopefully they could find one that wouldn’t be too expensive. It also struck him that although going to the arena had been his idea, Amero seemed to have grabbed it enthusiastically and taken charge of its direction. The thought made him uncomfortable. He wanted to be independent, not reliant on his friend or anyone else.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning Bryn and Amero began their search. As Amero seemed to have a better idea of what was available, Bryn allowed him to lead the way. He was worried though. For Amero, cost was not something that mattered, or even existed. His wealth was as good as limitless. Bryn, no longer the beneficiary of a generous scholarship at the Academy, had no source of income and only very meagre funds to tide him over until he started getting matches.

  His concerns grew after their first stop, not just at the potential expense of the salon Amero had taken them to but also at the attitude to training there. After their second, he knew unless he retook control of matters he might actually find himself agreeing to one of the places out of sheer frustration with the prospect of having to look at any more.

  The salons that Amero had taken him to could at best be described as vanity salons. They were all very well appointed with the best equipment and facilities that one could desire. There were plush changing facilities, with both cold and hot running water, something of an extravagant novelty in the city. There were lounges, fully equipped with servants, bars and catering. In effect, they were miniature versions of what he had imagined the Bannerets’ Hall to be like, but far more exclusive.

  The salons struck Bryn as being more like brothels than places for jobbing swordsmen to go when they needed hard training, harsh criticism and a place that was devoid of any distraction. Amero seemed keen on both of the ones they visited that morning, and had spent some time chatting with people that he knew, all aristocrats with nothing better to do with their time than play with swords and spend money.

  The cost of joining one of these places would be enormous, and while he had little doubt that Amero would offer to cover his fees at the first sign of the issue being raised he had absolutely no desire to join one of them, nor to sink farther into his friend’s debt.

  At their final stop of the morning, there were several bannerets from the same house as Amero at the Academy. Always more social than Bryn, he chatted with them while Bryn took a closer look at the facilities. Once Amero had finished catching up with his aristocratic friends, he returned to Bryn where he stood watching the various activities with barely veiled contempt.

  ‘Which of them do you fancy then?’ Amero said. ‘I’ve no real preference; any of them are fine by me. Cavzanigo’s Salon of Arms is slightly more prestigious, but as you can see the crowd here is younger, so it probably suits us a little better. Like I said though, the choice is all yours.’

  Amero was a superb swordsman—his taking second place in the Collegium ranking being proof of point—and if he applied himself more seriously could be a threat to any other, Bryn included. The problem was that this was just a lark for Amero, something to keep him from idleness and the trouble that brought. He would never need to earn a living with his sword. He had enough money to throw a bag of gold crowns into the harbour every day for the rest of his life and still have more than he knew what to do with. For Bryn, this was too important to approach flippantly. He would have loved the comfort of being relaxed and casual about it, but he could not. His prosperity would be largely dependent on how hard he trained. In a place such as the salons they’d visited there would be no chance to get serious work done.

  Amero knew how to work hard when he had to. At the Academy there were times where no amount of natural talent or luck would be enough, but as was the case here the Academy had just been a diversion for Amero. Talent had carried him on into the Collegium, but again, once he had earned the honour of being a banneret his reasons for continuing his studies were more to have something to do other than drink, gamble and wench than the professional opportunity that being a Banneret of the Blue brought.

  Despite their many years of friendship, Bryn had never been able to work Amero out. His decision to join Bryn on the duelling circuit was just another example of his confusing behaviour. There were many other ways for young gentleman bannerets to keep themselves out of trouble, which were far more in keeping with the position of a high aristocrat.

  Nevertheless he had achieved as much as Bryn, entirely on merit. He was a Banneret of the Blue, the highest accolade and testament to skill that a swordsman could earn, and had decided to follow a road that not many aristocrats chose. Perhaps that was why he had taken it.

  The two salons they had been to represented exactly the type of places Bryn expected Amero to end up. Neither was close to suitable for what Bryn wanted. The question that remained was how he could put his opinion to Amero without causing offence.

  ‘I�
�d have to say that neither of them are really what I had in mind,’ Bryn said. He paused to try and gauge Amero’s reaction, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It always was.

  Amero looked around for a moment, as if thinking things over. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Something a little less fancy for starters,’ Bryn said. ‘It’s nice and all, but I just want somewhere to train hard with no distractions, no socialising.’

  ‘That’s reasonable I suppose. Anywhere specific?’

  ‘No, that’s the problem. We’re going to have to keep looking until we find it,’ Bryn said.

  ‘Not “we” I’m afraid. I only have the morning free, so it’ll have to be you doing the rest of the legwork. Have a look around. If you find something you like, I’ll take a look and if all else fails we can always come back here.’

  * * *

  THEY PARTED company and Bryn went to the Bannerets’ Hall to take a look at the register of fencing salons kept there. Every salon in the city had to register in order to conduct business. He would make a note of a dozen or so and spend the rest of the day and the next also looking. He was not willing to choose the first that seemed suitable only to find later that he preferred another.

  He went into the records office at the Hall where two large tomes were brought out for him. The practice seemed to be to keep a running record, with the new salons being added to the end of the list. Unfortunately there did not seem to be any indication of which ones were still in operation. Bryn reckoned that every building in the city would have to contain a salon if each of those listed was still running. Even the Ostians weren’t that devoted to swordsmanship.

  He made a note of the names and addresses of the dozen most recent entries on a scrap of paper and pushed it into his pocket. They were scattered across the city, but he had immediately discounted those situated in Lowgarden and Oldtown. They were likely to be similar to the salons he had already visited that day.