by Ginn Hale
“Ahm. Yes, sir.” Kiram wasn’t quite sure of how to interpret Scholar Donamillo’s words. It sounded like he was telling Kiram to pretend that his injury was worse than it was. In fact, Kiram was almost positive that was Scholar Donamillo’s meaning. But it would also mean lying to Master Ignacio, the prospect of which terrified Kiram.
“You had both best report to Master Ignacio now.” As Scholar Donamillo stepped back into the infirmary, Kiram caught a brief glimpse of huge iron supports curving like the ribs of a globe around a sphere of milky glass. Golden lights flickered from within the mechanism, then died away. Then the door fell closed.
“They are going to wipe the floor with us,” Nestor groaned.
“What are you talking about?” Kiram asked, still thinking about the majesty of the mechanism he’d glimpsed. “Who are you talking about?”
“The upperclassmen.” Nestor looked at Kiram as if there could have been no other answer. “Scholar Donamillo just said that Master Ignacio had pulled them out of their free hours just to tutor us. They are going to be furious!”
“You don’t think that they’d actually hurt us, though?” Even as Kiram asked the question he realized that hurting the two of them was bound to be part of their training. No doubt the more Kiram or Nestor annoyed any given upperclassman, the more often he would seize on the opportunity to train them a little too hard.
“We are bent over a barrel,” Nestor said flatly.
Kiram simply nodded. The two of them made their way from the main building to the dark low structure of the sparring house like condemned prisoners.
Chapter Eight
Like the stables, the sparring house seemed suffused with the living presence of its occupants. Here, instead of horse feed and leather, the heat and sweat of men filled the air. The pungent scent saturated the gray mats of the wrestling ring as well as the sawdust-strewn floor. Even with windows all along the length of the gallery propped open, the heat and smell of men remained.
Here and there dark spatters stained the sawdust. He had always wondered if those spatters were blood and felt afraid to touch them. Now that he had some idea of how easy it was to draw blood, he realized that the sawdust was there in the first place to catch the dribbles of gore and keep the floors beneath from becoming stained.
“At least we aren’t the only ones,” Nestor commented.
Master Ignacio had listed three other second-year students for intensive training. They lounged beside the wrestling ring, standing in the shafts of hard light that fell through the open windows. Kiram knew all of them by sight but not well enough to have any opinion of them as individuals. They moved among the mass of second-year students who snickered at Kiram’s accent and squinted at Nestor, mocking his poor vision. They were neither instigators nor protestors, just followers.
All three possessed a blandness of appearance that made them hard to tell apart. Pale, splotchy skin, lank brown hair, long faces and bodies like marionettes with all their weight built up in their jutting joints. None of them were as slender as Kiram or as big as Nestor and all three seemed pained to see that they had been classed with the two of them.
“That’s Ladislo in the middle, there.” Nestor squinted at the young man, then whispered, “To be honest I can’t really see why Procopio bends him. He’s not much to look at, is he?”
Kiram tried not to stare at the plain young man. He seemed a little more fine-boned than the other two but otherwise there was nothing exceptional about him.
“Bland,” Kiram decided.
“I guess Procopio is just too broke to buy anything better in town.”
As they drew closer to the wrestling ring, Ladislo seemed to notice them. He spat into the mass of wood-shavings and sawdust on the floor.
“If I were Procopio, I’d save up.” Kiram couldn’t keep from making the comment. Nestor gave a soft laugh but then cleared his throat as if he could play it off for a cough.
Kiram and Nestor stopped at the edge of the wrestling ring. Nestor kicked a few wood shavings across the boundary lines painted on the floor. The other three students gazed at the two of them with studied disinterest.
“Is Master Ignacio somewhere around?” Nestor’s tone was amiable as always, despite the cold looks he received from all three of the other second-year students.
“He’s showing the upperclassmen where the fencing gear is stored and having them bring down medical supplies in case someone puts out his eye.” Ladislo looked pointedly at Nestor.
“Did you hear which upperclassmen—” The rest of Nestor’s question was interrupted by another of the second-year students—Kiram thought his name was Chilla—jamming his thumb against one nostril and blowing a huge glob a snot out of the other.
“No,” Chilla said flatly.
The third boy, Ollivar, glanced uncertainly between Chilla and Nestor. Then he broke from the other two and joined them at the edge of the wrestling ring.
“I think Master Ignacio decided to use our own upperclassmen to tutor us and make sure that it sticks.” Ollivar glanced briefly to Kiram, mainly to eye the red scab on his cheek.
“My brother Elezar is your upperclassman, isn’t he?” Nestor gave Ollivar an easy smile and Kiram felt a brief shot of annoyance at Nestor’s unflagging friendliness. He’d probably smile at a dog after it bit him.
“Yeah,” Ollivar replied. “You’ve got Atreau Vediya, right? What’s that like?”
“He’s a northerner.” Nestor gave a shrug. “He’s never cold enough. Dead of winter and he has to have the window propped open. I don’t mind, though. I don’t get cold easily. None of us Grunitos do.”
Ollivar nodded as if this were some kind of sage wisdom. He looked down at his feet and then at Nestor, but he never looked at Kiram. Even when Kiram stepped closer to Nestor, Ollivar simply tilted his head away so that he didn’t make eye contact. Kiram wondered if Ollivar, like so many Cadeleonian sailors, believed that the Haldiim cast curses with their pale eyes.
Not for the first time, Kiram wished that he could.
“So, is Elezar tough on you or not?” Nestor asked Ollivar.
“He’s fair,” Ollivar replied.
Nestor nodded. “He hits hard though, doesn’t he?”
“He sure does,” Ollivar admitted. He cocked his head to the side slightly, looking Nestor over. “Ladislo got a couple sugar cones from his mother. You want to come over and have one with us?”
Nestor’s face brightened at the mention of the candies, but then he looked troubled. “Sure, so long as you’ve got enough for Kiram and me both.”
Ollivar scowled at this.
“If you don’t that’s fine,” Nestor said with a shrug. “Kiram and I don’t want to cause a fight between all of you over a couple sugar cones.”
“Nobody wants a fight,” Ollivar agreed.
“That’s why we have to do this extra training, isn’t it?” Kiram couldn’t keep from making the comment.
Ollivar laughed despite himself and he even met Kiram’s gaze. He seemed to consider Kiram, as if he were an animal that he didn’t quite trust. Then he started back toward Chilla and Ladislo, beckoning them to follow. It was only a matter of crossing a few feet but Kiram knew it signified more.
Ladislo was particularly sullen about handing over his sugar cones, but he did it. Ollivar broke them apart and distributed the cracked pieces of spun sugar amongst the five of them.
As the candy melted over his tongue, Kiram closed his eyes and allowed himself to reminisce about his mother’s candy kitchen, with its smells of bubbling cane sugar and honey and his mother’s floral perfume pervading the atmosphere.
The first mechanism he had built had been for his mother’s candy kitchen. It had been a taffy pulling machine. Whenever she had felt that Kiram was exhausting himself in his studies she had claimed it needed repair and stole him away to her airy sanctum of perfume and sweetness.
Seeing Ladislo’s glum expression, Kiram couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, for having
to share a gift from his mother. “Thank you for the sugar cone, Ladislo.”
At first Ladislo seemed taken aback, but then he recovered his bland demeanor. “Mother sends the same cheap candy every few weeks. I’m getting sick of it.”
“It still tastes pretty good.” Nestor sucked the last trace of sugar off of his finger. “Have you ever had one of the Kir-Zaki sugar cones?”
“My father says that the Haldiim defile the water they use for their sweets.” Ladislo stole a glance at Kiram. “He says that they make Cadeleonian men flaccid.”
Nestor laughed out loud at this. “Tell that to my dad. The only two things he can’t get enough of are Kir-Zaki candies and sex. Half the brats in our house are nicknamed for the candy that inspired their conception. All boys so far, too. Mom blames that on the candy as well.”
Kiram wondered if being given credit for Lord Grunito’s virility would have pleased or annoyed his mother. Before he could decide he noticed several men coming down the stairs.
He whispered, “Master Ignacio is back.”
All five of them went quiet and straightened to attention as Master Ignacio and the upperclassmen approached.
Elezar Grunito was the easiest to recognize. His neck was like a bull’s, and his thick chest and bulging shoulders reminded Kiram of a fit war horse. He carried a large wooden trunk easily on one shoulder.
Behind Elezar, Kiram picked out Atreau, Nestor’s upperclassman by his long, black, braided hair. He also spotted Cocuyo Helio’s whip-thin body and broken cheek. He didn’t know the other upperclassman by name, but Nestor quickly provided it.
“The greasy one with the scraggly black beard is Procopio.”
Then Kiram realized, with embarrassing disappointment, that his own upperclassman was not present.
Kiram wondered if Master Ignacio would see to his training personally, or if he would be assigned to one of the others. He prayed that it wouldn’t be Procopio. From all Nestor had told him, Kiram had no doubt that Procopio would misuse any power granted to him.
Then the far door swung open. Even with the bright sunlight burning his figure to a black silhouette, Kiram still recognized Javier instantly. To his mortification he felt his heartbeat quicken as Javier approached.
His black hair was wet from a recent bath and his shirt clung to his damp skin. His left wrist was bandaged, but it didn’t appear to trouble him. He strode to Master Ignacio and bowed deeply. “Forgive my tardiness, sir. I just completed my penance at chapel.”
Master Ignacio frowned at Javier. “Your tardiness is not important. However, I am surprised that after last night’s behavior a single afternoon of penance would be sufficient to cleanse you of all sin.”
“Holy Father Habalan felt it was enough, sir.”
“Holy Father Habalan is known for his easy nature, not for his thorough pursuit of the eradication of sin. If you want to remove a stain you don’t just give up after a single scrubbing. You know that.”
Javier peered up at the war master, seemed to search his face with the pleading expression of an errant child.
When Kiram asked his father for forgiveness, he imagined that he wore the same face. Only he could not imagine his own father returning his gaze with such condemnation.
Finally Javier said, “I will return to chapel directly after this class if it pleases you, sir.”
“It does not please me, but it will have to do. I would rather you had not made the mistake in the first place.” The war master’s gaze flickered to Kiram and then back to Javier. “But since it cannot be taken back it must be bled clean. Tell the Holy Father Habalan I said as much.”
“Yes, sir.” Javier stood.
Kiram started to open his mouth to object to Javier doing penance at all, when Nestor gripped his arm so hard that Kiram gasped. But he took the hint and kept his complaint to himself.
Javier took his place with the other upperclassmen, and Master Ignacio turned his hard glare back to Kiram and his fellow second-year students. He scowled at them as if they were vermin he had caught raiding his pantry.
“This week the five of you will master the first level of hand-to-hand combat.” Master Ignacio’s voice boomed through the nearly empty space as if he were addressing an entire class. “And if you do not perform to my complete satisfaction by the end of the week, I swear by God, you and your tutors will suffer. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Kiram shouted out the response along with the rest of his classmates. Nestor already looked nervous and Kiram noticed that Nestor’s upperclassman, Atreau, didn’t seem much more confident.
Master Ignacio spun on his heel so that he was facing the upperclassmen.
“Break them, beat them, work them till they vomit. I don’t care, but have them trained in the first forms by the end of the week.” As he spoke, Master Ignacio shifted his gaze to skewer each individual upperclassman. “Do not disappoint me.”
“Yes, sir.” The unified shout from the upperclassmen rang with a fervent intensity. Of all five of them, Kiram thought that only Javier looked perfectly assured of his success. Though Elezar’s worried glances didn’t fall on his own underclassman, Ollivar, but on Nestor.
Master Ignacio continued, “You have two hours before the first years will need this space. Use it wisely. And remember I will hold you responsible for your charges. If you need me I will be riding with the fourth-year students. But I would strongly advise you not to need me.”
After Master Ignacio left the sparring house, uncertain silence settled over the vast gallery. The sound of distant voices filtered in through the open windows. Master Ignacio’s voice drifted to them from across the courtyard as he called for his horse. The upperclassmen stared at each other in perplexed resignation.
Eventually, Javier said, “By the end of the week Master Ignacio will expect them to know how to hold a stance, drive an attack and fall back. I say we walk them through the motions today and tomorrow. On Mediday we have them fight each other to see what they’ve learned and what they’re still missing.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Elezar agreed. “Any wagers on which boy will win?”
None of the upperclassmen seemed excited about the prospect. Atreau regarded Elezar as if he might be crazy.
“I think we’re already wagering our skins on each of our own underclassmen,” Javier replied.
“Fine.” Elezar sighed. “But mine’s going to beat the crap out of the rest of yours. I’d put money on that.” Elezar strode towards Ollivar with such a hard, calculating look on his face that Ollivar took an involuntary step back.
“We’ll see,” Javier replied.
They paired off and spaced themselves throughout the gallery. Jackets and shirts came off right away. Kiram would have liked to remove his boots as well but he knew Cadeleonians didn’t go barefoot unless they were too poor to do otherwise. None of them seemed able to appreciate the feel of the ground beneath their feet.
Kiram stood, waiting for instruction, while Javier gave him the once over. “You’ve done some kind of training before you came to the academy, haven’t you?”
“Not really.” Kiram tried not to stare at Javier’s exposed body. The bright sunlight accentuated every curve of lean muscle and illuminated his pale skin. The deep cleft of his chest led Kiram’s eyes down over his flat stomach to the fine line of hair that rose just above Javier’s dark blue pants. Even standing in the light of the midday sun, something nocturnal, almost ghostly, pervaded Javier. Kiram could understand why so many of the other students were hesitant to touch Javier’s bare flesh. He seemed too radiant and too dark all at once.
“Not really?” Javier cocked one black brow. “You wouldn’t be willing to be a little more precise, would you?”
“I’ve studied with a dance instructor since I was ten,” Kiram offered. He felt suddenly embarrassed of his own slim body and lanky limbs.
“Dance…”
“And I’ve practiced archery as well,” Kiram added quickly.
“It
shows in your arms and chest.” Javier touched the curve of Kiram’s shoulder lightly, hardly brushing his skin. His fingers were dry and unexpectedly cold. “You have an archer’s stance. You’re certainly not built to be a foot soldier.”
“I know.” Kiram lowered his head. His failure would mean punishment for Javier as well as himself, and he hated the thought of that. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”
“Of course it will work.” Javier touched his shoulder again but this time more firmly. “You can’t fight the same way the Grunito boys do, but trust me, there are other ways to bring them to their knees.” The way Javier smiled and his sensual tone almost made Kiram flush. “Now stand straight for me. Let me see what Master Ignacio has already taught you.”
Kiram squared his shoulders, standing at attention the way he did for Master Ignacio.
“Legs a little farther apart. You want to be as stable as possible. Don’t lock your knees.” Javier placed his hand lightly on the back of Kiram’s knee. “You want to be balanced. Bend into an oncoming impact and still stay on your feet. That means keeping your knees supple and responsive.”
Javier lifted his hand to Kiram’s chest and pushed him. Kiram stumbled back a step and Javier shook his head.
“You’re too stiff. Just relax and let your body respond naturally.” Again Javier placed his hand against Kiram’s chest and pushed. This time Kiram tried not to tense at the contact. He allowed his weight to drop against Javier’s hand. As Javier shoved him, Kiram bent his knees slightly and felt his balance steady.
“Better.” Javier pulled his hand back suddenly and Kiram stumbled forward. “But you probably shouldn’t actually lean on a combatant.”
“Sorry.” Kiram straightened.
“Don’t be. Normally I wouldn’t care if you fell into my arms, but since we’re in mixed company…” Javier shoved a lock of his dark hair back from his face. “I’m afraid I really can’t take full advantage of the situation.”
