by Jack
With his weak elbow known, he supposed that Amiel would now decide he was unfit to join the Bridge Company, and he would have to come up with some other plan. The only problem was that he couldn’t think of anything else. Joining the company had seemed the one possibility that might lead to decent work and regular meals. If he failed here then he supposed he could try to gain employment in an inn or tavern. He knew the work, after all. But such relatively unskilled jobs always had many takers, and he had seen enough beggars in the walk from the docks to know that there were few prospects in Navis, and he had no money for the return journey to Belisaere. It would be a long and hungry walk back to the capital, if he had to make it — though with winter coming, he would probably die of cold before he had the chance to starve.
Morghan stood and tried to be stoic, preparing himself for the bad news. Perhaps he could begin his begging here, and ask for a loaf and cheese, to see him on his way. They were certainly loading provisions enough in the front courtyard.
‘Try the pole-axe,’ said Ishring unexpectedly. Amiel said nothing.
‘Uh, on the pell?’ asked Morghan. He took the pole-axe, forehead knitting as he felt its weight. It was much heavier at the head than the axe he had used to split wood at the Three Coins, but the shaft was also longer and had a counter-weighted spike, so its balance was far superior.
‘On the pell,’ confirmed Ishring. ‘Three strokes to the left, three strokes to the right, and finish by jamming the spear into the middle, hard as you can.’
‘Hard enough to stay there?’ asked Morghan doubtfully. He had done little spear work, but the old guard who had taught him had been insistent that you thrust a spear in only as far as you could pull it out, to avoid disarming yourself in the middle of a battle.
‘Aye, for this test,’ said Ishring. ‘But it is good you asked the question.’
Morghan took a deep breath, stepped forward, and swung, rapidly delivering three hefty chops to the left side of the pell. As he had expected, they were not quite as powerful as they would be if he could straighten his left arm, but a satisfying number of wood chips flew from the timber.
Reversing the momentum of the pole-axe was also tricky, but Morghan managed it, rolling his wrists and pivoting on his foot to address the right side of the pell. But his first swing was weak, and at a bad angle, so that the axe-blade was almost pinched, caught in the tightly-grained wood. Desperately, he wrenched it free, though it put him off-balance. He almost panicked and swung back immediately, but all the lessons in the inn courtyard had their effect. He almost heard Hrymkir bellowing at him to calm down, that balance was more important than sheer speed.
Morghan regained his focus, delivered two more forceful strikes, then rammed the spear-point of the pole-axe as hard as he could at the very middle of the pell. The impact jarred his hands and he felt a savage jab of pain in his bad elbow, but he held on long enough to make sure the weapon was firmly embedded before he let it go, the shaft quivering as it slowly leaned toward the ground. But the spear-point did not come out.
‘Good,’ said Ishring. ‘Now draw your sword with your left hand. Take guard.’
Morghan grimaced with the pain, but he drew his sword. His elbow felt like it was burning up inside, but it hadn’t locked up. He could fight left-handed, after a fashion, but Ishring only needed a few passes to disarm him.
‘The elbow is a weak point,’ pronounced the serjeant-at-arms while Morghan bent to pick up his blade. ‘If we used longbows I would say we could not take him. But we don’t, and a crossbow should present no difficulty. He can wield a sword well enough and can manage a pole-axe. He can be trained to be considerably better with both. Is he a useful Charter Mage?’
‘That we shall presently see,’ said Amiel. ‘Come, Morghan.’
‘Yes, milady,’ Morghan replied hurriedly. He nodded thankfully at Ishring, who inclined his head a fraction in return. The Serjeant had a hard, scarred face, but his eyes showed considered thought, rather than anything else, and Morghan felt none of the fear that other such faces had provoked in him, back at the Three Coins. Eyes showed true intent, and he had learned young to make himself scarce when he saw the glint of need, anger or just plain madness in a gaze, usually intensified by too much drink or one of the more vicious substances you could buy in the alleys behind the inn.
Amiel took him to the very centre of the courtyard, as far from the wall and the house as possible. There was a large flat paving stone under the dust there. It was some ten feet square and had a bronze grille set in the middle, above a sump or drain to the town sewer.
‘Stand next to the grille,’ instructed Amiel. She walked away from him, off the paving stone. ‘Now, I am going to ask you to cast some basic Charter spells. If you do not know the spell, do not attempt it! Simply tell me that you do not know. Similarly, if you begin a spell and lose your way or the marks begin to overwhelm you, stop at once. I do not wish you to kill yourself, or me, for that matter, by attempting magic beyond your knowledge or skill.’
‘I understand,’ said Morghan. This was also a basic principle that had been drummed into him by Hrymkir, and he had a dim memory of the consequences of over-reaching with Charter Magic. His grandmother had tried to be-spell his father to make him stop drinking and become responsible, but it had completely failed. She had been struck blind and dumb as a result, and had died soon after. Morghan had been six, but he still remembered her withered hand clutching at him as she tried to tell him something, her voice no more meaningful than the cawing of a crow.
Morghan was very careful with Charter Magic.
‘Make a small flame, as if to light a candle,’ called out Amiel. She had retreated another dozen feet. Morghan briefly wondered just how catastrophically other potential candidates had fared with such a simple spell, but forced himself not to dwell on that. Instead he took a deep breath, and reached out for the Charter, immersing himself in the endless flow of marks, visualising the two he needed, reaching for them as they swam out of the rush of symbols. He caught them and let them run through him, coursing with his bloodstream to the end of his index finger. He held that finger up, and the marks joined and became what they described, a small yellow flame that did not burn his skin, though if he touched it to wick or paper it would set them ablaze.
‘Good,’ said Amiel. ‘Dismiss it.’
Morghan stopped concentrating on the two marks. They retreated back into the great body of the Charter, and the spell instantly faded. A wave of tiredness passed through Morghan as the marks fled, a kind of weary farewell. It must have shown in his face or perhaps he shivered, for Amiel immediately asked if he was able to continue.
‘Yes,’ answered Morghan, as strongly as he could. He felt that his voice hardly reached Amiel, but she nodded.
‘Call forth water from the air, to cup in your hands,’ she instructed.
Morghan knew this one well. It was a simple spell, but could save a traveller’s life. It could be difficult in a very dry place, but the air was moist in Navis.
Once again he reached into the Charter, summoning the marks he needed. This time, when he connected with them, he sketched them in the air with his fingers, completing the tracing by cupping his hands under the glowing signs that hung in the air before him. They turned to sweet water, which trickled through his fingers. Morghan found himself thirsty, and drank
As before, the conjuration made him tired, but the drink helped a little. He wiped his face with wet fingers, took a breath and looked to Amiel, signalling his acceptance for the next challenge.
‘Call a bird to your hand, from the sky,’ said Amiel.
Morghan hesitated. He knew some of the sequences of marks that identified particular birds, and he knew some marks that could be used together to call to someone, to let them know that the caster wanted to see them. But he did not know any specific spells for calling birds.
‘Uh, I don’t ... I don’t know how to do that, milady,’ he said. Better to confess it, he thought, than to accide
ntally summon a thousand birds, or perhaps something far more dangerous. There were Free Magic creatures that could fly, and were not deterred by running water. Sometimes such creatures slept beneath cities, or had been imprisoned in bottles or jars, and a slipshod Charter spell could help them escape their confinement.
‘You are wise,’ said Amiel. ‘Do you know the spell of the silver blades?’
‘Yes,’ answered Morghan. This was a very old, much-used spell for combat. He could feel the three marks already, rising up from the swirl of the Charter, pressing to come into his mind and mouth.
‘Cast against the pell,’ said Amiel.
Morghan raised his hand and pointed at the wooden post. It was already almost hacked in half by the attentions of Ishring and Morghan’s own efforts. The serjeant had left it now, and the space was clear around it.
‘Anet! Calew! Ferhan!’ roared Morghan, the use-names of the marks flying from his mouth, leaving the burn of power against his lips. The marks became silver blades as they flashed across the gap between him and the pell, and then the timber exploded as they struck, the top of the post bouncing across the yard in a cloud of dust and wood chips.
‘That will do,’ said Amiel.
Morghan blinked, wiped his sweating forehead and tried to suck in air without making it too obvious that he was absolutely shattered. His legs felt weak and barely able to support his weight and he wished there was something he could unobtrusively lean against.
‘You have done well,’ said Amiel. She surprised Morghan by taking his arm and helping him walk back towards the house. He tried to not lean on her, but found he was too exhausted. In any case, she seemed to have no difficulty holding him up.
‘I have tested many a cadet who has fainted after their first spellcasting,’ said Amiel as they slowly ascended the stairs in the rear tower. ‘Few manage three spells in so short a time with no allowance for rest, and I think on only two occasions has a cadet candidate managed four.’
‘Will you ... will I ... may I join the company?’ croaked Morghan as they came back out on the main landing, above the grand stair. It was much as they had left it. Famagus had not returned to sleep on the step, but instead was sitting up and writing in yet another large, metal-bound ledger.
‘Yes,’ said Amiel. She sat him down on the top step, next to Famagus. ‘You are accepted as a cadet of The Worshipful Company of the Greenwash & Field Market Bridge.’
‘Sign here,’ said Famagus, balancing the open ledger on Morghan’s knees.
Everything was already written out, in neat lines of script, indenturing Morghan son of Hirghan and Jorella, to the Company for the next five years in the position of cadet, one share of the company to be put in trust as a surety for his conduct and application, a further share to be issued should he on the completion of four years be commissioned as a Bridgemaster’s Second.
Morghan took the pen, signed with a shaking hand, and passed out.
* * * *
Though he had been allowed to sleep on the step for an hour or so after he signed his indentures, his awakening marked the beginning of Morghan’s training. Even before he rubbed his eyes, a passing Bridgemaster’s Second whose name he missed thrust a book called ‘Company Orders’ into his hand, with the instruction that he was to read it before he next saw the Bridgemistress, as amongst many other things, it detailed the comprehensive duties of a cadet. He had barely opened this small but thick volume, printed very clearly and precisely on onion-skin paper, before a different Bridgemaster’s Second took his elbow and led him away to another part of the main house, where he met someone he initially thought was called Sutler before he realised that was her title, as she was in charge of a veritable treasure trove of clothing and equipment.
Before he could protest, Morghan was stripped to his underclothes by the Sutler’s assistants, one of whom was a woman not much older than he was, and when the Sutler saw the state of disrepair of the undergarments, though they were clean, those came off too.
Morghan almost lashed out at his helpers as they stripped him, but just in time he realised that they were not trying to humiliate him, they were just trying to get on with their jobs as quickly as possible and that the Sutler herself was piling up new undergarments and other clothes on the table, ready for Morghan to put on immediately.
Newly attired in the livery of the Company, Morghan was loaded up with more new stuff than he had ever had before, the assistants piling things into his outstretched arms as the Sutler wrote them in her ledger. When the pile of five undergarments, three leather tunics, six sleeveless shirts, six pairs of sleeves with laces, one pair breeches short, two pairs breeches long, one heavy greasy wool cloak with enamel Company badge, one light cloak lined with silk, two leather jerkins, four belts, one pair doeskin boots, one pair metal-heeled leather boots, one pair woollen slippers, one broad felt hat, one cap, six pairs assorted neckerchiefs and one sewing wallet reached Morghan’s chin, he was tapped on the elbow by the first Bridgemaster’s Second, back again, and led out of the Sutler’s store to yet another part of the house, this time a long, high-ceilinged room that had to be a wing all on its own. It was lined with trestle beds, forty along one wall and thirty on the other, each of them with two chests at the foot of the bed, a large one and a smaller one with leather straps.
Morghan was told this was the barracks, which was usually about half-full as the greater majority of the company’s people lived in private accommodation in the town, and the senior officers had their own chambers above. But when on guard duty, this was home for a week at a time, and for their first year at least, the cadets were required to live in barracks.
‘Not that you’ll be here long,’ said the Second, whose name Morghan still didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. ‘You’re joining the Winter Shift, under Bridgemistress Amiel, and you move out tomorrow at dawn.’
‘How many Shifts are there?’ asked Morghan. Under the Second’s direction, he chose a bed, even if it was only for one night.
‘Four, of course. I’m in Summer, under Bridgemaster Korbin. But I was loaned to Winter, under Amiel, last year. She’s a tough one.’
Morghan must have looked worried, because the Second added, ‘She’s just, mind you. Or, not exactly just ... I mean she’s ...ah ... just do what you’re told willingly and you’ll be all right. Now, get your things stowed. Your small chest will go with you, so make sure you have everything you’ll need in it. I’ll be back to take you to the armoury for your weapons and hauberk, the refectory for supper and then the Bridgemistress wants to see you before her evening rounds.’
Morghan muttered his thanks, and immediately packed away all the things he had been given, carefully sorting and inspecting them. Everything went into the smaller chest. He had nothing personal to put in the larger one, and he belatedly realised that the Sutler had not returned his former clothes, his ill-fitting mail shirt or his blunt training sword. He supposed they might be sold, and that would be part of the business of the company, or perhaps the Sutler’s personal perquisite. In either case, he didn’t care. They were a reminder of a life that he hoped he had left behind forever.
After a final, satisfied look at his well-packed travelling chest, and mindful of the Second’s parting comment about the Bridgemistress wanting to see him, Morghan tried to read as much as he could of ‘Company Orders’ before he was led away again.
He managed thirty-six pages before he was hustled out of the barracks to become re-acquainted with Serjeant Ishring in the Armoury: a large, split-level room that opened out into a smaller courtyard of yet another wing of the main house. It held more weapons and armour than Morghan had ever seen in one place before, including the large swordsmith’s that had been near the Three Coins and was supposed to be one of the best in Belisaere.
Ishring explained that while he was Serjeant of the Winter Shift, and so would be training Morghan on the road and at the bridge, command of the house had been formally handed over to the Spring Shift just that past hour, a
nd thus it was Serjeant-at-arms Corena who now ran the armoury. So it was she who carefully measured him for a hauberk of ringed mail that would be adjusted and ready for him to pick up after he saw the Bridgemistress that evening, a promise made concrete by the sound of the smiths working at the forge in the courtyard outside the armoury.
Morghan was also issued a pole-axe; a sword, a proper long hanger with a rounded point; two daggers, thin and merciless; a knife of more general purpose and rougher make; and the number of a crossbow that would be his to use and care for, but, when not in active use would be stored in the armoury wagon or, when they reached the bridge, in the fort on the northern bank or the mid-river bastion, depending on his assigned station.
‘You can ride, I suppose?’ asked Ishring, as he helped Morghan back to the barracks with his gear.
‘Yes,’ said Morghan. ‘I ... I worked a lot with horses.’
He did not say that this consisted mostly of mucking out the stables, cleaning tack, and wiping down and brushing the mounts of guests at the inn. But he had been taught to ride properly when he was very young and his grandmother was still alive, and though he had not ridden far since, he had plenty of practice taking horses across the city.
