“I’ll do my best, sir,” Bensin assured him as they reached the fourth floor. “Mr. Brinks is a good trainer, but so far I don’t think he’s as good as you.”
Steene chuckled as they crossed the gym toward his classroom. “Flattery is great and all, but a win on Saturday will be a better compliment to my training skills.”
Chapter Seven: Part of the System
The next couple of days went by in similar fashion. Bensin did the chores he had assigned himself every morning as soon as he woke up, he and Steene went jogging, then the boy rode the bus back to his old neighborhood to do his hire-out work. He returned in time for lunch, and then he accompanied Steene to the CSF. There the boy helped out as needed with the students and did his own workouts in between. They ate dinner on their break and were home by a little after nine.
On weekends, Steene’s classes ran from 10:00 a.m. to 6:20 p.m. That would work well for the day of the competition, even though it was scheduled to begin at five in the evening. Here in Jarreon the weather tended to be so warm during the day that outdoor events seldom started any earlier. But as in most tournaments, the kickfighting competition would come first, followed by cavvara dueling. Cavvara shil — the most difficult to master, since it combined the other two in a single martial art — was what most people were really there to see and would be the grand finale. That meant Steene wouldn’t have to leave work early, though the CSF did have a great system for that. Each trainer got to take five tournament days a year, or ten half days, and Mr. Drogum provided substitutes who would cover for them so they could support their students in competition. But it was always a hassle turning your classes over to a sub and figuring out what to have them do, so when possible, Steene preferred to teach to the end of the day and hurry away after that.
“When you take the bus back after your yardwork this morning, you’ll have to get off a couple stops early and just meet me at the CSF,” he told Bensin over breakfast on Saturday. “I’ll probably be in the middle of class, but you can come right on into the classroom when you arrive.”
He dug the informational flyer about the Springstyle competition out of the desk drawer and skimmed through it over a bite of oatmeal. “I think I’ll have you leave the CSF right before my last class this evening,” he decided. “You can take my extra house key and ride the bus home so you’ll have time to eat an early dinner. I’ll put something together for you this morning and leave it in the fridge. Then I’ll grab a quick bite as soon as I get here and we’ll head off.”
He glanced up at Bensin, who was eating his yogurt standing up at the other side of the desk. “How’s that back of yours feeling?”
“It’s pretty good now, sir,” Bensin assured him. “Just about normal again.” He turned and pulled up his shirt to show Steene that the welts had all but disappeared. “Don’t worry, sir; I’m all ready for tonight.” He grinned. “Can’t wait to compete again.”
Steene cooked up two meals after Bensin left: one to bring to work for their lunch, heavy on the protein, and the other to stash in the fridge for dinner later, lighter and focused more on the carbs. That was the pre-tournament combination he had found worked best for him back when he had competed regularly. He blended up a smoothie and poured it into a thermos, stashing that in the fridge as well to bring along in the evening. Another habit from his own competition days. Bensin would need it after his duels. He could drink a little after each rung, assuming he made it past the first one.
And he would. The boy was going to make it all the way to the finals, Steene was sure. He had never seen anyone fight with such natural grace and freedom of movement combined with determination and focus. It was as though the rest of the world disappeared whenever he picked up a cavvarach, leaving nothing but the joy of cavvara shil. Yesterday in Steene’s advanced classes, Bensin had beaten every one of his sparring opponents, both in the youth and adult groups. It will be awesome to see him in competition tonight. And for Markus to see him, too.
Of course, if Bensin did well, Markus would attribute it to his own training over the last three years; and if he did poorly, he would blame it on the boy’s new coach. But Markus and everyone else would be forced to acknowledge the truth as the year went by. Especially when the Grand Imperial rolled around.
It was about a quarter to seven that evening when Steene and Bensin pulled into the parking lot of the large park. A cool breeze hit them as they got out of the truck, and they both paused to pull on the light jackets they had brought.
Lively music played from speakers all around, and brilliant temporary lighting illuminated milling crowds in what was almost a carnival atmosphere. Steene sniffed appreciatively; aromas wafted toward them from half a dozen food stalls featuring various local restaurants that offered dinner to the hungry throng.
“Entrance is ten imps per person,” announced an attendant at the gate as they approached.
Steene handed over a ten-imp bill. “Bensin here is a contestant.”
He showed the woman the registration slip, and she compared the name printed on it to the one on the boy’s collar. “All right, your slave gets in free. Good luck!”
Long rows of tables on either side of the entrance sold Springstyle sports equipment of every variety, while other vendors, who had paid well for the opportunity, hawked their wares from around the edges of the park.
In the middle, of course, were the fighting rings. There were six of them: two each for the under fourteen, under sixteen, and under eighteen fighters. Netting hung from poles around each ring to protect onlookers from the occasional flying cavvarach.
Steene checked a nearby sign. “The under sixteen boys’ ring is over on the right there. Come on.” He led the way as Bensin followed him through the crowd on bare feet, carrying the duffel bag with the protective padding, cavvarach, and shil that Steene was letting him borrow for the event.
“Hi, Coach Steene!” A couple of the girls in one of Steene’s intermediate classes waved to him from amongst the crowd.
He waved back. “Good luck this evening! You’ll do great!” He would try to go watch some of their matches if he had a chance, but Bensin was his first priority today.
A cheer went up from somewhere to their left, followed by thunderous applause. The music cut out while an announcer’s voice called over the loudspeaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for April Levang, our under eighteen girls’ cavvara dueling champion!” There was another cheer, and scattered applause rippled through the park.
They made their way to Bensin’s ring, empty of contestants at the moment, and Steene found the list of pairings for the first round. “So who am I fighting, sir?” the boy wondered from beside him.
I don’t believe this. “You’re going first, and it looks like you’re up against Jayce Torro.” Usually athletes from the same school or training organization weren’t matched against each other in public competitions, at least not unless they both made it to the finals and there was no one else to fight. But Steene had signed Bensin up as his private pupil. He hadn’t mentioned the CSF on the form since the boy wasn’t a paying student there anymore, and so the organizers had had no way of knowing.
“I’m against Jayce, sir? Your former prize student?” Worry crossed Bensin’s face. “I pictured maybe facing him in the final round.”
“Well, now you can beat him at the beginning and get it over with,” Steene replied, trying to sound confident. He wasn’t actually sure which of the two boys was the better athlete, but he wasn’t about to say so now. “Come on, let’s go get you warmed up.” He led Bensin toward the competitors’ tent as another, smaller round of applause went up from the crowd at the other end of the park.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” bellowed a different announcer, “I give you Brock, winner of the boys’ under fourteen cavvara dueling competition!” There were fewer cheers this time. With only one name, Brock was obviously a slave, and people seldom got as excited when a slave won. Not that slaves didn’t have friends who would ha
ve been glad to cheer for them, but slaves’ friends were almost always other slaves, and they didn’t usually have the money for the entry fee required at most tournaments.
“And that concludes the cavvara dueling portion of our evening,” the voice went on. “We’ll take a few minutes’ break, and at seven o’clock we’ll start the first rounds of cavvara shil. Check the rings or ask at the information counter for the lists of competitors, and be sure to pick your favorites. Bets can be placed at our betting booth across from the front entrance.”
The competitors’ tent, which was really just a peaked roof on poles, was full of athletes warming up and coaches giving last-minute pep talks. Steene guided Bensin to an empty corner and pulled out the jump rope he had stashed in the duffel bag. “Here. Warm up.” It might look funny, but he had found that jumping rope was the best way to warm up in a small space.
As Bensin began jumping, Steene pulled out the padding and shil that he had worn at so many tournaments in his own teenage fighting days. At the other end of the tent, he could see Jayce’s parents hovering anxiously while their son pulled off his socks and shoes and prepped his custom-designed gear under Markus’ watchful eye.
Steene wove his way over to them, noting the way the boy’s mom and dad sidled away as he approached. They don’t want to have to talk to me about why they pulled their son out of my class.
“Hi, Jayce.”
His former student, who hadn’t seen him coming, started almost guiltily at the sound of Steene’s voice. “Oh, hi, Coach.”
“Ready for your first competition under your new trainer?” He hoped the bitterness he couldn’t help feeling wasn’t too obvious.
“Um, yeah. Listen, nothing personal about switching or anything. It was just, you know ….” His voice trailed away.
“No worries, Jayce. I’m sure you’ll do great with Mr. Brinks.”
Markus smiled toothily at him as he handed Jayce his padding. “Oh, he will. He will.”
“I hear I’m up against a new pupil of yours,” the boy added as he pulled the padding over his head. “Some collar named Bensin.”
“You shouldn’t call him that.” Steene frowned. “Slave or not, he’s a person, and a good fighter too. He’ll give you a run for your money.”
“Well, I’m ready for it!” Jayce grinned and flexed his muscles.
He is ready for it. Steene turned and walked back toward Bensin. Was his new student as good as his old one? He would find out soon, and he had an uncomfortable feeling about this.
Next time I’ll check with Mr. Drogum about mentioning the CSF on the form, Steene decided. Bensin does train there, after all. He should have done that this time.
But he wouldn’t let Bensin see how he felt about this match. “Better start stretching,” he ordered. “They’re going to be calling the two of you out there in a minute.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy coiled the jump rope up. “Was that Jayce you were talking to over there, sir?”
“Yeah.” Steene took the rope, noticing for the first time the holes in the knees of his student’s pants and how threadbare his shirt was. It was quite a contrast to Jayce’s name brand sports clothes and expensive shoes. “Listen,” he began as Bensin pulled one foot up behind himself in a standing quad stretch. “He’s good, but not as good as he likes everyone to think, so don’t let him intimidate you. He’s overconfident. You can beat him if you stay focused.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you can get him to underestimate you, you’ve got an even better chance. Focus mainly on defense at the beginning while you get a feel for his fighting style. Then attack when he thinks he’s got you intimidated. Try to pin him or disarm him suddenly, before he can come back from his surprise.”
“Yes, sir. Got it.” They said nothing else as the boy finished stretching. Steene wasn’t sure if Bensin really believed he could do it or not.
Finally Bensin stood up, peeled off his jacket, and donned the padding. The loudspeaker crackled to life as he strapped on Steene’s shil. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcer’s voice, “we begin the event you’ve all been waiting for. Will the first contestants for the cavvara shil competition in each age group please step into their rings.”
Steene handed the cavvarach to Bensin and led him out of the tent, through the crowd, and over to the ring formed by the circle of netting. Jayce was already stepping into it from the other side.
A different announcer, the one in charge of just this ring, spoke into his microphone from a few yards away. “For the first round in boys’ under sixteen cavvara shil,” he declared, reading from his sheet, “we have Jayce Torro versus Bensin.”
Excited applause rose from the gathering crowd. “You all set?” Steene asked. Out of habit, he double-checked the straps on his student’s padding and shil, even though he knew Bensin knew just how tight to fasten them. “All right. Get in there and make me proud.”
Bensin nodded under the lights. “I’ll try, sir.”
Steene lifted the edge of the netting, and his student ducked under it and into the ring. A whistle blew and the duel began.
Jayce, as was his custom, charged immediately toward his opponent with cavvarach brandished. Bensin caught the first blow on his own cavvarach and sidestepped just in time as Jayce struck out with his foot.
“Come on, Bensin, come on,” Steene yelled, watching as they circled and struck. It felt strange not to be cheering for Jayce as he always had before.
The rest of the crowd was, though. When the young Skeyvian managed to get in a side kick to the gut that sent Bensin staggering, a cheer went up from all around the circle.
“No,” Steene groaned, but Bensin recovered well, feigning a fall and turning it into a roll that got him out of the way of his opponent’s next kick. Before leaping to his feet, he used the opportunity to shoot his left arm out and thwack the hard surface of his shil against his opponent’s unprotected shin.
Jayce grunted in pain and his fans let out a cry of dismay. “I’m gonna get you for that, Collar,” Steene heard his former student growl. He watched as the cavvarach shot out again and again, the hook at the top reaching for the hook on Bensin’s, trying to jerk it out of his hand. But Bensin always managed to slide his weapon out of the way just in time, dodging, aiming kicks and blows of his own now.
Jayce was good, though, and he used technique after technique that Steene had taught him. Steene couldn’t help but be proud of all the boy had learned, of how he was applying his skills.
But Jayce isn’t my student anymore. Bensin was, and Bensin wasn’t doing as well. He hadn’t managed to disarm or pin his opponent suddenly as Steene had hoped. Now he looked nervous, uncertain, and he was doing more and more backing away and less attacking.
As Steene watched, Jayce’s foot shot out again in a roundhouse kick, and Bensin didn’t dodge quite fast enough this time. If it hadn’t been for the padding, that kick would surely have caused him a nasty bruise in the ribs. As it was, he staggered backward once more, and Jayce pressed his advantage, slamming his shil into the other boy’s face.
Blood trickled from Bensin’s nose, but he swung his cavvarach around in a fast counterattack. Jayce didn’t dodge, and the blade struck him in the shoulder, but he was ready for it. He whipped his own cavvarach around above his opponent’s, rotating the blade ninety degrees so the hook lay flat. Steene realized what he was doing and opened his mouth to call a warning. But his voice was drowned out by the yell of the crowd as the two hooks connected and Bensin’s cavvarach was jerked out of his hand.
“No,” Steene groaned, unheard, as the weapon went flying.
Jayce’s foot shot out in another kick, completely unnecessary now that he had won. Unprepared, Bensin toppled to the ground, and the whistle shrilled as Jayce raised his cavvarach in victory. The crowd roared its approval, and he spun in a triumphant circle, grinning at his fans.
“That wasn’t fair,” Steene objected to the referee.
But the man p
retended not to hear. If a slave fighter had kicked a free person like that, he would probably have disqualified him, but a lot of people were willing to turn a blind eye when it was the other way around.
Steene slammed an angry fist against one of the poles. Jayce, still grinning from ear to ear, ducked under the netting to receive proud hugs from his parents and high-fives from Markus and a group of excited friends.
And there was Bensin, lying face-down in the grass, all but forgotten already. No family to care how he did, no friends to encourage him, no fans to cheer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have our first cavvara shil victory for the evening,” the announcer bellowed. “The first round in the boys’ under sixteen division has been won by Jayce Torro!”
More applause. But Steene hurried into the ring. “Bensin. Bensin! Are you all right?”
He thought he heard a mumbled, “Yes, sir.” But the boy turned his head away and wouldn’t look at him as Steene knelt at his side.
“Can you stand? Where does it hurt?”
“Nowhere, sir. Not really.” Bensin rose to his hands and knees, brushing away the grass that clung to the blood on his face. He hung his head, his face scarlet with shame, still not looking at Steene.
“Come on. We’ll get you over to the first aid tent. Stand up slowly, now.”
Bensin seemed to have no problem standing up. He picked up the cavvarach, ducked under the netting, and followed Steene through the throng with his head still down.
“You sure you’re all right?” Steene demanded when they were past the worst of the crowd and its noise.
“Yes, sir.” His voice was flat.
Though Steene was disappointed, something told him this wasn’t the time to say so. “Listen, everybody loses sometimes. It’s not that big a deal. This was your first competition of the year, and Jayce is a tough opponent. I should know; I made him that way. But there will be plenty more chances to prove yourself.”
The Collar and the Cavvarach Page 10
