The First Blade Of Ostia

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  His mother looked at Ayla and smiled, her face a picture of gratitude.

  CHAPTER 41

  When Bryn woke, it took a moment to realise that he was warm, and comfortable, and back in his old room in his mother’s apartment. He enjoyed that moment, brief though it was. He was home and safe, but all of his other problems still existed. He had no job, no income, and couldn’t use his sword. He flexed his shoulders, and grimaced at how tight and uncomfortable the movement was.

  There wasn’t any time to waste in getting back to normal life. He knew his mother and sister could support themselves—they had survived thus far—but he wanted more than that for them. They were the close relatives of a banneret, and should have better. There was Ayla to think about too. Finally, there were still loans that needed to be paid off. There was no time to feel sorry for himself, nor to allow his uncertain recuperation to run its course.

  The first call he needed to make was to the Guilds’ Hall. The mercenary company he had signed on with was bound under their contract, and after all he had been through, he very much wanted his pay. As a matter of courtesy, he felt he also needed to notify them of exactly what had happened, so the families of the dead men could have the bad news confirmed.

  He left before anyone else woke, walking the short distance to the Guilds’ Hall in the crisp morning air. The market on Crossways was beginning to come to life, as traders set up their stalls and laid out their goods. Bryn bought an orange from one of them and ate it as he crossed the square.

  The Guilds’ Hall was a huge building, home to the Congress of Guilds, who oversaw all business in the city. The ground floor was a great open expanse in which each guild had a counter or alcove, the size depending on their power and importance. Most of them would have their own private house somewhere else in Guilds, the quarter of the city behind the Guilds’ Hall, but all maintained a presence in the Hall.

  Ostenheim’s wealth was based on trade and enterprise, and that wealth was enormous. The Hall was a firm statement of that, and no expense had been spared in its construction or decoration. It was as grand as the Barons’ Hall or the Cathedral, proclaiming that the merchant classes were every bit as important, wealthy and sophisticated as the church and the aristocracy.

  There was an ornate counter just inside the door of wood so highly polished its surface was mirror-like. A number of clerks sat behind it, all waiting to deal with the enquiries of those who wandered in.

  ‘Which guild deals with the shipment of supplies to the army in the North?’ Bryn asked. ‘The one that holds the contract for the Guilds’ Company?’

  The clerk smiled and referred to a large, leather-bound book. ‘That would be the Mercers’ Guild, the Wagoners’ Guild and Co-operative Guild Number Forty-Seven.’

  ‘Co-operative Guild?’

  ‘Yes, a number of small guilds that combine to satisfy particular contracts of work. They usually only last for the duration of the contract.’

  It was a large number of potential employers. ‘I was, am, an escort with the Guilds’ Company. Who should I speak to?’

  ‘I believe the Wagoners’ Guild usually takes responsibility for the manning of the supply convoys. They’re at Counter Ninety-Six half way down the hall. If there’s no one there, their main house is on Eastbridge Lane.’

  Bryn nodded his thanks and walked further into the hall, looking at the large gilt numbers painted on signs over each of the counters. Some of the larger guilds had impressive looking kiosks, but not all of them were manned.

  Bryn groaned when he saw no sign of life at Counter Ninety-Six, turned on his heel and headed for Eastbridge Lane.

  * * *

  EASTBRIDGE LANE WASN’T FAR from the depot where his convoy had set off. It had seemed like such a mundane thing at the time. It was hard to believe everything that had happened—the fight with the Ruripathian soldiers seemed almost like a dream now.

  The Wagoners were a large, wealthy guild and their private house was opulent. It was a microcosm of the enormous Guilds’ Hall, and was somewhere its members could meet, dine, find accommodation and regulate their industry.

  Bryn walked in, to find a far less formal atmosphere than in the Guilds’ Hall. There was an open room with a large fireplace and a table surrounded by chairs. Several men were sitting there chatting. They ignored him when he first walked into the room.

  ‘I need to speak to someone about the convoy that went missing in the North.’

  One of the men turned to face him. ‘Speak then, we’re all guild officers.’

  ‘I was with the Guilds’ Company convoy, with Banneret Deverardo.’

  ‘You’re one of Deverardo’s boys?’

  ‘Was,’ Bryn said.

  ‘Where is that fat fucker? And where’re our wagons?’

  ‘He’s dead. As best I know, all the men were killed and the wagons taken.’

  ‘Reckoned as much. Expensive loss. Still, the underwriters’ve already paid out on it, so no harm done in the long run. How’d you survive?’

  ‘Got lucky,’ Bryn said, taken aback by the casual disregard they had for all the men who were killed. ‘I’m here for the rest of my pay.’

  All the men burst into laughter. ‘You don’t look like much of a runner, but I suppose you must be. We don’t pay out on lost cargoes. We certainly don’t pay the men who were supposed to be guarding them.’ There was no levity in the man’s voice.

  ‘I’ve done everything I was signed on to do. I fought when we got attacked, was lucky to survive, and have had a miserable time trying to get back to the city. I want my pay.’

  ‘You’re not getting it. Piss off.’ The man turned his back to Bryn.

  ‘I’m a banneret, you bloody oik. Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’ He realised that he sounded exactly like Amero, but he needed the money, and the prospect of being bilked caused his temper to flare.

  ‘I’ll speak to you any way I like. Now fuck off.’

  Bryn pushed his cloak back from his sword, an instinctive reaction. He was well within his rights to strike this man down for insulting him. He just didn’t know if he could, not that he wanted to resort to violence. All he wanted was his pay. Was a threat going to be enough?

  The guildsman looked at him and sneered. He turned his head to his colleagues. ‘Fella who ran from a convoy thinks he can come in here and act tough. I reckon he’s a coward.’ He looked back at Bryn. ‘Well then? Draw it. Draw it or fuck off.’

  Bryn got his hand to the hilt of his sword. This was an insult that he couldn’t let stand. He gritted his teeth. He drew it out part way and stopped. He knew he could draw it now, albeit awkwardly, but that was all he knew. He had no faith in his ability to deal with the insult, or the guildsmen. He slid his sword back into its sheath.

  ‘See lads. Yellow to the core,’ the guildsman said.

  They all roared with laughter, and Bryn was left with no option but to turn and walk out of the guild house, feeling more humiliated than he could possibly imagine.

  * * *

  HE WALKED BACK to the apartment filled with a rage that he had no way to express. Crossways was full of activity when he passed back through it, the city criers had taken their places and they were starting to fill the air with the news of the day. Bryn tried to ignore it, knowing their reports would make mention of the arena, and the ascendant swordsmen of the day, the last thing he wanted to hear.

  His previous experience of bad publicity had done little to improve his skill at blocking out things he didn’t want to hear. He nearly made it off Crossways and out of earshot when he heard the words ‘one hundred and twenty-five’. Then he heard Amero’s name being called out. His sixth consecutive defence of his perfect one hundred and twenty five. Bryn wanted to vomit. His rage and frustration built so much that it felt like his head would burst. He tried to tighten his fists in anger, but could barely feel his fingertips pressing against his palms.

  How in hells had Amero managed to accumulate such a tally in such a short p
eriod of time? It must have been the fastest one hundred and twenty-five in history. To get the requisite twenty-five matches in since he fought Bryn, Amero must have had at least two duels a week, and sometimes even three. However hard he worked for it, success still came far too easily for Amero.

  * * *

  HE GOT home in time for breakfast with the others, but ate in silence. He could see it made Ayla uncomfortable. His mother and sister were doing their best to make her welcome, but his mood was so foul that he felt opening his mouth would make things worse.

  Eventually his mother—never best known for her patience in dealing with his moods—broke the silence.

  ‘You called at the Guilds’ Hall this morning?’

  Bryn nodded.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I told them about what happened. They’d already written the convoy off as lost, and didn’t seem to care.’

  ‘Did they give you your pay?’

  Bryn shook his head. ‘They don’t pay for lost convoys.’

  ‘Can you— Are you going to do anything about that?’ his mother said, an edge to her voice.

  Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Standing and walking out of the apartment was the least damaging reaction he could think of, so that was what he did.

  As he walked through the streets with no destination, he realised that his mother didn’t know about the extent of the injury to his shoulders, or any of what had happened. All she knew was that bannerets didn’t stand for sharp treatment from guildsmen, or anyone else. He didn’t want her to know how bad the injury was, nor how enfeebled it had left him. She would find out soon enough if he had to keep swallowing his pride, but he didn’t want her to worry and he didn’t want to be a continued burden.

  He racked his brains. What could he do to make a living? With his shoulders the way they were, there were few avenues still open to him. Teaching was all he could think of. His initial inclination was to go to the salons and see if they needed any additional trainers, but he knew how that would turn out. He’d been humiliated enough for one lifetime, and his name would still be mud in the salons.

  That left private tutoring. There was plenty of that work to be had in the city, from children being taught the very basics all the way up to teenagers preparing for their Academy entrance tests. Bryn’s natural inclination was to teach as high a standard of pupil as he could; his interest lay more with the exploration of advanced techniques, rather than the grating rote process of instilling the basic movements in younger pupils. He knew the reality was that he would have to take whatever he could get, and even then he wasn’t sure if he could manage it.

  * * *

  ‘WHAT DO you mean there’s no one willing to book me?’ Amero said.

  ‘You’re a sure thing,’ dal Corsi said. ‘Everyone expects you to win.’

  ‘What? You want me to lose?’ Amero said. ‘You’ll have a hard time finding anyone who can beat me.’

  Dal Corsi shrugged. ‘Things always get quiet for the First Blade. Your duels are all challenge matches now, and only those in the top ten can make one. It’s a bit harder for you though. No one believes you can be beaten. At least not by anyone around at the moment.’

  ‘Well, find someone. Hype them up. Make people think he has a chance,’ Amero said.

  ‘Easier said than done,’ dal Corsi said.

  ‘Just do it. I want a match every two weeks. People forget fast, and I’ll be damned if I let them forget me.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Bryn was determined not to go home until he had at least one job prospect lined up. He returned to the Bannerets’ Hall to check on their register of situations vacant. Most often these tutoring jobs were from individuals hoping to get their sons up to the standard required for admission to the Academy. Occasionally they would be from those who needed assistance in preparing for a duel of honour, a not infrequent occurrence.

  He browsed through the list, which was not quite as long or diversified as he had hoped. However, there were several tutoring positions available at addresses in Highgarden, where the remuneration would be the highest. He made note of them and then went into the lounge to sit and write letters to each of the people advertising the positions. That done, he paid one of the boys who worked at the Hall as an errand runner a penny to deliver them.

  With that flurry of activity complete, he felt more positive. He didn’t yet feel ready to go home though, and realised how unfair he was being to Ayla. In the North, and on the road, he had convinced himself that just getting home would be the answer to all of his problems, that he could… He wasn’t sure what he had thought he could do for her. He knew he wanted to be with her, but everything that he had defined himself by, everything in him that he thought to be of value in his life was gone. What worth could he be to her now?

  The Hall was well used and there was steady traffic in and out of the lounge where Bryn sat, but it had developed a reputation as being the domain of elderly bannerets who, with nothing better to do, congregated there to share old stories.

  The lounge was a large room populated with comfortable chairs and small tables, with bay windows overlooking the street below. The University sat on the other side of it, where those destined for careers in law, medicine, bureaucracy and finance were educated. Bryn’s father had gone there and lately Bryn often wondered if he would not have been better off choosing one of those paths. It had never even been a consideration for him though. His earliest memories were of his fascination with bannerets and duelling and, perhaps apocryphally, heroics. It was also the dream of every man who had worked his way up the social ladder to a profession to see his son attend the Academy, and it was always Bryn’s father’s dream for him. Bryn wondered if he would be disappointed in him now.

  As he sat there, staring out the window, he knew that he should make use of the training hall. The truth of it was that he was afraid to. He had not done anything with a sword other than buckle one around his waist in the morning and take it off again in the evening since being strung up in the tree. He could move his hands, fingers and arms again and feel everything that he touched, to a degree. He had enough flexibility now to do all of the things that were needed to get through the day, but his movement was still restricted; there was stiffness, sometimes pain and no strength when he tried to move his arms too far in certain directions.

  He kept telling himself they would get better in time, but it had been weeks now. What if the range of motion and flexibility that he needed to fence effectively never came back? He had to believe that it would. There was nothing else he could do. Each time he thought of it he was hit by a flash of panic.

  * * *

  ARISTOCRATS WERE NEVER ones to wait, and they expected their employees to be at their beck and call. A note arrived back at the lounge only a couple of hours after Bryn had arrived. He had spent the time staring out the window, watching students and academics pass in and out of the University. One of the Hall’s ushers brought Bryn the note, startling him out of his stupor.

  He was surprised to get something so quickly, and nodding his thanks to the usher, he broke the wax seal on the note. It was from an aristocratic banneret living in Highgarden who was looking for tuition for his son, a seventeen year old preparing for the Academy entrance exam. The job would be of limited duration as the next admission was only a couple of months away, but if he could secure the work, paid at three crowns a day, it would be perfect. It would only require his attention for a few hours a day, allowing him plenty of free time to…

  He didn’t really know what else there was for him to do. He kept feeling as though there was something more important out there waiting for him, and that everything else was just an interim measure to get him there. He couldn’t understand why. There was nothing, and each time he reminded himself of the fact, his misplaced feeling of hope crashed.

  There was no point in thinking any further about it. The aristocrat wanted him to call for an interview the following morning, and for th
e time being that was all that mattered. He had the possibility of well-paid work for the next couple of months, and that was enough to go home with.

  * * *

  HIS MOTHER WAS THERE ALONE when he got home. ‘Where have you been?’

  Bryn had expected his mother to take a harsher tone with him for the way he had behaved that morning. The fact that she didn’t suggested to him that Ayla had elaborated on his injuries, and of how they still caused him difficulty.

  ‘Looking for work. I have an interview for a tutoring position in the morning. It’ll only be for a few months, but it’s a start.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.

  Ayla and his sister arrived back only a few moments after he did.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said, realising that he was echoing the same question his mother had asked moments before.

  ‘Looking for work,’ Ayla said.

  Bryn raised his eyebrows. She certainly hadn’t wasted any time.

  ‘Well, I need to find something. Why wait?’ Ayla said.

  ‘Find anything?’ Bryn asked.

  ‘Yes. Gilia knew a family in Lowgarden who need a governess for their daughters.’

  ‘Governess?’ Bryn said. He had assumed that having lived in a small, rural village, she wouldn’t be able to read.

  She looked at him curiously for a moment before his meaning dawned on her. ‘Oh, of course, being a country bumpkin, I had to pretend to be able to read and write, but they seemed to fall for it.’

  Bryn’s mother gave him a clip around the ear, making him feel like a small child again. Everyone laughed, which completely changed the atmosphere in the small living room.

  ‘We did have a church school in Grelitz,’ Ayla said. As soon as she mentioned the name of her village, all of the levity dropped from her face. ‘Had.’ The mournful expression that had dominated her features while they were staying at the shack returned.