Over the next few weeks, Garet spent a considerable amount of energy avoiding Marick’s plans for fun, all of which involved schemes to irritate his superiors. The only ones, besides Mandarack of course, who seemed safe from his proposed pranks were Salick, whom he feared, Vinir, whom he seemed to like, and Tranix, whom he worshipped. The weapons trainer could do no wrong in Marick’s eyes, and any Blue who complained about her after a hard training session was likely to wake up in the middle of the night drenched in cold water, or in the morning with their pants missing.
Garet also came to admire the no-nonsense Master. She drove him hard to improve his skill with the training staff, and soon moved him with a select few of the other Blues on to more complex weapons. Marick, who had also advanced, was given a shield-sword by Tranix, after a long lecture to the young Bane on how to use his speed and “trickiness” to his advantage in a battle. Marick listened, eyes wide and drinking in every word. Garet had never seen him so dedicated to anything other than mischief. Marick later took to practicing with the shield every moment he had to himself, causing Dorict, who had not advanced, to threaten to kick him out of the room just to save his neck from a misjudged swing.
The larger Banes received hooked spears or tridents, and Garet expected one of these weapons, since, being older, he matched the height of any of the others. Tranix saved his weapon for last. While the others watched, gingerly holding their own new weapons, the Master, in her chair today, pulled a square leather case off her desk and pushed herself over to Garet.
“It took me a long time to decide on what to assign to you, Garet,” she said. “I spoke with Master Mandarack about your confrontation with the Shrieker at the Temple, and he praised your speed and agility.”
There was a murmur from the assembled Blues. Rumours of the strange battle had been circulating among the lower ranks for months. Many refused to believe that two demons had been seen together, or that a mere Black had anything to do with defeating them. Garet felt their eyes on him, as they re-evaluated him in light of this confirmation. Tranix cleared her throat to get his attention again.
“Your abilities and your experience,” she stressed the last word, “have convinced me to let you practice with a particularly difficult weapon, one that will take all your concentration and effort to master.”
She had then pulled a coil of rope out of the bag and Garet groaned inwardly. It must be one of the hooked ropes that hung at the back of the training hall, behind the sand bags. Marick had told him that this was the very first weapon they had trained with, even before moving on to the simple training staff. Someone snickered behind him, and Garet realized that he wasn’t the only one to recognize the weapon.
Tranix paused in her action, pinning with her hard, blue eyes the girl who had laughed. She then slowly drew the rest of the weapon out and several Blues, Garet included, gasped. There was no triple hook on the end of the rope. Instead, one end was connected to a heavy iron weight, studded with short spikes. The other end was tied to a short hafted weapon of some kind. Taking the wooden handle in his hand, Garet realized it looked familiar. Turning it over, he knew where he had seen it before. It was like a smaller version of the rock pick he had used to break stone on the farm. The metal head of the one he now held had two sides: one was a point a hand and a half long, shaped like a bird’s beak, though more curved, and the other side was shorter, a squared snout of metal coming quickly to a heavy point. He hefted the thing. At least this was lighter than the tool he remembered, and its short handle would give him some control.
Tarix picked up the other end of the rope, letting the spiked weight dangle. “I hear that you are a master at throwing rocks.” Marick grinned, leaving no doubt as to the source of her information. “This weapon requires both speed and accuracy.” She smiled grimly at him. “Or the wielder is likely to be its first victim.”
After that morning, Garet received special instruction in the rope-hammer, as Tarix called it, in the grey hours before breakfast. He would often come late to the table, sweating and bruised. Marick, who had managed only a few training cuts, was sympathetic, in his own way.
“Don’t worry, Garet,” he said one morning as Garet groaned into his seat, holding his elbow. “All you have to do is beat yourself with that Bane-killer in front of any demon we encounter and Dorict and I will attack the beast while it watches in amazement.”
“If you don’t cut my head off swinging your own weapon!” Dorict sourly observed. His lack of fitness and poor coordination had kept him at the training staff level with a crew of new Blue Sashes. Garet resolved to take him up to the roof to practice, as Marick had done for him. He didn’t like the thought of the quiet boy, who was always ready to patiently answer his questions about the Banehall and the City, being left behind.
Marick didn’t answer. He was staring open-mouthed at the front of the dining hall. Mandarack had just entered and was walking to his usual place at the end of the high table. Salick followed him, and, with a start, Garet realized what had caught Marick’s attention.
Salick was wearing a gold sash!
She followed Mandarack to his place at the table, laying down some papers she had been carrying for him. Stiff as a spear and her eyes straight forward, she walked back past the whispering Masters, and under the unfriendly eyes of Master Adrix, to sit at the end of the Gold table. The nearest Golds shifted away, perhaps mindful of Adrix’s displeasure. Salick silently began to tear off a piece of bread, ignoring the empty chairs around her. She loosened up, though, when Vinir and a few other Greens came over to slap her back and offer congratulations.
“That must be the fastest promotion to Gold in the history of the Hall!” Marick whispered. “Not that she doesn’t deserve it. If a fool like Farix can wear the Gold, why shouldn’t someone who has some sense?”
Neither Dorict nor Garet bothered answering the question. The glares coming from Adrix and his party were eloquent enough. Garet hoped he wouldn’t single out Salick in the same way he had humiliated Garet on his first night in the Hall. The Hallmaster, however, did not attack Salick directly. His reply came, instead, in the form of a new rule.
Farix read out an announcement that night at supper.
“By order of the Hallmaster, all promotions will be first submitted for his approval from this day forth.” Farix’s voice had broken slightly on the last part, and Adrix motioned him to read it again. When he had finished, the flustered Gold sat down, the paper still clutched in his hand. There was silence in the hall, as much among the Masters as the lower ranks filling the long tables.
Garet saw Master Relict look over at Vinir, sitting forlornly with the other Greens, all hope of a quick promotion to Gold probably crushed in her. Relict sat back and stroked his beard with one hand while drumming on the table with the other. Seated beside him, Mandarack reached over to quiet the drumming fingers and spoke softly to him.
“Not all the Masters will approve of this. Even Adrix’s toadies might think twice,” Marick observed. The meal was completed in an unnatural silence.
As a Gold, Salick’s training was solely at the discretion of her Master. She often had the time to stroll in the gardens of the plaza after supper and would sit and talk with Garet when she met him on these walks. Two weeks after her promotion, they were walking among the small trees, now mostly bare of leaf, talking of the changes in the Banehall.
“Adrix is a fool,” Salick said bluntly. “He alienates the King with his demands, and he splits the Banehall with his petty rules!” She slowed to wait for Garet to catch up. He had grazed his shin with the spiked ball at practice and had a noticeable limp. Master Tarix had denied him the use of the padded armour used by some Blues lest he rely on it and become less careful. As a result, each new skill he developed with the rope-hammer was accompanied by a new set of bruises.
“Not only the Banehall,” Garet said. Salick turned to listen. “Haven’t you noticed that the people of the city are treating the Banes differently?” he asked.
>
Salick shook her head. “Aside from these walks, I rarely get out into the wards anymore. Mandarack has me searching through the records.” She grinned at Garet. “So if I start shouting at you, I’m not angry, it’s just a habit I’ve picked up from talking to Master Arict.”
Garet smiled, remembering the old Master and her poor hearing. “Well, they are. Marick is trying to show me the Wards.”
Salick stopped, her hands on her hips.
“Only on the Temple days,” he hastily added.
Salick nodded and resumed her walking. “I suppose it’s a good idea. Most children who come to the Banehall already know the general layout of the city, and their home Ward as well as they know their own fingers.” They stopped and sat at their favourite bench, a wide stone seat surrounded by fragrant, trailing junipers.
“I’m just concerned by your choice of guides,” she continued tartly. “I’m sure Marick knows every wine shop and alley in Shirath, but that’s not all you need to know!” She leaned back, her hands behind her back for support and looked over at Garet.
“What else do I need to know?” Garet demanded. “And who else would be my guide?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
“I suppose I should,” Salick replied casually. “I’m almost done with the Master’s research, so we can start tomorrow, after lunch, if,” she added slyly, “you can give up a session or two of inflicting pain on yourself with that menace you call a weapon.”
“I think I could,” Garet replied, smiling. “I don’t have much in the way of studies right now.” This was true. At Marick’s and Dorict’s insistence, he had already “corrected” the two Blue Sash texts, The Rules of the House and The Tactics of Demons. The process of rewriting them had made them familiar enough for Tarix to test him on that knowledge. She had so far withheld approval for him to start on the Green Sash books. He looked curiously at the young woman beside him and asked, “What were you looking for in the records? Maybe I can help you search.”
Salick sat up straighter. “No, I don’t think you can, at least not without Master Mandarack’s permission.” She brushed invisible dust off her new sash. “I’ll have it done by tomorrow afternoon, anyway.” The late autumn air was calling forth clouds of steam from their breath and they soon returned to the Banehall, arms wrapped around themselves for warmth.
By the next day, Garet’s leg was much better. Dorict had helped him wrap it in cloth strips soaked in an herbal concoction provided by Master Tarix. She often tended to minor training accidents herself, rather than send an injured Blue to the infirmary. Marick claimed it was because she cared so much for her students. Dorict, however, was of the opinion that the Training Master was afraid the physician would order one of them to take a day or two off from training.
Garet waited for Salick in the entrance hall, near the passage leading to the Master’s rooms. Looking down that corridor, he saw Salick speaking with Mandarack. He gave her a slip of paper that she tucked into the top of her boot.
“What did Master Mandarack want?” Garet asked as they passed through the gates. The plaza was quiet in the middle of the day; many of Shirath’s citizens were out gleaning the last of the late crops or driving the herds to graze off the stubble of the already-harvested wheat fields before the snows came. Salick didn’t answer for a moment. When they had walked some distance from the gates of the Hall, she rounded on him furiously.
“Don’t you have any sense?” she hissed. “I thought you were more clever!”
“I can be clever,” he said quietly, “if I know what’s going on!”
Salick looked around. The only people close enough to hear were a trio of old men diligently arguing a point in their lawn-bowling game. She waved him further into the plaza before continuing.
“Mandarack asked me to take a message to his brother,” she said, her voice still low, “and to keep my eyes open and report back to him on what’s happening in the city.”
“So this trip was only a blanket to cover your mission for Mandarack?” He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
“Yes. No!” Salick said, and then stopped to turn and face Garet directly, hands on her hips. “The Master asked me to do this after I told him of our plans.” She tapped the leg that hid the letter. “This must be important. We both know the situation is getting worse in the Hall.”
Garet nodded. Adrix’s rules were concentrating all the power of the Banehall in his own hands. He had lately sent a formal message to the king, delivered by an embassy of his supporting Masters, demanding a reply to the list of changes he had sent at the beginning of the fall. The King had not yet replied to those demands. The skin on the back of Garet’s neck prickled, and feeling eyes on his back, he turned quickly to see the old men looking at them, shaking their heads and muttering.
Salick followed his gaze. “What you said last night was true.” The old men turned back to their game. “People are treating us differently. I always felt that the citizens of Shirath, well, ‘owned’ me.” She looked to Garet to see if he understood. Seeing his questioning look, she continued. “I mean they were proud of us, like parents who depend on their children for support.” She shook her head. “We were their children. Now they look at us as if they are the children, and we Banes are their parents,” she said. “Angry parents.”
Garet thought this over. Salick was right. Walking in the plazas, or watching people deliver food and stores to the Banehall, he sensed a resentment aimed at anyone wearing a Bane’s sash.
Both were now silent, wrapped in their concerns as they walked together, shoulders nearly touching, up over the centre bridge and into the Palace plaza. Garet couldn’t help but notice how crowded that plaza was, in contrast to the Banehall side. The stalls in the market were bustling with activity. Rows of worshippers lined up before the temples, and the Palace gardens were full of richly dressed people enjoying one of the last fine days of the year.
Salick led him through the gardens towards the Palace. They passed some workers raising an awning over one of the stages that were used by anyone from musicians to astrologers. She shook her head. “Why would anyone set up a theatre when it’s so cold at night?” she asked the air around her.
A theatre. Dorict had explained to him that storytellers in Shirath acted out their tales on a platform, like children playing out their stories in the street. He had not yet seen such a thing, but he hoped they were better than the regular storytellers he had once set so much hope in. After much pressing, Marick had taken him to a small courtyard surrounded by wine shops and bakeries. There, a storyteller had been spinning his tales for a small, indifferent audience. He was an older man, his blue tunic stained with wine and Heaven knew what else. His words were so mumbled and slurred that Garet could not make any sense of his tale. The story had eventually dissolved into belches and then snores and the activity of the courtyard had continued without noticing.
Marick had wrinkled his nose at the smell of the old man. “There’s only a few of these solitary tellers who are worth listening to. The best are in the theatre troupes.” He had then pulled Garet out of the courtyard, anxious to be about his own business.
“If they’re so bad, why do they keep at it?” Garet had asked. He pulled away from Marick’s hand to turn back towards the courtyard. The old man was slumped against the wall, half slid off his stool.
“Avoiding real work, I guess,” Marick had answered, with reluctant admiration.
“Do you think we could see this theatre?” he asked Salick as she skirted the east wing of the Palace to get to the Ward gates beyond.
“If we have time.” She hesitated and then continued, “Garet, I have a personal errand to do as well.” She looked at him to judge his reaction. “I hope you don’t mind; you’ll still get to see more of the city.”
“Not at all,” he replied. He was feeling more and more like an afterthought.
They approached the gate for the Palace Ward, directly behind the main wing of the Palace
. From the maps Marick had shown him, he knew this Ward was much smaller than the others, and unlike them, did not stretch as far as the outer wall of the city. Marick informed him that it held the warehouses needed by the King’s trading missions and housing for his retainers and servants. A full five Palace guards, breastplates and helmets brilliant in the sun, eyed them as they passed. Garet wondered if he imagined the disapproval in their gaze.
“So many now,” Salick said, mostly to herself. She looked back at the guards and shook her head.
She turned to the right and skirted the edge of the small plaza common to all the Ward entrances. A lane led them between the wall and a row of narrow, brightly painted townhouses. After a short walk, they came to an angled compound and a small, open gate. Inside, in a triangular yard formed by the intersection of the ward and plaza walls, young men and women lounged on benches, talked, shouted, and practiced with their quick swords.
Duelists, Garet thought. Why would Salick come here? Was this Mandarack’s task, or her own? The rasp of thin steel blades sliding over each other echoed off the high walls, but all quieted and died out as the duelists noticed Garet and Salick standing inside the gate. There was much muttering and dark looks among the knots of men and women. The pairs who had been kicking up the dust of the yard with their sparring now lowered their swords and joined their fellows against the walls. Salick stiffened her back.
There’s something different about them, he thought, looking at their sullen, staring faces. Perhaps it was their attitude. He had seen a few duels in the months since his arrival, especially on his travels with Marick. But at the time, it did not seem to have anything to do with him or the Banehall.
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