And why not? Being a bodyguard certainly runs in the family, Tarma thought, as she watched Kira and Jadrie testing each other in the circle. Jadrie was having some difficulty adjusting herself to an opponent so much smaller than she, but Kira far outstripped anyone else her age, and Tarma didn’t trust any of the older (exclusively male) pupils to keep their tempers when a child so very much younger scored a touch on them. They could accept Jadrie scoring points; they could always salve their pride by telling themselves that she’d had the benefit of Tarma’s schooling since the cradle. But Kira (supposedly) had no more advantages than they, and that made losing to her triply painful. The current crop of students older than Jadrie were all noble-born—it would be a lucrative season for the school—and they found it hard to forget that pride has no place in the training-ring.
:Or outside it,: Warrl added, echoing her thoughts. :But this is their first season with us; after the holidays and a thorough lecture or two from their fathers’ Weaponsmasters, they’ll come back in a properly humble frame of mind.:
True, Furface, she thought back at him, chuckling to herself. She interviewed the parents of prospective students very carefully, and at holiday time sent home letters of evaluation and instruction timed to reach the parents at about the same time the students did. This year’s lot wasn’t bad, but the older boys all shared the regrettable certainty that their age and sex meant superiority in the ring over younger, smaller, or female opponents. Tarma’s letters of instruction this year carried an admonition about that—and the caution that underestimating a smaller or female opponent could get them seriously dead if they were permitted to hold onto that delusion.
These were all oldest sons, extremely precious to their families (or they wouldn’t be here), and it was unlikely that the parents would ignore Tarma’s admonition.
And if they did—or attempts at correction didn’t “stick”—there was always the second season to knock some sense into them. They would be here for at least two seasons, and maybe more, and none of Tarma’s pupils ever cherished such ridiculous notions past the second season.
She privately felt that it was doing Jadrie good to have a little competition from someone other than her siblings. It was also doing her good to have not one, but two girlfriends. She’d begun showing more interest in things besides fighting and riding, much to Kethry’s relief. Tarma was looking forward to having the twins here for at least another three or four years, and so was Jadrie.
She checked Jadrie, who was about to land a blow, with an admonition of “Jadrie—high.” Jadrie flushed, and signaled for a rest. Kira grounded her point, and Jadrie turned to her teacher.
“Ha‘shin, I’m having a lot of trouble with that,” she said, honestly, giving Tarma the Shin’a‘in honor ific that meant “teacher.” “What do you do when your opponent is so much shorter than you are? She’s scored five times on me, and I’ve only managed once!”
“Four—” Kira corrected. “That rib cut wasn’t more than a graze; if these had been real, I wouldn’t even have marked your armor, so it hardly counts.”
Jadrie gave her friend a quick glance of gratitude, then turned her attention back to Tarma.
Tarma looked both girls over, and decided that they’d had a good enough bout that she could legitimately give them a rest. Both of them were panting, and Jadrie’s face was sweat-streaked. “Good question, and time for a demonstration,” Tarma told them, then raised her voice. “Justin, as soon as you’re ready to break, I can use you. Demonstration time.”
Justin Twoblade, who was sparring with one of the older boys, waved his free hand in acknowledgment. Three moves later, and the boy was disarmed; as he shook his stinging hand, Justin strolled over to Tarma’s ring, waving his hand to summon all of his pupils to come watch the demonstration.
“Jadrie wants to see how someone works against a much smaller opponent,” Tarma told him. Justin nodded, and his craggy features showed none of the amusement Tarma knew he felt at the moment.
“As long as we’re going at quarter-speed, Sword sworn,” he replied, his face as sober as a priest’s. “I remember the time three seasons ago when you used Ikan in the same demonstration. You may be Sworn to chastity, but I’ve barely begun my family.”
Tarma suppressed a grin. “All right, for Estrel’s sake I’ll spare you,” she said, and went down on one knee, then on guard. This put her head just about at Justin’s beltline, which should have been a handicap for her—but as she then demonstrated, even at one-quarter speed, she still made Justin work to defend himself and score on her.
But what she wanted her students to watch was what Justin did, not her—for even Kira might one day have to defend against someone smaller than herself. When she grounded her point, signaling the end of the bout, she saw with satisfaction that both girls had their eyes still locked on Justin’s hand and wrist.
She wiped sweat from her forehead with her free hand, and Justin extended his to help her to her feet. “Jadrie and Kira, another bout, now that you’ve seen a demonstration,” she directed. “Justin, if you’d supervise them, please, I’ll take Larsh, Hesten, and Belton and work on those disarms and counters.”
Since Hesten was the young man that Justin had just disarmed, the other instructor let a brief grin flicker over his face when the aforementioned students couldn’t see it. That was a common tactic among the three instructors; when one had administered a rebuke in the form of a painful defeat, one of the others would take over that student and work with him, so that the student didn’t have the incentive to try and get back at the instructor. She’d seen this one coming for the last few days; Hesten was good on offensive work, but seemed to think that the best defense was a good offense. She judged that he’d need a couple more lessons to get over that particular fault, and she and Justin would have to take turns in administering those lessons.
She’d hired both Justin Twoblade and his partner Ikan Dryvale the second year the school had been in operation. She and Kethry had known the pair for years, and had known that they were steady enough in temper to be trusted with young students. Ikan currently was out running the rest of the students around the obstacle course; he had all of the younger boys today, since he had a knack with the youngest pupils that was only matched by Tarma herself. To avoid creating the appearance of “favorites” and to keep their students on their toes, the three instructors switched pupils on a regular basis and an irregular schedule, just as young Shin‘a’in children were taught.
So Tarma resolutely kept her attention on the three oldest boys and paid no heed to what Justin was doing with Jadrie and Kira. Hesten was still smarting from his defeat, both physically and mentally, and she worked to get him and the other two back to the business at hand.
But they were all distracted, and Hesten clearly resented the fact that “his” instructor had gone to help mere girls.
“Look,” she finally said with exasperation, “Hesten, just what do you think you’re here for?”
The boy looked at her with a touch of arrogance shaded with suspicion. “You’re teaching me swords manship—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Wrong,” she said with finality. “I’m teaching you how to stay alive. So is Justin. There’s a difference.”
“But—” the boy looked ready to start an argument, but once again Tarma cut him off.
Time for the annual Lecture, I think.
“No ‘buts’ about it,” she said flatly. “I’ve spoken at length with your parents. I know what they want from me, and I know what I told them, the kind of training that I could give you.” She moved in closer with every word. “As a boy, your father had the best training with highly-recommended instructors, and is a fine swordsman—and a rotten fighter. And he knows it. He can perform every pretty move in the catalog, and can’t defend himself against a common mere with a pike. That’s why he limps now, and if he hadn’t been lucky enough to get into the hands of a real Healer, he wouldn’t have been around to sire you.”
> Hesten’s eyes went wide with shock; evidently his father had not discussed that particular moment in his life with his son.
Tarma continued without pity. “I know what happened, because I was there and I saw it happen, when we all put King Stefanson on the throne. He wants you to have the advantage that he didn‘t—training with real fighters, not sword-dancers—so that if Rethwellan needs your sword, you stand a decent chance of coming home intact. Do you understand me?”
That last sentence was spoken from a distance of mere thumb-lengths as she stared down into the boy’s eyes, and saw the first flickers of respect—and yes, fear. She backed off a little, and looked at all three of the boys. “Just what do you know about me?”
Hesten looked at his two fellows, and took it upon himself to answer, putting on a bravado to cover his betrayal of fear. “You’re a Shin‘a’in barbarian, there’s some songs and tales that might be about you, but you never said anything, and neither did my father, but if you really were with the rebellion—”
Tarma smiled crookedly, a smile with no trace of humor. “I was learning swordwork as early as Jadrie, and I’d killed my first man when I was just about your age, Larsh. That, by the way, is not a boast, and it was not in a fair fight. And someday, if you deserve to hear it, I’ll tell you the whole story. I was a freelance merc from the age of seventeen and a good one, and believe me, the stories you have heard about me and Keth aren’t but a quarter of the truth. Justin and Ikan have similar histories.” Her smile turned feral. “The reason you weren’t told is because both your parents and I know you boys would have had one of two reactions—you’d either have disbelieved it, figured it was boasting, and ignored what we tried to hammer into you, or you would have believed it and decided to prove you were better than us. Neither reaction is conducive to learning anything, which is why you are here—not to prove that at your tender age you already know better than your teachers.”
The boys all had the grace to look ashamed. Larsh looked down at his feet.
“As to why your parents chose me—and I agreed to take you as students—it’s because they wanted something very specific for their firstborn sons. If you are called on by your King to go to war, if you are forced to lead your own people against brigands or bandits, or if you are forced into a position where you might fight to preserve your own life, you will have the best possible training to meet those situations.” She dropped her smile and looked stern. “And do you know why?”
Hesten shook his head.
“A mercenary knows only one trade—killing—and one goal—to stay alive to collect his pay. No matter what you’ve heard, most mercs don’t like killing, so they make a point of being very, very good at it, and very efficient, so as to get it over quickly. Most mercs do like being alive, so they make a point of learning everything they can to stay that way. That includes a great many things that are not considered ‘fair play’ by the standards of people lucky enough to have been born in your rank and class.” Hesten’s mouth firmed in a stubborn line; she knew he was the leader of this group, and she would have to convince him before the other two would see sense. He had unfortunately been infected with that noble nonsense known as chivalry; hopefully not for so long that he couldn’t be cured of it.
“If and when you take the field in a battle, or if someone decides he doesn’t like you and sends an assassin out after you, that is the kind of person you are going to have to defend yourself against. I know that. Justin and Ikan know that. Most importantly, your parents know that, and that is why you are all here. When you go home, you can take all the lessons you want with fashionable instructors, and learn pretty tricks to impress your friends, but when you are here, you’d better keep your mind on the fact that we are going to teach you how to stay alive, even if we have to half kill you to do it!”
Hesten looked even more rebellious. “Oh, really now, lady!” he objected. “Assassins? Maybe where you come from, but not here. Things like that just don’t happen in civilized lands like Rethwellan!”
She got some unexpected support then, from the hitherto-silent Belton. “Yes they do, Hesten,” the boy snapped, then dropped his eyes before Tarma’s.
Oh, really?
“Belton is right,” she agreed, following up on her advantage, quickly, before Hesten could get over his surprise. “There are a lot of things that go on that Kings and Princes have no idea of. I know for a fact of two people at least in Rethwellan who are making a very fine profit from assassination. And when you have bodyguards of your own, I’ll make a point of giving them that information so they’ll know who to watch out for.”
“Why not give it to us directly?” asked Larsh, surprised.
Once again, to her surprise, it was Belton who answered before she could. “Because some day we might be tempted to use it,” he said, face totally closed.
Hesten opened his mouth to protest, then stared into Belton’s eyes and looked properly abashed. Belton’s eyes were opaque, and she couldn’t read what was in them—but she had the suspicion that what she had said had struck forcibly home with him. Well, sooner or later he’d tell her; they all did. Kethry might be the more motherly in appearance, but somehow most of the youngsters, the boys especially, came to Tarma when they had fears that needed soothing or confessions to make. Perhaps it was simply because they assumed that she would never be shocked by anything they said.
“And,” she added, allowing her voice to soften with good humor, “if we can possibly do so, we intend to make sure we all have a good time while we’re doing this. Now, I just delivered this particular little lecture for a reason. In a couple of days, you’ll be going back to your families for winter holidays. If you really and truly don’t want to learn what we have to teach, you have only to tell your parents, or us, and you won’t have to come back here. I know this is a hard school—but we don’t accept just anyone, and we don’t want someone here who doesn’t want to be here. If you’re having trouble wrapping your mind around the idea of being trained like a common—or perhaps I should say, uncommon mercenary, I can understand that. But bear in mind that you are not here as a punishment from your parents; you’re all here because they truly, deeply, profoundly care for your well-being.”
Hestin bit his lip. “But we aren’t exactly being trained like mercenaries, are we?” he ventured. “I mean, we don’t spend more than half our time drilling and all—”
Tarma nodded. “Right, exactly right. Your parents want a special education for you, which is why you spend half your time in classes with Jadrek which seem to have nothing to do with fighting. You’ll need them, not only to mark you as gentlemen of the highest order, but to make you better-educated than any other boys of your rank. If you stay, you’ll not only be trained in personal defense, but you’ll eventually be trained in strategy, tactics, and command, with an eye to serving the King as commanding officers, should he need you.”
She didn’t miss the sudden flash of interest in Hesten and Larsh’s eyes.
“You’ll also be well-rounded and well-educated noblemen, people whose opinions are sought after, and who are taken seriously. People who are given high office and great responsibility. And people who can take care, not only of themselves, but of those who depend on them, no matter what the situation.”
Now she had Belton’s full and unwavering interest, and the hooded eyes had come alive.
“But before that happens, you have a lot of work ahead of you.” She paused, and smiled again. “You might be wondering why I’m giving you this speech now, instead of when you first came here. The reason is—now you’ve had a full season here, and you know what I mean by work. You’ve had the full experience, as Keth would say. So—are you ready for three to four more years of it? There’s no shame in saying you aren’t suited to this, not everyone is, and sometimes parents aren’t very good at judging what their children are suited to. Hesten?”
“I’ll be back,” the boy said shortly, but with more than enough determination and respect in
his voice to please Tarma.
“Larsh?”
“Absolutely.” More anticipation than determination ; that was what she had expected. Larsh would have made a good mercenary; he fit in here as well as any boy she’d had.
“Belton?” she asked, turning to the third boy, and was a little surprised at the vehemence of his reply.
“If they couldn’t afford to pay you, I’d work in the stable to stay here!” came the fervent answer, and she blinked a little at the passion in his voice.
Interesting. Deep water there.
:As you suspected, there’s a tragedy in his background, mindsib; I can’t get anything more specific than that. I suspect a beloved relative may have been the victim of a feud or something of the sort.: Warrl seemed very interested. :If he doesn’t tell you about it before he leaves, he will when he returns. He has just decided to trust you completely.:
That corresponded with her feelings about the boy; that he had been holding something back until this moment, testing her and his other teachers, looking for—what? Some kind of flaw, she suspected. Whatever it was, only he knew, but she had no doubt she would find out.
“Now, back to work,” she decreed. “There’s still plenty of time before supper, and you haven’t even broken into a good sweat yet!”
Supper was the best time of the day, so far as Tarma was concerned. Her pupils and Keth’s generally ate breakfast and luncheon separately, because the mage-students were on a slightly different schedule and menu. Her students needed a great deal more to eat than the mage-students, and after rising at dawn for a run and a session of strenuous physical exercise, began the day with absolutely enormous breakfasts, then restoked their furnaces with equally enormous luncheons and afternoon snacks. The scholars and mage-students required far less in the way of fuel, some had decided on a purely vegetarian regime for themselves, and in any case, over-full stomachs often got in the way of mental concentration.
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