by Tim Stead
He fended them off, trying to remember the move Lees had shown him that afternoon, waiting for them to give him an obvious opening. In truth he was out of his depth, but his blood was up and he felt stronger and faster than ever. It pleased him that they couldn’t get through his guard. He’d learned that well at least. But these were not trainees. They were hard men, strong, and well used to the blade.
One of the men lurched forwards and fell, and as he stepped out of the way Jerac saw a knife in his back. It was the same jewelled trinket that the girl had drawn. So she hadn’t run after all.
The last man looked at his fallen comrade, turned and ran.
“Stop him!”
It was the girl who shouted. Jerac considered running after him for a moment, but he was already coming down from the high of his first battle, and his legs felt shaky. He sized up the running man and threw one of his swords. It whirled through the air and struck him just below the neck, throwing him forwards. The girl went to the body and bent over it. She cursed.
“I wanted him alive,” she said.
Jerac approached more slowly. “I’m sorry…” he said.
“No, don’t apologise,” she said, standing. “If you hadn’t helped I’d be dead.” She looked at him more closely. “That’s Amlin’s sword you’ve got,” she said.
“Yes, I picked it up.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Jerac Fane, private, regiment of the Seventh Friend,” he said.
“One of Cain Arbak’s?”
“I hope to be, my lady,” he replied. It was the first time he’d given her a title, and he still had no idea who she was, but he didn’t doubt that she was high blood. She had that natural way with command, the voice that was difficult to disobey.
“Will you escort me to the castle?” she asked.
“If you want, my lady, but I only have this borrowed blade, and I’m not trained yet.”
She laughed. “You can keep the blade. Amlin would have liked that it killed the men who killed him. Come.”
She led the way, taking the road he had approached by back to the divine stair. Jerac had been up the stair to the temples many times in his life, but never as Jerac Fane. Old Alos had come here to tie ribbons at Eltaraya, and several times to pay his respects in several of the temples – particularly Narak’s. This felt quite different, though, walking up the steps with a naked blade – he had no scabbard – and at a purposeful pace. The girl, he thought of her that way though she must have been nineteen or so, walked quickly, looking neither left nor right, and he had to step lively to keep up.
There were no incidents. The stair was almost deserted and those few that were coming down from the temples above took one look at his bloodied sword and gave them a wide berth. They came quickly to the gates of Bas Erinor castle, and as soon as they were within sight guards rushed out to meet them, drawing their own swords, looking suspiciously at Jerac.
“My lady…”
She hushed the guard captain with a gesture. “Amlin and Porin were killed by assassins,” she told them. “This man,” she pointed at Jerac, “killed four that remained. If not for him I would be dead.” She turned to Jerac. “I have to go now,” she said, “but they will treat you well. I thank you for your service, Jerac Fane. It will not be forgotten.” She turned and was gone. The guards stood around looking at him, but there was a new appraisal in their eyes.
“Four men, eh?” the captain said.
“I took them by surprise,” Jerac confessed.
“Four is a lot of men to take by surprise. Will you have a cup of wine with us?”
Jerac was surprised by the invitation, but accepted. It made him feel good that these men, these proper soldiers, respected him. They sat him down in the guard house and he was given a cup of chilled, white wine. It was not something that he usually drank, but he found himself enjoying it. It suited the weather. The guards asked him questions about his fight, and about him. He answered as best he could.
When it seemed they had no more questions he asked one of his own.
“Who was the lady?” he asked.
“She didn’t tell you, eh?” the captain asked. “Well that’s like her, I suppose, and like her husband, too.”
“Her name?”
“Lady Maryal, Duchess of Bas Erinor, our mistress here.”
Jerac knew about the Lady Maryal. The duke had left her in charge when he had gone to war. She was the ruler of the city, the single most powerful person in Bas Erinor. How could he not have recognised her? He felt a fool. He had seen her a few times before, but somehow he had not been able to place her, even when led here to the gates of the castle.
After one drink the castle guards let him go on his way, or kicked him out. He wasn’t sure which. He made his way back down the divine stair to the low city, mulling over the events of the night, trying to see what he might have done better, what he might have done else. In the end he concluded that he had done well enough, and he allowed himself an ale with his meal in the Seventh Friend, and thence to bed.
* * * *
The morning was bright. It was going to be hot. Jerac rose in good time and ate a hurried breakfast. It wasn’t that he feared to be late, but rather that he was keen to begin. Today they had been promised shields.
He went upstairs to his room again after he had eaten and took the sword out from under his bed. It was Amlin’s sword, a dead man’s sword. He ran his finger along the blade. It was cold, smooth like glass under his hand, and the blade was decorated with a fine tracery of lines. There was no image on it. It was abstract, but still spectacular, like the workings of an educated spider on the steel.
He could not bring himself to leave it in his room. There would be a chambermaid in to clean it, and he could not think of it being pawed by anyone without respect. He wrapped the sword in a blanket and tucked it under his arm. He would leave it where he could keep an eye on it.
At the training ground he was early again, and sat by the post, watching as the others arrived. He was surprised that Sergeant Lees was last, and doubly that he did not come alone. There were three officers with him. None of the officers spoke, but Lees lined the men up and they fell to silently, quickly, intimidated.
Jerac recognised one of the officers. He was the major. The major was a veteran of the wall, but had lost a foot, and was deemed no good for fighting any more, so he’d been given command of the training camp until either of the colonels returned. He was a hard man, it was said, a proud man.
When they were lined up Lees let them stand there for a moment, their eyes facing the sun, and when he spoke it was in his parade ground voice.
“Last night I ordered you not to get into any fights,” he said. “I ordered you to uphold the honour of the regiment.” He paused and looked up and down the line. Jerac felt his gut tighten. Surely he hadn’t done anything wrong? “It seems you can’t do both.”
One of the officers looked impatient, but the major frowned and he stopped shuffling abruptly. Lees went on.
“Last night the duchess was attacked by assassins. Her bodyguard, two knights of Avilian, were slain. Her life was saved by a man of this regiment who slew four of her assailants single handed.”
It’s me, Jerac thought. He’s talking about me.
Lees paused again. He didn’t look at Jerac, but scanned the faces of the other men, looking for something else. It occurred to Jerac that Lees didn’t know who it was, that the Duchess had forgotten his name, but that made no sense either. How else would they know it was this squad, and the major was here. That proved it to Jerac. Lees was playing with them. As soon as certainty came Lees turned to him.
“Have you got the sword with you, Fane?” he asked.
The direct question caught him off guard. He felt the eyes of the other men on him.
“The sword…? Yes.” His eyes slipped to the wrapped bundle.
“Fetch it then,” Lees said. Jerac left the line, and under the eyes every man in the squad, and the
officers, he picked up the sword in its grey blanket, like some pauper wrapped against the cold. He took the bundle to Lees.
The sergeant let the blanket fall to the ground. The sword looked long and slender in the early light, and Jerac could see Lees weighing it in his hand. He turned and offered it to the major, who in turn weighed it in his hand and looked down the length of it, as though testing its lines with his eye. He touched the edge with his thumb.
“This is a fine blade,” the major said. “Telan steel.”
For a moment Jerac thought they were going to take it away from him, but the major handed it back to Lees, and Lees to him. He held it, not knowing what to do with it, but the feel of it in his fingers was wonderful, as though it was alive.
“You need something to put that in,” the major said. “Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant stepped forwards and produced a belted scabbard from behind his back. It was a pretty thing, more suited to the blade than it was to Jerac. He took it when it was offered and stared at it. The scabbard was black, and decorated with opals, lapis and tiger’s eye. It caught the light a hundred different ways and scattered it like a child’s glittering toy, like a queen’s jewels, like water.
Jerac was overcome. He had never had anything like it before. It was true that he had lived well enough as a carpenter, a master craftsman, but nothing he had ever owned had been so… decorative.
He slipped the blade into the scabbard. It fit perfectly, sliding the last inch with a sweet click and resting there as though it had come home. He buckled the belt on and was shocked at how long the sword seemed. It hung well below his knees.
“The duchess insisted that what took pace should be entered into the regiment’s role of victories,” the major said. “She insisted that the Seventh Friend came to the aid of the palace guard, that lives were risked, lives lost and victory achieved. We agree. Private Fane had earned his veteran’s stripe, and not to be outdone in honour to one of our own we hereby award Private Fane a stripe of rank. Corporal Fane it is.”
The major paused and pulled a face.
“It’s a pity you couldn’t have dragged the bodies into the next street and pretended it happened there, Fane. I mean, really. The Battle of Potshard Lane?” He shook his head, but Fane could see a crooked smile on the old soldier’s face. Jerac was unable to speak. He bowed.
“One more thing,” the major said. “That sword’s no bloody use to an infantryman. Get you killed trying to draw it in a melee. Sergeant?”
“Corporal Fane, you’re being transferred. Cavalry, as of tomorrow, elite unit.”
“But…”
“What is it, corporal?”
“I don’t know how to ride, Sergeant, Major, Sir.”
The major stepped forwards and lowered his voice to a conversational tone. “Son,” he said. “You see that bay mare over there, the one tied to the post by the bridge?”
Jerac looked. He saw. He didn’t understand.
“It’s yours,” the major said. “Gift from the Duchess. Can’t be an infantryman if you own a horse. She says if you can learn to use a sword like that in six weeks then you can damn well learn to ride.” The major seemed amused by his confusion, and for the first time he saw Sergeant Lees smile.
“Day’s leave, sir?” Lees asked. The major raised an eyebrow, but then nodded and smiled.
“For the whole unit,” he confirmed.
That was then end of the day’s training. A lot of people who hadn’t liked him yesterday evening came and slapped him on the back, and half way through the ordeal he heard Lees voice in his ear.
“…and try not to rub your whole unit up the wrong way this time, Fane. Be nice. Be humble. It’s a fresh start.”
He walked over to the horse, and found that there was a groom with it, sitting by the animal’s head, watching it as it grazed peacefully. The horse lifted its head and looked at him as he walked up. It had calm, brown eyes. It pointed its ears at him. He stroked its neck, and it went back to cropping grass.
“You’re Fane?” the groom asked, scrambling to his feet.
“Aye,” he replied. “Does she have a name?”
“Lightfoot,” the groom replied. “She’s called Lightfoot.”
Jerac stared. This close the horse looked big. Even with its head down its shoulder topped his own. It was a massive thing of bone and muscle. As a child he hadn’t liked animals, but this was different. He wanted there to be a bond between them.
“Can you show me how to ride her?” he asked.
The groom nodded, pleased to be helpful. He moved to the horse’s head, and she lifted it so that he could grip the bridle. “You see the stirrup there? Put your right foot in the right stirrup, one hand on the pommel – that’s the lump at the front of the saddle – and hand at the back, then lift up, swinging your left foot over the top into the other stirrup.”
Jerac examined the saddle.
“Can you show me?” he asked. He thought he’d learn better that way.
“Aye, I can.” The groom released the horses head and took Jerac’s place at the beast’s side. In a moment he was up in the air sitting comfortably astride Lightfoot. “Not so hard, see?”
He got down again. Jerac had followed his every movement, and now took his place, taking a firm grip, putting his right foot in the stirrup, and with a quick push from his left he was up.
Surely there had never been a feeling like this! He was a giant, the world laid out below him. He felt Lightfoot respond to his presence, and reached forwards to pat her shoulder. He felt grateful to the mare. She had made him more that he was, or so it seemed to him. He had done this once before, sat on a horse’s back, but he’d been a child, and the height and the power had frightened him. Now he revelled in it.
The groom handed him the reins. “To make the horse turn and such,” he said.
“I’ve seen men ride without them,” Jerac said, and it was true. The cavalrymen he’d watched the night before turned and controlled their mounts without reins. They held things in each hand, lances and shields, and rode just the same.
“You can use your knees,” the groom said doubtfully. “Good riders do, but you’ve never ridden.”
“I’ll try anyway,” he said. He didn’t want to use the reins. They seemed crude and cruel, and anyway he felt that Lightfoot already understood what he wanted. He tapped her shoulder with his right knee, just a light pressure, and she turned, smoothly, willingly, to the left. He did the same with his left knee and she moved back. He grinned. “Not so hard,” he said.
Jerac spent the rest of the day sitting on top of Lightfoot, moving to and fro across the field with the groom, whose name he had quite forgotten to ask, always nearby. From time to time he caught sight of the Major or Sergeant Lees, and they always seemed to be watching him.
That evening in the Seventh Friend it seemed that word had spread concerning his previous night’s work, and he was unable to pay for a drink. Before he went to bed he visited the inn’s stables and spent a few minutes with Lightfoot, making sure she was comfortably stabled and had plenty of fodder and water.
He slept a long and dreamless sleep.
Eleven – The Making of Farheim
“Tell me about Farheim.”
Pascha and Pelion were walking on one of the innumerable lawns of his imaginary kingdom. Farheim was a subject that she had raised before, and one that Pelion had adroitly avoided.
“What is there to tell?” Pelion replied.
“Everything. How they are made, what they can do, how strong they are, how they can be unmade. Everything.”
“You made them,” Pelion said. He was still dodging the topic, she thought, still reluctant to speak.
“I wish to know,” she said. “I made them in ignorance, and I wish to know what it is that I have created.”
Pelion walked in silence for a while, looking at his feet. “Perhaps you are ready now,” he said without looking at her. I have not spoken of them because I cannot do so without broac
hing the subject of numbers.”
”Numbers? I know numbers.”
The old mage shook his head. “Not like this,” he said. “You have to understand, and you will in good time, that magic is not all feelings and reaching and waking dreams. A lot of it is the manipulation of numbers, the understanding of numbers. It is only through numbers that you will grasp the essence of our power.”
“Tell me,” she replied. This was new, and her interest was piqued.
