by Steven Poore
The crew called her “Rabbit”, despite her protests, and after a while she decided it was more trouble than it was worth to try to stop them. As names went, she’d heard much worse, and they meant no harm by it. Even though she was the only woman aboard there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the sailors that they would give her the same respect they gave each other. One of the sailors even donated a thick cotton shirt to replace her ragged tunic.
Karak did not emerge from his cabin until at least the sixth day, although by that time Cassia had begun to lose count, settling into the rhythm of life on the ship. He climbed slowly up onto the hind deck and sat on a stool there for an hour, exchanging low words with Sah Ulma. Cassia assumed he must have been ill, as she remembered how pale he had looked after the storm, how slow and deliberate his movements had been. She felt there were some unresolved questions from that conversation, but she could not pin them down in her mind. And, besides, Sah Ulma’s officers kept her far too busy for talking.
In the end, the scholar came to her. She grew aware of his presence behind her as she worked through one of the exercises Meredith had taught her. She had added her own twist to a couple of the movements, a flourish here, a half-step there, to distract the invisible foe before her. The memory of her fight against Marko and his cronies was never far away, and she remembered how close he had come to overpowering her. She would never let that happen again.
“You have a distinctive style,” Karak noted. His voice sounded stronger.
She let the staff come upright at the end of her swing, using the momentum to turn in place so that she faced him. Karak’s dry smile was something of a relief to see now. In some ways he reminded her of Meredith.
“I was taught by a prince, sir,” she said.
Karak laughed. “Of course you were. By Pelicos himself, I’ll wager.” His smile broadened at her discomfort. “On that evidence you should thrive in Galliarca. Even Sah Ulma tapped his foot.”
She had known the captain was listening to her story, but she had not thought Karak himself was also there. Galliarca was something she had not yet let herself think about, lest she cause her luck to run foul again. But now she could not help it, and visions of spires overlooking great paved squares crowded at the edges of her mind. She lowered the staff with a sigh, knowing she was too distracted to continue.
“Do you really believe so, sir? I left the North for what I hoped would be a better life, but I didn’t find it. And now I’m leaving the Empire as well . . .”
Karak shrugged. “All of life is a series of departures, girl. But why write off a place before you have arrived there?”
“Because men are the same everywhere.”
“You are far too young to have such a philosophy,” Karak said. But Cassia noticed he had not contradicted her. She felt the ship rise as it rode through a wave crest, and she shifted her stance to compensate for the pitching of the deck.
“Stories are only stories,” she said. She had already begun to think that more than a few of her father’s tales might have been woven from whole cloth. Perhaps even Malessar did not exist. If that was the case, Baum was nothing more than a sorcerous madman, chasing a shadow from shore to shore just as other men wasted their lives in pursuit of dragons.
“Not always,” Karak replied. “Every story finds roots in the truth. Even Pelicos the Illuminated.”
That piqued her interest, despite her low mood. The scholar knew her well enough to drag her attention back around. “Was he real, then?”
The scholar’s lips twitched. “Do you doubt your own wares? Oh, Pelicos existed. He did not achieve everything attributed to him, but he did live. I have encountered him in my enquiries.”
The idea that occurred to her was a startling one and it must have shown in her expression, because Karak watched her expectantly. Cassia stepped down from the prow and thought how best to phrase her questions.
“Sir, you must know a lot of stories,” she said hesitantly, waiting for him to nod before continuing. “I think you could tell the Call to the North even better than my father could. And I’ll wager you’ve seen every library in the world, too. If there are such stories in them, I would like to see them too. Do you think I could learn from you?”
Karak laughed. “I have been waiting for that question since our second day in the library,” he told her. “If you had asked then, you might have saved yourself whole days of trouble!”
She stared at him in surprise. “Really? You mean that?”
“Of course. I am a man of my word.” Karak sounded huffy that she doubted him. “I will give you a room and a roof, and I will teach you some – only some, mark you – of the stories I know. In return, you will be on the staff of my household, carrying out any tasks and work I deem necessary.”
Cassia felt herself recoil. Her memory of the last night she had spent in Rann Almoul’s yard echoed unpleasantly against Karak’s words. Somehow she could not believe he would force his will against her, but neither could she bring herself to trust him completely. Hetch’s duplicity would not let her do that.
The scholar watched for a moment, frowning as though able to read her thoughts. “The door to the street will always be open,” he said. “You have my word on that as well.”
“Does that mean you would be . . . my patron, sir?”
Karak nodded. “A fair description. They must still have patronage in the Empire, though possibly not in the Northern lands. The tradition died out centuries ago there.”
“My father sometimes spoke of it,” Cassia told him. Usually that had been in disparaging tones, mixed with unhealthy doses of bitterness and envy, and anger that no merchant or high-ranking noble would ever admit him to their household. Karak did not need to know that. Her own voice was bitter enough for the truth to show through.
“Pelicos was an apprentice in Galliarca,” Karak noted.
“Truly?” Cassia was beginning to suspect he was misleading her. How could he know so much?
The scholar nodded. “That was where he learned his swordsmanship. You already have some skill with the staff. Perhaps a visit to Galliarca will make your name as well.”
She wanted to believe it, but she felt too unsettled to let his encouragement affect her. All the heroes in the great Galliarcan tales were acrobatic, athletic and possessed of quick wits and godlike features. Next to them, what was a Northern girl dressed in a patched robe?
Again her thoughts must have been clear upon her face, because Karak sighed. “I could tell you that you have more skill than one of Sah Ulma’s officers, but I do not think you would believe me. Perhaps I should show you. No, perhaps you should show yourself.”
This perplexed her, but Karak did not offer an explanation.
q
The crew had cleared an area of space below the steps to the hind deck. The sleeping mats were rolled up and wedged beneath the rail, bales and chests piled around the mast. Karak gestured to the space and Cassia moved hesitantly into it, feeling the weight of her audience’s attention. She tightened her grip on her staff and drew it closer to her chest. What was this?
Karak reached over her shoulder and pulled the staff up and out of her hands. “You will not need this.”
She twisted to seize it back, but he had already stepped beyond her reach. Sah Ulma’s voice brought her around again, poised to run at the first gap she could spot in the crowd.
The captain stood with his arms folded, his expression cool and unreadable, but two of his officers had joined Cassia in the ring. The youngest was most likely Sah Ulma’s son, the resemblance could hardly be coincidental. Even though he was younger than Cassia he still possessed the airs of a man twenty years older. The other was more of an age with Vescar Almoul. He spent the majority of his time up on the hind deck with the captain. Ulma’s son held out a slender blade to her, hilt first, and she took it reluctantly.
The blade was wrapped with cloth to blunt the edges, the rags bound tight with fine cord. Cassia hefted the weap
on, impressed to find it perfectly weighted. The few times she had been allowed to lift Meredith’s greatsword, she had struggled to keep the blade level. But this was a one-handed weapon. She wondered what she was supposed to do with her other hand.
“That blade should suit the forms I have seen you practise,” Karak said. “Galliarcan duelling styles often rely upon swift movement, rather than reach and weight.”
“Oh good,” Cassia said. Her opponent easily outmassed and outreached her, but that didn’t matter. She supposed that was meant to make her feel better.
As she tried to remember how Meredith might have stood, the younger of the two officers skipped back into the crowd, leaving her with his larger counterpart. The man held his own cloth-wrapped blade, looking more at ease with it than she could ever hope to feel. Shirtless, his forearms decorated with tattoos that snaked around his biceps, he contrived to appear both more and less intimidating than the Heir to the North. My prince. Meredith would not be scared of him, Cassia thought.
“Sir, this is hardly a fair contest,” she protested. “I don’t know how to fight like this!”
“Ah, but consider – Yaihl does not know that,” Karak told her. “And he does not know the full extent of your skill.”
“But he’s seen me practising in the bow!”
“Nevertheless. Trust me, Cassia, you will surprise yourself.”
Sah Ulma held up a hand and the crowd hushed.
“Three touches!” the captain shouted. “Three, and no more. No blood!”
That made sense. No captain would want his crew injured or crippled in a fight, even if it was a practice bout and the swords were wrapped and blunted. Cassia watched Yaihl bow courteously to her, and as he came back up she saw his gaze was wary and hooded, his weight shifted back in a defensive posture. He clearly did not want to make the first move, uncomfortable engaging in a fight against a woman. Against a girl. Karak might be right. Cassia dipped her own head to him and lifted her blade, just as Meredith would have done.
“Begin!” Sah Ulma barked.
Cassia felt the muscles of her legs snap taut. She pushed right, to lead with the blade. It would leave her open, invite Yaihl in to attack her. She missed the reassuring weight of the staff, and her whole left side felt wrong and unbalanced.
Yaihl responded, but not in the way she had hoped. He circled in the same direction so they remained on opposite sides of the circle, holding his blade out before him, slanted down across his torso. Packed tight around the edge of the space, his fellow sailors called out encouragement. There were one or two jeers as well, and Cassia’s cheeks burned. She saw Karak in the corner of her vision, watching the first moves of the fight with little more than his usual distracted disinterest.
Tiring of their circling, Yaihl suddenly broke forwards and aimed at Cassia’s unguarded upper arms. She ducked under the swing and brought her blade around in an instinctive block. Her arm quivered, her fingers numbed by the impact, and she dropped to roll out of the way. But Yaihl was a close shadow above her. Cassia’s blade rang out under the next few blows, and she was lucky to have stopped them at all. She caught a glimpse of Yaihl’s face, saw the dark frown of concentration there, and then he was gone.
Not far though, she thought. And he was still on his feet. Meredith had taught her to use feints to make space for herself. Cassia made to roll to one side, and pushed herself in the other direction instead. She came to rest at the very edge of the circle, with sailors stumbling over each other to get out of her way. A sudden peak of murmuring told her she must have confused them, as well as Yaihl himself.
She came back to her feet, just in time to block again. Yaihl looked put out, and a little embarrassed. Cassia was not meant to last this long. She feinted again, whirling as Meredith would have, like a child’s spinning top. Yaihl’s reactions were too slow, and she tapped him across the back of his shoulders before he could turn.
The deck was still, the sailors hushed. Yaihl’s eyes were wide with surprise. Cassia backed away, keeping her blade raised, hardly daring to blink.
Somebody called out, a Galliarcan jibe, from Yaihl’s reaction. The young officer rolled his shoulders, called out a reply that brought scattered laughter, and stepped back in towards her. This time his strokes were stronger, more direct, testing her ability to shift from stance to stance. She was forced around the edge of the ring, the space expanding as the watching sailors ducked away from the fight. When she tried to change her direction or get in behind him, he anticipated her every movement.
It was more exhausting than any bout she had fought with Meredith. Had he been more gentle with her, reined in his power to allow her to compete? Was this what every fight should have felt like? If so, what did that mean? He didn’t want to hurt her – he loved her . . .
She faltered and mistimed a block. Yaihl’s cloth-wrapped blade stabbed at her collarbone and sent her reeling. The crew cheered, but Cassia, sprawled upon the deck, could not tell who they favoured. As many urged her back to her feet as called out encouragement to Yaihl.
“Rabbit!” one man shouted in harshly-accented Hellean. “Rabbit!” The cry was taken up across the deck. Even a couple of officers joined in. Cassia levered back up with a wince, feeling the stiffness in her shoulder.
Three touches. She wasn’t sure she could survive a third round. But it’s nearly over. Already.
Her arm felt numb. She would have a terrible bruise in the morning. Yaihl’s strike had been deliberate; he had hit her on her leading side, and he must have seen her discomfort. Cassia glanced across at Karak. The scholar was regarding her intently. He nodded, as though answering a question she had not asked.
I don’t understand. What does he want from me? What am I supposed to do?
Yaihl waited for her to stand straight, half-turned, to present a smaller target. Cassia did the same, but her arm wobbled as she held the blade out before her and she cursed silently. One last glance at Karak before Yaihl came for her . . .
But the staff is a two-handed weapon – I can’t use this!
Trust me, Cassia, you will surprise yourself.
Yaihl shifted his balance, the precursor to his attack. Just like Meredith in that way. So dangerous, but also so unvarying. Predictable, even. That was how she had first come to beat him.
You will surprise yourself.
Yaihl stepped in with a cut aimed at her numbed right side. Cassia had already turned to avoid the strike. She knew that would leave her left side undefended and, without thought, she switched the blade to her other hand. Yaihl’s inevitable follow-up snapped one of the cords that held the bindings tight and she twisted her wrist to force him away, onto the defensive.
The sailors called out appreciatively – at least she hoped it was appreciation – and Yaihl looked startled. Cassia skipped backwards, using the respite to regain her breath and settle her grip on the sword hilt. The ridges of the leather had been moulded under the fingers of a right-handed man, and the damned thing felt unwieldy, even less familiar than before.
Is this what you meant? She could lead with either hand when using a staff, she realised. Meredith had insisted she practice in such a fashion. It wasn’t so difficult to transfer that skill. Now Yaihl would have to change the way he fought her.
He hesitated, his caution plain upon his face. He was unsure of his approach now. Cassia pressed her advantage, trying to draw him into the centre of the circle. Her strokes were weaker than she would like, and Yaihl easily batted them away, but he could not find a way past her defence.
“Rabbit!” the sailors called behind her. Their cries battled against those who were backing Yaihl, and were beginning to drown them out. The tide had turned in this bout. Yaihl’s smile had disappeared, and his face was creased in concentration.
As she forced him out from the edge of the circle she glimpsed Sah Ulma, stood amongst his officers. The captain looked concerned, and he held another of the younger officers back with one arm. The boy wanted to come to Yaihl’s ai
d, she understood immediately. This was how close she was to winning the bout. I can win this. I really can win this.
She came close to flicking her blade across Yaihl’s thigh. Yaihl stepped back and lowered his guard further, his torso twisted awkwardly to keep behind his sword.
But what will happen if I do win? Perhaps Sah Ulma would not be able to hold his officers back. Perhaps they would see her victory as a mortal insult. This was a practise bout, but she was a girl; surely they had never thought she might win. And even Sah Ulma will not want me aboard if I humiliate one of his officers. Anger flared as she realised Karak had placed her in a position where she could only lose. She glanced over at him, to see that infuriating knowing expression still on his face.
You will surprise yourself.
Bastard, she thought. Two sharp strokes brought her to the point of victory. She had only to feint back to the left, forcing Yaihl to leave himself open. She hesitated for half a heartbeat, and the answer to her dilemma flashed into her mind. Instead of moving left, she swung to the right, presenting her unguarded flank to her opponent. Another half a heartbeat for him to recognise the opportunity, and he thumped the base of his blade against her wrist and knocked the sword from her hand.
It was an anti-climax. They stared at each other for a long moment before Yaihl raised his sword in salute. Cassia inclined her head to acknowledge his win, and to avoid his gaze. He must know. He must be able to tell. But when she looked up Yaihl had already turned away to be congratulated by his fellow officers.
Cassia sighed, leaning back against the ladder that led to the hind deck. She prayed the rest of the crew would quickly lose interest in her and leave her alone. Surely the novelty of a girl waving a sword about would soon wear off. Particularly as she had contrived to lose the bout.
