Kevral caught the hilt as much from habit as homage, and spun. The swords cut the air around her, clearing a blade-length ring. The four armed guards charged as one. Admiring their strategy but disdaining their competence, she ducked one, chopped two hilts from their wielder’s grips, and dodged the fourth. She managed to catch one of the airborne weapons. The other crashed, ringing, to the tiles where she stomped on the blade, pinning it. She assumed a defensive position as the armed guards cautiously realigned and the others scurried beyond range.
“Halt!” Daizar shouted. He remained in place on the dais, not even driven to stand by the violence. Only a flush to his gaunt cheeks and a pursing of his lips to lines betrayed the fear he hid so well. “Men, at ease. Kevral . . .” He lifted his gaze to her.
Kevral turned her attention to him, but she kept track of all six of the guards with peripheral vision. Only the blond seemed in any danger of violating the minister’s command. The others wore clear expressions of relief, their stances wholly defensive. She doubted even the Northman would charge her weaponless.
“. . . I’m convinced. I believe I can talk the king into allowing your dawn awakening and guard assemblage in the morning.”
Kevral tossed the swords back to their proper owners, saving the blond’s for last. She flipped them gently, so that the hilts came easily to their hands. All but one, the tallest, managed to snatch his grip from the air. That man tried, nails scraping the leather, then the sword clattered to the floor. He scooped it up and restored it to its sheath. Though she remained alert for attack, Kevral maintained an aura of quiet composure. If necessary, she could disarm them all again. “There’re twenty-five hundred soldiers?”
“Approximately,” the minister of foreign dignitaries said.
During negotiations, Kevral had suggested she train twenty-four each morning and the same in the afternoon. They would, in turn, use their off-time to train their fellows. She had tried to reserve the right to rotate her company to ensure every Pudarian guard received proper teaching. The king had resisted this, preferring forty-eight elite guardsmen to 2500 equal but lesser soldiers. Though uncertain of the exact terms that had finally appeared in the written document, Kevral assumed she needed to gather the original forty-eight. Further details would become clear when she found time to read the papers. “Divide them into groups of about 250 and find a field where they can practice. I’ll select my students today.”
“Today?” Daizar repeated, tone incredulous.
Kevral nodded.
“But we haven’t got a field big enough to stack 250 men at once.”
“I’ll find one.” Kevral took her eyes from Daizar to scan the guardsmen. The blond glared, a scowl etched deeply onto his features. The others watched silently, their expressions more benign. The sandy-haired one who had served as an escort, and been disarmed, bobbed his head, reliving the mastery of Kevral’s attack in detail. His quiet trip into assessment pleased the woman who would soon become his teacher. Analyzing swordplay befit a warrior. “I’ll make one if I have to. And I’ll spend some time at the barracks. We’ll need to make some definite changes.” She glanced at the one deep in thought. “Starting with hair ties and cuts.” With that, she pirouetted, not worrying for the back she turned to Minister Daizar’s guards. And left the room.
Voices seeped through the crack as the door swung closed. “It’s going to be a long year,” one said. The blond uttered a Northern vulgarity for Renshai.
The sandy-haired guard spoke last. “I, for one, am going to pray I’m chosen.”
The closing click of the door cut the rest into silence.
* * *
He was chosen. And the sullen blond whose name, Kevral discovered, was Tyrion. This once, the latter replaced his stony glare with a wrinkled mask of confusion.
With the help of two off-duty guardsmen, Kevral had staked out a rectangle in the market square, taking up a block that had once held bustling crowds and now only abandoned stalls and stands. The few remaining merchants required little coaxing to move to an area not roped off for combat. The soldiers swung and sparred, while Kevral meandered through them, selecting her forty-eight students from the ranks. Spectators crammed along the ropes, eager to catch glimpses of the king’s new swordmistress or to watch the guardsmen hammer at one another with practice weapons. Even the king had come, perched upon a spotted and gaily beribboned stallion. He held his head high, the gray and auburn curls meticulously arranged and his blue eyes intensely watchful. Clearly, he sought the subtle differences in technique that motivated Kevral to sort his men.
Kevral suspected her system baffled him. She placed potential over talent, judging natural dexterity and strength from the arrangement and use of muscle groups and from movements that had little to do with winning spars. As often as not, she chose the losers of such contests. Other details caught her eye. She collected men with few natural abilities but a determination that would allow them to learn the skills with which the gods never blessed them at birth. The sandy-haired one fell into this category. Tyrion, she chose for other reasons. Though able and strong, his attitude attracted her more. He would prove an offensive fighter, a necessity to Kevral’s Renshai mind. He would prove a challenge, one she preferred within grasp and sight rather than lurking in the shadows.
“Finished,” Kevral announced as twilight stole color vision and the last batch of soldiers returned to their dinners or posts.
Only then. King Cymion approached her. “Are you aware you only accepted one of my three lieutenants and three of my ten captains?”
Kevral had paid no attention to these distinctions, but she found a sure answer better than placing her observational skills in doubt. “Yes, Sire.” She bowed, though a curtsy seemed more appropriate.
Apparently awaiting an explanation, the king sat in silence. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged. “Very well, then.” He reined his horse toward the castle, guardsmen surrounding him from every side. Apparently, his contract gave her free decision on this matter.
General Markanyin remained behind while the king and his entourage disappeared.
Kevral paid him no heed, instead dividing her troop in half. She addressed Tyrion’s group first. “Daybreak on the south practice field. Bring swords, nothing else. Every moment you’re late is an extra hour you stay into the next class. See you tomorrow.” Giving a similar speech to the others, she dismissed them as well. After all of the guardsmen headed off, she finally turned her attention to the general.
Stubble perched on a rectangular head, gray spreading from the temples. His thick neck and torso held more muscle than fat, and he kept his enormous hands at his sides. “Good evening, Armsman.”
“Good evening, General,” Kevral returned, eager for her own practice. Like an addict too long without his drug, she yearned to commune with her gods through the all-consuming violence of swordplay.
“I wondered if you would be willing to add one more student to your afternoon session.”
Despite her distraction, Kevral made the obvious connection. “You?”
Markanyin shrugged. “I can’t have my men outmaneuvering me.”
Kevral nodded in agreement. “All right. It’ll unbalance the group, though. When we get to sparring, you may have to face off with me.”
“You won’t embarrass me, will you?”
Kevral made no promises, quoting Colbey as answer. “Nobody can embarrass a man; he can only embarrass himself.” She did not intend to humiliate anyone who did not deserve the disgrace.
Markanyin laughed, a surprisingly jovial sound for a man of war. “I guess I take my chances, then.”
Kevral had no answer. The conversation drifted into polite silence, during which Kevral’s thoughts turned back to her svergelse and which moves most needed practice.
Markanyin’s voice startled Kevral. “The men are concerned that you’re going to take away their pleasures.” He dodged her gaze, obviously uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.
; The words made little sense to Kevral. “Their pleasures?”
“The card room. Their off-duty time. Women. Ale.”
Kevral grunted her understanding.
Another hush fell, again broken by Markanyin. “Are you?”
“Going to take away their pleasures?”
“Yes.”
Kevral threw up her hands in a noncommittal gesture. She would never have guessed she had such an option, and she suspected she still might not. Markanyin seemed to be working around to explaining the limits of her authority, a lecture she wished to avoid. As long as she did, the possibilities remained open. Again, she looked to Colbey for answers. “I care about three things: that my students come on time, that they give every practice their all, and that they respect me and one another. What they choose to do when not in my class does not interest or concern me.” She lowered her head and raised her brows, a clear warning. “Any activity that decreases their ability in class, they will surely voluntarily surrender.” She would not tolerate sloth. Sickness, whether due to chance or excess, was no excuse for slacking.
“A reasonable compromise.” Markanyin made a courtesy movement of his trunk, more good-bye than bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Kevral confirmed. Without waiting to see whether or not the general left, she turned on her heel and headed for the courtyard. There, she believed, she could find a place to practice that would not strike worry into Pudar’s citizenry. Unused to drawn steel on their streets, especially in the hands of women, they might not take well to her swordplay.
Kevral took dinner in her room that night, but it still sparked the nausea she had suffered the previous day. She managed to struggle into bed without vomiting, cursing the food of the affluent and promising herself a simple meal tomorrow from whatever tavern or inn the citizens preferred. She could not do it every night, as she had brought minimal coinage with her and all of that of Béarnian mint. Though Pudar accepted money from every country, they tended to favor their own currency when it came to bargaining and purchases. She curled into a fetal position, suffering waves of discomfort. Turning her thoughts to her svergelse, she analyzed every movement, drawing her mind from the discomfort that had not existed while ensconced in swordplay. In a flurry of movement, now wholly mental, she drifted off to sleep.
The sickness followed Kevral into morning, lasting only until she purged it. Skipping breakfast, she bounded out to the practice field beside the guard’s barracks precisely at daybreak. All twenty-four students chattered and milled on the grassy field that, had they practiced as they should, would consist only of trampled mud. Soon, Kevral assured herself, it would.
Taking a position at the front of the group, Kevral cleared her throat, a sound lost beneath the tumult. Most of the guards went politely quiet and directed their attention to her. Others continued speaking, a disrespect Colbey Calistinsson never would have tolerated. Kevral frowned, giving them several moments longer than she believed they deserved. Without warning, she drew and lunged. Startled guards skittered out of her way. Her sword licked a finger’s breadth from a talker’s throat, and he choked back his words. Bindings cut cleanly, his cloak slid to the ground behind him.
An alarmed silence followed.
Kevral sheathed her sword in the same movement. Calmly, she stepped back into place. Having seized everyone’s notice, she no longer dwelled on the plight of the white-faced brunet who clutched at his throat, seeking blood. “My name is Kevral, and I’m going to teach you how to wield a sword.”
Kevral drew breath, waiting for someone to shout or mutter that they already knew; but the abrupt violence a moment earlier seemed to hold even Tyrion to a respectful hush. At least, for the moment.
“Some of it may seem simple, at first. But you have to relearn the basics, properly this time, to gain any competence with the complicated . . .” Proper wording failed her this time, and Kevral ended lamely with, “. . . stuff.” This time, she thought she caught a mumbled indecipherable comment. She ignored it. “Do everything I tell you with confidence, aggression, and your best effort. Fall short of that, and you’ll come to hate me.”
“I loathe you already,” Tyrion could not help informing Kevral.
The reactions ranged from horrified stares to suppressed smiles. No one dared to laugh aloud. Kevral nodded good-naturedly, “Good. Chances are, I’ll give you plenty of reason.” She glanced around at the others, all of whom had recovered from their initial reactions and now stood in stony-faced silence. “Any questions?”
The smallest of the group, a spry brunet with a close-cropped beard spoke. “Only sword?” On the selecting field, he had used a staff, and she chose him because his style suggested he knew no other weapons and would benefit greatly from her teachings.
“Only sword,” Kevral confirmed, suspecting his basic question demanded a “why” as well as a “yes or no.” “Sword is superior to any other weapon.”
A few skeptical noises ran through the crowd, none of them fully verbalized.
“It has greater versatility, allowing you to slash, stab, or bludgeon as the circumstance fits. It has the best reach to balance; its weight does not cluster at the tip. Warriors of every size, weight, and strength can learn to wield it competently. Its double edge makes it two weapons in one.” Kevral glanced around, her reverence for her blades drawing her to an awe the others might not share. “As in chess, the sword is the queen of the battlefield.”
“Any more questions?” Kevral glared pointedly at Tyrion, expecting something snide; but the Northman only met her gaze with a quiet smirk. Mischief danced in his pale eyes.
“All right, then.” Kevral began her first lesson.
* * *
It was after sunset before Kevral finished teaching and a long svergelse, the latter needed as much to forget the ineptitude of her students as to luxuriate in the natural rush of body chemicals exertion always inspired. She sought good in bad, pacifying herself with the realization that she could not help but improve Pudar’s soldiers. The sickness that had assailed her since that first night in Pudar still haunted her, but concentration on sword work kept it at bay. Just as she would not accept such weakness from her students, she would not tolerate it in herself. Enemies on the battlefield would not make allowances for illness, and neither would circumstance.
Remembering her internal promise the previous night, Kevral headed from the practice field, through the castle gates, and out into the city. Darkness cloaked the tarp-covered stands into shapeless masses, and cottages huddled against a twining autumn wind. Lanterns lit many of the windows, the light warped through thick, flawed glass. She padded away from the market area and farther toward the older living areas. The taverns nearer the stores would cater to foreigners, and she sought a bland meal that would not upset a stomach that had never before proven so unforgiving.
Mud-chinked stone homes, most with thatched roofs, soon lined the roadways Kevral chose. She avoided alleys, seeing no reason to invite conflict, though she never feared it. An inn or tavern would likely sit on one of the wider, more well-traveled streets. Occasional people passed her, but few bothered to exchange greetings or even to glance up from beneath their hoods. The few who did shied from her evident weaponry, and Kevral did not corner anyone for directions.
Kevral’s stomach growled, empty since dinner the previous night. Driven by its protests, Kevral searched for a patrolling guard who would not feel so discomforted by her presence. Before she could find one, however, the creak of a suspended sign reached her hearing. She followed it around the corner to an old but comfortable-looking tavern. A metal pole dangling a chain from each end supported a weathered sign reading: “Off-duty Tavern.” Lanterns under the eaves gave the outside a cheery glow, and smoke twined from the chimney.
Kevral loosed a chuckle, suspecting the place catered to guardsmen. Too hungry to seek another establishment, she headed toward it.
Before Kevral trotted halfway down the street,
the door banged open, admitting a stronger beam of torchlight into the street. Two men exited, one staggering and the other clutching an arm to steady him. Laughter funneled out into the street, along with mandolin music that, though adequate, sounded hideously discordant after Darris’ talent. A few patrons milled around a porch with a hitching post that currently held no horses. Kevral quickened her pace as the door swung shut, smacking the lintel with a crash that surely irritated the neighbors. She imagined it occurring at irregular intervals into the night and cringed. Surely any early or light sleepers would have moved away by now.
As Kevral approached the “Off-duty Tavern,” she recognized three of the five men on the porch as guards she had not selected from the mass. She could not memorize all the faces in a day, and she suspected the others might be guards as well. Exchanging nods with them, she caught the door latch, its brass icy from the night air. Tripping it, she shoved the door open.
Torches hung in simple brackets that consisted of little more than twisted pieces of discarded metal. A fire blazed in the hearth, and some of the smoke trailed backward, dimming the interior despite its many lights. Several of the tables held patrons, all male and many familiar. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the acrid odor of the fire, beer smell, and a crisper scent of meat. Kevral’s stomach grumbled another protest. She discovered several off-duty guards, including Tyrion who sat with three others from her morning class. A few of her afternoon pupils had come as well.
Kevral considered joining them momentarily, then decided against it. The general had expressed the concern that she might interfere with their pleasure time activities, and her presence could do so every bit as much as directly forbidding them. Realizing her decision now could set the stage for all future relationships during her time in Pudar, she still chose solitude. Finding a small table near a relatively dark corner, she sat alone and tried to watch the others without staring.
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