“You wouldn’t believe how few of us are nuanced in matters of quality!” he blusters. “Sure, we can all identify a poorly-crafted blade, but nobody here knows beans about thread count and staple length in a bolt of cloth or the benefits of an overlocking seam. It’ll be good to have you around.”
I have a feeling he’s exaggerating a bit, but I play along. “Well, that question was easy. My fiancée lectured me at length over a game of darts several months ago.”
Father Cartwright thumps his knee. “You did well, Steeps. You took it like a man. Tell me, are you as gifted with the other commodities we might need here at the Abbey?” He hands me a list of things any large establishment might need.
It’s certainly longer than Petri’s list for the Black Cat, but of course I only handled “specialty” items for Barkus. I think of Petri, lying in a cold grave somewhere just because he got mixed up with the wrong sort of people. I think of Carmen slaving away somewhere to finish her commission, and my old life, my old world. It wasn’t much, but I miss it. The feeling must have shown through on my face because the Mitre Procurus starts to take the list back. “No worries. We can train you.”
I shake off sentimentality. “No, no. These are fine. I could find them in my sleep. And if I don’t know about something—say for a ‘specialty’ item—I always check with someone who does know before buying.” Not that I’m used to buying.
He nods. “Very wise.”
“I’ve never had money to waste,” I respond.
When I get home from my lengthy interviews with the other Mitres, Timmy and Val are sitting at our little table talking and grinning mischievously.
“Uh-oh,” I say.
“Timmy got in trouble,” Val says, “for asking too many questions.”
“So did Val, but not for questions.”
They’re both smiling, though, so I’m not too worried.
“Worst goes first,” I say, falling into an old pattern.
They glance at each other in that twin-sort-of-way, and Val admits that the seamstress has already threatened her with dismissal because she talks too much and doesn’t stay on task.
“What specifically did you do, Val?” I say.
“I talked to, sort of, most of the Abbey clerks who came in.”
I sigh. “What are you going to do to fix it?”
“I’ll do better, Da,” I promise.
Timmy rolls his eyes.
“How about you, Timmy?”
“I asked too many questions. The boot maker sent me to an empty station for the rest of the afternoon.”
“And . . .”
“And I finished a pair of size thirteen boots.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t so grumpy with me after that.”
“Timmy’s been promoted to journeyman!” Val blurts. She has a tough time keeping a secret.
“That’s great, Timmy!” I say.
Timmy isn’t super enthused. “It’s not really about fine craftsmanship,” he mumbles into his soup. “But you could really make some money with the techniques they taught me today. Most clients wouldn’t know the difference.”
“I’d know the difference,” I say.
“That’s why I’d charge you more for the good pair,” he smirks.
“Timmy, don’t cut corners.” This is one place I don’t let them shirk. “If you do a job, do it right. If the Master doesn’t know his craft, or doesn’t care that it’s shoddy, we’ll find you something else.”
Timmy looks up from his bisque. “It’s not like that, Da. Master Podokos takes pride in his work. One of the other apprentices had to redo his shoe three times.”
“Oh.”
“He said that most people need function, can afford function, but not style. So we focus on function.”
“Oh,” I respond. “That does make good sense.”
I look at his half-eaten food and Val’s empty bowl. “How about I focus a bit on the function of that soup you made?”
Timmy grins and pushes the bowl over to me.
For the next two weeks I do my best to blend in with the rhythm of the Abbey. It’s difficult to say the least. For one thing, even the clerks are taller than I am. I don’t really blend in with an abbey full of beefy swordsmen. Add to it that I’m new, and from East March rather than Solange, and everybody wants to know my story. If that isn’t enough, Lucinda’s already told them I’m the Nightshade Slayer. I’d hoped to lose that title somewhere along the way, but it’s starting to trickle back—this time sticking like honey on a bear’s nose. Not everyone cares about East March, but everyone cares about killing Nightshades here, so I end up with a crowd around me for dinner every night, more famous than Pan himself and his holy Altus Mitre. And they all assume I’m a recruit, just like Lucinda, even though I insist I’m just visiting.
The real kicker is the notoriety I get for being Val’s “Da.” She likes to talk. And talk. And talk. And for once, she’s got plenty of people to talk to. After one dressed-up day in the General Assembly, she’s completely kicked off the whole half-orphan Ector persona she’s been carrying on the last thirteen years. At first I’m glad, until all the clerks begin referring to me deferentially as Mr. Steeps, rather than my semi-proper title as not-Cadet Teamus. It’s then that I realize she’s one of the few girls they see regularly, and definitely the most interesting. The Mitres tell me not to worry, that the people of Fortrus are perfectly respectful.
Ha. Tell that to the father of any beautiful girl.
Because I’m busy as all get-out, or because I’m a bad father, it takes me two weeks to figure out the real reason as to why they all know her so well. Val’s note said ninth bell, because that’s when prayer call is for the clerks, and she’s been tying her hair up and joining them. The Brothers haven’t said a thing to me because there’s a sickening assumption of honesty around this place that is very unsafe. They’ve all assumed that I approved it. Have they never had kids of their own? No! Of course not. The only Brother with kids within the decade is the Mitre Animus, and he spends most of his time out on the farms and holdings with his large family and small army of farmer Paladins. He would know better, but he’s no use to me out there.
When I ask Ebenezer and Gawain about it they just chuckle and point at Lucinda. “This place could use a little more fire,” they croak wisely, giggle to themselves, and continue with their old-man versions of the sword forms.
Dammit! Is nobody on my side here?
Val is only honest when I question her directly.
“I got fired by Madame Sewknit on the second day,” she says simply. “I’ve been pretending to be a clerk. The brothers don’t care and give me assignments just like the rest, and I get to spar with the boys at ninth bell.”
“I know, but is it safe?”
“Safer than Ector,” she says, shrugging.
Touché. She doesn’t bother showing me the scar on her ribs. I know it’s there.
I’m the only one who seems to miss Ector. I miss my perch at the Black Cat, food that isn’t spicy, and clothes that fit like Carmen’s smile. The clothes in Fortrus definitely fall on the boring side, with the predominant use of white. Magnus says the laundries make a fortune as he wolfs down a raft of olives stuffed into a hollowed-out loaf of bread. “Aside from that, what’s not to like about white?”
“It’s boring,” I remind him at lunch one day.
“We get our excitement elsewhere,” he counters.
“You mean, like, from the weather?” I’m not kidding about this. “I have to plan two different outfits for every day.”
“What’s the difference? Both outfits are just tan and white.”
“And the Abbey. Why is it so much warmer there, Magnus? Especially in the Butterfly Garden.”
Magnus grins. “Pan’s grace.”
“You big liar. You’ve been taking lessons from Lucinda. It’s the ocean breeze. I heard the river men talking about the coastal warming just this morning.”
“Well, Pan
could have told us to build the Abbey in the snow a little farther south, but he knows it’s harder to pray when you’re cold.”
I grin. Magnus’s smile and demeanor is infectious. And he does have a sense of humor. It’s easier to see that with the threat of the Nightshades lifted.
The only fly in the ointment is Cobalt. In addition to morning prayers, Lucinda and I are required to attend the cadet’s combat training class in the early afternoon, and Cobalt is always there, sulky as ever, not even bothering to participate.
No one seems to care, either. The first two days we ignore him too, given who I think he is, but after a while Lucinda decides it isn’t wise to ignore a potential threat.
She nods at him the third day I come to training.
Cobalt ignores her.
Oops.
Nobody ignores Lucinda. The next day she trips him in the mud, and then shouts at him for being stupid and careless. She leans waaaay over to do it. “Such a waste of good meat,” she says.
“One could say the same for you,” he retorts.
On the fourth day he knows she’s behind him, trying to trip him again, and almost grins as he sidesteps it.
After a few days of this sort of abuse, Cobalt’s anger seems to soften as he approaches the practice yard. I get there early enough to see it all because the cadet class is easily the most interesting thing I do all day. Procuring things for Father Cartwright is sickeningly easy, especially since he gives me money to do it, sends me out during daylight hours, and the markets are chock full of quality goods. My biggest fear is that I’m suddenly going soft.
Fortunately, there are interesting things to do in the prayer yard. The wall is nearly as slick as polished marble, except in the crevices where the stones join. (I make some climbing shivs from scavenged leather and a pair of small meat hooks borrowed from the kitchens, and that helps.) The corners are tricky, too. At a dead run, I can only reach about nine feet up. On the ground, the marble to grass to marble pattern is particularly treacherous. Whenever a southern wind from the mountain meets the sea breeze, the temperature drops rapidly and the marble becomes slick and the grass gets wet.
But the drama of watching Lucinda try to figure Cobalt out is the most interesting.
Whenever he sees her, his face brightens just a shade before he looks away and blinks his scowl back into place. He’s still plenty surly with everyone else—the yard marshal, the weapon’s clerk, and the on-duty medics. (Apparently the healing I’ve seen Magnus do isn’t all that common.) But with Lucinda, he’s merely trying to be surly, except when he sees how the other cadets and instructors give her wide berth. When this happens, his lip curls in disgust and the derision on his face borders on the evil.
As usual, Lucinda’s clever. She doesn’t complain or try to convince the instructors that she’s worth their time, or that she belongs. She doesn’t wait weeks for them to accept her for her hard work. After the first instructor—and she picks the best man in the yard—declines to tutor her, she asks for Cobalt. “He’s practically an instructor, like you,” she says with mock excitement.
This evidently stings the man’s pride, because he goes a little red in the face to hear this in front of his star cadets. “Go ahead,” he says in a deep baritone. “I’m sure he’d be glad to teach you to swing a stick.” I don’t think he actually expects Cobalt to accept her request, which may be why he gives her permission.
A small crowd gathers as she approaches Cobalt. She stops a few feet away and gestures at him, making chopping motions. I can’t hear from my perch on the wall, but it seems like she’s pantomiming the removal of the instructor’s head. A ghost of a smile crosses Cobalt’s surly face, and to everyone’s surprise, he leaves his slouch by the water barrel for the first time in seven days. He goes to the clerk at the weapon’s rack, shouldering his way to the front of the line. Nobody stops him. He pretends to look over the dull, heavy practice weapons and eventually asks for a long-sword and a hand-and-a-half bastard sword.
Well, I’m guessing that’s what he asks for, because that’s what the clerk gives him, after a lot of arguing.
Around the yard, training has practically stopped. All these holy men seem to expect Mr. Black Sheep to live up to his reputation. But Cobalt’s a perfect gentleman. He starts her on two-handed tactics first, and my own curiosity forces me down from the wall and over close enough to hear what he’s telling her.
Cobalt doesn’t bother with long explanations about safety. In fact, he barely says a word at all, just shows her where and how to hold the blade and pivot it, how to maintain a fluid grip favorable to lighting-quick strikes with the heavy, metal blade. The only time I see Cobalt get angry is when she tries to get his drifting attention by bending over. “Stop,” he mutters. “It was only funny the first time.”
Lucinda is strong. He makes her hold a few positions, but she never wavers.
Soon he’s teaching strokes, though the rest of the yard is cleaning up, drinking from the water barrel, massaging bruised knuckles, and watching the impromptu lesson: overhand, underhand, rebound, feint, parry, parry, and dodge. He tells her to use the weight of her sword as an anchor-point for changing direction, “like two dancers,” he says, “trading momentum.”
The next day he shows her a sword form, breaking it into parts. It isn’t complicated or long, but he takes time to show her each piece separately, which she mimics.
Again.
Again.
This time, instead of swinging at air, Cobalt steps in, playing her opponent, the mirror. He’s a gifted instructor, and he moves as if he were born to hold a sword.
Again.
Again.
“I want to learn the mirror form,” Lucinda says.
“It’s just for instructors.”
“I want to be an instructor.”
“You can’t. You’re a novice. And you’re a woman. It’s against the rules.”
Lucinda arches an eyebrow. “It is not. I asked Father Loring. Mother Ealeannor was an instructor for years.”
“Whatever.” Cobalt shrugs. “Set your feet like this . . .”
After the second instructor comes to tell Cobalt that he shouldn’t be teaching her this—“Not yet!” they say—Cobalt starts to grin, obviously pleased at causing irritation. He reminds the instructors that he’s on probation and that they should probably just keep ignoring him like they have for the last couple of years.
“She’s my trainee, Retard Gerard, so you can butt the hell out, since you already sent her packing.”
The next day Lucinda dances through the first form as if she’s known it all her life. I know for a fact she spent half the night repeating it, over and over in the frosty moonlight outside her new apartment door. I’ve always been a night owl, and the fresh air cools the nerves after an evening of plying your daughter for better descriptions of her daily pursuits.
As soon as Lucinda finishes the first form, she flows into the mirror form. It’s fluid and almost natural-looking, though not so much as Cobalt’s version of it. I can’t help comparing it to the way she’s always slipped past the grasping fingers of the patrons of the Black Cat. And she’s tall, taller than Cobalt. She’s shoulder to shoulder with most of the men here, and though her build is slighter, there is power in the movement of her sword. She may not be a natural, but she’s close to it.
After another few days of careful tutelage, the other men in the practice yard stop ignoring her. She’s obviously a force to be reckoned with. Most of them man-up and make their apologies for ignoring her. Some of them make excuses for their behavior, equating her with the dead cadet Yarla, or the dead Mitre Clinicus, Mother Ealeannor, and saying how they’re hearts had been hardened by the sister’s deaths. Others make no excuses, but fade into her space like budding flowers in spring time.
Cobalt watches this all with a sardonic, self-pleased scowl on his face.
By the end of the week there are always a few cadets shadowing her, offering pointers, and a crowd when Cobalt ma
kes her spar with him. She can’t beat him, not by a long shot. He’s pushing himself to move slowly, pulling his punches just enough to keep her in each fight until she can feel the rhythm of it. But Lucinda is surprisingly strong for her size, and quick, and she holds nothing back. I can see her wearing on Cobalt’s defenses. His shoulders straighten and his head lifts from its prowling gait into something a little more regal. When he gets especially tired, he finishes her off with sinuous moves I haven’t seen in any of the sword forms they use here.
“Step aside, Brother Cobalt,” says a man with a light beard and a long arm.
“Ahh. So I’m a brother now?”
The man ignores the jab. “Her footwork is sloppy. That may work for a mountain bear like you, but with her build she’s going to need more grace and more speed.”
Cobalt nods, and tosses his practice sword in the mud. “Suit yourself, Bertrand. Good luck getting that ‘footwork’ into her thick skull.”
“It was the same with Yarla,” Cobalt snorts to me, throwing a towel down on the ground and taking a huge mug. He dips it into the barrel and I listen to the water slosh into it. He pulls the mug out, gulps it down, and sloshes out another mugful.
I watch him expectantly. I don’t need words to tell him that I’m listening.
“Everybody thought she was too weak, too slow, or too pretty. That she’d wash out.”
“Lucinda may be pretty,” I say, “but she isn’t slow or weak. Otherwise Magnus and I wouldn’t be here.”
“What do you mean, Tiptoes?” That’s what he’s started calling me in our few exchanges over the last week. It’s a bit less derogatory than what he calls the others, or the other nickname he has for me, Mr. Sticky-Fingers.
SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3) Page 13
