Dahlia shrugged. ‘Timos is my lover, and I really don’t know much about him.’
She said such things too often, along with occasional anti-Arnaut comments and vague references to the shortcomings of her social in-feriors – very much like Kallinikos, but without his sense of humour. It wasn’t that Aranthur thought that she meant any of them; but the casual comments irked, nonetheless.
She leant back. ‘For example, have you changed fencing masters?’
‘Yes, I’m studying with Master Sparthos now.’
Dahlia rolled her eyes. ‘My provincial farm boy knows the Emperor and his mistress and Tiy Drako and now he’s fencing with Sparthos.’
Aranthur shrugged. ‘I met them all the same day, almost the same hour, in a tavern.’
Rose leant back. ‘Interesting.’
Weeks passed. Aranthur discovered that he and Kallinikos had won a First in Anatomy. They celebrated with a dinner at the Sunne in Splendour, and Kallinikos brought his lady friend, who was mysterious, beautiful, and Armean.
Dahlia rolled her eyes, and after dinner, snuggled close, she said, ‘That woman is someone’s wife. Kallinikos had better watch out.’
‘How do you know?’ Aranthur was more interested in Dahlia’s neck and shoulders …
She shrugged, kissed him, and then wriggled.
‘I don’t know. But she was evasive about … everything.’
‘Not about her life out East,’ Aranthur said.
Dahlia licked his chin like a cat. ‘Yes, now we know why Kallinikos is suddenly a White.’
They moved on to other things.
The next morning, Sparthos taught him in person, or rather he took the larger class which was not, strictly speaking, on swordplay.
The master was waiting for them on the third floor, and Mikal Sapu put on an arming coat and joined the class as a student. The master taught all of them, carefully, how to fall. Then he began to discuss non-lethal techniques, demonstrating plays from covers and parries and crosses that could be used to strike with a pommel or break an arm or dislocate a shoulder.
He smiled his thin-lipped smile and coughed into a handkerchief, and then he nodded.
‘In war, perhaps, you will always want to kill your enemy. In a fight that is desperate – against footpads, perhaps – you may have to kill.’ The master’s eyes seemed to bore into Aranthur’s and he wondered how much the master knew. ‘It is important to know that you can kill, evenly, ruthlessly, without pause to wrestle your conscience, because the world is full of people who will kill you while you prevaricate.’ He coughed again. The class was silent, waiting.
‘But more often, you will face a genteel fool of good family, or a case of mistaken adultery, or a spouse seeking revenge. In all of these cases, my friends, you will prefer to break an arm. If you kill a noble in a fight, the very least you can expect is the full attention of the law, as young Timos has recently experienced. Even in a licensed duel with contracts and the agreement of both parties, lawyers and notaries will find a way to sue you for unlawful death. So consider what you intend before you draw, and then, like any other tactic or doctrine, pursue your chosen end carefully and ruthlessly. I recommend the broken arm or the dislocated shoulder.’
After class some of the students ridiculed the notion of non-lethal results. There was a good deal of posturing, followed by a heated debate about the Duke of Volta, who was making a fuss at court. Aranthur was surprised by how many of the young men supported Volta, including Kallinikos, although he was more guarded in his comments than the other gentles. And several young men were adamantly against the duke. Rude words and shoving followed, and only the entrance of Master Sparthos calmed them.
He looked around. ‘If any of you wish to fight a legal duel,’ he said with a sneer, ‘I can get you one.’
Silence followed.
‘Well then, behave.’
Aranthur was now attuned enough to understand the factions – but that was the first time he realised that his salle was infected with Imperial and Voltain sides. Nor did the sides actually line up with his understanding of the Whites, who seemed to be democrats, or the Blacks, who appeared to be liberal oligarchs, or the Lions, who seemed to love power.
Aranthur didn’t really want to care. None of it was as interesting as sword fighting, Dahlia, or studying Safiri. Since Dahlia was unavailable, he went home and worked on his Safiri. He had other subjects, but he was neglecting them for Dahlia. However, he couldn’t seem to talk to her without one of them offending the other, and that wasn’t good.
He did receive an official summons to military drill, delivered by an Imperial Messenger and making him a sort of five-hour wonder in the Academy. It proved that there were dozens of men and women in the Academy who were also summoned, and the whole crisis turned out to be nothing more than a day-long drill session. They were summoned to the stable at the Great Gate.
They curried their horses and then laid out their tack. Then they laid out all their weapons, and various officers came around and looked at things. They were in the old Imperial Stables, a huge building as big as a palace, where Rasce was stabled with two thousand other horses. It smelled beautiful, of horse and hay, and summer.
Rasce was glad to see him. He curried the gelding a second time, until the big brute shone. A month or more in a good stable with oats had made the big horse bigger, and he’d filled out.
‘You need to do some work,’ Aranthur muttered to Rasce.
Then there was another inspection, this time a set of three deeply tanned officers, two men and a woman, who went over the weapons again, and paid minute attention to the horses.
‘How many of you own a second horse?’ the woman asked.
Aranthur thought it ironic that he, the poorest student he could see, raised his hand. The other militia who raised their hands were obviously aristocrats.
The woman came over and looked at him.
‘Hmm,’ she said, and they walked off.
The woman at the stall next to his was in her thirties. She grinned.
‘Now you are in for it,’ she said. ‘It’s as if you volunteered. Never volunteer.’
She held out a hand and they shook. She owned a stationery shop on a canal very close to Sparthos’ house. They had a brief conversation about paper, and the man from the stall on the other side joined in. He made ink from squid, and he was looking for buyers.
‘With kuria crystals so dear,’ he said, ‘sepia is cheaper.’
He explained that most black ink was made from substances that were burned, like bone, in very hot ovens, and that the rise in crystal prices made fire more expensive everywhere.
Then they were standing stiffly with their horses for another inspection. This time, their feed bags were inspected, and canteens. Aranthur had neither.
‘You’ve had months,’ a dekark spat. ‘Didn’t occur to you to buy ’em? What the fuck do you think the bounty is for? Wine?’
Trooper Timos shrugged. ‘I never received the bounty. And no one ever told me what to buy.’
‘We’ll see,’ the dekark said.
He went away and returned with a clerk. There was a great deal of muttering, and then the dekark shook his head.
‘Timos, your status is signed by a centark of City Cavalry – a regular officer.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess he didn’t finish the job, so instead of chewing on you, I’ll apologise. I’ve sent for him to validate you. If that goes well, we’ll get you your bounty. But, truth to tell, right now you are not even a member of the Select and if you are unlucky, some bastard will now charge you for feeding your horse.’ He smiled. ‘On the other hand, I note you know how to curry and your kit is in fine shape. You have another horse?’
‘Yes, syr.’
‘Hmm. Right, here’s the centark.’
The dekark gave a salute, touching his heart with his closed right fist, and Centark Equus returned the motion. He was dressed in a scarlet jacket like a short khaftan and breeches with thigh-high soft boots and a f
ur hat, with an elaborately braided half-cloak slung rakishly across his shoulders, lined in fur. Aranthur had never seen a cloak he wanted so much.
‘Damme.’ Equus smiled. ‘I remember you, lad. Seems as if I dicked the dog, what? Never completed your enlistment.’
‘I took the oath,’ Aranthur said.
‘So you did. Good point. He took the oath,’ the Centark said to the clerk.
The clerk rolled his eyes. ‘What possible reason—’ he began.
Equus peeled back the fur-lined collar of his half-cloak and flashed something.
‘Understand me?’ he asked sharply, his suave drawl gone.
The clerk stood rigid. ‘Apologies.’
‘None required – needs of the service an’ all, what? Besides, it’s all me. I forgot to do the paperwork. Bad show.’ He winked at Aranthur. ‘All sorted now?’
‘He needs to receive a bounty,’ the dekark said. ‘Also, syr, since you are standing here and you asked for a tally of all the Select who have two horses, this man has two horses.’
‘Perfect. I’ll take him.’ Equus smiled. ‘Good duty. Timos, am I right?’
‘Yes, syr.’
‘Did I see you on a watch list? You dropped some Westerner in a duel?’ He winked. ‘Dangerous Arnaut boy. We watch you like a hawk, eh? And I’ve seen you crossing blades with some sprig at Master Tercel’s School of Defence? A little flash of Cold Iron?’
Aranthur flushed. ‘Yes, syr.’ He all but froze.
‘Good blade, are you?’
Aranthur didn’t know what to say. ‘I … am learning.’
Equus nodded. ‘Terrible place. Too many people. Drinks too expensive.’
He turned, as if this made sense, and walked off, his gold spurs jingling.
‘Well, well. Timos … Is that right? Arnaut?’ the dekark asked.
‘Yes, syr.’
The dekark nodded. ‘I have a new trooper who knows the senior centark of the Imperial Nomadi – I’ll have to watch my arse. Are you a troublemaker, Timos?’
‘Not at all, syr.’
The dekark grinned. ‘Too bad. I like a fuckin’ struggle. Good. Your tack is excellent. Here’s a chit for your bounty – you’ll get it when you draw your pay.’
The dekark went off to deal with some other crisis.
Aranthur spent the rest of the day learning to stand at attention and walk about like a soldier. It was all less alien than he had feared, and at the pay table he drew twenty-one silver crosses, roughly what he made in five weeks of leather-work. He went with his new friend, the paper merchant, and met with her husband, who sent him to a cousin, where the next day he bought a forage bag, two net bags, a haversack, a canteen, and some other equipment for eight silver crosses. Then, when his classes were done, he walked across the city to the Stables with Dahlia and hung all his gear in his stall as was required by regulations. He had them with him; he asked her to read them aloud while he arranged his kit.
She laughed. ‘You take everything so seriously.’
That was too true to dispute.
‘Care to take a ride with me?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I like to ride.’
She mounted in front of him, and he took Rasce for a ride outside the Lonika Gate with Dahlia riding double. The road was like a tidal pool of mud and they were late coming home.
‘I enjoyed that,’ she said. ‘I could rent a horse …’ She shook her head. ‘You are supposedly a penniless Arnaut. I had to buy our first dinner. But you have a horse.’
And you know Ty Drako better than you admit, Aranthur thought.
In fact, those weeks were an endless whirl of activity. There were moments of happiness, like drinking wine at the Sunne in Splendour when Dahlia got a first in Polemageia or battle magik. Aranthur had never been more proud to be with Dahlia, and they took Kallinikos and his Armean partner Salla, a beautiful woman with red-blonde hair and slanted eyes like a cat’s. She was very well-read, and spoke Safiri, and Aranthur was surprised to find that she knew of the grimoire he was translating.
Salla patted his hand. Aranthur thought that she was a good deal older – perhaps as old as thirty-five.
‘Do you work in Safiri?’ Aranthur asked.
‘Not well,’ Salla admitted. ‘I tried. My husband does.’ She frowned, and Kallinikos flushed.
Later, Salla took them all to a tavern with gambling. She and Dahlia were laughing together. They rode home in a pair of gondolas. Aranthur had never been able to afford one. The gondolier made broad comments on the utility and comfort of his ‘private cabin’.
‘Never ever make love in a gondola. The fucking gondoliers will mock you first and blackmail you later,’ Dahlia said.
The next day, after fencing, Kallinikos was ebullient.
‘I love her,’ he said. ‘She is changing my life. Her husband …’ He looked around. ‘Not here.’
‘That woman needs friends,’ Dahlia said later, in the privacy of Aranthur’s cold room. ‘Not boyfriends.’
She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret, but he knew she was angry.
It was a good time, a pleasant time. He got to know Kallinikos better; he and Dahlia began to find other things to do together; and he tried to enjoy it while he did a great deal of work. His Safiri began to make noticeable progress; his sword work began to feel fluid and easy. His arm-trap became natural – he could play it against senior students. He found that he could practise all of his montante rules with the heavy blade he’d purchased almost a year before, and he entertained his neighbours by whirling it around the courtyard where they all hung their laundry.
Somehow he got a First in Practical Philosophy, largely because Dahlia sat up with him and read his notes aloud, as well as her own room-mate’s notes from the same class, which were much better organised – and because Kallinikos had laid out the money for all the dead animals they needed to do careful dissection, and his drawings, he had to admit, had played a role.
‘If you are so poor,’ Dahlia said one night, ‘why not sell that sword?’ She pointed a bare arm at the heavy sword he’d purchased in the Night Market, what seemed like a lifetime before. ‘You can’t wear it on the street.’
‘I use it to practise my montante.’
‘It’s very old.’ She rolled off his bed, and walked over to the sword and took it down. ‘It makes me feel old just holding it in my hand.’
Aranthur just lay there, watching her with the sword.
People began to know his name. Dahlia never seemed to have work of her own. She was available whenever he was, which seemed odd, as sometimes Aranthur wondered if she even liked him. Her lovemaking was enthusiastic, but she was distant, virtually uninterested in conversation. When they walked together, she didn’t look at him; her attention was elsewhere. And he had the vaguest suspicion that she’d searched his room, which was probably insane of him, but he’d found her standing there …
As the term began to wind down and the sun began to climb the sky and the ground began to soften and everything smelt of mud, Aranthur’s whirl became a maelstrom. He’d fully translated his second full spell from the Safiri grimoire; it was not a high-power working, but it was very complicated – much more advanced then the simple shield. Now he was working directly with the Master of Arts, which was very frustrating, as she would be interrupted constantly, leaving him to efface himself.
He had two more drill days, which effectively sabotaged any attempt he made to hoard a little time.
After the second drill day, when he forgot to tell Dahlia that he could not meet her for even a fish pie, she came to his room. He was asleep in his reading chair and she slammed the door.
‘No one stands me up,’ she spat.
‘I’m sorry.’ He really was tired, but he tended to wake up badly, and his ‘I’m sorry’ sounded petulant.
‘There’s mud on your shoes. You went riding?’
‘Yes. Ariadne needed exercise.’
Dahlia shrugged. ‘I understand. You are a compendium
of duties and obligations, not a person. Your swordplay comes before me. Your horse comes before me.’
Aranthur could have said many things, but what he chose to say was, ‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘Well. That was refreshingly honest.’
She turned and walked down the stairs.
Dahlia stopped speaking to him, much less sharing his room or his bed. The issue between them was time; he understood her position, but he didn’t see a solution. He was embarrassed to discover that when she left him, he had time to study and he got a great deal more sleep.
He spent more time on his Safiri, and on the spell.
He couldn’t imagine that he was really going to ride home for ploughing, which was only a few weeks away. But, paradoxically, he’d asked Kallinikos, who was studying weather-related magiks in addition to his theatrical effects – or perhaps to cover his interests with his father – to tell him when the Arnaut hills would be ready for ploughing. He knew what a difference a horse would make.
Finally, a week before ploughing time as delineated by Kallinikos, he attempted to visit Dahlia in her rooms. She was out, and her room-mate looked embarrassed.
‘I don’t think you should come back,’ she said. ‘Dahlia doesn’t like men who persist.’
Aranthur had to accept he’d been supplanted.
He felt bitter, and he thought dark thoughts as he strode across the precinct. One of the main paths into the central Academy square had tape across it and a huge pit was open, down to darkly gleaming water that smelled terrible. Workmen were doing something filthy, and he had to walk up the spine of the city to get to his home. He was wearing his new blade, which seemed like very little consolation for losing Dahlia. In his bitterness, he had to admit that he’d been a complete fool; he hadn’t even reassured her in his mad rush to do everything. In fact, his assertion that he preferred his horse and his swordplay seemed infantile now, and maybe even wicked, and his enjoyment of additional sleep told him he had no idea how to live. He was angry – angry at himself, angry at the world, at the stupid situation that Arnaud’s murder had put him in.
Cold Iron (Masters & Mages) Page 27
