“Jesca van Rild,” she said, hand extended. Jesca was shorter than Tyrissa by a head, with chin length brown hair, a lithe physique and a finely featured face that Tyrissa would consider out of place in security guild. They shook, Tyrissa noting the expected lack of softness in her hand.
“I’m in charge of the Cadre’s female complement,” she said with a smooth confidence that counterbalanced Tyrissa’s surprise at Jesca being in some position of authority. She looked barely older than any of the applicants that were in this sitting room.
“Tyrissa Jorensen. Pleased to meet you,” Tyrissa managed to get out, trying to remember Liran’s advice on post-interview etiquette.
“Sorry for the grilling they had to give you in there,” Jesca said.
“I was a little worried by how often they asked about my brother and Khalan North.” Overall, Tyrissa felt it wasn’t so bad. Through her virtue of ignorance, she coasted through most of their questions on account of having no history in the city. She was thankful that she never paid too much attention to Liran’s professional affairs or the organization and cargo of the North Wind caravan.
“If having a family member in a Prime were grounds for refusal, we wouldn’t have any members at all. Follow me. I’ll give you a quick tour.”
Jesca led her through hallways with aged wood floors of long planks that creaked at every third step. Tapestries, banners, and shields lined the walls between doors, most bearing variations of the Cadre’s spear point emblem and always colored red and white.
“The Cadre has a reputation to uphold,” Jesca said, trailing a hand fondly across the face of a passing shield, “We try to be very selective with new recruits.”
“Have to keep the rabble out, after all,” Tyrissa said.
“Exactly. Let the Talons pick through those sorts. We don’t accept former members of a Prime’s security detail, criminals, people with too strong conflicting interests, and so on. And Pactbound, obviously,” she added with a short laugh.
“Obviously,” Tyrissa agreed, if perhaps too quickly. Being Pactbound wasn’t mentioned in any of the paperwork or questioning. Thinking back through all of the stories, most Pactbound were obvious by appearance alone. The Elemental Powers’ blessings usually came with physical side effects, like shifts in eye and skin color or more otherworldly effects like a constant trail of smoke or scaled skin. Though Tsellien had looked normal, Tyrissa checked herself every few days for any sign of such changes. She had found nothing so far.
Soon they were back in the grand entry hall that Tyrissa only got a brief glimpse of before being directed away to the sitting area. Jesca weaved through the rows of display cases that contained memorabilia and trophies, each object looking like it had a story to tell.
“These days we’re up to nearly five hundred full members, plus support staff. I’d say half are here in Khalanheim, with the rest split between our secondary chapterhouses in Rilderdam and Delmora.” She paused in front glass case containing a trio of old swords, the hilts worn from age but the blades still polished to the point of shining. “You’re not from around here, so I bet this is all a little strange to you. Morgale, right?”
“Yeah. For a mercenary company it’s all very civilized and formal.”
Jesca briefly frowned at that. “Mercenary is something of a dirty word around here. We prefer ‘Security Service’ or something similar. Mercenary implies transience and unreliability, and we are neither. Yes, we originated as a mercenary company but we’ve been based in Khalanheim since shortly after the Rift opened and our founder Kadrich had a strict stance on fulfilling contacts to the letter and maintaining a sterling reputation.”
“The Rilder War,” Tyrissa said. There had been only one story about Kadrich’s Cadre in Men like Griffins, one of the books she read on the caravan. The Rilder War was a long, slow conflict between two varying alliances of old Khalan states, and the Cadre was hired by the losing side. Yet they held to their contract where any other mercenary company would have fled, harrying the advance of the enemy army for weeks in the waterlogged lands along the Rilder River. They only quit the field when word arrived that the war had ended behind their backs, their employers conquered by a surprise attack. The company’s reputation only grew from there and has remained pristine ever since.
“Exactly,” Jesca said, turning towards the wide stairway at the rear of the entry all. Tyrissa followed, though wished they would linger among the display cases.
“That reputation is the center of our guild identity. Especially these days with the Primes and the Khalan states and exchanging open conflict for social and commercial intrigue. The ability to trust draws business better than anything. Most of our contracts are bodyguard work or on-site security.”
“But not all?”
“Hey, I get it,” Jesca said with an understanding smile. “Where’s the sense of adventure? We all have to go through a little disillusionment at first. I’ll be honest with you: The vast majority of contracts are right here in the city, and most field missions are merchant escort jobs, usually overland caravans to Delmora or on the rivers and canals to Rilderdam. But not every contract. We like to think we’ve pushed back the wilderness, that we’ve tamed the threats. But guilds like us still get to see the wilder stuff.”
“I crossed the Vordeum Wastes,” Tyrissa said. “I have some idea what’s out there.”
Jesca nodded. “Right. We have a handful of veterans who specialize in Elemental jobs, and they’re occasionally contracted out to hunt down whatever new creature the Hithian ruins or Vordeum spat out. Those are always the talk of the hall for weeks afterward, so there’s still that air of adventure around here, even our last griffin hunt was a century ago.”
“And which do you prefer, Jesca?”
“I’m a city girl,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll take thieves in the night over some magick-born monster any day.”
Jesca had led her to a balcony that overlooked the rear of the building. The guildhall formed three sides around a central courtyard of packed dirt and gravel. The yard was mostly empty with only a pair of Cadre members squaring off against dummies of straw that lined one side, their footwork throwing up small clouds of dust. A broad gate and wrought iron fence enclosed the grounds, the fence sculpted like a wall of spears.
“This is the training yard,” Jesca said. “Come back tomorrow morning and be ready for a fight.”
“Now that is much more my style,” Tyrissa said with relish. “So is that all? I’m hired?” As soon as the words were out Tyrissa began to dimly remember Liran’s specifically mentioned that kind of misstep.
Jesca covered a faint look of surprise with a smile. “Not quite yet, but you have good timing,” she said. “We’re running the group trials for potential recruits tomorrow. If today was the modern formality, tomorrow is the martial tradition.”
Tyrissa entered the Cadre’s training yard through the open gate at the center of the wall of false spears. Gathered on one side of the yard were around twenty other recruits, and Tyrissa spotted three other applicants from yesterday among them. She took her place in line, their group standing opposite to a row of full Cadre members, half in shirtsleeves, half bare-chested and all with small touches of red and white: a wrist band here, a tattoo there. Most held wooden training swords, the false blades smeared with black dust. Scattered through the yard were short wooden troughs filled with more of the black powder. Though the Cadre’s guildhall sheltered the yard on three sides, riftwind gusts would still sneak in and stir up small black puffs of dust from the troughs.
A man in his middle years called the various attendees and applicants to attention. He cradled a clipboard in one arm and wore an expression that floated between perpetual disapproval and grudging tolerance.
“I am Serik van Rild, Kadrich’s Cadre’s Master of Arms. The Cadre keeps only a few traditions from our pre-Rift past. Namely, we’ve kept the short gauntlet of testing for new recruits. On a normal day this yard would be awash with the sound
the morning’s training sessions. Instead they get to test you all. It’s a very popular diversion and I had no shortage of volunteers. Each man in that line is better than you and eager to prove it.”
Another van Rild. Tyrissa could see a passing resemblance between Serik and Jesca. He was right about these tests being a popular diversion. In addition to the line of volunteer ‘testers’ they had a respectable audience lining inner walls of the guildhall and watching from the second floor balconies. Tyrissa spotted Jesca among their audience, leaning against the shadowed wall of the training yard and speaking with a pair of other women.
Serik continued. “This is more a test of competence than any sort of winnowing out. That will come with time. However please keep in mind that we’re looking to be impressed. ”
Serik walked along the line of recruits and read through pairs of names, assigning one prospect to one veteran. Some paired off into basic forms and defenses. Others were more contentious, the Cadre member surprising his assigned applicant with a more vigorous trial.
The Master of Arms reached Tyrissa’s place in line and flipped to her page on his clipboard.
“Jorensen. Cultural youth training in quarterstaff.”
Something about his faint, dismissive twist on ‘cultural’ got under Tyrissa’s skin.
“It’s not a quarterstaff,” Tyrissa said.
That was probably a mistake. Why would you say that?
“Pardon?”
Tyrissa held out her staff horizontally and said, “Morg staff, not quarterstaff. A quarterstaff is always six to, say, eight feet long, while a Morg staff is specifically tailored to the user’s height and reach. Also, the three metal bands are standard while they’re optional on a quarterstaff.”
Serik gave her a steely look.
“Sir,” she added.
He glanced down at his notes and said, “You’ve had short term training under a Weapon Master?”
“That’s right.”
“Who?”
“Kexal Rawlins.”
“Oh? Excellent,” Serik turned and pointed to a pair of waiting Cadre members. “Fiers and Arveld, would you give Miss Jorensen a proper test in the Jalarni style?”
“Two at once? I thought this was a test of competence.” I knew I should have kept quiet about the staff.
“Consider it an opportunity to prove yourself exceptional.”
Tyrissa decided it would be best if she said nothing more.
Fiers and Arveld both gave respectful nods then broke from their line and moved to an open space near the center of the training yard, their wooden swords already coated in dust and readied.
Tyrissa followed the example set by the other recruits and went to the closest trough of black dust. She dipped both ends of her staff into the clinging powder, spinning it to get a thick coating. She could feel the build-up of extra eyes watching her.
Serik said Jalarni style. I might as well give them a show.
She stepped away from the trough and summoned as much swagger as possible as she approached her opponents. At two paces away she spun her staff overhead, creating a thin haze of black dust around her. Then she snapped it down, striking one end to the packed dirt of the training yard and birthing another cloud of excess black dust. Tyrissa dropped into a loose, defensive stance and held there, studying the two men.
Her opponents made a mismatched pair. Fiers was compact and dark haired while Arveld was just about Tyrissa’s height with a hooked nose and the sandy brown hair that seemed common among the Khalans. The first kept a neutral face through her display, but Tyrissa was sure she saw the flicker of a smile from Arveld. The two slid into basic forms and rushed in to attack without warning.
The first few deflections were trivial, simply the two testing the waters. They struck in cooperation, but never in a rhythm, and Tyrissa responded by flying through different stances. Her staff thrummed with each impact, an echo of her rising adrenaline. These two were a step above the caravan guards, honed by their profession and without the slightest hint of not taking this seriously. Tyrissa took that as an unspoken compliment. After a few more exchanges, Tyrissa could just barely stay ahead of them, making use of wide sweeps to keep them back. She couldn’t go down so easily, not after opening her mouth like that. Serik wanted her to prove her skill, but keeping them both in front of her and deflecting their attacks was the best she could do. Soon Tyrissa found herself constantly stepping back, circling.
She shouldn’t have even lasted this long. She hadn’t been practicing that much.
With all this room, why fight in a little circle?
Tyrissa cried out as she spun a wide arc, forcing the two to jump back and giving her just enough space. She turned and ran through another pair of trainee and tester, sliding through the layer of dirt on the ground beneath their crossed blades.
Arveld and Fiers followed, barely missing a beat even when she changed the tempo, splitting around the nearby pair of dueling men who found themselves suddenly part of the terrain. It was enough of a window. She jumped to her feet and charged at Arveld. That caught him by surprise, forcing a quick, sloppy deflection and creating an opening. Tyrissa hooked her staff behind his knee and sent him tumbling to the dirt. She spun away to face Fiers and raised her staff to catch his attack. His wooden sword crashed against the central metal band of her staff, sending sprays of black dust into the air between them.
Weapons locked against each other, Fiers pressed forward, turning her hasty block into a contest of strength, one Tyrissa knew she’d never win. She heard the scrape of Arveld rising to his feet behind her and felt her time to make a move slipping away.
“That’s enough,” Serik said, his voice cutting through the sounds of a half dozen duels. Fiers pulled away, looking disappointed but giving her an ever-so-slight nod of approval.
The trials continued through the morning, but the subsequent rounds were closer to standard testing procedure, basic gauges of fighting ability. After her little display, Tyrissa could sense a higher level of respect from her assessors.
At the conclusion of the trials, Jesca approached her with a welcoming smile after briefly conferring with Serik.
“It’s good thing my uncle called those two off when he did,” Jesca said. “I was about to jump in and lend a hand.”
Uncle. Noted.
“You’ll have to wait a little while to get a chance for that.”
“Well, at this point it’s safe welcome to Kadrich’s Cadre. I’ll have a hand in much of your training and I hope you learn quickly.”
“I don’t learn any other way,” Tyrissa said.
“Good. I’m glad to have you with us. We’ve been on the lookout for more female recruits in recent months. There’s been an increased demand of late, of our kind specifically.”
“The Thieves,” Tyrissa said. She knew next to nothing, but threw it out there to try and impress.
“Right. If only they were just thieves, they’d be less of a problem. They’ve started to dabbled in kidnappings lately, holding wives and daughters of wealthier merchants for ransom. Some of our clients are more comfortable with women as guards. Add to that the oncoming social season, and the contracts are flooding in.”
“Social season?”
“It’s the most magickal time of the year, when the ranks of the various guilds and foreign guests flood into the city for an endless chain of parties, galas, and balls. We’re something of a new and unique feather to put in their hats, even if hats themselves fell out of style a few years ago.”
“So we’re a fashion statement?” It was hardly what Tyrissa expected of a security guild descended from mercenaries.
Jesca smiled at that.
“This is Khalanheim, Tyrissa. We’re nothing if not fashionable.”
Chapter Seventeen
‘No god or king but coin’.
On the surface the Khalans stuck to their motto, eschewing a formal nobility and religion. Anyone can rise and fall based on their own wits, making and los
ing fortunes by their own actions, not thanks to a ruler or reverence or birth. While there was no king there certainly were kingdoms, as Tyrissa saw on her first real job with the Cadre. She was one of four hired guards, a ‘band’ in the guild’s parlance and their charge was Astor van Delmor. He was one such king, lacking a crown but with a monetary kingdom all the same. He was a King of Food, a rotund man who clearly loved partaking in the fruits of his rule. When they arrived at his modest mansion to escort him to the Harvest Market he barely gave them a second glance, as though an armed accompaniment was part of his normal day. Perhaps it was. To his credit, he walked everywhere with a wide, swinging gait.
They made their way up Farmer’s Row, a street that paralleled the Heartroad but was totally hidden from Tyrissa’s eyes on that first trip into the city by the rambling blocks of row houses. Tyrissa shrugged often in the red and white Cadre guild coat. It was cut for a man and hastily found for her use while the Cadre waited on their next order of tailored uniforms. It felt like she was playing dress up in her father’s clothes, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too broad, and no amount of cinching or tucking could remedy it.
The Harvest Market lined the street ahead and was packed with throngs of buyers and suppliers perusing the fruits and grains of the Khalan Federation’s vast farmlands. As they entered the chaotic din of the market, Tyrissa kept a mantra of everything the Cadre’s training tried to cram into her head over the last two weeks. The density of the market should have amazed her, but failed to do so. She could still measure her time in Khalanheim in days, yet already her view of this crowded market was shifted from wide-eyed wonder to narrowed-eyed suspicion.
Watch the crowd, not the client.
The crowds were thick with women in sturdy and colorful dresses out to restock their family’s stores. Dotted between were merchants in their finer silks or bright cotton guild coats, seeking larger amounts for their employers or a new supplier deal. Sun-bronzed farm workers pushed carts through the crowds or hawked their produce from the hundreds of stalls and storefronts.
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