The doorman remained silent for a moment, then the panel was slammed shut and a clank of metal rang out from behind the door. The main doors remained shut, but a smaller wicket door opened in the centre of one of them. The doorman stood behind it, mage lamp in hand with a dark cloak covering his nightclothes.
‘Well, be quick about it then,’ he said impatiently.
Soren looked at Emeric, who remained motionless. He smiled for the first time.
‘Well, on you go, lad, I’ve taken you as far as I can.’ He paused abruptly, as though he had stopped himself from saying something, but then continued. ‘Don’t let where you’ve come from hold you back. This place isn’t everything, but it’s as much as the likes of us can hope for. Just make the best you can out of this opportunity, another one this good ain’t likely to come along again.’
With that he took a step back, turned, and paced away into the night. Soren walked hesitantly through the door to be greeted by the grimacing doorman. He slammed the door, bolted it shut, and turned to Soren.
‘You’re filthy, and you stink. It’s the stables for you tonight, m’lad. The Master can decide what he wants to do with you in the morning,’ he said. He beckoned for Soren to follow him and walked off into the darkness, his mage lamp creating a soft bubble of warm light around them.
The stable was, compared to what Soren was used to, palatial. He couldn’t even guess at how many horses it housed, but it must have run into the hundreds. When he had asked the doorman, he had been ignored. The doorman had led him to an empty stall, told him that someone would be there for him in the morning and left him to the darkness and the sound of hundreds of restless horses. Soren didn’t mind however; the straw was fresh and deep, the stall a perfect shelter.
As he sat down on the hay, he found it hard to believe what had occurred that day. The sponsorship of promising young men of humble backgrounds into the Academy was a well known tradition in the city, and a source of popular pride. Even the most lowly man could reach beyond what he had been born into and achieve virtually anything if he was lucky enough to have the opportunity to attend the Academy. When Soren was a boy at his orphanage, both he and all of the other boys dreamed of being spotted by a wealthy benefactor and trained for entry to the Academy. It was probably the dream of every boy of a modest background. As he had gotten older and the dream ever less likely, he had forgotten it, along with all of the other dreams of childhood as life became a daily struggle just to survive. Now, it seemed, the dream was coming true. He was almost too afraid to go to sleep in case he awoke to discover this day had all in fact been a dream of the dream coming true. Nevertheless, eventually he lay back on the fresh straw and had the best night’s sleep that he could remember.
He awoke to beams of sunlight piercing down through ventilation slats in the roof. They illuminated the countless particles of dust drifting through the air, which made it seem chokingly thick. There were two men standing over him, silhouetted in the contrasting murk and brilliant illumination of the stables. Soren’s heart raced until he remembered that he was in safe surroundings. They were talking, clearly unaware that he was awake.
‘He’s too tall, and far too old to be starting off his training. What was Amero thinking? He must have been drunk again,’ said the taller of the two men.
‘Hmm, I agree. Too tall by far,’ said the other, standing with his arms akimbo.
‘And it looks as though he has just been dragged out of the gutter,’ uttered the taller one.
‘He probably has, but there’s many more than him here that have been dragged out of the gutter. Be that as it may, Amero’s man handed over a purse of crowns this morning that will more than cover his fee, lodging and expenses for two years, so he must have seen something in the lad.’
‘Maybe he’s taken a fancy to him!’ said the taller man.
‘Ha! I don’t like the man any more than you do, Bryn, but I like unfounded speculation even less. Amero is a Banneret of the Blue and has the right to nominate one student every year. This is the first time he has ever done so, so we must give the lad a chance. Wake him up.’
The taller man, the one who had been called Bryn, stepped forward and nudged Soren with his boot. Soren made his best attempt to seem startled and sleepy.
‘I am Dornish, Banneret of the Blue and Master of the Academy,’ said the shorter man, his arms still akimbo and his features still hidden in the dark. ‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Soren, sir.’ He added the sir as an afterthought as he got to his feet. Standing, he was taller than both men. He had assumed himself to be over six feet, but didn’t really know for certain.
Dornish gave him an appraising and not particularly encouraging look.
‘A bloody giant, and scrawny as a starving rat. I expect you’re as clumsy as an ox, lad! Still, you’ll have reach and strength if we can put some muscle on you,’ said Dornish. He stared at Soren with a look of uncertainty on his face. ‘You will have a chance here, lad. I don’t have high hopes, I’ll be honest, but you’ll be given a fair run. If you aren’t up to it, having the Count of Moreno as sponsor won’t do an ounce of good.’ He turned back to the taller man. ‘See that he’s washed, fed and given proper clothes. We’ll have a look at him this afternoon, and if he isn’t up to it we shall send him on his way.’
C h a p t e r 5
THE ACADEMY OF SWORDSMEN
After being pushed into an ablutions block with a towel and a bar of soap, Soren was taken to the Academy supply shop, where he was given a new set of clothes, the uniform of a student at the Academy. Having been used to loose rags, the fitted clothes he was given felt restricting. He conceded that they fit well and allowed him a full range of movement, it was just that being fully enclosed in cloth was a new experience. After washing he had looked at himself in a mirror, and had to acknowledge how thin he was. With the muck washed off there was more bone than flesh and next to the people around him, he looked like a walking skeleton. With the new clothes he looked like an entirely different person; perhaps even one that might fit in there. He hoped they let him at least keep them if they threw him out, as they most certainly would. They would come in very handy in winter, if they weren’t stolen first.
When taken to the canteen, referred to simply as the ‘Dining Hall’, it became clear to him that his emaciated look would soon change if he managed to stay at the Academy. The hall was a long, high ceilinged room, with dark and ancient looking roof timbers. At the end opposite the doors, there was a long table upon which was placed great silver serving dishes full of food. Porridges, stews, soups, potatoes, vegetables, fruits, meats and breads of all description. The hall was open all day and you could eat as much as you wanted, he was told. It sounded too good to be true, but then everything he had heard so far that morning had. The only other place he had seen this much food was in the Crossways, and access to that fare was considerably harder to come by.
He loaded up his tray with a little of everything that caught his eye, which amounted to an awful lot, and picked a seat on the end of one of the long tables as far away from anyone else as he could get. In the deepest recess of his mind he feared that the food would be stolen, and his natural reaction to it was defensive even though he knew that this would not happen. What was this strange place, and how did he end up there?
The steward who had shown him to the dining hall had told him that he would be back in twenty minutes or so to take him to class, so he tucked into his food with ravenous intent. As he ate, he surveyed his surroundings in more detail. The walls were lined with great portraits of distinguished looking men. They could all have been great heroes of Ostia, but the images meant nothing to Soren. He might have heard of their names, but he had never seen paintings like that before. In the centre of the long, wood panelled walls on both sides of the hall, great marble fireplaces housed roaring fires. The heat they gave out kept the massive hall comfortably warm.
There weren’t that many people there and Soren supposed most of
the students would be in a class of some sort. There were a few small groups huddled together around the hall though, eating and talking intently. They were all dressed identically in their uniform of white shirt, beige britches and sleeveless white waistcoat, with their dark blue doublets hanging over the back of their chairs. They paid Soren little interest. He supposed he didn’t stand out all that much anymore now that he was clean and wearing the same uniform as them. He had not yet been given a doublet, but was told that he would be in due course. There was a black, brimless felt hat also, but he was told that it was only worn for assemblies and reviews and such like. He was glad that this was the case as he thought the hat looked ridiculous, and it made him feel ridiculous when he had tried it on.
By the time he was finished, he was beyond completely full. His stomach felt tight and ready to split, but he had not left behind a single morsel of what had been on his tray. He thought about getting some more and putting it in his pockets for later. It felt as though it would be an act of madness to allow the opportunity to go by, but as he was about to do so the instructor named Bryn entered the hall and after scanning the room quickly made his way over to him.
‘I hope you are done eating, Master Dornish is in the training hall and wishes to see you,’ he said.
Soren nodded and got up to follow him. They walked out of the dining hall into the cobbled courtyard outside. Bryn led him through courtyards and around corners until they eventually reached a larger square flanked on all sides by tall buildings of the same pale stone and lined with windows. Bryn led him along the side of the square to the building on the opposite side.
As was the style of all the buildings that he had so far been in, this building was entered through massive double doors slightly recessed into the long side of the building that faced out onto the square.
‘This is the Tyro Training Hall,’ said Bryn, as he reached for the door handle. ‘If Master Dornish chooses to allow you to remain, you will get to know this hall very well.’
They entered it and any questions Soren had about why the campus seemed so quiet were answered. There were hundreds of young men, about his age or younger training all around the hall. They were running, lifting weights, climbing ropes, doing all kinds of exercises. They were fencing against each other, against stationary dummies, or against dummies that moved and attacked by themselves. This wonder seized hold of Soren’s attention for some time as he walked across the hall notionally following Bryn.
‘Master, here is the boy,’ Bryn said.
The man turned around. It was the first time Soren had seen him clearly. Master Dornish was quite a bit shorter than Soren. He could in fact see clear over the Master’s head. His hair was long and had once been black but was now liberally streaked with grey and was tied back in a tight, neat ponytail. He had a thick moustache the same colour as his hair, and a neat pointed tuft of hair growing from his chin. On closer inspection Soren realised the moustache was concealing part of a scar that ran from his cheek down to his lip. Bryn had a scar on his face also, and he recalled that Emeric had one also. It seemed to be an identifying mark for men in this trade.
‘I’ll match you against one of the tyros. They are about the same age as you, some a little older perhaps, but have already been studying the sword for at least a decade and have completed two years of study here. They are your peers and the students you must ultimately prove yourself against. If you do passably well you can stay. No one can expect much more than that from you at this point,’ he said, as they walked across the hall’s floor. ‘Ranph! Bring an extra sword.’
A boy with dark brown hair instantly stopped what he was doing and ran to one of the sword racks from which he extracted two rapiers and ran to Soren and Dornish.
‘Ranph dal Bragadin, meet Tyro Applicant Soren,’ said Master Dornish.
Other students began to gather around, followed by more as they became aware that something was going on. They formed a wide circle around Soren, Ranph and Dornish, their boots shuffling on the wooden floor. Their whispers were both irritating Soren, and intimidating him at the same time. He didn’t like being the centre of attention. They were all watching every move he made. He had always lived in the shadows, surviving by never being noticed. He could feel beads of sweat form on his brow and tried to focus his attention on the boy in front of him. He was shorter than Soren, but well built. Fit and strong in comparison to Soren’s scrawny and malnourished. His hair was of the fashionable shoulder length, held back in a ponytail more carelessly tied than Master Dornish’s, which gave him a rakish, carefree look.
Despite his attempt to concentrate, the whispers, chuckles and slights gnawed at the back of Soren’s mind. Ranph handed him a sword and then stepped back.
‘Ready? Duel,’ said Dornish.
Soren had just registered the words when Ranph lunged forward, the button tip of his rapier a blinding flash of light as it tore through the air toward him and stabbed into his chest. Guffaws of laughter, applause and cheers consumed the dull murmur of voices that had existed before. Soren felt embarrassed and angry. If he was to be thrown out of the Academy, it would not be to the sounds of the jeering laughter.
‘A touch! Excellent form, Bragadin. Again! Duel,’ said Dornish.
Soren dropped into a crouch and sprang backwards, his body moving clear of the path of Ranph’s sword not a moment too soon. Expecting another quick scoring touch Ranph committed too much weight to his otherwise perfectly executed thrust and paused a moment too long on his front foot as he pushed back to a balanced stance. Angered by the constant muttering Soren lashed out, sweeping his rapier back in an arc, twisting his body into it as he did. Ranph let out a yelp as the length of the rounded blade lashed across his back. Gasps replaced the laughter and cheering of the previous touch. There was more muttering, but now of disbelief, which made Soren smile to himself. This boy was fast, but he was faster.
‘A touch! All even. One more touch to be scored,’ said Dornish. There was a note of surprise in his voice. ‘Ready? Duel!’
Ranph was angry, both at the shame of having conceded a touch in front of his peers and at the hot red welt that was forming across his back, but he was not stupid and this time he approached with more caution. Soren had not really expected another swift attack, but had moved quickly just in case. Sword out in front, he took two quick steps to the left and brushed aside the testing feints Ranph fired in quickly but without the conviction of a proper attack.
The mocking voices in the background seemed to fade into oblivion, as Soren was only aware of his opponent, the sound of their boots scratching on the dull wooden floor and above all, the hammering of blood through his ears. Ranph lunged again, faster this time, his eyes not locked on Soren’s any more. Why not? They were locked on his target! Soren stepped to the side and twisted his torso, the blade passing a hair’s breadth away. Soren tried his fast counter again but somehow Ranph got his blade back in time and swatted away Soren’s with ease. The gathered audience gasped with the same excited tension that Soren had seen at the Amphitheatre. The thought that his actions could elicit the effect that Amero had on people filled him with an enormous sense of something he couldn’t quite describe, but the momentary lapse in concentration nearly cost him dearly. Ranph came back again, thrust after thrust, his front foot hammering down on the floor with each attack, breath hissing out of his mouth with exertion.
Eventually Ranph gave up the flurry as fury gave way to fatigue. The duellists circled one another for what felt like an age; all the while Soren waited for the next series of attacks. The tension was building to a point where Soren felt as though he could no longer bear it. He did the only thing he could think of to break the impasse. He lashed out with all the speed, strength and energy he could muster. As his body lunged forward, his arm outstretched, Ranph’s movement seemed to slow. However, as had been the case with Soren’s previous attack, this one was wild and uncontrolled. As fast as he was, his strike was not on target. Ranph ducked out of the
way and fired in a counter thrust of his own.
‘A touch!’ said Dornish.
Soren held his breath, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest stinging from where he had just been struck. Had he done enough to remain?
‘Thank you, Tyro dal Bragadin, you may return to your class,’ said Dornish. When Ranph had gone and the crowd had dispersed and returned to their classes, Dornish turned to Soren.
‘That was some of the ugliest sword play I have ever seen, young man, but by the Gods you are fast! It seems the popinjay was right!’ He muttered the last words, as though he was thinking out loud. ‘I don’t know if I have ever seen anyone move quite that quickly, especially not someone your size. There are not many here that can put a touch on dal Bragadin even on a bad day; he really is very good. You can stay. I’ll have a steward find you a bunk in the Under Cadet Dormitory for now.’
He was in. Soren did not know whether to be pleased or worried. Perhaps feeling both was most appropriate. A doorway to a completely different life had been opened to him and the swift and drastic change in his circumstances left him feeling lightheaded. He was suddenly very tired, no doubt due to it being the most tumultuous day of his life, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about where his next meal would come from anymore.
C h a p t e r 6
A JUMBLE OF LETTERS
One of the Academy stewards took him from the training hall to the Under Cadet dormitory. Those in their first year at the Academy were referred to as ‘Under Cadets’, or ‘Unders’ and they lived in this building. The porter had said that all four hundred of the first year students had their rooms here. This was one of the years that Soren had been skipped past, but as a newcomer there were many formalities, such as membership of a house of residence, that had yet to be addressed, so for the time being he was being given a room here.
The Tattered Banner Page 3
