‘Find the answer, I will be coming back to you,’ said Rilid.
Soren opened the book, his face down to hide the red shame glowing from it. There were sniggers from around the room, one from Ranph who had turned around to watch him in his discomfort. Soren flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the jumble of squiggles on the paper, a hope somewhere deep within him that he might find the answer here by some divinely inspired miracle.
It had never occurred to him that there would be more to the Academy than learning the use of weapons. He had no idea how he would survive classes such as this.
‘As Tyro Soren here has failed to realise, etiquette is as important for a swordsman as prancing about with a length of steel spilling blood. I was as fine a swordsman as you could hope to find in my youth,’ he said, smiling at his self-flattery. He looked around the class for support, but finding none, he continued. ‘As I have said, it is all well and good to wander around slaughtering all comers,’ he made an ape at a thrusting motion with his chalk stick, still impressed by his own notions of grandeur, ‘but for a swordsman to truly make his way in the world, particularly for one of humble origins, one must know the workings of princely courts, of embassies and of polite society. I feel confident in saying that when you venture out from this great Academy into the world, it is the lessons that you learn in my class that you will feel serve you the best. Hearts and minds cannot be won with steel alone. Tyro Soren!’ He turned his attention back to Soren. ‘Do you have my answer yet?’
‘No, Master Rilid, I’m sorry, I don’t,’ said Soren. There were more sniggers from his classmates.
‘Don’t be sorry, boy, be competent! Well, gentlemen, it appears that we have a dunce in our midst!’ Rilid said, with satisfaction.
The bell in the Campanile rang out signalling the end of the class and Rilid sighed dramatically. Soren felt a wave of relief at this lucky timing.
‘You may all go.’ Rilid made a spiralling gesture with his hand and returned to his desk. ‘The next chapter of the text for next lesson,’ he added as they began to file out. All of the boys left, glad to be finished with classroom lessons for the day. As Soren passed Rilid’s desk he spoke again.
‘Wait!’
Soren stopped, a feeling of exasperation washing over him. Had this prick not chided him enough already?
‘My text please, Tyro Soren,’ he said, holding out his hand.
As Soren handed the book over Rilid scrutinized him carefully. ‘You can’t even read, can you?’ he said.
Soren cringed as he realised his secret was out. He hadn’t even managed to bluff his way through one day. He remained silent and glared at Rilid.
‘You will find the academic requirements of your studies rather difficult to pass if that is the case,’ he said. ‘I will be interested to see how long you last here. I expect it won’t be long at all, and then it will be back to the gutter. You may go.’
C h a p t e r 7
NEMESIS
Soren was relieved to be done with academics for the day. His encounter with Master Rilid had left him a little shaken, and he was confident that he had not heard the last about the discovery of his inability to read. It would not be long before one of the other masters came to the same conclusion that Rilid had. He could only hope that whatever solution Emeric had come up with would be effective and fast.
There was more fencing practice in the afternoon, after which the students were left to their own devices, the intention being that they would train further, study, or work on assignments for their academic classes. This free time would allow Soren to get out to see Emeric at four bells. Before that happened however, there was lunch, and one more training session.
Lunch had been an enjoyable experience, even if he had been given the cold shoulder by all of his classmates. It didn’t bother him though, as he found the thought of conversation quite unappealing when faced with so much food, and he had to admit that he was finding it difficult to stop himself from over eating. Having access to that much food was still a novelty to him and he hoped that once this had worn off he would be able to moderate his attitude to the dining hall.
The afternoon training was duelling. After a morning of classes where he had to either hide in the back, or look like an idiot, the chance to assert himself over the other students was a welcome opportunity. He was still smarting over the humiliation he had experienced in Rilid’s class, and he was looking forward to returning the favour to his sniggering classmates.
Pairs were assigned to duel against each other with respect to position in class. Each odd numbered tyro duelled against the even numbered student ranked below him. Each duel was the best of three touches and a win moved you up a place in class, while a loss would see you paired against the student beneath you who was hoping to keep moving upward. As Soren was the newcomer, he was starting at the very back of the class.
The scoring was based on the honour code system that all students were expected to follow. It was assumed that they were honourable enough to acknowledge a hit against them fairly. By and large, the system worked well, but the instructors did maintain a vigilant watch to ensure it was abided by.
The session started easily enough. While everyone who had reached this level of the Academy had proved themselves and there were no poor swordsmen there, the comparatively weaker students resided at the back of the hall where Soren found himself during the duelling class. Because of this, the first few duels were not difficult for Soren. His speed allowed him to exploit weaknesses that would be inaccessible to others. He progressed steadily over the course of the session only conceding one scoring touch over the course of five duels.
Toward the end of the session he was matched with a stocky student only an inch or two shorter than he.
‘Tyro Soren,’ he said, by way of greeting. The masters had instructed him to introduce himself to each of his opponents as a way of getting to know them.
‘Tyro dal Dardi,’ said his opponent.
Another aristocrat. Soren was beginning to wonder if he was in fact the only commoner student in the year.
They saluted and took their guard. Dal Dardi came at Soren fast and hard, determined to stop his swift advance through the ranks. Soren was able to swat his attack out of the way but dal Dardi’s elbow struck him on the follow through, which Soren had not been expecting. It knocked him off balance and coupled with the surprise, allowed the other student to put a touch on him.
It rankled Soren to concede another touch, but he supposed that he must accept the fact as he moved up through the ranks and faced opposition of greater skill, conceding the occasional point would be difficult to avoid. Despite his speed he had much to learn and had to accept he was well behind the other students in all other areas of swordsmanship. As such, this once he was willing to pass the elbow strike off as an accident. He acknowledged the touch against him and they reset the duel.
Dal Dardi came at him hard again, but once more Soren was able to parry his attack, which in truth was not that skilfully executed. As Soren had suspected might happen, an elbow followed, but this time he was prepared for it. With any doubt as to the other student’s intention in the previous point now cleared, Soren decided to send a blunt message in response. He easily ducked out of the way of the elbow and slashed back with his own sword, whipping painfully across dal Dardi’s shoulder. He let out a gasp in pain as Soren stepped back.
‘One touch each, I believe,’ said Soren, as menacingly as he could. He wanted to make it clear to everyone there that he was no fool and would brook no disrespect. If he was shoved, he would shove back.
Dal Dardi was poor at concealing his emotions and there was a flash of anger across his face that he quickly tried to supress. Despite this, Soren knew his next attack would be fuelled by anger, rather than cunning or finesse. He was correct and dal Dardi came at him furiously with as much force behind his attacks as he could muster. Rather than being intended to skilfully score a touch, these hacks were intended to caus
e pain.
As Soren toyed with the attacks, parrying them away with little difficulty, it was evident to him that dal Dardi based his technique around intimidation and bullying rather than skill. He could see how this tactic could be brutishly effective and had encountered similar demeanours on the street many times, but it surprised him a little that the instructors had not steered dal Dardi away from it, as it was unlikely to take him far in the company he was in.
Dal Dardi left many openings to counter attack, and when one was so glaringly obvious that Soren was certain he could not fail to score, he took it. He threaded the tip of his sword past steel and limb to strike dal Dardi squarely on the chest. He stepped back and lowered his sword as he did. He only narrowly dodged dal Dardi’s continued attack. He pounced back a pace and regained his guard. Dal Dardi continued to come at him furiously. Soren parried the strikes away but found it difficult to see the duel as a practice bout any longer. Their duel had gained the attention of one of the roving masters, but he did not intervene. It appeared that Soren would have to take matters into his own hands.
He stepped inside dal Dardi’s reach and shoved him backward, then took another step forward to follow up the push with something a little more strenuous.
‘Stop that!’ came a shout.
Soren lowered his raised fist. The master who had been watching had evidently seen enough.
‘There is no physical contact in these duels. It is a pure test of swordsmanship. You should both know that. Save the brawling for your unarmed fighting lessons. Tyro dal Dardi, step down. Tyro Soren, step up. Shake hands and await your next duel,’ said the master.
Soren was being given the match, which was of some small consolation. However, he wasn’t satisfied at allowing treatment like that to go unanswered. He put out his hand to shake, which dal Dardi did grudgingly. Soren could see clearly in his eyes that the matter was not done with. That suited him quite nicely.
Soren sat in the library of Amero’s house, at a large table at one end of the bookshelf lined room. A sheaf of paper and a pile of pencils had been left out for him. He tapped one end of a pencil against the table as he waited and wondered what was to come.
It had not been difficult to get out of the Academy for a few hours. Many of the older students seemed to leave for various reasons during their free time in the afternoon. In particular it seemed expected that those at the Academy on patronage would be required to attend to the matters of their patrons from time to time. When seeking permission to leave, he was told that the only rule was that they were back by eight bells in the evening. After this they would be considered absent without permission, which was a serious offence. The steward that had outlined the regulations explained that the rule was an old one that stemmed from students going into the city at night, getting drunk, and starting fights that had very often ended in deaths, of citizens rather than students. This did nothing for the reputation of the Academy, nor the popularity of students in the city, so strict rules had to be applied. As a result, all students, except those in the Collegium were essentially confined to the campus every night.
A few minutes passed by before Emeric came into the room with another man in tow. The man was slight of build with a mop of grey hair and a short, neat beard. He wore a pair of wire spectacles, and from his body language, he was clearly terrified of Emeric. Emeric gestured to the table and the man bustled forward clutching a bulging leather satchel. He looked back to Emeric, and Soren thought he was actually shaking.
‘Sit,’ said Emeric, in exasperation. ‘The boy has two hours, make the best of the time.’ With that he left Soren alone with the extremely awkward man.
He sat down and took some books and papers from his satchel. ‘My name is Eluard Frerr. I’m a professor of Imperial at the University. I understand you are a tyro at the Academy.’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Soren, with more than a hint of pride.
‘Ah, so next year, if we get you properly taught, you will be an adeptus. Tyro means a novice, or beginner, in Old Imperial you know, while adeptus means to have obtained, or attained,’ said Frerr. He relaxed a little now that he was on familiar territory. ‘But I digress, I am told that you have some difficulty reading.’
‘More than difficulty. I can’t read at all,’ said Soren.
‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘Such a pity that a lad of your age is ignorant of the written word. Still, we shall remedy that. The Count’s retainer has made it clear to me that you are to be taught to read in the shortest possible time. In view of that, I would suggest at least one hour of study in addition to the time you spend with me each afternoon. I expect you will be able to read to good standard of literacy in six months of regular tuition, although I would hope that you will be at a functional level in a much shorter time. Now, to begin.’
Frerr had given Soren a number of books to take away with him. They contained only the most elementary things, as Frerr had gone to pains to point out how important it was that he had a firm grasp of the foundations before he try to move on to other things. He spent each night in his room poring over the book, copying out letters while sounding them out at the same time. It made him feel like an idiot, but at least there was no one else to see it, and after only a few days of lessons, Frerr had him reading simple passages and this progress was enough to convince Soren to place his trust in Frerr’s method. Nonetheless, Soren’s eyes ached each evening when he finally went to bed, which he thought was somehow appropriate, as with all the training, they had been the only part of him not to beforehand.
C h a p t e r 8
UNEXPECTED ALLIES
The first week went by quickly, with the routine of training and classes quickly ingraining itself into his life. At first it had felt odd having somewhere that he had to be at a particular time, but now he found that he enjoyed the sense of purpose that it brought. When he awoke one morning toward the end of that week to find his blue doublet waiting outside his door in a brown paper parcel, it felt as though he had reached a watershed moment. Until that point he had not been able to shake off the feeling that at any time this dream scenario that he found himself in would come crashing down around him. Now, with the finely tailored doublet with its expensive crest embroidered with silver thread sitting across his lap, the dream seemed to solidify into reality. This was now his life, and what went before was the dream, or perhaps more fittingly, the nightmare.
He had not encountered dal Dardi for the remainder of that week. He had kept progressing through the ranks of the duelling ladder whilst dal Dardi had remained much where he had been on the day Soren duelled against him. Even in the dining hall their paths had not crossed. Soren was not sure how he would deal with the situation when they did inevitably encounter one another again, but he was still tempted to seek him out and thrash him just to be done with the matter. He knew that if he wasn’t seen to respond aggressively to disrespect, that treatment would become the norm.
He wore the doublet to the dining hall that morning; the weight of it across his shoulders lifted his spirits in some way, instilling a sense of something that he had not experienced before. Pride.
He was minding his own business, trying to decide between honeyed figs or peaches, a process he took particular delight in, considering how ridiculous it would have seemed to him only a few weeks before, when dal Dardi walked straight up to Soren and slapped his tray from his hands. He only had a couple of items on it at that stage, but they went spilling across the floor.
‘Watch where you’re going, street rat,’ dal Dardi said, as he began to walk away, eliciting laughter from a group of the other tyros standing behind him.
The laughter stopped abruptly with Soren’s response. He may only have been learning swordsmanship for the past few days, but he had been learning to defend himself, often at the peril of his life, for as long as he could remember. He grabbed dal Dardi by the shoulder before he could get out of arm’s reach and spun him back around. Their eyes met and for an instant Soren saw fear
in them. He smiled and with an open right hand, he slammed his palm into dal Dardi’s face three times in quick succession. On the final strike, he could feel dal Dardi’s nose break with a satisfying crunch.
He let go of dal Dardi’s shoulder, allowing him to drop to the ground. Soren smiled viciously and looked around to see if anyone else wanted to pick a fight with him. At first there was no one, which was what he expected, but then he spotted three students headed his way, Ranph dal Bragadin leading them. By the time they got to Soren however, two prefects, Blades they were called, had arrived on the scene to break things up. Soren noticed that Ranph was wearing the same badge as the prefects. He was also a prefect, it seemed. They spoke to him quietly for a moment, and the look of anger on Ranph’s face dissipated a little as he stared at Soren with steely eyes.
He directed his two hangers-on to take dal Dardi to the infirmary, and then stepped forward to Soren, still carefully watched by the other two prefects.
‘You’ve struck a Stornado, and it will not be quickly forgotten,’ said Ranph. He meant it to be threatening, but Soren was unmoved.
‘Perhaps you should bring more lackeys next time; swords and fists don’t seem to be the strong suit of Stornados,’ Soren replied.
Anger flashed in Ranph’s face again, but he cast a glance to the other two prefects who were still standing there. He composed himself again and smiled at Soren before walking away. It occurred to Soren that he should perhaps start applying himself more in Diplomacy class.
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