The Exile and the Sorcerer

by Jane Fletcher

  From the edge of the hall came a burst of assorted noises indicative of both support and good humour. The sword master scowled in feigned belligerence at the three other nominees sitting at the side. The sounds ceased, only to be replaced by broad grins. Everyone knew the sword master was an amiable character, indulgent of high spirits. Consequently, he was well liked by all.

  Once order had been re-established, the sword master turned back to Tevi. “Crude, but effective,” he granted. “You’ll do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But it’s risky to rely solely on strength. You must pay closer attention. I got you with some very simple traps. You can’t afford to let things like that through.”

  “Would you be surprised to learn that I’ve been told that before?”

  “No. So why haven’t you taken more notice of the advice?”

  “I try, sir.”

  “Not hard enough. Your sword teacher should have made more effort to help you work out the problem. Generally speaking, you’ve been well trained from an early age.”

  “I started when I was three.”

  “Quite right, too. You’d be surprised at the number of wide-eyed hopefuls who think they can pick up a sword and become a hero overnight.” He turned to include the other nominees. “Remember—swords are like some musical instruments. If you don’t start young enough, you’ll never develop the right muscles and reflexes. If a child hasn’t started training by the age of seven, they’ll never be anything other than a very poor average. So if ever you get an untrained teenager pleading with you to take them on as apprentice, don’t. You’re not doing any favours, just raising false hopes.”

  The other nominees glanced towards Cayell. It was no secret that she was the worst swordsman among them. However, Cayell was unconcerned; her skills lay in other directions.

  The sword master resumed his appraisal of Tevi. “You know, I’m loath to suggest it, but do you have any experience with a battle-axe?”

  “Some. It was—” The rest of Tevi’s reply was drowned out.

  “Tell him you’re a warrior, not a lumberjack.”

  “Forget it.”

  Cayell’s voice came loudest of all. “Axes are for warriors too stupid to work out which end of a sword to take hold of.”

  “Ignore the hecklers.” The sword master waved his hand dismissively. “It’s true axes are unsubtle. They come down to how much force you can put behind them—which in your case is a lot. It was a classic axe stroke you used to disarm me. You’re not bad with a sword, but you can’t structure your defence. With an axe, you wouldn’t need to bother.”

  Cayell was shaking her head vigorously. Tevi decided to talk to her later and gave a noncommittal response. “I’ll think about it.”

  At that moment, the gong signalling the end of the morning session rang out. The sword master collected the practise weapons and dismissed the nominees, saying, “I’m going to pass you, Tevi. You can report to the assessor after lunch. But I want to see the rest of you back here.”

  The four nominees left the practice hall and filed through the maze of buildings. Long ago, the mercenary guildhall had been laid out to an elegant plan, which had been modified and added to over the intervening centuries so that very little of the original design remained. It resulted in a bewildering network of passages and doorways sandwiched between the old and the new. Even after a month, Tevi had great difficulty finding her way around. In contrast, Cayell seemed to have the entire guildhall mapped out in her head. She was never lost for direction—or for something to say. Her body was lightly built but had an acrobat’s agility. Her footsteps were silent, but her personality was loud.

  “Down here. It’s a shortcut,” Cayell called as she disappeared between two buildings.

  “Are you sure?” asked Perrin, an affable young man with the general proportions, and appetite, of an ox. His six foot six inches of solid muscle made him the strongest of the nominees, apart from Tevi.

  “Of course. Don’t you trust me?” Cayell sounded hurt.

  “Well, yes, but dinner’s important. I want to be sure I’m in time for seconds.”

  “And maybe thirds,” added Rymar as he pushed Perrin down the alleyway.

  In the rear was Tevi. She studied her comrades’ backs as they walked in single file. Cayell was lost beyond Perrin’s bulk, though the sound of her laughter drowned out his bass rumble. Rymar was a head shorter than Perrin, yet broad-shouldered and athletic. They were a good bunch, Tevi thought, although Rymar looked to be a little too fond of beer and mayhem when let loose. He was on his best behaviour while being assessed, but the wildness showed through.

  The air inside the guild refectory was thick with the smell of food and the hubbub of conversation. The tables held large pots of stew and trenchers of bread to use as plates. Tevi and the others wove their way to the table reserved for nominees. Referred to as “the babies’ table,” it left them in no doubt of their status. There were currently eight nominees for assessment. Apart from Cayell and Tevi, only one other was a woman—a fact that, as Tevi had discovered, fairly represented the male-to-female ratio of the guild.

  Once they had sat down, Tevi addressed the table in general. “What’s so bad about a battle-axe?”

  “Poor image.” Perrin was squeezed directly opposite.

  Cayell joined in, a grin on her face. “Don’t worry, Tevi. You’re great with a sword. There are precious few nominees who’ve been able to disarm the sword master.”

  “She didn’t!” someone else said in disbelief.

  “She did,” Perrin affirmed.

  “He might be right. An axe might suit me better,” Tevi said.

  Cayell shook her head. “Women warriors with axes are a joke. Axe men tend to be warriors who are poorly endowed with brains—”

  Perrin butted in. “Women are outnumbered in the guild, particularly as warriors. They usually specialise in a field that requires less strength—”

  Cayell cut back in. “—and more intelligence. Like scouting. Me, for example.” She threw out her hands in an extroverted gesture that was met with jeers from the nominees and frowns from the other tables.

  “I’ve got the strength for an axe,” Tevi pointed out.

  “You’ve also got brains, and you’ll get work easier if you let people know it,” Cayell said.

  “How does that follow?”

  “Girls know they can’t count on developing the strength necessary for fighting. Boys can’t, either, but they’re more likely to. Most girls who want to be mercenaries try to specialise. Being a scout is ideal. Women are often smaller and lighter, so we make less noise. We can go farther on less food and can withstand harsher weather. Women warriors tend to be girls who lacked the brains to do anything clever but turned out lucky with the physique. Axe-wielding just compounds the effect.”

  “Which could all work to Tevi’s advantage,” Dale, another of the nominees, said thoughtfully. He was a lanky lad whose serious face masked a mischievous sense of humour. People looked with surprise as he continued. “Just think. In a battle, someone would see Tevi with an axe and think, ‘Oh, yes, axe woman—not going to be too bright.’ Then Tevi could say something really clever and hit them while they were still stunned with astonishment.” Laughter and a few flicked peas greeted this idea.

  “Someone told me that in the Protectorate, you don’t make assumptions about people based on their sex,” Tevi said.

  Cayell looked blank, then shrugged and said, “I suppose it depends on what assumptions. Sometimes, you have to play the odds.”

  “Like you don’t expect people from over the Spur to be particularly alert,” Perrin said—a playful dig at Rymar, whose accent marked him from that region. Tevi frowned. The indolence of people from the east of the Protectorate was an item of folklore she had already encountered, yet Rymar was one of the quicker nominees and astute enough not to rise to the bait.

  Cayell laughed. “Or sorcerers who specialise in prophesy. For some reason,
they tend to be...” She paused. “Now, what’s the word?”

  Suggestions came from around the table.

  “Neurotic.”

  “Highly strung.”

  “Unbalanced.”

  Cayell waved a piece of carrot. “No, no. Sensitive. That’s the word I wanted.” She pointed the carrot at Tevi. “Now, remember, if ever you meet a Coven seer, the word is ‘sensitive,’ unless you have a desire to experience life as a toad.”

  Tevi chewed thoughtfully. “I guess nobody dares to call axe men many names to their faces, either.”

  “As long as the word has more than three syllables, you’re quite safe.”

  The banter continued with a bawdy story about the mad axe woman of Rizen. Many of the jokes were lost on Tevi. She had not come to grips with the necessary slang use, but she got the general idea of the perception of axes and their users.

  *

  Once the meal was over, Tevi left the others and found her way to the assessor’s quarters, needing to ask directions only twice. When she got there, the clerk in the anteroom informed her that the assessor was busy with somebody else. Tevi wandered back outside and stood on the veranda at the front of the building, watching people pass through the courtyard. It was a mellow autumn afternoon. The sun shone on ornate stonework surrounding the open grass.

  Directly opposite the assessor’s rooms was the infirmary. Many of the occupants had been placed in the open, to get what benefit they could from the sun and fresh air. The invalids sat on a bench, tightly wrapped in warm blankets. Some laughed and joked, swapping stories of their exploits. Some sat in silence. Tevi studied a gaunt young man, no more than a year older than herself. Both his legs ended in stumps just above the knees. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman, one side of her face a scarred wreck, undoubtedly blind in that eye.

  Tevi was certain that the location of the assessor’s rooms, next to the infirmary, was no accident. All hopeful applicants had to walk past the grim reminder of what might await them. She suspected that the warning had little effect. Most mercenaries were overconfident, sure that the worst could never happen to them. Many were blind to everything they did not want to see. They would not know or care where the infirmary was until they were carried into it. They would begrudge the share of their income the guild took, unaware of where the money went, until they became the beneficiaries.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened behind her, and a tall mercenary strode out, followed by a young woman. Neither paid any attention to the people sitting opposite. Tevi wondered if that did not hurt more than all the scars—to no longer be worthy of notice.

  After a last look at the invalids, Tevi turned and entered. The clerk pointed her to a small room, where she found the assessor, a stout, elderly woman sitting in a high-backed chair beside a fireplace. Despite the warm day, logs burned vigorously in the grate.

  “The sword master told me to report to you, ma’am,” Tevi said hesitantly.

  “Ah, yes. Please.” The assessor gestured to a second chair and waited until Tevi was seated before continuing. “I’m happy to say we’ve decided to accept your nomination.”

  It was the announcement Tevi was expecting, but instead of replying, she stared at the fire. Only the crackling of the flames broke the silence.

  “You’re not looking overjoyed. Have you had second thoughts?” the assessor asked.

  “No, ma’am. I’m pleased you’ve accepted me. It’s what I came here for. But I was watching the invalids opposite and I was thinking about them.” Tevi looked directly at the assessor. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”

  “It’s true that we prefer our members join with as few illusions as possible. We get too many young idiots dreaming of glory.”

  “I don’t think I have any unrealistic hopes.”

  “No, I don’t think you have.” The assessor watched Tevi thoughtfully before continuing in a brisker tone. “You realise, of course, that the assessment is not just about fighting skill. We could have evaluated that taking considerably less time than the month you’ve been here. If you join the guild, you’ll receive its mark—a single sword tattooed on each hand. With that mark, the guild is declaring that it believes you to be competent, honest, and reliable. Although we’re not yet backing our judgement with money. It will be some years before we’re likely to guarantee you and add the second sword.”

  “I understand that.”

  “It’s important that the mark of the guild mean something. Our livelihood depends on people trusting our integrity. The time a nominee spends here constitutes part of a general appraisal, which has been all the more important in your case, as you haven’t served a formal apprenticeship. But we’re quite satisfied. In our judgement, you will not do anything to bring the guild into disrepute, and we’re willing to accept you. The final decision lies with you. We don’t allow people to desert the guild once they’ve accepted its mark. Those we expel leave their tattoos, and their hands, behind.”

  The assessor stood and walked to the door. “I’m going to suggest you think about it for this afternoon; then come and see me first thing tomorrow. If you decide to join, we’ll move you to the junior members’ quarters. You’ll need to be instructed in the first level of guild passwords, which shouldn’t take you too long to learn.” The assessor rolled her eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “Unlike some other nominees. And we’ll make an appointment for you with the tattooist. So...unless you have any questions?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. I think I know all I need in order to make my mind up.”

  “Whatever you decide, I wish you well.”

  The assessor held the door open. Tevi gave a respectful nod and walked back into the autumn sunlight. Her aimless steps took her out of the guildhall and into the streets of Lyremouth. She spent the afternoon wandering and thinking, although in truth she had little choice. As a mercenary, she could earn a good living. Without a guild, she could be nothing more than a poorly paid labourer.

  Standing by the main docks, she watched the ships sail across the harbour. If she closed her eyes, from the sounds and smell of the sea she could imagine herself back on Storenseg. Guild membership would be one further, irrevocable step away from the islands. Tevi shook her head at the folly of her thoughts and left the quay, heading into the busy streets of the city. There was no going back.

  Chapter Seven—Dishonourable Conduct

  By the time Tevi returned to the guildhall, the evening meal was in progress. Luckily, Perrin had not yet embarked on his third helping, so there was still food left. The others shifted along to make room for Tevi. Even before she sat down, it was obvious Cayell was in high spirits.

  “They’ve decided I’m more help than hindrance in a fight. Now they’re going to see what I can do as a scout.” Cayell was bouncing up and down with excitement.

  “What tests do you get now?” Tevi asked.

  “Oh, dreadful, awful things that would make you shudder just to hear about.” Despite her words, Cayell was grinning. “I’ll be dumped in the middle of nowhere and have to survive off the land while hunters try to catch me.”

  “You’ll have to eat spiders,” Perrin said, taking a large bite of his food.

  “Big, juicy, tasty spiders?” Dale asked innocently.

  The young woman Tevi had seen leaving the assessor’s rooms was sitting at the table. She now joined in. “There’s no such thing as a tasty spider. Believe me. I speak from experience.”

  “Are you a scout as well?” Perrin asked eagerly.

  “Er...yes. My name’s Aroche.”

  “Right. Well, while Cay’s away, do you mind making it your job to find shortcuts to the refectory?”

  Aroche smiled. “I’ll do my best, if you think it’s important.”

  “We’re talking about Perrin’s stomach. Of course it’s important,” Rymar said.

  When the table had quieted, Tevi asked Cayell, “How long will you be gone?”

  “About ten days. You can take my
bed, if you want.” Predictably, Cayell had wangled the best position in the dormitory.

  “I won’t need it. I’ve been accepted into the guild. I’m moving to the members’ quarters tomorrow.”

  Cayell cheered and punched the air, drawing stern looks from other tables. She pointed at Tevi. “Promise you’ll save the celebration until I get back. There’s not time to do it justice tonight, and with luck, we can celebrate my acceptance as well.”

  Confronted with such exuberance, Tevi could do nothing but agree. As she got ready for her last night in the nominees’ dormitory, lighthearted banter was flying around—as were pillows and items of clothing. Tevi joined in, mainly by ducking at the appropriate points. For the first time since childhood, she felt like an accepted member of a group. The camaraderie of the guild enveloped its members. Although she had been fond of Marith and Verron, they had been more like an aunt and uncle. Cayell and the other nominees were her friends.

  *

  Eleven days later, Tevi was wandering along a colonnaded walkway that she hoped would lead her back to the junior members’ quarters, when she was startled by a loud whoop. Running towards her was a figure—presumably Cayell, on account of the size and shape, though the exterior was so covered in mud that almost anything could have lurked beneath.

  “I passed,” the figure screamed, confirming its identity.

  Cayell would have flung herself onto her friend, but Tevi held the mud-covered scout at arm’s length.

  “Cay! Look at the state of you!”

  “I’ve only just got back,” Cayell said, as if it were an explanation.

  “I hadn’t realised mud fights formed part of your appraisal.”

  “It’s camouflage. I had to blend into the countryside.”

  “You’ve been somewhere where walking cow pats are commonplace?”

  “Um...actually, most of it is due to an accident just outside town.” Cayell grinned mischievously

  “Why don’t you tell me about it on the way to the bathhouse?”