Exile's Honor

time for the recreation that the others did. As a low-born bastard, he was not the social equal of any of the others in his year, and he had figured out quite early that if he excelled in fighting, no one would bother him. He had already had a certain advantage in knowing all the dirty tricks he could pick up in the alleys and stables; it wasn't long before the rest of the cadets knew better than to pick on him. And while no one was particularly friendly with him, they treated him with respect. Two of the weapons instructors, seeing his diligence, actually unbent enough to act as his mentors. It wasn't exactly paternal, since they were still very strict with him, but friendly, in a distant fashion, and certainly encouraging. When it came down to it, probably he'd spent the best times of his cadet period in the salle….

There was a line of solemn-faced children in gray uniforms practicing archery under the supervision of an older boy. He clearly knew what he was doing, Alberich noted with approval—correcting the stance of one, the grip of another, the aim of a third. But he hadn't been brought here to watch them; Jadus led him into the building itself without a pause. It was of a pattern with every other salle that he had ever been inside, from the sanded wooden floors to the mirrored wall to the clerestory windows above. It was superior to the salle he had been trained in, for the mirrors were silvered glass rather than polished metal. But the furnishings were exactly the same: dented and chipped wooden benches and storage boxes that doubled as seating. Practice armor, of padded leather, hung on the wall; racks of wooden blades were beside the armor. Even the smell was the same: clean sweat, leather, leather oil, a hint of sawdust.

The salle was empty except for a single Herald, an old, gray-haired man, slightly twisted and with swollen, arthritic joints. He sat on a bench with some of the padded armor over his legs, a threaded leather needle in his hand, and looked up as they entered.

'Jadus,' he acknowledged. 'That's the new one?'

'Weaponsmaster Dethor,' Jadus nodded. 'This is Herald-trainee Alberich, Chosen of Kantor.'

'Kantor, hmm? Sensible lad, that one; can't see him making a mistake. Well, Jadus, what did you have in mind besides the usual?' The Weaponsmaster stood up, and Alberich winced inwardly. The man was in pain—hiding it, but clear enough to Alberich's eyes. He'd seen this before, in men who'd fought too many fights. The joints would only take so much damage; too much, and as the years set in and the pains of old age crept on, all the places that had been abused would suddenly become doubly painful, swelling until it hurt to move even a little.

'Since he was a Captain of the Karsite light cavalry, I did have a notion about him. Test him, and we'll both see if I'm right,' was the enigmatic reply. 'Isn't Kimel about? He's usually here this time of day.'

Instead of answering directly, the old man barked, 'Kimel! Need your arm out here!'

Alberich expected another Herald, but instead what appeared from a door at the back of the room was a man in a midnight-blue uniform, similar to the Heralds' in cut, but trimmed in silver. 'I was about to go back to the barracks, Weaponsmaster,' the man said. 'Unless you've found someone to bout with me after all?'

The old man jerked his chin at Alberich. 'Don't know. Need this one tested. Jadus seems to think—Well, just arm up, and we'll see.'

The man glanced at Alberich, then did a double-take, eyes widening. Alberich braced himself for a negative reaction, but the man showed nothing. 'Interesting to see which rumor is true, sir,' was all the man said, and motioned to Alberich. 'If you would suit up and—'

'Standard sword and shield, first,' the Weaponsmaster directed, and put his mending aside, his eyes narrowed and attentive in a lean, lined, hard face. Alberich might look just like him one day. He hoped he would not have the swollen joints to match....

He pushed that thought aside and selected leather practice armor and a wooden sword. There was more of the former to choose from than he'd thought; evidently, this man Kimel wasn't the only adult coming out here to practice. The wooden swords and shields were much of a muchness, nothing to choose among them except for weight, and Alberich picked ones that were the most comfortable for him.

Then he walked warily to the center of the room to face his opponent.

Alberich then went through the most exhausting weapons session he'd had since he'd graduated from cadet training. It began with sword and shield, progressing through every other practice weapon stored in the salle and their corresponding styles. Then, as he waited to see what else the old man wanted him to do, the Herald directed Jadus to lock the doors.

Alberich was sweating like a horse at this point, a bit tired, but by no means exhausted, and he gave the Weaponsmaster a startled glance.

'Live steel next,' the old Herald said shortly, in answer to the unspoken question. 'I don't want some idiot child wandering in here with live steel out and two real fighters having at each other.'

'Ah.' Alberich was perfectly satisfied with that answer; the Weaponsmaster was right. If mere untutored children had access to the salle, and he assumed they must (since having a Weaponsmaster implied that all of the young Trainees got some sort of weapons training), there was always the chance that one would blunder into the place at the worst possible time. Even in a bout rather than a real fight, he knew his concentration was focused, and he wouldn't necessarily notice anything but his opponent until it was too late. He followed Kimel to the cabinets on the wall and took out real armor and real weapons.

Working with live steel always gave him an extra—the pun was inevitable—edge. His awareness went up a