day.'
'I know that, you know that – nearly every soldier who's been signed up for more than a year knows that it happens,' Brynd growled, glaring at Nelum.
Nelum's silence was intense.
'These rumours are serious, enough to destroy the good name of the Night Guard, and that could rupture all our plans and defences.'
The lieutenant remained utterly expressionless, his breath clouding before his face. 'It has not happened yet, has it? I say we take this man out.'
Brynd said, 'He told me there are others who know about it, and that if he disappears, someone else will spread the false news.'
'The fellow might be bluffing.'
'But what do you think about it?' Brynd turned to face him again, eager to gauge a reaction. It seemed important for any kind of response. 'I know you're a man with a passion for the Jorsalir teachings that don't exactly welcome such doings. I need to ensure these lies don't get out.'
'None of my business what a soldier does in his or her spare time.' Brisk tones, bitter feelings – all suggesting that he knew Brynd was lying. 'You're known as one of the ablest fighters in the service, and we all have to persevere despite whatever has been impugned.'
Brynd's control snapped and he slammed his lieutenant against the wall, glaring. Nelum didn't flinch. The two soldiers were assessing each other, waiting for the other's next move. 'They are rumours, OK? I told you only because I valued your fucking advice.'
The sloshing of the water down in the harbour seemed to bring Brynd back to his senses. He released his grip, muttering an apology, and rested his hands on the parapet, facing the coast.
'Indeed. We should therefore prepare ourselves for different scenarios,' Nelum continued, ignoring the incident, 'but I think we should counter by circulating rumours of our own that there's a move afoot to smear the honour of senior soldiers. We could suggest that it comes from enemy agents working for the invasion force, in order to weaken our defences.'
'Good thinking. I don't want to let this business interfere with our plans. Fucking hell, I've a city to save.'
'You've a city to save?'
Things were happening in the gaps between their sentences. 'We've,' Brynd corrected himself quickly. 'You think I should face Malum. If anything then happens to me, then I want you to take my place. I'll want you to succeed me as commander of the Empire's armies. I can assemble the appropriate documentation, but how would you feel about such a role?'
Shit, did he say all that now simply to obscure his guilt, to win the man over? Brynd's mind began bubbling with paranoia.
'Sir… of course,' Nelum breathed. For a moment this normally verbose individual couldn't seem to find words. 'It's overwhelming, and an honour… but you're still here, still the most senior officer outside of Villjamur.'
And don't you forget it. 'Thank you for your time, lieutenant.'
*
'Oh, sure, totally fuck that. We'll just take the money and kill him, right?' Malum grunted. 'I mean, simple plans are always the most effective.'
JC laughed aloud, then the others – ten in all of the Bloods – joined in. There was a clashing of tankards, and then the spirit of the night subsided into low-level conversations.
Slouching on the chair in the corner of the tavern, Malum sharpened his messer blade on an oiled whetstone, while others began to make jokes in the dim candlelight. They were all going to be there, all ready to butcher the commander if he did not come up with the cash.
Butcher him, even if he did.
TWENTY-FOUR
Marysa threw punch after punch, weaving to and fro to avoid the approaching sweep of his arm, bending back and kicking in all the right postures. Then she stepped aside as the next student shuffled forwards to engage with the master, a bald and tightly muscled human with an expression of relentless serenity.
In a large, torch-lit, minimally furnished chamber with pinewood floors and heated by two woodstoves, the ten students in crimson garb were working through the offence techniques characteristic to Berja, a dark martial art based on tribal combat. The leaflets had promised increased physical fitness as well as expertise in self-defence and both had come in spades. She had already passed the first two levels in twenty days, though there were another ten still to go.
There was only one other rumel attending. The rest of the students were all humans of various ages. They were all here to practise self-defence due to increasing fear of a war. Or fear of the street gangs. Actually, she didn't really know precisely why they were here, since no one ever spoke during their session, except the master. And even then, his comments remained terse.
Her progress on to level three was to be rewarded by training in bladecraft.
The master produced a short messer, and handed it over to her first, she having proved the best student. Marysa was utterly thrilled with the recognition, and she was rewarded with a moment's rest while he again led two of the poorer students through the more simple techniques.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and half-heartedly watched the demonstrations in progress.
Well, this certainly made a change. Up till now she'd only ever excelled in academic work. Back in Villjamur she had specialized in antiquarian artefacts and architecture, more recently studying the preservation of ancient buildings. So far Villiren had proved disappointing, having cleared away most of its interesting structures in order to replace them with soulless, hastily constructed monstrosities. Only the Ancient Quarter and a little of Port Nostalgia still proved fascinating.
But she couldn't find a job – unemployment being high, which seemed odd for a city that shamelessly proclaimed its wealth. There were more beggars here than she had ever seen before, and living in such squalid conditions. Fortunately, she had some savings with her, though most of them were being spent on these lessons. Still, it seemed, at last, that it was all worthwhile. She was more confident. Her body seemed more agile than it had ever been – which was more than she could say for Rumex, letting himself go to pot the way he was doing. She was beginning to feel… sexually attractive, for the first time in a long while, and although she would never cheat on her husband, that seemed to matter. Just to feel good about herself.
The master beckoned her forwards and challenged her with his messer blade. She didn't know what to do at first, and was more than a little apprehensive at using a real weapon, but he began barking orders at her, telling her to extend or retreat her arm, to move backwards or forwards.
'Not like that!' he would snap.
After ten minutes or so, she began to get a feel for the blade in her palm, growing familiar with its weight and how it moved through the air. In between his attacks he would stand by her side and correct her posture. Their blades soon clashed effectively. His constant instructions improved her techniques and, when it came to her turn again, after watching some of the others, she gave him as good as she got.
After class, he smiled at her. He had never smiled.
'Marysa,' he whispered, and continued in a voice of extreme precision. 'You may keep this blade.'
'Really?' she managed, a little breathless after her rigorous training.
He bowed as he handed it to her the second time. 'You have earned it. I only wish you could have been my student years ago – starting as a young rumel. I might have seen you become a master by this time.'
'Thank you, master.' Marysa returned his formal bow and accepted the weapon. Eventually he faded into his back room, behind the wooden slats and the paper lanterns.
She examined the blade in more detail, noting the beautiful simplicity based on no era she knew of. Just simple steel, with a varnished wooden handle.
Marysa owned her very first weapon.
