It was as if the old corporal hadn't heard him. 'I remember you, but it was a long time ago. Your father made you a toy sword and used to drill you for hours. Wanted you to be a soldier, he did. Guess he must have changed his mind.'
Memories came flooding back. Fragments of events that had been buried long ago. He propped himself Up on the cot and stared at blurred image of the older man. 'I'd forgotten that. You really did know my father?'
Images marched across his mind. Not of the sword, but of the studies. The faceless line of tutors that came and went under the stern and watchful eye of his crippled father. Memorizing endless books, but never meeting his father's expectations… who would believe him? Evern Marsh, not once, but twice a hero, forcing his son to become a cleric-until Riordan ran away and joined the Dragon Watch.
'Why are you doing this?' Riordan took the rag away and tried to make out Bashar's face. 'It was my blunder that nearly got Kendrick killed.'
'I know. You went charging into that alley and the Soorenar were waiting for you. Knocked you out and nearly killed Kendrick when he tried to protect you. Then they escaped. If you'd waited…'
In his excitement, he'd forgotten to sound the alarm. It was a stupid mistake and almost got his partner killed. He tried to explain. 'I saw them run, I was right behind them. I could have gotten them all.'
'Except for the rearguard they left behind in the cross alley.' Bashar shook his head. 'Oldest trick in the book, lad.'
He hesitated a moment, then continued, 'I heard you did the same thing today. The man you chased was a seasoned warrior. Morka told me he wore six skulls.'
'Two guardsmen were with me, but they held back and let me fight alone.'
'I heard that, too.'
Bashar took the rag and dipped it in the bowl of green poultice. He wrung it out and handed it back to Riordan. The stench was terrible.
'You asked me why I'm doing this. Your father saved my life once. I owe him something.'
Riordan took the poultice away from his eye. His vision cleared enough to make out the corporal. Riordan stared at him, really seeing him for the first time.
Bashar had a lined face, wrinkled like a prune, though he moved like someone much younger. Riordan realized that Bashar was probably not as old as he looked, it was just that the wars had burned away all the excess flesh. His muscles were thin and ropy like the gnarled roots of some tree. Two copper bracelets with strange runes encircled his upper arms. The top of his head was completely bald and he'd pulled the hair on the sides into a long queue.
Barracks talk said Bashar was once a great swordsman, but wine had taken his senses and now he was a drunk barely tolerated by Morka Kodolan.
Riordan looked at Bashar. 'What was my father like when you knew him?'
'Lad, he was a great fighter and a proud man. I never saw anyone handle a sword like he did. You know, sometimes I see a little of him in you. He looked like you when he was your age.'
Riordan shook his head, picturing the shriveled, bitter man his father had become. Wrapped in a faded red shawl and confined to a chair, Evern Marsh spent his last days staring endlessly at the distant mountains from the open window of his bedroom.
'No, lad. You can't deny it. You both have that lean and hungry look. You're taller than I remember him being, but you have the same darkness about you. Dark eyes, dark hair, and the same dark disposition. Evern was slender like you, but a hard man. When he was young, no man would mistake him for a-'
'Stupid recruit like me.' Riordan interrupted. He rubbed his shoulder and inspected the bandages on his arms and ribs.
'Nay, lad. That's not true. The fight this afternoon, for instance. That raider was a seasoned warrior. Six victories in the ring. Few could have stood alone against him even that long, lad.'
'Not much good it did me.'
'You're too hard on yourself. You're tall and that gives you the reach over most men, but most important, you're quick and you have good moves.'
'That Soorenar would've killed me. He had moves I'd never seen before.'
'Ring fighter's tricks, lad.' He hesitated a moment. 'I could show you. They're not hard.'
Riordan stared at him a moment. He could use a friend. Even an old drunk.
Bashar was as good as his word. They spent the next tenday doing drills and exercises that left Riordan exhausted. In spite of that, his skills improved faster than he would have thought possible. Several times he caught Morka Kodolan watching them with a frown on his face. Later, Riordan saw the swordmaster stop Bashar on the way to the Owl Inn where he drank every tenday leave.
He was too far away to hear what was said, but he knew they were arguing. Finally the swordmaster threw his hands up and stalked away. Bashar stared after him for a while until he saw Riordan watching, then he too turned and walked away. Riordan hurried after Bashar and found him at a table drinking by himself in a dim corner of the Owl. Morka sat nearby talking to a grizzled veteran and eating a bowl of stew.
Two big men staggered over, dressed in the green and gold of the Wyvern Watch. One put his foot on the bench next to the swordmaster and said, 'Hey, Morka, I heard a couple of your recruits ran into an alley last tenday after some Soorenar that torched a ship. Let 'em go, I heard. Guess they must have decided the Soorenar were too much for 'em.' The man nudged his partner and laughed, sloshing ale on the floor.
Morka tensed, gripping his knife and staring hard at the other man. The big man blanched and smiled. 'Hey, don't take it out on me. Everybody's talking about it.'
The two men backed away as Morka pushed his food away and stood up. Heavy muscles flexed as he moved, highlighting the pale scars that crisscrossed the dark skin of his chest and face. The two watchmen looked at each other and put their hands to the hilts of their swords, but Morka ignored them.
He walked past the table where Riordan sat with Bashar. 'I'm going to the Griffin to drink. The stink of recruits is too strong here.'
Morka looked directly at Riordan then shook his head. 'Bashar, I want to talk to you.'
'Ill meet you there.'
Morka stared at Riordan a moment longer, then walked away.
Riordan started to get up and follow, but Bashar put his hand on his sleeve. 'Not now, lad. The Griffin is off limits to recruits.'
'But what happened wasn't like that. It wasn't like they said.'
'It doesn't matter, Morka's in no mood to listen. Didn't you learn anything last tenday?'
Riordan shook his head. 'He has to listen.'
'No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to believe you. He doesn't have to do anything at all. Don't you get it yet?'
Bashar waved his mug toward the door through which Morka had left. Ale slopped from the rim onto his shirt but he didn't seem to notice.
'Son, he's swordmaster. Things are the way he wants them to be. You're a recruit. There's nothing lower in this world than a recruit. Get used to it.'
'He hates me. He thinks I'm the son of some useless noble. I've heard the stories about my father's fencing masters. The truth is, I paid for my own training and I had to sneak out every night to do it.'
'He doesn't hate you lad, but he won't let you out of training till he thinks you're ready.'
'Ill prove myself. He'll have to listen to me.'
Bashar shook his head. 'You already tried that once. Who're you really trying to prove yourself to?'
Riordan stared at him. 'What are you talking about?'
'Unless you're blind, it's not hard to see. Third son of a famous warrior out to show everyone he's as good as his father…'
'Leave my father out of this. What do you know?'
'More than you might think.' Bashar sighed and took a sip of his ale. 'I served under him in three campaigns. Aye, a real firebrand he was. You're just like him.'
Bashar put his mug on the table and motioned to the barmaid for another.
'That's what got you into trouble in the first place, lad.'
He smiled at the maid and took the mug from her tray. He'd nursed a single ale tonight and Riordan noticed
