The Wise Man's Fear

this. Women less so.”

I opened my mouth, then thought of Dedan and closed it.

A shadow fell over us, and I looked up to see a tall man in his reds standing at a polite distance. He held his hand poised near the hilt of his sword. Invitation.

Vashet gestured back. Gentle regret and refusal.

I watched as he walked away. “Won’t they think less of you for not fighting?”

Vashet sniffed disdainfully. “He didn’t want to fight,” she said. “It would only embarrass him and waste my time. He merely wanted to show he was brave enough to fight me.” She sighed and gave me a pointed look. “It is that sort of foolishness that leads men from the Lethani.”

The next match was between two red-shirted mercenaries, and the difference was obvious. Everything was much cleaner and crisper. The two boys had been frantic as sparrows flapping in the dust, but the fights that followed were elegant as dances.

Many of the bouts were hand fighting. These lasted until one person submitted or was visibly stunned by a blow.

One fight stopped immediately when a man bloodied his opponent’s nose. Vashet rolled her eyes at this, though I couldn’t tell if she thought less of the woman for allowing herself to be struck, or the man for being reckless enough to hurt her.

There were several bouts with wooden swords, too. These tended to go more quickly, as even a light touch was considered enough for a victory.

“Who won that one?” I asked. After a quick exchange of clacking swordplay ended with both women scoring hits at the same time.

“Neither,” she said, frowning.

“Why don’t they fight again if it was a tie?” I asked.

Vashet frowned at me. “It wasn’t a tie, strictly speaking. Drenn would have died in minutes, struck through the lung. Lasrel would have died in days when the wound in her gut soured.”

“So Lasrel won?”

Vashet gave me a look of withering contempt and turned her attention back to the next fight.

The tall Adem man who had asked Vashet to fight was bouting with a thin whip of a woman. Strangely, he used a wooden sword while she was barehanded. He won by a narrow margin after catching two solid kicks to the ribs.

“Who won there?” Vashet asked me.

I could tell she wasn’t looking for the obvious answer. “It’s not much of a victory,” I said. “She didn’t even have a sword.”

“She is of the third stone and far outstrips him as a fighter. It was the only way for things to be balanced between them unless he were to bring a companion to fight by his side,” Vashet pointed out. “So I ask again. Who won?”

“He won the bout,” I said. “But he’ll have some impressive bruises tomorrow. Also, his swings seemed somewhat reckless.”

Vashet turned to look at me. “So who won?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Neither,” I decided.

She nodded. Formal approval. The gesture warmed me, as everyone facing us could see it.

At long last, Shehyn stepped into the circle. She had removed her lopsided yellow hat, and her greying hair swirled about in the wind. Seeing her among the other Adem, I realized how small she was. She carried herself with such confidence that I had come to think of her as taller, but she barely came up to the shoulder of some of the taller Adem.

She carried a straight wooden sword with her. Nothing ornate, but it was carved to have the shape of a hilt and blade. Many of the other practice swords I had seen were barely more than smoothed sticks that gave the impression of being swords. Her white shirt and pants were tied tightly to her body with thin white chords.

Alongside Shehyn came a much younger woman. She was shorter than Shehyn by an inch or so. Her frame was more delicate, too, her small face and shoulders making her look almost childlike. But the pronounced curve of her high breasts and round hips beneath her tight mercenary reds made it obvious she was no child.

Her wooden sword was also carved. It was curved slightly, unlike most of the others I had seen. Her sandy hair was braided into a long, narrow plait that hung down to the small of her back.

The two of them raised their swords and began to circle each other.

The young woman was amazing. She struck so fast I could barely see the motion of her hand, let alone the blade of her sword. But Shehyn brushed it away casually with Drifting Snow, taking half a step in retreat. Then, before Shehyn could respond with an attack of her own, the young woman spun away, her long braid swinging.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Penthe,” Vashet said admiringly. “She is a fury, is she not? Like one of our old ancestors.”

Penthe closed with Shehyn again, feinting and thrusting. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out for balance, not even touching the ground. Her sword arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body was below the level of my head, even though I was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Penthe unfurled all this sinuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her sword came in low under Shehyn’s guard and angled up toward her knee.

“What is that?” I asked softly, not even expecting an answer. “You never showed me that.” But it was just astonished noise. Never in a hundred years could my body do that.

But Shehyn somehow avoided the attack. Not leaping away with any sudden motion. Not darting out of reach. She was quick, but that was not the heart of how she moved. Instead she was deliberate and perfect. She was already halfway gone before Penthe’s sword had begun to flick toward her leg. The tip of Penthe’s sword must have come within an inch of her knee. But it was not a close thing. Shehyn had only moved as much as was needed, no more.

This time Shehyn did manage to counterattack, stepping forward with Sparrow Strikes the Hawk. Penthe rolled sideways, touched the grass briefly, then pushed herself up off the ground. No, she threw herself away from the ground using only her left hand. Her body snapped like a steel spring, arcing away while her sword licked out twice, driving Shehyn back.

Penthe was full of passion and fury. Shehyn was calm and steady. Penthe was a storm. Shehyn a stone. Penthe was a tiger and Shehyn a bird. Penthe danced and wove madly. Shehyn turned and took one single perfect step.

Penthe slashed and spun and whirled and struck and struck and struck. . . .

And then they stopped, the tip of Penthe’s wooden sword pressed to Shehyn’s white shirt.

I gasped, though not loudly enough to draw any attention. Only then did I realize my heart was racing. My entire body was covered in sweat.

Shehyn lowered her sword, gesturing irritation, admiration, and a mingling of other things I couldn’t identify. She bared her teeth a little in a grimace and used her hand to chafe roughly at her ribs where Penthe had struck her. The same way you rub your shin when you bark it against a chair.

Horrified, I turned to Vashet. “Will she be the new leader of the school?” I asked.

Vashet looked at me, puzzled.

I gestured to the open circle in front of us where the two women stood talking. “This Penthe. She’s beaten Shehyn . . .”

Vashet looked at me for a moment, uncomprehending, then burst out in a long, delighted laugh. “Shehyn is old,” she said. “She is a grandmother. You cannot expect her to always win against a limber young thing like Penthe, all full of fire and fresh wind.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see. I thought . . .”

Vashet was kind enough not to laugh at me again. “Shehyn is not the head of the school because no one can beat her. What an odd notion. What chaos that would be, everything tipping this way and that, changing with the luck of one fight or another.”

She shook her head. “Shehyn is the head because she is a marvelous teacher, and because her understanding