“No training?”
“For wot?” asked Bran.
He shoved his plate at the young man. “Take our dishes to the cook and . . .” He looked around the grounds. He spotted an open stretch of mostly flat grass by a row of flowering rhododendron bushes, their mauve petals open. “Meet us over there.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
“Training.” Ōbhin worked his shoulders. If Dualayn was back working with the Brotherhood, the Rangers wouldn’t be happy. If the local gangs worked for them, it would be best to prepare for any issues.
“You gonna teach us how you killed Ni’mod?” Bran asked, his eyes wide.
“Going to make sure you can protect this estate.” Ōbhin backed away from the marble wall, staring at the veins of red and blue working through the smooth white. “Your mother’s here, Bran, and Smiles, you got a wife. These people need us to protect them.”
“Against sneak thieves?” Fingers asked.
“Against anything.” Ōbhin fixed a glance at the older man. “You don’t have Ni’mod here now.”
“No, we got you,” Bran said, holding all the plates now, the earthenware rattling. “You got to be better.”
“I didn’t beat Ni’mod,” said Ōbhin. “I killed him.”
“Wot’s the difference?”
“It wasn’t a duel—it wasn’t even a street brawl—it was fighting. The real thing. No rules. No mercy. I took advantage of Handsome Baill firing an arrow at Ni’mod and cut him down before he could kill me.” Ōbhin drew his blade. “And I had this. It levels things greatly.”
Smiles leaned forward, his grin vanishing. “That’s a Demochian resonance sword. Ain’t those outlawed?”
“Not Demochian and not illegal,” said Ōbhin. “We have them in Qoth. The Tethyrians refuse to sell weapons, so they haven’t made it here. Yet. Won’t be long before someone imports them.”
“I thought resonance blades were a myth,” Bran said. “Does it hum?”
Ōbhin nodded. He sheathed it. “Training. Get moving, guard. Now!”
The crack of command, something Ōbhin hadn’t used since his time as a lieutenant in the palace guard, snapped Bran into motion. The youth darted around the building, his footsteps retreating. Ōbhin turned his gaze to Smiles and Fingers, arching an eyebrow.
Smiles nodded. “We did trainin’ in the city watch all the time. Drillin’ on riot control ‘n clubbin’ sneak thieves in the head.”
Fingers spat. “Fine. Guess it’s better than snorin’ in the guard shack or listenin’ to Smiles prattle on and on ‘bout his perfect wife.”
“She is perfect,” Smiles said, his grin growing. “Got me this ‘ere job, you know. Wanted us out of the city. ‘Not raisin’ your children in these slums,’ she said to me. And she’s right. Better here.”
Bran caught up before they were halfway there, puffing from his run, cheeks flushed. Ōbhin shook his head. That had to change. They needed to be in better shape. Despite eating, the headache lingered. It made running them through calisthenics a chore. Bran and Smiles kept up, but Fingers glared murder as he huffed and puffed, sweat pouring down his back.
“You tryin’ to kill us?” spat Fingers as he jumped in place, alternating kicking out and bringing in his legs together with each hop, arms pumping up and down.
“Just training,” Ōbhin grunted, sweat pooling across his body, his leather jerkin sticking to his chest. His boots felt heavy. He was panting by the end. He hadn’t realized how soft he’d become in the last two years. “You can quit. City full of men to hire.”
Fingers scowled. “And go . . . back to my wife . . . and the saffron fields?” He spat. “Rather split . . . my side here.”
Ōbhin grinned at him.
After warm-ups, he had them fetch their weapons. They didn’t have swords but metal cudgels. Or so Ōbhin thought until he noticed a glint at the butt. He frowned. “Jewelchines?”
“Binders,” said Smiles. He turned it over to show an amethyst set in a small hollow in the weapon’s butt. “Dualayn’s invention. Sold the patent to the city guard. Great for dealin’ with sneak thieves.”
“Yeah?” Ōbhin asked. “Lethal?”
“Well, you could brain a man.” Fingers hefted the thick rod of metal. It was as long as Ōbhin’s forearm and he could sense the weight as Fingers swung it. “But the jewelchine ain’t lethal. It binds.”
“Hence, binder,” said Ōbhin. “How do they bind?”
“Well . . .” Fingers lunged forward, swinging his cudgel at Ōbhin’s arm.
The man’s footwork was decent, the attack coming fast and with skill. Ōbhin resisted the urge to dodge, only turning to let the binder strike the meat of his upper arm covered by the sleeve of his leather jerkin.
The rod hit with a thud and a burst of purple light from the butt. Pain throbbed through his arm as the light wrapped about his arm and torso, creating a field of energy that binded his limb tight to his side.
“Raleth’s revealing Truth!” he cursed in Qothian, shocked by the squeezing band. It was hard to breathe.
“See? Binder,” said Smiles, grinning. “Good to hit ‘em in the legs. Tangles ‘em up.”
“I imagine,” Ōbhin said.
Bran chortled, swinging his own about before him in wild, untrained sweeps. “No thief dares sneak up on us, or we’ll bind ‘em up ‘n drag them to the magistrate.”
“How long does it last?” Ōbhin asked, his breath short. The pressure on his ribs made them creak.
“Long enough. ‘Bout a quarter-hour.” Fingers shrugged. “You wanted to see how they worked.” He spat even as he smiled.
“Makes me the fool,” Ōbhin said. His fingers flexed. “You had good form. What about you, Fingers?”
“Wot, want me to hit you?” asked the older man. He tightened his grip, swollen knuckles going white.
“Can you?” Ōbhin asked.
Fingers swung a hard blow at Ōbhin. His arm was bound, but not his legs. He was ready now, in a fighting stance. He backpedaled out of the way,
