Etares was still muffled in gray, pre-dawn light, hardly stirring. There was noise from the harbor, of course, but there was always noise from the harbor. Ships arrived at all hours of the day and night and left at all hours of the day and night. Time was money to the traders that plied the Sthan Kingdom’s waterways, and there was no reason to idle tied up to a jetty while there was profit to be had elsewhere.
They passed little traffic on the River Road though, removed as it was from the harbor. Beyond the houses on the left, the Furnier River burbled along sluggishly on its way to the sea. Relam could not see the water, but he could smell it. The foul stench now associated with the river not only made the prince recoil in disgust but also made his face harden with anger. The river had once been beautiful and pleasant and clean, a shimmering ribbon winding through Etares, as spectacular an ornament as any of the richly appointed manors that bordered it. Relam vowed to himself that one day the river would be cleansed. After all, beyond being a matter of pride, the health of the river affected the health of the living creatures inside, namely the fish. If the fish began dying in the river, there would be shortages and empty stomachs in the seaside capital, where many of the poorer citizens relied on fish for their meals each day. And the people were Relam’s responsibility, and his father’s, to look after.
They moved quickly past the Citadel, whose gates were shut tight. No guards stood by the ground level entrance, but sentries paced the walls above and manned the roofs of the many towers. Flickering orange torchlight shone through the gaps between crenellations, illuminating a face every now and then or gleaming on the metal head of a weapon.
Finally, they reached Tar’s compound. The gate was already open, and a handful of younger cadets were milling about inside, waiting for the sword master to join them. Relam nodded briefly to them, then moved to one side of the training ground, where he would be out of the way. He glanced around once more, confirmed that Cevet had not yet arrived, then drew his blade and took up a ready stance. His guards looked around, then took seats on the low benches that ringed the training ground at regular intervals.
Relam started off slow, moving through the patterns Agath had taught him, making each move deliberately and precisely. As his muscles warmed up, he moved faster and faster, though never as fast as he had on the day of the trials. By the time he had reached the fifth pattern, Agath had emerged from his quarters and was starting the younger cadets with the first pattern. They moved at a remarkably slow pace, pausing at the end of each stroke so that the sword master could check their technique. The prince smiled as he watched Tar move among the boys, making miniscule adjustments here and there. Some of the cadets scowled, thinking they had performed perfectly. Others set their faces in determined lines and took up the ready stance again once Agath had moved on, ready for a chance to prove they had learned.
The prince kept working for an hour, until he had finished all ten patterns. Then, sweating lightly but breathing evenly and without effort, he sheathed his sword and joined his guards on the benches. The two men were watching the cadets curiously, noting the drills Agath was putting them through and how successful each boy was.
“You did well, your highness,” one of the guards said, nodding respectfully.
“Thanks,” Relam replied, leaning over and snatching a cup of water from a table. “I felt a little rusty.”
“It didn’t show,” the other guard promised, watching the younger cadets. “You have a deft hand with a blade. A few of these lads do too. Agath has trained them extremely well.”
“Especially the one in the last row, closest to us,” the first guard added. “He’s doing very well.”
Relam watched the boy in question for a moment, nodding slowly. He was not an overly large or muscular youth, but capable, and he took orders well. Every time Tar made a correction to his form, which was rare, he would file the information away and prepare to correct his mistake. No arguing, no complaints. Just efficient learning.
“Do you know who he is?” Relam asked idly, sipping at his water.
“No idea,” the first guard grunted, leaning back. “I know most of the nobles’ kids though, and I don’t think he’s one of them.”
“A commoner then?” the second guard asked. “Pity. He’s a good fighter.”
“And why is it a pity that he is common born?” Relam demanded, sitting up a little straighter.
The guard shrugged in an infuriating way. “Well, if he’s a commoner, he’ll have no chance of getting on with D’Arnlo down the road, if he wanted to become a master swordsman, which, by the look of things, he could. And he’d have to have a fair amount of money to learn from Yavvis.”
“In other words, nobody will take him and this natural swordsman will be wasted?” Relam summed up.
“Yes,” the first guard agreed, scratching at his beard. “It’s a shame. He really is quite good.”
Relam frowned, watching the youth perform the second pattern now. He was far superior to his peers in control, placing his blade precisely and stopping it immediately, without any of the wobbling or quivering that the other cadets were experiencing. Every cut was placed at exactly the right angle, every thrust was perfectly timed so that it achieved maximum power. Relam would have quite liked to see this boy matched up with Knet, or Delan. It would not be an entirely fair fight, but it would be a close one if Relam was any
