guards, at fifteen. Acceptable?’
All three quickly nodded.
He felt slightly shaky on his feet, but Murillio knew that had nothing to do with any residue of weakness left by his wound. This weakness belonged to his spirit. As if age had sprung on to his back with claws digging into every joint and now hung there, growing heavier by the moment. He walked hunched at the shoulders and this seemed to have arrived like a new habit, or perhaps it was always there and only now, in his extremity, had he become aware of it.
That drunken pup’s sword thrust had pierced something vital indeed, and no Malazan healer or any other kind of healer could mend it.
He tried forcing confidence into his stride as he made his way down the crowded street, but it was not an easy task. Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom once she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her daughter. Oh, not rape-too much triumph in the girl’s eves for that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort’s charge to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never have gone back to explain-
But that was yesterday’s nightmare, all those sparks raining down on the do-mestic scene with its airs of concern, every cagey word painting over the cracks in savage, short jabs of the brush. What had he expected? What had he gone there to find? Reassurance?
Maybe. I guess I arrived with my own brush.
Years ago, he would have smoothed everything over, almost effortlessly. A murmur here, a meeting of gazes there. Soft touch with one hand, the barest hint of pressure. Then again, years ago, it would never have happened in the first place. That drunken fool!
Oh, he’d growled those three words often in his head. But did they refer to the young man with the sword, or to himself?
Arriving at the large duelling school, he made his way through the open gate and emerged into the bright sunlight of the training ground. A score of young, sweating, overweight students scraped about in the dust, wooden weapons clattering. Most, he saw at once, lacked the necessary aggression, the killer’s instinct. They danced to avoid, prodding the stick points forward with a desultory lack of commitment. Their footwork, he saw, was abysmal.
The class instructor was standing in the shade of a column in the colonnaded corridor just beyond. She was not even observing the mayhem in the compound, intent, it seemed, on some loose stitching or tear in one of her leather gauntlets.
Making his way along one side of the mob getting lost in clouds of white dust, Murillio approached the instructor. She noted him briefly then returned her attention to the gauntlet.
‘Excuse me,’ Murillio said as he arrived. ‘Are you the duelling mistress?’
‘I am.’ She nodded without looking at the students, where a couple, of fights had started for real. ‘How am I doing so far?’
Murillio glanced over and studied the fracas for a moment. ‘That depends,’ he said.
She grunted. ‘Good answer. What can I do for you? Do you have some grandson or daughter you want thrown in there? Your clothes were expensive… once. As it looks, I doubt you can afford this school, unless of course you’re one of those stink-ing rich who make a point of dressing all threadbare. Old money and all that.’
‘Quite a sales pitch,’ Murillio observed. ‘Does it actually work?’
‘Classes are full. There’s a waiting list.’
‘I was wondering if you need help. With basic instruction.’
‘What school trained you then?’
‘Carpala.’
She snorted. ‘He took one student every three years.’
‘Yes.’
And now she looked at him with an intensity he’d not seen before. ‘Last I heard, there were seven students of his left in the city.’
‘Five, actually. Fedel tumbled down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. He was drunk. Santbala-’
‘Was stabbed through the heart by Gorlas Vidikas-the brat’s first serious victory.’
Murillio grimaced. ‘Not much of a duel. Santbala had gone mostly blind bul was too proud to admit it. A cut on the wrist would have given Gorlas his triumph.’
‘The young ones prefer killing to wounding.’
‘It’s what duelling has come to, yes. Fortunately, most of your students here are more likely to stab themselves than any opponent they might one day face, and such wounds are rarely fatal.’
‘Your name?’
‘Murillio.’
She nodded as if she’d already guessed. ‘And you’re here because you want to teach. If you’d taken up teaching when Carpala was still alive-’
‘He would have hunted me down and killed me, yes. He despised schools, in fact, he despised duelling. He once said teaching the rapier was like putting a poisonous snake into a child’s hand. He drew no pleasure from instruction and was not at all surprised when very nearly every one of his prize students either got themselves killed or wasted away as drunkards or worse.’
‘You did neither.’
‘No, that’s true. I chased women.’
‘Only now they’re too fast for you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I am Stonny Menackis. This school exists to make me rich, and yes, it’s work” ing. Tell me, will you be sharing your old master’s hatred of teaching?’
‘Not as vehemently, I imagine. I don’t expect to take any pleasure in it, but I will do what’s needed.’
‘Footwork.’
He nodded. ‘Footwork. The art of running away. And forms, the defensive cage, since that will keep them alive. Stop-hits to the wrist, knee, foot.’
‘Non-lethal’
‘Yes.’
She sighed and straightened. ‘All right. Assuming I can afford you.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
She shot him a quizzical glance, and then added, ‘Don’t think about chasing me, by the way.’
‘I am finished with all that, or, rather, it’s finished with me.’
‘Good-’
At this moment they both noticed that an old woman had come up to them. Stonny’s voice was suddenly… different, as she said, ‘Myrla. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been looking for Gruntle-’
‘That fool went off with the Trygalle-I warned him and now he’s going to get himself killed for no good reason!’
‘Oh. It’s Harllo, you see…’
‘What about him?’ The old woman was flinching at everything Stormy said and Murillio suspected he would have done the same in the face of such a tone. ‘He’s gone missing.’
‘What? For how long?’
‘Snell Naid he saw him, two days back. Down at the docks. He’s never not come home at day’s end-he’s only five-’
’Two days!’
Murillio saw that Stonny’s face had gone white as death and a sudden terror was growing in her eyes. Two days!’
‘Sncll says-’
‘You stupid woman-Snell is a liar! A damned thief!’
Myrla stepped back under the onslaught. ‘He gave us the coin you brought-’
