Читать книгу Hero Grown - Andy Livingstone - Страница 9

‘You still think me mad and old?’

He had begun to sense her presence when she approached, before even he heard her. He didn’t turn as she filled a glass goblet and sipped at the cool water. The Arena lay empty and silent, soft wind and hard shadows reaching across it. Still he sat, eyes fixed on the smudge in the centre, the stain of blood a guide to his thoughts.

‘Of course. Are you not?’

He grunted.

Her hoarse whisper was like a voice in his head. ‘You do little to dispel that notion. Anyone seeing you sitting here alone, staring into nothing, would be certain your wits had preceded your body to the grave.’

‘Those of us with wits call it thinking. It’s what people who don’t make assumptions do.’

She moved alongside him and followed his gaze. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I think you will have seen that I was right about the boy.’

‘You think he is capable.’

‘Not yet. There is much he must learn. That which is within him must be set free.’

‘Can it?’

‘There are ways.’

‘How can the ways come to pass?’

‘That is what occupies my thoughts.’

‘Will they come to pass?’

‘They will.’

She put a hand on his shoulder. He ignored it, but did not remove it.

A softness crept into her rasp. ‘They must.’

****

When Brann woke, his head was in pain more than his body. Moving his eyelids was too much effort. Groaning was beyond him. The last words he remembered saying were, ‘Wine? What is wine?’

Now he knew. It was what demons created for times when ale wouldn’t cause enough pain the next morning.

He was too hot, so he pushed the blanket to his waist. He needed the feel of something against him, so he pulled the blanket back over him. He curled on his side, but his limbs were restless. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pounding in his skull.

He sat up with a shouted gasp as icy water crashed over him.

‘Good, you’re up,’ Salus said, as jovial as the water was cold. ‘You can carry your bed out to the sun. It needs to dry off.’

He wiped water and fringe from his eyes and waited a moment before lifting his head. Marlo held a dripping bucket, and wore a sheepish grin that Brann wanted to smash from his face. Except that he wanted even more to never again move a muscle. He made to roll back onto his mattress, but Salus stretched out a big arm.

‘No, you don’t. Cassian’s orders. You do your recovery today, then start training tomorrow.’

Brann managed a groan and slowly stood up. His head felt like it had been filled with lead that was expanding with a relentless thumping pulse.

‘Boss wants to see you first of all. Probably wants to see if you survived the second attempt on your life.’

Brann looked up sharply and immediately regretted the sudden movement. ‘Second?’

Salus nodded solemnly. ‘Your own attempt, using excessive amounts of alcohol. It was a most valiant attempt, I must say.’

‘Was I in a bad state?’

Marlo laughed. ‘Entertaining mostly. Then bad.’

‘How bad?’

‘Couldn’t even bite your finger. That’s when we took you to bed. Well, when I say took, I mean carried.’

Brann grunted and shuffled towards the door. Salus coughed pointedly. ‘Your bed.’

Brann turned and lifted the end of the wooden cot, dragging it behind him, screeching against the tiled floor. Marlo stepped beside him and helped to pull it.

Brann looked at him. ‘Would you not be better taking the other end?’

‘I would if you looked capable of steering on your own.’

‘Why are you here anyway? You were only helping me because my hands were full.’

Marlo grinned. ‘I won the chance to handle the bucket.’

Brann’s reply was snatched away by the stabbing pain of the sunlight as he stepped from the doorway. He dropped his side of the bed and clutched his hands to his eyes, yelling in misery. Marlo dragged the bed to one side and left it to dry in the heat. By the time Brann had eased his eyes open to slits, the boy had gone.

‘If you’re ready?’ Salus was waiting.

‘Never felt less like it, but don’t feel like it’s changing any time soon so I may as well,’ Brann grumbled.

Cassian was watching his fighters spar when they found him. Brann was still trying not to vomit from the smell of the food cooking in the kitchens that they had passed on the way, but still managed to curse inwardly that the Master of the School could not have been occupied in the cool shade of his residence.

‘Ah, my young warrior!’ The old soldier beamed. ‘I’m so glad to see you again. I did tell you this last night, but you didn’t seem to be taking much in at that stage. Did you enjoy your introduction to wine?’

Brann rubbed the heels of his hands against his temples. ‘Even my hair hurts. Why could you not have had a normal drink, like ale?’

‘If we had expected you to return, we would have ordered some in.’

‘Oh, very funny.’

Cassian frowned. ‘It was not a joke.’ He beamed and clapped Brann on the shoulder. ‘It was a surprise, but be assured, it was a surprise of the most pleasant sort. And you certainly seemed to like the wine when you were drinking it.’

‘Well I don’t now.’

‘Your dancing on the table was most amusing, though not as amusing as your spectacular fall from it. And it did serve to cure your shaking last night. Although I see it is now causing the shaking this morning.’ He handed Brann his waterskin, old leather that still had a feel of high quality. ‘My victory present to you. Drink and refill it regularly.’

Aware that his mouth was tongue-sticking dry, Brann drank greedily. Cassian tipped the waterskin back down. ‘Easy, easy. Build up slowly or it will hit your stomach and bounce back with all it finds there.’

Salus grinned. ‘That might actually not be the worst thing that could happen.’

‘Perhaps.’ Cassian clapped Brann on the back. He was sure it caused his head to burst. ‘What will be, will be. In the meantime, our friend Salus will introduce you to my good lady wife. She will take care of you today. We will start improving you tomorrow.’

Brann swayed slightly, waiting for his vision to stop dancing. It didn’t, so he accepted that he would just have to follow both of the two Saluses that were walking back towards the main house.

After a while, Cassian’s final words sank in. ‘Improve me?’

‘You can always improve.’

‘But I thought what I did yesterday worked.’

‘It worked against him.’

‘Yes, so I was thinking I would just be…’

‘You will not fight him again.’

‘Oh. That’s true.’

They were about to enter the house, but Salus wheeled to face him. He placed his hands on Brann’s shoulders and bent to look into his eyes. For once, he looked stern. ‘The day you stop learning, is the day you die. Dying stops you learning; stopping learning makes you die. Some you will be taught, some you will notice yourself. But you must always look to improve.’

Brann nodded solemnly. ‘I do tend to notice things.’

‘Well keep doing it. And do it more. Now come, and let us have no more of this seriousness.’

He led Brann down into the centre of the house and turned down the same corridor that had taken them to the bathing pools. Before they reached the pools, however, Salus knocked on another door. A slave, clad in a simple white tunic and with a silver chain of slender links around his neck, opened the door, his head shaven and his arms and legs as smooth as his scalp. The sailors on the voyage to Sagia had filled the nights with tales, and some had spoken of such men who had, as boys, been robbed of their manhood for any number of reasons –through religion, for practicality, as punishment or to break their spirit – and in many cases all body hair followed of its own accord. Whatever the reason for the cutting, Brann thought it abhorrent and he found himself stopping and gripping the man’s arm in sympathy as he passed. The slave looked at him quizzically.

‘Don’t have any designs on my staff.’ The tall, striking woman Brann had seen with Cassian just the day before stood to one side and looked up from a potion she was pouring into a cup. Her voice was low, soothing, measured. ‘I know of at least one culture that believes sex to be the cure for a hangover, but I find this to be more effective.’

He took the cup from her. ‘Staff? Designs?’ He frowned, trying to move his brain at normal speed. ‘Cure?’ His eyes widened. ‘Sex?’ Realisation flooded his face with colour. ‘Oh, no. I was just so sorry for him.’

‘You think he suffers working with me?’

He was stammering now. ‘No. I mean… no, no. I just think it’s awful, what has been done to him.’

‘You think I mistreat him?’

He was starting to wish he had entered the room head down and silent. ‘I mean what happened to him as a boy.’ He glanced at the man, who seemed unperturbed and was arranging pots and vials on a shelf above a cabinet.

She leant on a padded table, facing him. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’

‘Then you know what they did to him.’

‘Did what to him?’

He walked closer and lowered his voice. ‘You know… when they, er… when he had his…’ Of all the experiences he had been through since arriving in this land, this was becoming the most excruciating. He decided he just had to go for it. ‘When they cut off his balls,’ he blurted.

The slave dropped a pot. Salus spluttered. The woman looked at him. ‘Nobody has cut off his balls.’

Brann looked at the man. He still had his back to the room but his hands were braced on the top of the cabinet and his shoulders were convulsing. Convulsing, Brann realised, with mirth.

‘But his lack of hair. I thought…’

‘We all know what you thought. Hair loss is not always a symptom of castration. You should know that Mylas chooses to shave all his hair. All who work specifically with me must adhere to the highest standards of cleanliness, and some of the men find that removing their hair helps them to facilitate this. In my case,’ she shook her long tendrils of hair, ‘I wash myself, but beyond that I choose to bind up my hair and cover it, while all Mylas has to do is wipe his head. I do shave my chest and back, though.’

Brann’s eyes widened. ‘You shave your…? You…?’ His brain caught up. ‘That last bit wasn’t serious.’

She nodded at his hands. ‘Drink your drink.’

He took a sip. And spat it back into the cup. ‘By the gods, that’s foul!’

‘It will work.’

‘It would need to work very quickly because it will be coming straight back up.’

‘It will not. Drain the cup. That way you will not experience the taste for so long.’

He stared at the cup, the pale-orange liquid sitting there and doing its best to look like poison. He looked at the eyes boring into him. He had no option. Taking a deep breath, he downed the drink.

Surprisingly, when it hit his stomach a soothing warmth rose through him rather than the contents of his guts. He felt better. Still not great, but better. ‘Is that an old soldier’s recipe?’

‘It is my recipe. Are you calling me an old soldier?’

‘No!’ Oh gods, not this again. ‘But haven’t you been a warrior at some point? Women don’t go to war among my people, but I have heard that in several countries they do.’

It was difficult to tell if she was more bemused or amused. ‘Quite the opposite, young man.’

‘But you taught Cassian how to fight.’

She laughed then. ‘I have taught my husband many things, but it is good to hear he has admitted it for once, even if it was to a boy widely expected to take that knowledge to his grave the same day. I cannot lay claim to teaching him to fight – he became accomplished at that all by himself.’

He shook his head in confusion. ‘He told me, when he said about tendons and muscles and shallow wounds. He said he learnt that from you.’

‘My expertise does lie in that area, but in putting them back together, not in taking them apart. However, when you know how to fix something, you also know how to break it. And talking of fixing things, let us fix you.’

He had forgotten about his self-inflicted malaise. Forgetting was a good sign in itself, but now that he thought about it, he realised he could move his head without wincing and could even contemplate breakfast.

‘Actually, I feel much better, thank you. That disgusting drink has really worked. I’m not perfect, but I could actually do with some food. Thank you very much.’

He spun on his heel to head for the door. Salus put a hand on his chest. ‘Are you serious?’

Brann turned back slowly, trying to think what he may have missed. ‘My apologies. Should I have bowed, or something?’ He bent awkwardly at the waist.

Her elbows were on the table. Her head was in her hands. ‘By your gods and mine, I am close to doing what that oaf failed to achieve with you in the Arena.’

Salus’s hand closed on the neck of his tunic and propelled him from the room. ‘It may be best if we start again.’

He closed the door then immediately knocked on it. Without waiting for a reply, he walked in, dragging the stumbling Brann with him. Mylas was walking across in front of them, carrying a tray of shining instruments. Salus guided the boy around the slave. ‘Not a word to him,’ he growled.

He jerked Brann to a halt in front of the table, where she still stood, leaning again with both hands on the surface, her head bowed.

Salus’s voice was quiet. ‘Lady Tyrala, may I present Brann the miller’s son, recently emerged from the Arena.’ He slapped the back of his head. Brann winced. The potion had not yet fully cured him. ‘Though the gods only know how he found the wit to achieve that.’

She looked up. ‘On the table.’

Without a word, he lifted himself onto it.

‘For your information, Brann Millerson, my function here extends slightly beyond helping the excess-induced sore heads of idiots; that was a bonus for you. I choose to spend more of my time helping keep the bodies of our residents here in a condition where they work.’

‘I… er… I’m sorry, I…’ He was stammering again.

She ignored him. ‘The day of a contest we look to any wounds. To everyone’s surprise, you escaped without a scratch or anything more than a slight bump on your head that you managed to inflict with your own shield, far less the fatal result that, incidentally, was universally expected.’

‘It’s nice that everyone has felt the need to remind me I was expected to die.’

‘Try not to talk for a while. It would probably be to the advantage of us all. Thankfully your friend this morning was perfectly co-operative. Had he been like you we could have been here all week. If there are no serious wounds requiring attention, what we do today, the day after a contest, is to ease the bodies back to a state suitable for a return to training. Now, lift your left arm out to the side.’ As Salus took his leave, her fingers started to probe Brann’s shoulder. ‘You took a bit of a battering on your shield, so this is a good place to start.’

And so began a session that seemed to make her use of the word ‘ease’ highly inappropriate to Brann. Relentless stretching, twisting, pulling, kneading, pressing and, worst of all, gouging with her surprisingly powerful thumbs seemed to owe more to the principles of torture than recovery. When Marlo appeared at the door more than an hour later, he felt as if he would be barely able to walk.

‘Good.’ Tyrala turned to a basin to wash oil from her hands. ‘Now you bathe as yesterday. Return here this afternoon.’

‘Return?’ He couldn’t have sounded more horrified if she had told him he was due back in the Arena.

‘You haven’t grasped yet that this is to help you.’

‘I wish it felt like it.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ She turned and glared. He jumped from the table. ‘Didn’t think so.’

She let the door close, but not before he thought he might have glimpsed a smile ghosting onto her lips.

The hot and cold pools restored enough movement to allow him to walk with Marlo towards the courtyard where they had first met. The garden seemed even more beautiful today. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t expected to have the opportunity to be here. To be anywhere.

He looked at the young boy, ambling amiably beside him. Although they were much the same age, the events of the past year felt like they had moved him beyond the stage his companion was at. He envied him his youth. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

‘Youngest of three brothers and father could only afford to support two.’ Marlo shrugged. ‘It seemed as good a move as any, to enrol here. It is not the worst life. While Cassian does not run one of the big schools, and while he does have a certain reputation, I had heard good things about him.’

It was not what Brann had meant by his question, but he could come back to that. His curiosity was roused. He stopped and sat on a small bench, enjoying the feel of the warm stone beneath and a slight breeze on his face. ‘Do you mind?’

The boy grinned. ‘It is your rest day.’

Brann felt himself smile back. The sun, searing when they had first started to sail into these climes and blistering when he had come ashore and away from the sea winds, was becoming more familiar. Eyes shut, he let the warmth soak into his muscles. ‘Reputation? What did you mean?’

Marlo sat beside him. ‘What is the word? Eccentric? Many call him mad, but when you are around him enough, you can see past that. He is a bit odd in many ways, but that is his way. He was in the army, earned great renown, then was captured during a campaign across the sea. They said he was dead. His body had even been paraded by his captors at the time. It was more than a year later that they came across him at the gates of a town, escaped, broken, hanging over the back of a mule.’

‘What did they do to him?’

‘Who knows? Who wants to know? He certainly didn’t. His mind shut off from his body. He sat in inns, squares, brothels, parks, but he never drank, never whored, never spoke. He collected his army pension, he paid for food, and he sat and stared. No one robbed him, not even the scum – he was Cassian, after all. But also no one spoke to him – he was Cassian the Mad, Crazy Cassian, the Insane General. The smell didn’t help, or the look in his eyes. Or so they say.’

‘But he seems content, maybe not bouncing with life, but at least chirpy. What happened?’

‘Tyrala happened. She had met him in the army, when she was working with the other physicians during one campaign and he had wounds needing tending. Whatever their relationship then, whatever the effect he had on her or the regard she held him in, it was enough to prompt her to leave her home and travel most of the length of the Empire to find him in the depths of this city. She had been conscripted to serve her time with the army, but she volunteered to serve her time with him.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Brought him here. It was a small abandoned farmhouse with failed crops on the infertile wild land beyond the city, but it was all they needed. She needed time alone with him, and he needed her. Whatever it did, it brought him back. Maybe he’s a bit bonkers now instead of the inspiring general they say he was before, but we kind of like the bonkers. And he still knows his fighting. He decided to give back what he knew, to help those who he could. So he took in fighters unwanted by the other schools, slaves down on their luck, all sorts, just as long as they wanted to work, and improve. Always to improve. And because they improved, they started winning. And that brought the means to build this place. The Big House, the quarters we need, the training areas. His school. People respected his results, but the big schools resented his presence. The Big Seven are generations old; he was a newcomer. The smaller schools are just meant to scrabble for the scraps. His fighters don’t win as much as theirs, but they win, and they hate that. It upsets the order, and you know how we like order here. Cassian doesn’t care. He just wants to give people a chance. People like me. That was what I liked; that was why I came. Even at that age, I knew he was a good man.’

‘What age were you?’

‘Six.’

‘Six?’ He was incredulous. ‘I know your family were poor, but you were sold into slavery at six?’

Marlo laughed. ‘You really do know nothing of where you are, don’t you?’ He pulled his tunic collar to one side. ‘No chain. I am no slave.’

‘But are all fighters not slaves?’

‘I am not a fighter, not yet. Next year I start training. At least two years later, if Cassian feels I am ready, I will start in the smaller contests, the ones where the merchant caravans camp or in the poorer districts. I hope to work my way to the Arena one day.’ He nudged Brann playfully. ‘Not all of us start our career there. But then, not all of us catch the eye of the Emperor on our first day in the city.’

Brann was confused. ‘That’s all very well, but as I said, is it not only slaves who fight in these contests?’

‘Of course not! Anyone can fight, though you must belong to a school. That was why you and your friend were placed here. You needed to represent a school. But usually people join a school for one of three reasons: they are bought from the slave markets, they are criminals sentenced to slavery as a fighter or they enrol as a free man or woman.’

‘Why would anyone want this?’

The boy looked at him, no lightness in his eyes this time. ‘Sometimes it is all you have got. Sometimes it is better than you have got. And fighters who are citizens keep half their prize money, whereas all of the winnings of slaves go to the schools, so it is a living. And there are worse livings, believe me.’

Brann shrugged. He had seen the truth in that, and imagined there was far worse than he had seen. ‘Do you ever think of leaving though? I mean, now that you are older, going out and finding a craft?’

The boy frowned. ‘And this is not a craft? Cassian’s school gives me almost all the memories I have in my life. I am happy here. And soon I will start learning my craft in earnest. Why leave now?’ His eyes narrowed, but a smile creased their corners. ‘What put that thought in your head? Are you thinking of taking your leave?’

Brann’s laugh was hollow. ‘I don’t have much choice at the moment, do I? But if things change, or if they don’t and an opportunity presents itself…’ He picked absently at a leaf. ‘I have friends somewhere in the city and two more held in the palace. The others may be planning something to help the two hostages, or they may not have the chance at this time, but either way I cannot stand the thought of doing nothing. It is just not me.’

Marlo caught at his arm and spoke quietly. ‘Be careful. Cassian is a benevolent man, whether from his experiences or just because he cares for people. But there are laws that maintain this city, and above that there do seem to be, from what little I have picked up, powerful people who have your worst interests at heart. Do not give them the chance to act severely, and severely they will act against a runaway slave. You would be an example to others and would not be given the luxury of a death match, believe me.’ He turned Brann to look directly at him. ‘Just, please, promise me that you will not do anything without telling me. I know this city and I still know people in it who are not fond of the authorities. If you are going to do something stupid, let me help you be less likely to be publicly butchered.’

Brann looked at him. He knew he could trust no one, but he also knew that he was in a city of strangers and alien customs. Trust or not trust, either path carried grave risks. He would decide when the moment came. If the moment came. Right now, he just raised his eyebrows. ‘You would do that for me? Knowing the consequences if it went wrong?’

Marlo shrugged. ‘I know everyone here. But I only have one friend.’

Brann’s breath caught in surprise, the answer touching at his fragile control over the sadness that sat within him, pushed deep and out of sight. Then Marlo brightened, his grin lightening the mood. ‘You must be hungry.’ Brann realised he was.

They followed the smell of lunch even above the perfume of the garden and, when they emerged with hands full of steaming bowls to sit on a bench, their backs against the building wall, Brann felt almost content.

‘No training today,’ Marlo grinned, stirring the meat of his stew with a hunk of freshly baked bread, ‘so this lunchtime you can stuff yourself.’ Brann already was.

They ate in silence, if silence meant no words. Such was Brann’s hunger that he ate with a desperation that produced a noise similar to the feeding pigs in the pen where old farmer Donnuld had kept them just south of his village. Even the thought of his village was unable to curtail his anger, however.

‘Oh, how good it is to see a young boy eat with such healthy gusto!’ Salus stood over him, beaming as ever. ‘You are feeling better, then?’ Brann nodded without missing a bite. ‘The lady of the house sort you out?’ He nodded again. ‘Your young companion given you the guided tour?’ He frowned in confusion. Marlo’s foot kicked his ankle. He nodded vigorously. ‘Good, good. I’d better get in there while you two have still left some food for the rest of us.’

Brann studiously mopped up the last of his gravy with the last of his bread until the big man had disappeared inside. ‘Guided tour?’

‘I was supposed to do that before you ate, but you wanted to spend too much time gossiping and sitting amongst flowers.’ He sat his empty bowl down, stretched and burped. ‘Anyway, this,’ he slapped the wall of the building they were resting against, ‘where they store the food, prepare it and serve it, is the Food House. Down across the end, where you woke up this morning, is the Sleeping House, and separate from the rest, of course, is the Shit House.’ He waved a hand straight in front of them. ‘Over there, where you got your weapons, is the Weapons House and beside the end of it, where our cheerful smith works away happily, is…’

‘Is the Smith House,’ Brann cut in. ‘I think I get it.’

Marlo looked at him. ‘… is the Forge. Who would call it a Smith House?’ He shook his head. ‘Down behind the Sleeping House is the Practice House, where the fighters can train if the weather drives us all inside, and beyond that are the Training Fields where you, well, train. Oh, and up at the top, where you were this morning, that’s the Big House. There you go. Guided tour done. How hard was that? Let’s get some cake.’

Food and a doze in the sun took them to the time to return to Tyrala. As they walked through the garden, Brann was reminded of the question he had unsuccessfully tried on their journey down, and reworded it.

‘Why are you with me? Were you not just supposed to be there when I couldn’t use my hands? And anyway, if I am a slave and you are free, why are you told to help me? Should it not be the reverse?’

‘Not in here. Slave and free are alike in here. All are men and women, all are members of Cassian’s School, no matter how we arrived here. You are further ahead than me, and so I help you. All apprentices are assigned to a fighter, to shadow them so we know what is expected when we start training. Normally we also clean any weapons you use but in your case, Cassian has decided that you should do that as weapons seem to be woefully unfamiliar to you and he thinks it will help you to get to know them.’

‘You have got off lightly, then.’

‘Not really. I also have to help you with the things you don’t know. Given your lack of knowledge so far, cleaning a few weapons seems trivial.’

Brann couldn’t deny it.

The afternoon session with Tyrala, he was delighted to discover, was more to ease his muscles rather than batter them back into shape. Still, he surprised himself at how early he felt ready for bed.

It was barely beyond dawn and scarcely with any warning when he found himself shouted awake. The routine for all fighters was the same, falling out of bed and following Salus on a run six times around a well-worn track immediately inside the perimeter of the compound, then wash shoulder to shoulder at a stone trough that ran the length of the outside of the Sleeping Building. Brann counted around two score fighters, a dozen of them women. They did everything as a group: sleep, wash, run, eat. Or, at least, they tried to. Brann had found himself detached behind the group by the time they completed two laps.

A leather-clad woman, almost as tall as Salus and broader, glanced sideways at him as she splashed water from the trough onto her face and rubbed it under her armpits with vigour. ‘Pity you’re not as good at running as dancing. Or maybe you need some wine to help you along? Even my arse was in your vision, when I should have been looking at your scrawny effort.’

His chest still heaving, he mumbled, ‘I’m just not a natural runner. I can walk up hills all day, but I’m not built for running.’

She snorted. ‘Not many hills in the contest circles. And your legs’ll need to go faster than a walk.’

A voice spoke up on his other side. ‘Leave him be, Breta. We were all new here once.’ It was another woman, but one who couldn’t be more different in size and shape from the first, her slender body that of a young boy and hair cropped to match. She grinned at him. ‘Mongoose.’

‘What?’

‘Mongoose. That’s what they call me. You know a mongoose?’ He shook his head blankly. ‘They bring them here for the shows, all the way from the lands over where the sun rises. Small, furry, cute things. But put them in front of snakes and they’re different. You know, the snakes that do this,’ she lifted her hand and formed her fingers into a wedge that darted to jab Brann on the cheek, ‘before you even see it coming? Well, the mongoose is quicker.’

‘What’s your real name?’

She returned to the trough. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care. I like Mongoose. It fits.’

Salus clipped the back of his head. ‘If you’ve finished trying to charm the local talent, new boy, I’d get to the food before it is gone.’

On the training field, Salus took them through a series of exercises that stretched every part of their body. They were a mixed lot, Brann saw. Men and women alike looked drawn from the length of the Empire as well as many of the free countries in the direction of his homeland. Shapes and sizes differed as much as colours of hair and skin, bit all moved through the exercises with a grace that spoke of familiarity. He, by contrast, constantly felt on the verge of toppling. They were watched all the while by Cassian and Tyrala, sitting in the shade of a canopy atop a small man-made ridge that afforded them a view of every person. Brann felt that neither pair of eyes missed a thing, and his balance grew even worse with the thought.

A shout from Salus split them into four groups. ‘Light sparring,’ he shouted, throwing a selection of wooden swords and shields beside each group. ‘Winner stays on.’ Four circles were marked out by ropes and the groups gathered at each one.

The first two bouts in Brann’s group were won by a short, stocky man with a curiously effective style. He had selected two swords and held both vertically in front of him. From the first instant he would march forward relentlessly, always presenting his front that snapped out thrusts and, with a flick of his powerful wrists, parried any attack.

Salus’s rod tapped Brann from behind. ‘You next.’

He picked up a sword and shield. After all, they had served him well in the Arena, and he had worked out his opponent’s weakness. The man was effective in a straight line only. All he had to do was attack from the side and it would be over.

The man’s advance was faster than it had looked when Brann was spectating. He caught the first two blows on his shield and scampered back to compose himself. As the man advanced after him, he was ready. He would feint an attack from his right and slip left, leaving it simple to cut back handed at the man’s unprotected left side.

He lifted his sword to his right and swooped left. From the first moment, it felt awkward. The man’s right sword knocked his weapon downwards, useless, and his other smacked Brann on the back of the head. It could only have been more humiliating had he slapped him on the rump.

‘Too quick,’ Salus snapped. ‘Go again.’

Brann was annoyed at his clumsy execution of his plan, but was still convinced of its worth. He would learn from his mistake. Quicker, and more clever. He would distract the man better before he made his move. His opponent was already advancing and he raised his shield into the first thrust and hacked three times quickly at the man’s left sword. He spun to his right, all the way round to take himself to left of where he was and emerging with a swing of his sword at the man’s right side. The right sword flicked his harmlessly into the air and, as his face completed the turn, it met the flat of the left sword.

Expressionlessly, the man returned to his starting position as Brann wiped his hand across his face to clear the blood emerging from his nose. Salus handed him a rag and turned to the trainer assigned to their group, a slender giant whose skin was the colour of his hair and as white as that of a two-day-dead body and whose pink eyes blinked as much as those of a dead man. ‘He will learn nothing from such short bouts, will he, Corpse. Give him one bout out to regain his few senses and put him back in.’ He wandered off to the next group.

Mongoose took his place and showed him what he was trying to do. She bore a light sword and a curious shield, as round as his had been but smaller and held by a hand alone rather than a forearm. She used her light weapons to her advantage, though, darting and swaying back and forth with a speed and agility that drew out the swords of the burly man in vain attempts to catch her as she moved. She waited for her moment, then dipped and slid, appearing at the man’s side and flicking the point of her sword to touch his ribs. The man lifted both hands in submission and wordlessly walked out of the circle.

Brann walked back in, more confident this time. He wasn’t as predictable as the burly man, and he was sure he had the advantage in strength. If he rushed her he could overpower her.

It was over quicker than the first two. As Mongoose darted forward, he slammed his heavy shield into her attack. She bounced back and, as he raised his sword to shoulder height and thrust forward hard, all his bruised pride powering the blow that would knock aside her small shield and finish the fight, she twisted and brought her sword up to meet his. With a flick of her wrist at the moment of impact, his sword flew from his hand. Before it had stopped spiralling high in the air, her sword was at his throat.

‘Next,’ the impossibly deep voice of Corpse intoned.

Miserable, he trudged from the circle. He couldn’t resist looking up at Cassian and Tyrala. As expected, both were looking at him as they conferred. Cassian beckoned Salus to them, and the three of them spoke briefly before Tyrala pointed at Brann then waved at another group. She handed Salus a strip of fabric and, whatever instruction accompanied it, it was enough to cause surprise in Salus that was quickly replaced by a respectful nod.

He loped down the steep incline and brought a fighter from another group to Brann’s. Taking the boy by the arm, he led him to replace the man at the other circle. The next combatant there was not yet chosen and, before he was, Brann was blindfolded. Feeling as vulnerable as if he had been disarmed and bound, he listened to the clashing, thumping and grunting of the next bout, trying to learn from the noises but finding it impossible. The sounds stopped and a hand between his shoulder-blades propelled him forwards. Vulnerability turned to panic and he brought up his shield and swung wildly with his sword. Laughter rippled round the circle as strong hands from behind steadied his arms and Salus’s voice steadied his nerves. Slightly. ‘We would not be so cruel as to make you fight without eyes, young warrior. Especially given your lack of success with the use of them this morning.’

Panic turned to embarrassment and the tension dropped from his muscles. In the instant that he relaxed, Salus whipped the fabric from his eyes and stepped away just in time for him to see a lean fighter, not tall but taller than him, heading straight for him, a blunted wooden spear whirling high and low two-handed as he came. He barely had time to raise his shield to meet a swing of the haft at his ribs, and swiped desperately with his sword. It bought him the moment he needed to back off slightly but the deflection off his shield had taken the spear high and the shield wide. Deftly, the man shifted his hands and the spear point streaked towards Brann’s open chest. Brann dragged his front leg back and to the side, turning him just in time to let the spear pass. Overbalanced by the lack of resistance to his weapon, the man was unable to stop it hammering into the ground. In the instant that its point bit, Brann’s foot smashed down on the shaft, snapping it in two. The man was defenceless and, eyes wide, Brann swung the rounded edge of his sword at his opponent’s torso. His wrist jarred as the half-spear knocked the weapon flying and, before he could react, the jagged end was at his throat. The man leant in, teeth bared, to hiss in his face. Tossing the shard of the spear aside, he swaggered away to collect another weapon for the next bout.

Brann’s head sank along with his heart. He trudged to the side of the circle and stood, despondent, close to despair. After the Arena, after battling Loku in Halveka and Boar on the ship, after everything he had been through, he had thought maybe he had something. Maybe he could be a warrior, maybe there was some sort of a talent he could be proud of. That could help him find a way home. Three experienced fighters had shown him the truth. His arms sagged by his side, weapons still clutched but forgotten.

He jumped as Salus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Well done, young lad.’ Brann looked up and was astounded to see a grin.

‘Well done? I would be dead if that were a real fight.’

‘Silly boy. Death bouts are rare. Fighters are far too expensive to throw away to their death. Most fights are contests of ability, where skill or strength prevail. Or both. We do not need a killing blow to see the victor, only the demonstration of one. But,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you are right, were you facing an opponent with no restraint, you would be dead.’

‘So I am useless. Three times over.’

‘So you look to improve. Many times over. That is why we have the practice circles.’

‘But even so, you say well done.’

‘Of course. I will say it again if you like.’

‘But I lost.’

‘Ah, you did.’ He clapped him again on what was threatening to become a bruised shoulder. ‘But this time you took longer to lose.’ He pointed to the pair sitting above them. ‘That was what they wanted to see.’ Cassian raised a finger to Salus. ‘And now they wish to talk. Come.’

Brann had been born in a valley and became used to climbing hills almost as soon as he could walk. Even so, he found his legs shaking on the steep, but short, incline. He suspected it was not from the effort. He stopped in front of them. A slight wave of Cassian’s hand allowed Salus to return to overseeing the training.

Two pairs of eyes stared at him for long moments. Drained of all emotion other than disappointment, and all energy other than the ability to stand – and even so, barely – he found he didn’t care about the examination. It brushed past his attention like a breeze past a rock.

‘So,’ Cassian said, unexpectedly brightly given the silent stare that had preceded it. ‘You present us with a problem.’

‘I know.’ Brann stared at the ground. ‘You have a fighter who keeps losing.’

‘We have a fighter who loses but should win.’

‘I was well beaten.’

Tyrala leant forward. ‘You were beaten in the first because you could not transfer plans into natural movement. You were beaten in the second because poor technique negated strength. In the third, you should have won but failed to anticipate the desperate move and strength of a beaten man. You have natural movement, you have natural agility, you have natural strength and, most of all, you have natural reactions. But when you disconnect your conscious brain, you win. That was what this,’ she held up the fabric Salus had used as a blindfold, ‘taught us. You had no idea of the type of fighter or the weapon he carried, so all you could do was react, and you were successful almost to the point of victory.’

Cassian beamed. ‘My wife has a perceptive eye for strengths and weaknesses, and not just those of the body. She sees what I am blind to.’

The slender woman angled back in her chair, sinuous as a cat and with as much expression revealed. ‘You notice, you think and you plan – it is what you do, you cannot help yourself. But you are also an instinctive fighter, you win when you react.’

Brann shrugged. ‘I just do what seems right.’

This time she did smile. ‘Exactly. What seems obvious to you in the moment would not be apparent to most were we to stop time for them. That is also what you do, and you cannot help yourself either. But nor can you make yourself do it. You are two people in one: the thinker before the conflict and the intuitive fighter during it. We must find a way to marry the two, for at the moment they battle each other and leave you useless when they do.’ She looked at Cassian. ‘My husband has a knack for working with the strengths and weaknesses. He improves where I can only see.’

Brann wasn’t convinced. ‘But natural this and natural that counts for nothing if I cannot keep a sword in my hand.’

Cassian waved a hand dismissively. ‘That is nothing. Poor technique is easily fixed. Good technique is the basis of everything we teach our fighters. It is pounded into you until you cannot move your weapon, hold your weapon, move your body, hold your body, any other way. For most, that is almost all they have with a vital touch of natural skill or speed or strength, or some of each, and for them, for the level they reach, it is all they need. You, as my lady has seen, are all instinct and not technique.’

She cut in. ‘Which is where the problem lies.’

His smile was broad. ‘Indeed. We pound the technique and we kill the instinct. But we leave the technique and the instinct is vulnerable. A conundrum indeed. I shall think on it today, and we will start with you tomorrow. But you are very lucky.’

‘I am?’

‘Absolutely! You are fortunate indeed they did not send you to the army. There, you would have been ruined. A thousand men drilled to move the same way, react the same way, think the same way is good for the battlefield but bad for you. We will find a way, my wife and I. We shall marry the two Branns. They shall feed each other with strength, not leach it. You have any questions?’

Brann looked down at the fighters, who were now in small groups of two, three and four. His eyes scanned them, and he nodded. ‘Where is Grakk?’

Cassian’s surprise filled his face. ‘You listen to all of this, and all you wonder is where your friend is?’

The boy shrugged. ‘You sound like you know a lot about this, and I have proved I know little, so I’m best doing what I’m told, I can see that. But I cannot see my friend.’

‘Listen, boy, and listen well: do what you are told but never only do it. Always think as well. Take advice, but understand it. Question it within yourself, and if you agree it will serve you even better; if you disagree, you may find you are wrong, but if you are right then others may learn from you. We all learn to improve, and almost as destructive to that aim as being deaf to advice is to follow it thoughtlessly.’ He sighed. ‘As to your friend, he is no longer with us.’

The horror that struck Brann must have been evident. Tyrala leant forward. ‘Panic not, young warrior. My husband does not mean to say that this man has left behind his life. What he is clumsily trying to tell you is that the tribesman has moved to another fighting school, a more prestigious one than ours. We received a request from the palace for an exchange to take place.’

‘He has…? An exchange…?’ Brann’s senses were thrown and he found his thoughts whirling to the detriment of his mouth. ‘Why?

The lady’s eyes were fathomless. ‘We did not query it. Some requests are not requests.’

Cassian nodded. ‘It makes sense in a way. The man’s abilities were far beyond anything we could teach him. He is better there, where he will be a showpiece, a treat for the climax to a show. They like their spectacle.’

Brann felt numb. Every time he felt he couldn’t be more alone, fate proved him wrong. He nodded down at the activity below. ‘Shall I rejoin them, then?’

Cassian’s eyebrows shot towards his stubbled grey hair. ‘Do you not listen, foolish boy? You shall work in your own way, as I devise. Lunch will be soon. Eat, drink, wash, then you can run around the track another six times. Rest, then six more.

‘This is important. Of all you did today, you were most rubbish at that.’

He trailed even further behind Breta on the next morning’s run. The previous day he had started with a day of recuperation behind him. Today he had not replenished the energy drained from him by the bouts and twelve circuits of the compound.

Mongoose winked at him as he tried to avoid Breta on his way from the trough to the Food House. ‘Perseverance.’

He blinked at her. ‘What?’

She grinned. ‘It will seem like it gets worse and worse. Then, one day, you will realise it has just been better than it was before. Then Breta can get her wish and stare at your arse. But only if you persevere.’

Marlo was waiting at the building, chomping happily through an apple. ‘The boss is waiting for you in the garden. You should eat as we walk.’

Brann did so, cramming down a pastry and a handful of his latest discovery: grapes. They found Cassian pruning some bushes, the wide brim of his hat flopping to drop his face into shadow. His expression lit up at their approach.

‘Boys, boys! So good to see you.’ He straightened, pressing his hands into the small of his back with a slight groan. He looked at Brann. ‘Yes, today you start the training that helps you, not the training that helps others who are not you.’

Brann nodded.

‘So, you will go with your young friend here and select two practice swords, one heavier than the other. Marlo will take the heavy one.’ He picked up a clipped twig and held it at various angles as he spoke, some high, some low, twisting into assorted shapes. ‘You will do this. And this. And this. And this. With one hand, yes? And each time Marlo will take his sword in two hands and hit yours with all his might. Good, good. See you at lunchtime. Enjoy yourselves.’

He turned back to his bushes. Brann stared at Marlo, who looked much as he felt. ‘Is that all? What else should I do?

The elderly man was quizzical. ‘You want to stop that exercise early?’ Brann shook his head. ‘Well, silly boy, how could you have time to do anything else?’ He raised a finger. ‘Ah wait, you are right, there was another thing. My good lady was worried about your skin. Not the bruises caused by bad fighting. You children of the North grow a different hide, and it does not like the sun god so much. It seems my lady likes her meals well cooked, but not her young charges.’ Bending to a canvas bag, he pulled out two small pots and offered them one at a time to Brann. ‘This has rice bran, and you apply where the sunlight can reach. This has jasmine, and you apply after your evening wash where you turn red. Rice bran and jasmine, you know these, yes?’

‘Rice bran and jasmine? Are they animals?’

He leant in close to the boy and whispered like a conspirator. ‘They are not animals, no, but other than that I know no more than you. But my wife has the knowledge and she hails from the land of the Delta River, where pale skin is prized and the well-to-do chase that beauty for themselves. She knows. What you must do yourself, you learn. What others can do for you, let them learn. Use your time how best you can.’ Smiling broadly, he patted Brann’s upper arm, where scarlet had already started to spread, and ignored the boy’s wince. ‘All you need to know is that it works. Their vanity is your salvation, young Mr Snow. Embrace it.’

Brann was surprised. ‘You know snow?’ It seemed so incongruous in a land of constant baking heat.

A calloused finger tapped at Brann’s forehead. ‘An army does not campaign within the shadow of its own city, does it?’ He lifted over a small stool and settled down in front of the bush, blade in hand. ‘Now go, before the sun climbs to lunchtime.’