Exile's Honor v(-1 Read online

  By this time he was just feeling warmed up, and beginning to enjoy himself. Not a chance that they could even get a tap on him; not only because he was a far better fighter, but because they were so shocked by his tactics that they couldn't think. They were shocked, the patterns they knew were all disrupted, and they hadn't yet seen that what appeared to be random attacks had patterns of their own, more primitive and brutal, but the patterns were there.

  Not that fighting—in the frontline, basic, dirty fighting—had much to do with thinking. It was all muscle memory at that point, because before a mark was up, you'd be so tired that it had better be your muscles that remembered what to do—your mind would be numb with fatigue and no longer working properly. But what Alberich was doing was what any good bandit fighter would do, two-against-one. He certainly wouldn't stand in one place and slug it out, nor would he move forward and back in a single, straight line.

  The other Trainees stopped their practice and watched him chase his two victims around the perimeter of the salle. They watched with their mouths hanging open in amazement, and no little shock and surprise. Dethor didn't make them go back to trading blows, so Alberich concluded that this, and not what they'd been assigned to do, was the real lesson today.

  Good. Let them think about it. Not now—they were as shocked as his two victims—but they would remember, and talk about this in their rooms together, later. If they were smart enough, they would learn from what they watched now, and the next pair he chased around the salle would be better prepared for what he was going to do to them.

  He drove the boys back for a good while, which probably felt like an eternity to them, taking on first one, then the other; they fought as two separate individuals rather than a pair. Another mistake, for he could hack at one long enough for the other to take heart and try something, then move on the second boy before he'd rightly got his move started. And oh, they were not anticipating the shrewd blows to shins, the absolutely rude blows to the groin....

  The latter he pulled, and pulled hard; he didn't want to lay them out, he just wanted them to know what he could do if he wished.

  And what a bandit would do when they came up against him.

  And if he'd wanted to lay them out—helmets or no, he'd have had them measuring their length on the floor first thing. The ringing blows he landed on their helms, he hoped, would tell them that. He used the flat of his blade on the helmets, rather than the edge, but one day, when they were better prepared to counter him. he'd use the proper weapon against a heavily armored man, the mace, against them. He'd known men to die of mace blows to the helm with blood pouring from their noses and ears....

  Then he feigned getting tired, though he was barely warmed up—which, since they were feeling the strain themselves, they fell for. They pushed him for a few paces right into the position he wanted them, whereupon he turned the tables on them and dashed right between the two of them, catching both of them with blows in the back as he passed. Then he ran them around the salle in the opposite direction.

  They had probably thought they were fit, and by most standards, they were. They were no match for a man who had spent the last seven years fighting and riding and living hard, and years before that in an infinitely harder "school" than this one. Never mind the past sennights he'd been flat on his back with the Healers; he'd been in top condition before that, and since he'd been allowed up, he'd been regaining what he'd lost.

  Besides, these two were nothing like a challenge.

  He took pity on them when he caught the telltale signs of true exhaustion—the stumbling, the uncertain aim, the trembling hands. He backed off—and they didn't follow, they just stood there, like a pair of horses that had been run off their feet and just couldn't go another step. Their weapons hung from hands that were probably numb, and their heads drooped. In a moment, if he let them, they'd collapse on the floor where they stood.

  "Enough," said Dethor (with immense satisfaction in his voice), the moment before Alberich would have said the same. "Now this, my lads, is what I've been too creaky and gouty and damned old to do to you. You've just faced a real fighting man in his full fit trim, and what's more, before luncheon, he was giving one of the Guard a similar workout. This is what you'll be fighting, when it comes to it, my children," he continued, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the salle. "This is what you'd better be ready to face when you're given your Whites. And this is why Alberich is now my Second, and it will be his job to see to it that you can stand against him before you go out in the field. Any questions?"

  Silence, broken only by the panting of the two boys that Alberich had just finished with.

  "Right, then. You two—" Dethor gestured at the young men. "Off with the armor, and walk laps around the salle until you're cool. Then you can go back to the Collegium and clean up. Not before. You walk out of my door sore, but if you walk out stiff, it won't be my fault."

  A groan issued forth from one of the helmets, but both youngsters did as they were told. Alberich almost felt sorry for them; hard luck on them to be used as examples, but they must have warranted the treatment, or Dethor wouldn't have set them up to be knocked down a peg the way he had. Alberich recalled the expressions that they had worn when the exercise began, and stopped feeling sorry for them.

  "Now, Alberich—do you note, my children, that he isn't even sweating heavily?—take young Theela here, and show her what she's doing wrong."

  Young Theela, the girl with the short hair, looked as if she would much rather have died than have Alberich show her anything at all, but her problem of telegraphing certain overhand blows was quickly sorted, and Alberich went on to the next problem, at Dethor's direction. And while Alberich was dealing out lessons to each youngster in turn, Dethor was keeping an eye on the first two recipients of Alberich's attention, making them stop and do stretches at intervals to keep from stiffening up.

  As the lesson wore on, Alberich paid attention to what Dethor did and said, and when, whether or not it was addressed to Alberich himself. Dethor was brilliant, really. Despite that Alberich was doing the hands-on work of instructing the Trainees, he was in control of the salle and the Trainees, there was never any doubt of that. Alberich was merely an extension of his will, precisely as a good Second should be. But Alberich had to admire the man, for he manipulated the youngsters and the situation flawlessly, invisible. They never even guessed they were being manipulated.

  By the time the Weaponsmaster was ready to let them go, it was time for all of them to return to the Collegium, so if the two young men had thought they were going to get off early and sneak off to some sport or other, they were sadly disappointed.

  A great bell rang somewhere outside, which was, evidently, the signal for the next class. This lot was off like a flight of arrows from bows even as the first tone still shivered the air. Alberich looked sideways at Dethor, who chuckled.

  "Now, why do I think that my new Second is going to be the least popular instructor in the Collegium?" the Weaponsmaster asked the empty air. "Barring me, of course."

  "The Weaponsmaster, popularity cannot afford," Alberich said dryly, as he began picking up discarded weapons and returning them to their places.

  "True, my friend. Very true. And what did you think of the two young colts who think they're stallions?" Dethor asked.

  That was easy to answer. "All spirit, no sense," he replied shortly.

  "Ah, but can you drive some sense into them? That's what I want to know." Dethor waited for his answer, head to one side, and interest in his eyes.

  Alberich snorted. "Not I. Bruises. Pain teaches, what I cannot."

  And Dethor laughed.

  "But yes, learn, they will," he continued. "Stupid, they are not. Nor stubborn. Ill-taught, or mis-taught. But unlearn, they can."

  The next class was one in archery for younger children, and Dethor took this one himself, although he commended one young lad to Alberich for some special attentions precisely because the youngster was a natu
ral marksman. Alberich soon had him shooting from several different positions and helped him find ways of getting a full draw even when shooting from a prone, partly hidden posture. Following that class was another like the first, weaponswork in the salle, with slightly younger Trainees. This time there was a change in the uniforms, however. Among the Herald-trainee Grays was a boy in pale blue, a boy in a sort of brick-color and a girl in Healer-trainee pale green. The boy in orange was quick, but not very strong; the girl slow, but patient and deliberate. Neither were very good, but eventually their determination would enable them to hit what they aimed at though, for now, as many arrows flew over the targets or buried themselves in the grass in front of it as actually hit.

  At least they were both trying to the best of their ability, which was more than could be said for the third child that was not in Trainee Gray. The boy in blue looked bored, and not at all interested in trying; he played at the archery, shooting haphazardly, not really aiming. Alberich waited for Dethor to say something or assign more "special attention" to that boy, but Dethor never did, and Alberich concluded that there must be something special about the blue uniform.

  :There is,: Kantor said into his mind, startling him, for the Companion had been silent for most of the day. :He's not a Trainee at all. The students in light blue are the children of some of the nobles in attendance on the King; their parents don't see any reason to hire tutors when the Collegium is here and perfectly capable of educating their children. But the Blues don't have any real consequences to not learning if their parents don't care about their progress, so—: The pause invited him to draw his own conclusions.

  :Ah.: That certainly explained things. :Are there consequences for beating their backsides with the flat of a practice blade?:

  :Alas, yes,: Kantor said. :Political consequences, I fear. Now, the ones in that orange-red sort of shade are Bardic-trainees. They aren't required to learn weaponswork, but they are encouraged to do so. Bards are often out in the wilds and in dangerous places—and while most of them can talk or entertain themselves out of trouble, it's a good idea to be able to fight your way out as well. But when you work with them, be very, very careful of their hands. The last thing you want to do is injure the hands of a Bard; it would be a catastrophe for them. You could set their musical training back a fortnight or more, depending on how badly the hand was hurt.:

  He made a mental note of it. Interesting. He knew what Bards were, of course, but he had never seen one, much less heard one. Something more to look into.

  He ignored the boy in blue, but once it was clear that Alberich wasn't going to single him out for attention, the boy watched him with a kind of speculation in his eyes. Alberich wondered if rumor had already begun to spread that the dreaded Karsite Trainee was one and the same with Dethor's new Weapons Second.

  :It has,: Kantor confirmed. :Although I don't know that he would have heard it yet; the youngsters from your first class are beginning to put two and two together. I suspect that it will be one of the main topics of conversation over dinner. Certainly, by nightfall the whole Collegium will know.:

  Unfortunately, it wouldn't stay there. And once it got out into the Court, the nobles and the rest who hung about here, well, things were likely to get very interesting.

  :Things are interesting now,: Kantor said.

  If Alberich had been a stag, he'd have thrown up his head and sniffed the breeze at that, trying to find the scent of trouble. The statement boded no good, no matter what language it was spoken in.

  Just what does that mean?: he thought probingly at Kantor.

  :I'll tell you later,: Kantor promised. But that was all that the Companion would say, and eventually Alberich gave up trying to extract something from him.

  Easier to pound sense into a foolish Trainee. So Alberich set about doing just that.

  But it was going to be a long afternoon.

  5

  THE sunset outside the sitting-room window made a fine backdrop for the meal that another servant had brought them. There were not too many different ways that one could roast a pig, nor stew apples in honey, and beans were beans no matter what you did to them, so at least this dinner had not left Alberich with that particularly odd feeling of dislocation when flavors he expected weren't there.

  "A remarkable first day," Dethor said, with more than a hint of satisfaction. "Hand me those plates, would you?"

  Alberich handed over the stack of soiled plates, and Dethor packed them neatly in a straw container like the one that their dinner had come in. The servant that had appeared just after darkness fell waited patiently to take it away; the clean plates it contained, evidently meant for tomorrow, (so that was where they came from!) were already stowed in Dethor's sitting-room cupboard.

  Alberich could only shrug. "And I would know this, how?" he asked logically.

  Dethor laughed, a sight which would, no doubt, have astonished his pupils. Weaponsmasters, of course, never laughed. They also, according to popular repute, never ate, never slept, and were possessed of the ability to know instantly whenever one of their pupils had done something he shouldn't, because he was always punished for it with an extra-hard lesson the next day. It obviously never occurred to boys that their guilty expressions always gave them away....

  "Don't get coy with me, my lad," Dethor replied. "You know very well how remarkable it was."

  Alberich gave the servant a sidelong glance; the man took the hint, picked up the carrier, and took himself off. Dethor sat down beside the fireplace and motioned to Alberich to take his own seat.

  "I—I feel—unsettled," Alberich said at last. "I am treated as if I belong—yet I do not. I should not. So how comes it, that it is as if I do? And how comes it, that it feels to me as if I should?"

  "I wish I could tell you, lad," Dethor sighed, and stared out the window at the darkening trees. "If I could, well, I suspect we'd not be at odds with your land. You're not the first Karsite to come over the Border, as you know—though I suspect you didn't until you found it out here. You're not even the first Karsite to be Chosen, though all of the rest were tiny children when they escaped, and were basically Valdemaran when they became Trainees. But you are the first adult Karsite ever Chosen, and I have to think that it's something in you that makes you different from your fellows."

  Well, that answered one question—why Vkandis, if indeed His Hand was behind all of this, hadn't arranged for one or another of the former Karsite children to be Chosen. Clearly, he had. And clearly, whatever He wanted from such an arrangement hadn't happened. Alberich stared at the fire in the fireplace. "But it is to Karse—to the Sunlord—that I belong," he said softly. He knew that; it was at the core of him. Nothing about that part of him had changed. If that part had changed, he would no longer be himself.

  "Your god is no issue to us; we respect a man who keeps to his own gods, and it makes no difference to the Heralds who another Herald gives his soul to. But are you vowed to Karse?" Dethor asked shrewdly. "Or to your people? That's two very different things, my lad. A country—well—that can be a lot of things to different people; some would say it's the land itself. But land can change hands. Some say it's the leaders, but leaders die. Or the religion—but I'll tell you something you'll never have heard in Karse—and that's this: religions change. I've seen it happen, and I'll bet my boots that if you ask your priestly friends down in the city, they'll tell you that yours has changed from what it was."

  That was such an astonishing statement that Alberich could only stare at him. Change? How could a religion change? Didn't truth come directly from God?

  Dethor poked at a log sticking out on the hearth with his toe. "Don't look at me that way, ask your priests, and see if I'm not right," he said, calmly. "Ah, this is daft. I'm only giving you too much to think about. Look, Alberich, I know this isn't easy for you, and there isn't much I can do about that. You'll have to reckon out what's important to you, and stick to that. Do that, and you'll have one thing you can hang onto, no matter how uns
ettled you feel. That'll give you a bit of firm ground to hold to, as it were, and once you've got that, you can take the time to figure out more." He raised an eyebrow. "Have you one thing, right this minute, that's worth everything to you?"

  "Honor," Alberich said promptly, without thinking. Without having to think. Which meant, he realized, even as the word left his lips, that the choice was right.

  "Then you stick to that, and you'll be all right, and eventually you'll find your feet under you again," Dethor told him, and yawned. "Me, I'm off for bed. I may not have chased lads around the salle today, but it's been a long one for me anyway." He laughed again. "Good thing I don't get fighting Karsites turn up to become my Seconds every day!"

  Alberich immediately got up, but Dethor waved at him to seat himself again. "Now, that doesn't mean you need to! Maybe you wear Grays, but you're no Trainee; you set your own hours."

  "Only so, I alert and awake will be, when first arrives the class," Alberich replied dryly. Dethor chuckled under his breath, got stiffly out of his chair, and shuffled off into the shadows. Alberich sagged back into his own chair, but in the next moment, he was on his feet, staring broodingly into the fire. He wasn't tired, not even physically—that single workout with the young Guardsman had been good, but he was used to that sort of exercise all day long. When he wasn't drilling or actually fighting, he was riding, in all weathers, without the luxury of hot meals and showering baths. He was used to going perpetually short of sleep; riding before dawn and not finding his bedroll until after he'd stood first watch. When he got a bath, it was usually out of a stream or a rain barrel. When he got a meal, it was field rations augmented by whatever someone had managed to shoot or buy from a farmer.