A Secret Atlas (9 page)

which delighted everyone. Add to all of that the influx of exotic visitors, entertainers, and

merchants, and the eye could not rest for such chaos and commotion.

The crowd parted as one man juggled and another blew long tongues of flame high into

the sky. Children shrieked in delight and one small dog barked from beneath the legs of its

master. The scent of sizzling, well-spiced meat easily overrode the bitter stink of stale

beer, and laughter accompanied it all. Here and there a steely gaze might flash in his

direction, but he acknowledged none of them. While any of them might be the man who

had wounded him so long ago, the Festival was not a time to battle over ancient incidents.

Moraven weaved his way along the crowded street and found the alley he had been

seeking. At the mouth, high up on the wall he discerned a symbol—to almost anyone else

it would have appeared to be a triangular crack in the plaster—which told him where he

could find Phoyn Jatan. Moraven was uncertain why he had been summoned so soon, but

he chose not to question his Master’s judgment in the matter.

While some celebrants were making their way up the alley toward the street, Moraven

made it through without incident. The alley opened onto a small courtyard, and another

alley to the east led to a smaller street with only a few Festival-goers. The swordsman

made his way along it, then entered the gate in a tall wooden palisade.

The wooden walls surrounded a small, two-story inn with a sizable courtyard in front. The

sign in front had a juggling dog depicted on it and Moraven smiled. Jatan’s Master had

referred to Prince Nelesquin as a juggling dog. Moraven doubted the inn’s owner knew the

significance of the name, and appreciated his Master’s sense of humor.

A dozen young men and women clad in the black trousers and shirts of student

swordsmen lounged around the courtyard. Geias waited among them, but gave no sign

that he recognized Moraven beyond the most cursory of nods. The rest affected to pay

him no mind, but he caught their wary glances and heard the hissed beginnings of

whispers as he mounted the trio of steps to a short porch. He sat on the bench beside the

door, drew off his boots, and took a pair of slippers from a servant. He surrendered his

sword to another servant, then ducked his head through the low doorway and passed

beneath the stairs to the second floor.

He straightened up again in the common room, and was not so tall that he bumped his

head on the low rafters. Directly across from him stood the door into the back and the

sleeping rooms. To the left of it sat the bar; the tavern keeper was drawing a draft of rice

beer into a small bottle. He placed two cups on a serving tray and a young girl bore it to

the table in the other corner.

The two people there watched Moraven carefully. The larger of them could have been a

twin to the giant on the roadway save that he wore a patch over his left eye. The other—a

whipcord-lean woman with long black hair braided with a red ribbon into a long queue—

looked him up and down, then gave him a quick nod. He bowed in their direction briefly—

in the manner of
xidantzu
acknowledging fellow wanderers—then smiled as he turned to

the man seated at a table at the base of the stairs.

“Bless the Nine Gods, Eron, you look well.” Moraven bowed to him and held it as the man

rose and returned it. “Those must be yours down there.”

“The finest
serrian
Jatan has to offer.”

“Then I have passed through the midst of the finest swordsmen in the world, not the least

being your son.”

Eron, whose white forelock gave him the look of someone perhaps five years further into

middle age than Moraven, smiled. “They were only the finest for the moment you were at

their heart.”

“You are too hard on your students.”

“And you always depreciate your own skill.”

“
That
I have to take with good grace from your grandfather, but not you.” Moraven closed the distance between them and shook Eron’s hand. “Have we time to get caught up, or is

the Master waiting?”

Eron glanced up the stairs. “Both. My grandfather awaits, and I will join you. Step lively; it

is about time for you to see this.”

His curiosity piqued, Moraven mounted the stairs quickly. He took one step away from the

top to allow Eron to come up, then snapped a bow at Phoyn Jatan. The swordmaster was

seated at a table next to the window overlooking the courtyard. Moraven made the bow

deep and held it long, only coming up when the old man wheezed out a cough.

Moraven smiled and drew from a sleeve another small bottle of
wyrlu
. “It is an honor to be in your presence again,
jaecaiserr
Phoyn Jatan.”

Phoyn shifted in the large chair, resettling cushions. “I see you have not idled away the

day, Moraven. More from Erumvirine?”

“I was told this was from Ceriskoron, though the bottle has the markings of a potter in

Gria.” Moraven looked at the table where three empty cups stood. “I see you anticipated

me.”

The old man smiled weakly. “ ‘It is the wise student who addresses the needs of the

Master.’ ”

Eron seated himself across from Jatan. “He slept very well last night and told my wife of a

magic tonic he had from a
bhotcai
. Were it not the Festival, she would not have chosen to believe him.”

Moraven took the seat facing the courtyard and poured out three equal measures. “The

joy of the Festival to you both.”

“And you.”

All three men drank, then Moraven refilled the cups, but they remained on the table. “I had

not expected you to summon me now.”

Jatan nodded slowly. “I had anticipated calling for you after the fourth day, but this

morning something happened at the
serrian
. I may have to lay another burden upon you,

Moraven.”

The swordsman laid his hand on the older man’s sleeve and was surprised to feel how

slender and light the man’s arm seemed. “As your Master told you, ‘It is a burden if not

viewed as a challenge. Only a fool accepts burdens.’ ”

Phoyn glanced at Eron. “You see, he remembers even the old lessons.”

“He was your best pupil, Grandfather . . .”

Moraven frowned. “Now who is discounting his own skill, Eron? I hardly think . . .”

The old man’s hand rose to silence Moraven. “It is good the old lessons are remembered,

for I teach no more. Eron is the
dicaiserr
of
serrian
Jatan. Geias will continue our school.

They teach well, and will be blessed if they find another student like you.”

Moraven would have protested, but the look Phoyn gave him silenced the words. The old

man had been a master swordsman for longer than Nalenyr had existed as a nation. True

blood ran in his veins, conferring on him the same longevity as it did with Moraven and

Eron, but it was his mastery of the magic of swordsmanship that had preserved him. While

anyone looking at Phoyn and Eron might guess that Eron was his grandson or even great-

grandson, if there were fewer than nine generations between them Moraven would have

been greatly surprised.

Before Phoyn could continue, a young man in a pristine pair of white silk trousers, shirt,

and overshirt trimmed in red entered the courtyard. A red sash closed the overshirt and

supported a sword in a scarlet scabbard. His boots were mostly white leather, but had red

and yellow scraps sewn on them in a flame motif. Red embroidery at the sleeves and

along the breasts of his clothes continued that pattern. Clean-limbed, with an aristocratic

cast to his features, the young man paused just inside the gateway and planted his fists

on his hips.

He looked around as Eron’s students hastily assembled. Into their belts were thrust

wooden practice swords. The young man nodded, then looked up toward the window. His

eyes tightened, and disdain stained his words.

“Again I am shown students when I have come for a master.” His nostrils flared for a

moment, then he let his arms slacken and he bowed precisely, though neither too long nor

too deep. “I am Ciras Dejote. I come from Tirat, from
serrian
Foachin. I have been taught all they have to teach and I have been sent to Moriande to train with a master.”

Moraven frowned. “Released to wander and find another master?”

Jatan shrugged. “They may just be backward on Tirat; I do not know.”

Eron stood, inclining his head toward those in the courtyard. “You dishonored my students

this morning. You did not deign to fight them.”

“You set children before me.”

“Not these.” Eron clapped his hands. “Dobyl, commence.”

One of the smallest of the students left the line, drawing his wooden sword fluidly and

moving into the first Cobra form. His sword came up and around at a feint toward the

eyes, then abruptly down in a blow angled to break Ciras’ left shoulder.

Ciras twisted his shoulder from beneath the blow, then sidestepped toward Eron’s student.

The interloper’s left elbow came up with blinding speed, catching Dobyl across the bridge

of the nose. Blood gushed, staining the shirtsleeve, and the audible crack made Eron

wince. Dobyl staggered for a heartbeat, then went down with both hands covering his

face.

Ciras appropriated his wooden sword and moved to the attack. He beat aside one thrust,

then struck that student in the face with the hilt of his practice blade. Spinning, he leaped

above a low cut, then effortlessly clipped his foe in the head. A girl came next, shifting

from Tiger to Dragon, but Ciras’ Scorpion attack came up and smashed into her elbow.

She yelped as her sword dropped from numbed fingers.

The next student in line sprang from behind her and lunged low. The wooden blade

caught Ciras on the left hip, but he pivoted quickly on his right foot, moving inside the

lunge before the student could recover. Had the blades been steel, the wound he took

would have slowed him down, but would still have allowed him to lay his blade against his

foe’s neck. Since the swords were wooden, Ciras earned a bruise, his foe kept his head,

and the Tirati was free to face Geias.

Eron’s son took a step back and dropped into the Scorpion stance. Ciras countered with

Tiger, so Geias shifted to Mantis. Ciras stamped his right foot impatiently, inviting an

attack, and Geias gathered himself to answer the challenge.

Moraven rose to his feet and grabbed Eron’s arm. “Your son knows better than to attack.”

Eron raised a hand. “My son knows his duty. Watch.”

Geias leaped a pace left, then slashed his way forward with cuts from high left to low right,

then across and down again. He repeated the pattern three times and Moraven readied

himself to watch Geias dropped as easily as the others. Though he was better, his

repetition meant Ciras now had his measure.
Tiger flows into Scorpion and he’ll catch

Geias right across the ribs.

As if Ciras had plucked the strategy from Moraven’s mind, he moved left and began the

transition in forms. By the time Geias had completed his diagonal slash, Ciras was in

position to strike. As Geias’ sword moved across in a cut, Ciras’ blade would just follow

right along and exploit the opening the young Jatan had given him.

Geias, however, had Ciras’ measure as well. Instead of the crosscut, he shifted the

wooden sword from his right to his left hand and pivoted on his right foot. The wooden

sword came up and back around in a low thrust meant to gut Ciras. As the interloper had

already begun his own thrust, nothing shy of a miracle would allow him to parry what

would be a killing blow.

Ciras wrenched his body around, kicking up high with his right heel. His body straightened

and twisted, his belly slipped beneath Geias’ thrust. Snapping his wrist at the same time,

Ciras batted away his foe’s blade, then landed hard on his back. Before Geias could even

begin to recover from his lunge, Ciras cracked the wooden sword hard against Geias’

ankles, spilling him to the ground. As if drawn by his blade, Ciras flowed to his feet again

and arrogantly kicked Geias’ sword away.

Eron looked at Moraven. “You saw?”

As Moraven nodded slowly, Phoyn chuckled dryly. “He
felt
.”

“Yes, I felt.” Moraven sat. It had been when Ciras had kicked his right heel back and

twisted. A flash, a tingle. It dazzled his skin and sank into his flesh with the pins-and-

needles pain of a sleeping limb slowly awakening. He had felt it, and felt it strongly.

Jaedun
had come off Ciras in a powerful wave.

Moraven frowned. “What rank does he claim?”

“
Lirserrdin.
His Master judged him Superior.” Phoyn exhaled slowly and seemed to deflate a bit. “I do not think his Master knew how advanced his student was, just that he was

something more than most. Had he any inkling, he would not have sent him away. Having

someone so skilled would have brought great honor on the school.”

“He will then bring great honor on
serrian
Jatan.”

Eron shook his head. “I am a swordmaster, Moraven, but not a Mystic. I cannot teach

him.”

Moraven turned and looked at the old man. “You can’t think of having me train him! I am

not a teacher. I do not have a school.”

“A school is not what he needs.” The old man’s brow wrinkled. “You came to me already