The First Blade of Ostia (18 page)

The lieutenant gestured to another one of his men who also headed inside. He came out a moment later and nodded to the lieutenant.

‘Right enough, lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Banneret of the Blue Bryn Pendollo.’

The lieutenant’s eyes widened in recognition. Bryn cringed on the inside, but puffed out his chest defiantly. It was a bad time to be the owner of his name.

‘Well, sir, I’m sorry for the trouble. We’ll take care of the bodies and see that an investigation is opened into why they were getting rough if there was no default in payment as you say.’

The lieutenant chewed at his lower lip and continued to stare at Bryn. As an officer of the City Watch, he could not say anything improper and would most certainly lose his commission if he insulted a banneret. However, it was clear that he wanted to say something, just that he felt he could not. He maintained his gaze a moment longer, until he was sure that Bryn had taken its meaning, before getting his men to take care of the thugs heaped on the side of the street.

Bryn went back inside where his sister was waking. His mother held her head gently and looked up to Bryn.

‘We can’t have any more of this,’ she said. ‘I want these debts cleared and your sister married with a good dowry. We’ve given up far too much to hear your name being called out like a curse on the streets. After tomorrow, when you’ve beaten that Moreno bastard and shown him up as the liar that he is, it’s the army for you. A regular wage to support your family isn’t too much to ask, is it? No more of this duelling rubbish.’

He sat down in the wreckage of their living room, his sister barely in charge of her wits and his mother dealing with the emotion of just having killed a man. She was right. It was all too much. His foolish dream had brought all this misery to their doorstep. There was no reason good enough for all of this.

Once he was done with Amero, he was finished with the arena. There were other ways to make his living, ways beyond the filthy tarnish of life as a duellist.

B
ryn awoke with a jolt
. He wasn’t sure how late it had been when he’d finally fallen asleep, but he had tossed and turned for hours. His side burned and throbbed. He should have attended to it properly the night before, but with his sister’s injury and the rest of the commotion he hadn’t given it any thought. He’d been cut a number of times by blades in the past, and the wounds always healed quickly. However, those cuts were made with clean, well maintained blades. The debt collector’s thug who cut him the night before was probably less particular in keeping his dagger clean.

He touched the flesh around the wound, which wasn’t deep. It was hot and tender, and Bryn cursed. He sat up and the movement revealed a slight headache. He rolled his right shoulder around and grimaced. The skin on the right side of his torso was tight, and his arm ached. The situation wasn’t serious and he knew that it could be treated before the duel, but it was going to be a hindrance when he had to fight. Not only had Amero managed to rob him of several nights of decent sleep, he had nobbled him physically. Bryn had never appreciated Amero’s capacity for capriciousness before, but it seemed to have no bounds.

Bryn was certain that Amero was behind the events of the previous night. It was all too convenient to be merely coincidence. It would never be possible to prove it—Amero was both too clever and too powerful for his involvement to be brought out into the open—but after all that had happened, suspicion was all that Bryn needed to be convinced that it was him.

He dressed quickly, gathered his things and left. The walk from his apartment was the longest and loneliest that he had ever endured. He had arranged to meet Bautisto at the Amphitheatre, preferring to be alone in the final few hours leading up to the duel. He walked there with the hood of his cloak pulled low. His face was still not recognised by many and it was his intention that would remain the case even after the duel. At least the size of the Amphitheatre meant the majority of the crowd was quite a distance away. Even those in the most expensive front rows were too far away to make out every detail. He hoped that time would wash his name clear eventually.

People were most likely to get a good look at his face when he left or arrived. He hoped that the large hood would solve this problem. The memories of the citizens of Ostenheim were short lived. While foul deeds tended to live on in their recollections longer, there was always another foul deed, or glorious one, to take its place. He was comfortable that whichever way things went, in a few months it would all be forgotten and he could get on with life as normal; a private one, as far from public scrutiny as he could possibly get.

He slipped in through the competitors’ entrance, unnoticed by anyone other than the guard who took the identification token Amero had sent to the salon a few days previously. People were unaccustomed to swordsmen competing on the premier stage of Ostenheim to be shy of the attention of the mob; anyone who avoided their attention was most likely unworthy of it. He walked through the labyrinth beneath the Amphitheatre until he reached the Bannerets’ Enclosure, where Bautisto was waiting for him.

‘I was expecting you earlier.’

It was an attempt at humour, but during his time under Bautisto’s tutelage Bryn had been constantly made aware that the Estranzan sense of humour was very different to the Ostian. Bryn forced a smile. He wasn’t feeling very chatty.

‘Let’s get you warmed up,’ Bautisto said, as he removed Bryn’s cloak from his shoulders. He unintentionally pulled on Bryn’s arm.

Bryn grimaced and let out a slight groan. Bautisto furrowed his brow and gave Bryn an inquisitive look.

‘It’s nothing,’ Bryn said. ‘I just slept awkwardly on it.’

Bautisto wasn’t convinced. He probed under Bryn’s arm gently with his fingers. Bautisto’s jaw dropped when his fingers came away tipped with fresh red blood. ‘What in hells is this?’

‘It’s just a cut. Nothing serious,’ Bryn said, stepping back out of reach of Bautisto’s red fingers.

‘Rubbish,’ Bautisto said. ‘Your doublet is soaked through. A “nothing” cut doesn’t bleed that much.’ He stepped forward and put his hand on Bryn’s forehead. ‘You’re warm. Too warm. Now, are you going to tell me what happened, and what we have to deal with here before the duel?’

‘I got cut last night. There was some trouble at my mother’s house—’

‘Your mother did this?’

Bryn laughed, a first for an Estranzan joke, although he wasn’t certain it was meant as a joke. ‘No, she didn’t. My family has some debts. Mysteriously, they were all called in last night. The bailiffs were turning over my mother’s apartment looking for anything of value. I stopped them, and took a cut in the process.’

Bautisto looked at him suspiciously.

‘Don’t worry,’ Bryn said. ‘I had right on my side; the Watch are looking into it, and they aren’t going to come crashing in here halfway through the duel to arrest me.’

‘That’s something at least. Hold on while I try to find somewhere discreet to treat that wound. I don’t want anyone knowing about it.’

Bautisto wandered off and came back a moment later. ‘There’s a room we can use. Come this way.’

Bryn followed Bautisto to a small room intended for the treatment of wounded swordsmen. Bautisto told the steward they just wanted some peace and quiet to prepare. Being seen going into a treatment room without explanation was likely to achieve the same effect as telling Amero in person that Bryn was wounded.

As soon as the door was closed, Bryn sat down on the examination table and removed his doublet. The right side of his white shirt was soaked through with blood. He removed that also, trying not to cover himself in blood in the process. He had done his best to cover the wound, wrapping lengths of crepe bandage around his chest enough times to cover the width of the cut, but to little effect.

Bautisto grimaced as he saw the mess of blood and bandage. He started peeling back the layers and grimaced even more when he revealed the wound beneath. There were medical supplies on a shelf in the room. He picked through various things and placed some of them on the table beside Bryn. He took a bottle of alcohol spirits and poured a large splash onto a wad of cloth. He gently began wiping away the dried and still wet blood, revealing the clean skin beneath.

‘It’s infected,’ he said, pointing out the angry red edges of the wound, which was already becoming covered by the fresh blood oozing out. He pinched both sides of the wound together and frowned.

Bryn winced in pain.

‘It’s all the way through the skin. It will need stitches,’ Bautisto said, ‘but I can’t do that here or now. After the duel you will have to get it properly tended to. For now all that we can do is clean and bandage it up as best we can. If you’re lucky, it won’t burst open again while you fight.’

He worked as he spoke, splashing more of the alcohol onto the wound causing Bryn to flinch from the intense stinging. Bautisto then set to wrapping lengths of the linen bandage around him.

‘You cannot favour this side in any way. If Amero gets any sense that you’re carrying an injury, he’ll exploit it for everything it’s worth.’

Bryn nodded his head. It was pointing out the obvious, but was at least taking his mind off things.

‘You suspect that Amero had something to do with this?’

Bryn grunted as Bautisto cinched the bandages tight. ‘I don’t really see any other answer; it’s too much of a coincidence.’

‘Well, now you have the opportunity to repay him.’

T
he Amphitheatre could be filled
and emptied in a matter of minutes, an impressive feat considering it held over fifty thousand people. When Bryn had left for the treatment room, the first spectators had been gathering in the stands. There was a huge sense of expectation as they started to take their places, but it was eerie when there were so few people there. Even the slightest sound seemed to echo across the great space.

Now, only a few minutes later, there were thousands upon thousands of people sitting along the benches and the air was filled with the excited hum of their voices. The contrast was startling. The first of the evening’s duels was soon to begin, but the crowd would continue to grow over the course of the early matches, fought by lower ranked swordsmen who were never as interesting to the crowd as those involved in the later, higher profile matches.

‘There’s little point in doing your usual warm-up routine,’ Bautisto said, breaking Bryn from his thoughts.

‘Limit yourself to whatever stretching you feel comfortable with and warm yourself up to the point of perspiration, but no further; we must marshal every ounce of your strength and hope that the bandages hold your wound closed.’

B
ryn knew
that the moment was coming, but it did not stop the furious fluttering of nerves in his stomach when he saw the steward come to talk to Bautisto. The steward whispered in his ear for a moment, as they always did, and Bautisto turned to Bryn. Their eyes met and Bautisto nodded.

The first few steps out onto the arena floor were daunting. He listened for the sound of his footfalls on the sand, but could hear nothing over the electrifying noise of the audience. He had gone a few paces before they realised the man they had come to hate had stepped out of the Bannerets’ Enclosure. In that instant noise erupted from the crowd like a winter gale. Walking out onto the Amphitheatre’s sand was the realisation of a lifelong dream for Bryn, but it gave him no joy.

He had wondered how he would react when this moment finally came. He had to stifle a laugh as the tens of thousands all began to roar at him. He couldn’t make out any of the individual insults; they were absorbed into one wave of noise. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he had been expecting.

They reached the black mark and both stood on their respective sides waiting for the Master of Arms to give them their instructions. They didn’t exchange any words, and Amero barely gave Bryn a glance. He took a few moments to wave to the crowd and they responded instantly. Bryn had to hand it to him; he really had taken to the celebrity with aplomb. It was as though he was born for it. Bryn stood waiting, no doubt looking every part the sullen, jealous villain that he had been painted as.

Finally the Master of Arms walked over and explained the rules. Bryn didn’t pay any attention. He knew them by heart. All he wanted to hear was one word.

‘Begin!’

Bryn couldn’t hold himself back. He lunged forward as soon as the word left the Master of Arms’s mouth, venting all the pent-up anger that had accumulated over the past few weeks. Amero was prepared for it. There was no way he could not be expecting it. After all he had done—stealing the Mistria fight, promoting a campaign of hate against Bryn, trying to have his family thrown out on the street and possibly even him murdered or at least badly beaten—he must have known how much anger Bryn would be channelling toward him.

Amero danced backward, parrying delicately but stylishly as he went. His mastery of the new technique was near complete; his movements were as well executed as any that Bryn had seen. The crowd were enthralled and even out in the centre of the arena floor Bryn could sense the tension they felt at seeing their darling being beaten back across the sand.

He pressed forward as hard and fast as he could. The more opportunity for attack he gave Amero, the greater the chance he would surprise Bryn with something he couldn’t deal with. He paid no thought to the wound across his ribs; he needed every ounce of his concentration directed at achieving his goal. He forced Amero left and right as fast as he could—faster, he hoped, than Amero was ready for. Finally he saw a gap and he lunged. As he stretched forward, he felt a tearing agony in his side. Amero’s eyes widened. Bryn’s sword continued forward unimpeded. A touch.

The entire crowd went silent. As he walked back to the black line, Bryn heard a woman wail in anguish. More cries of disbelief and shouts of anger followed. If they thought Amero was that wonderful, then to hells with them.

The combined relief and joy of having scored the first touch was overwhelming, but still not enough to block out the pain in his side. He felt like someone had thrown a pan of boiling water over his torso. He wished he’d been able to drive his attack home hard enough to hurt the bastard and even things between them. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the next point, pushing the crowd’s noise and movement out of his head. Bryn remembered Amero’s wide eyes. It wasn’t an expression of surprise, it was one of realisation. He knew that Bryn was in pain.

The Master of Arms reset the duel but this time Amero took the initiative. He rained a barrage of strikes at Bryn’s right side, forcing pressure onto the weakened muscles. Bryn’s face must have begun to show strain, as Amero smiled. Bryn could feel his strength fade under the press of attacks and knew that his only chance was to regain the initiative—to fight the duel on his terms.

He backed away quickly, hoping that by putting some distance between them he would be able to dictate the next exchange. The crowd started to boo and jeer. Amero relaxed for a moment, standing up straight and regarding Bryn. He was clever enough to realise that Bryn was not simply falling back from fear or an inability to keep up. He wasn’t going to plunge blindly in.

Once again the character of the noise changed; the jeers and taunts became supportive and encouraging, willing Amero on to even the match. Finally he came forward, directing himself at Bryn’s right, as Bryn knew that he would. He quickly sidestepped to receive the attack on his left side and parried it away, hoping that the shift in position would leave Amero’s left exposed. He thrust quickly more out of a desire to capitalise on the possibility than on any perceived weakness. Amero’s sword was there, however. Bryn reacted too slowly and Amero was quick to take advantage. He flicked his blade in, slapping it against Bryn’s side.

Bryn shut his eyes and grimaced, recoiling at the stinging pain. Amero didn’t wait and was already walking back to the black line when Bryn opened his eyes. When he breathed, his side raged in pain and brought tears to his eyes. He steadied himself and tied to conceal as much as he could. Amero might know that he was hurt, but he didn’t know how much and Bryn needed to keep it that way.

Bryn reeled in pain as he followed Amero back to the centre of the arena. There was only so much he could do to hide it, and Amero smiled as they looked at each other across the black line. His smile was predatory and knowing. He had the advantage and would use it. Bryn tried to focus on taking long, slow breaths in an effort to control the pain. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but it felt as though the fresh bandage was soaked through. All he could do was try to push the things he could not control from his mind and focus on those that he could.

The Master of Arms restarted them and again Amero charged forward, confident now that Bryn was struggling and that victory was within his grasp. Bryn worked back across the sand parrying as he went, keeping his movements tight and precise, not overstraining his flank. Amero thought he had the match in his grasp, and Bryn was more than happy to encourage his overconfidence. Bryn’s breath whistled from between his teeth as he fought to suppress the feeling of pain and weakness that was engulfing his entire body. If he was to win the next point, he would just have to accept how much it hurt and get on with it.

If Amero was so fond of deceit, perhaps Bryn could play him at his own game. Bryn let Amero drive him back across the sand, and at a moment of his choosing, he allowed his face to display the pain he was feeling. He tightened on his right side and drew his sword arm back, extending his left hand and dagger as though to compensate. Amero went straight for Bryn’s weak side, but Bryn was ready and parried, with a fast riposte following. So convinced was he of victory, Amero had over extended himself and had no way to get back to defend. Bryn’s riposte met no opposition. A second touch to him, and once again the crowd erupted with indignation and anger. The satisfaction almost made the pain worth it. He thought of taunting Amero on the way back to the black line, perhaps make him think the injury was a complete ruse, anything to try and unsettle him, but the pain was pressing on his thoughts too heavily. Breathing was enough of a struggle.

A trick was only likely to work once, but with luck Amero would be wondering if Bryn was indeed carrying an injury that could be capitalised on, or if it had all been a deception—if Bryn had been willing to concede a single touch in order to put him within reach of victory. Amero liked to play mind games. Now he would be wondering if Bryn did too.

Bryn tried to focus, to rally his thoughts on the positive to escape the pain. Amero would not have orchestrated the hate campaign, nor the attack the previous night if he had believed that he could beat Bryn in a fair fight. He wasn’t as confident in his new technique as he might like people to think. It could be the only reason. All Bryn had to do was hold himself together for one more point.

Amero was more cautious when they restarted. Gone was the blustering confidence that had led him to concede the second point. Instead he reverted to safe, testing swordplay. Bryn worked hard, both to defend and to make it seem like he was uninjured. His right side felt wet, but he dared not look down to see if the blood was showing through his doublet. He was also starting to feel light headed.

Amero fired in a quick thrust that caught Bryn off guard. He didn’t have a chance to react. He had allowed a distance to form between his mind and the duel, and his anticipation of what was happening to drift away. Another touch for Amero. A moment before, Bryn had been holding his own, but now it was slipping away from him. He was in serious trouble, and whoever scored the next point would win.

They began again; too quickly for Bryn’s liking. There was barely enough time for him to catch his breath let alone prepare himself to fight for the next point. He tried to draw Amero in again, letting him press forward but always staying just out of reach in the hope that Amero would overextend and lose his balance. Bryn felt as though the action before him was receding farther and farther into the distance. It seemed like he was sinking deeper and deeper into cold water.

He was already falling to the ground when he conceded the third touch. The roar of the crowd became nothing more than a distant sound and Amero no more than a shadow standing above him.

High above, he could see the beams of the Amphitheatre’s sun awnings, bare with their covers drawn back to allow the evening light in. Bryn could feel delirium take hold, so much so that he thought he could see a small boy clinging onto the end of one of the beams. His last thought before darkness swallowed him was of what a ridiculous notion that was.