The First Blade of Ostia (24 page)

T
he highwayman wasn’t wealthy
, but there was enough in his purse to ensure that Bryn and Ayla would be able to pass the remainder of their journey in relative comfort. It was too late to call on the town watch when they arrived in the next village, so they looked for an inn.

It wasn’t until the warm, dry air of the inn hit him that Bryn realised how long it had been since he had been out of the elements. The shack had provided shelter, and the fire within some heat, but it was draughty and damp—and cold after the fire had died down. The prospect of a warm bed and a hot meal lifted a weight from his shoulders, not to mention the appeal of a wash and a shave.

The inn was crowded, busy and bright, a contrast to the dark, deserted street outside, and the change seemed to startle Ayla. At first no one took any notice of them, but gradually a number of the patrons turned and gave Bryn an appraising look. Bryn thought nothing of it, they were just strangers to the village, arriving late in the day, something that was always a cause for curiosity. He walked up to the bar enthusiastic at the prospect of a little comfort, but Ayla hung back nervously. It was her first time in a crowd since her village had been destroyed. He glanced back over his shoulder, took her by the hand and pulled her forward, which took a great deal of effort.

‘A room, please,’ Bryn said to the innkeeper. ‘And food. Dinner with all the trimmings.’

The innkeeper looked at him suspiciously, then at Ayla.

‘Two rooms. I meant two rooms.’ Rural villages could have oddly conservative notions of propriety. He hoped his unintentional slip wouldn’t result in them being run out of the town with pitchforks and burning torches.

He looked back at Ayla and gave her a reassuring smile. He hoped he hadn’t offended her. He turned back to face the innkeeper and tapped some coins out of the highwayman’s purse. Silver florins all, he reckoned there was enough to see them through the rest of their journey. The innkeeper gave Bryn two keys and led them over to a table in the corner of the taproom.

When the food arrived, Bryn stared at it with trepidation. Bring fed in private was humiliating enough. He would rather go hungry than suffer it in front of an audience. He slowly reached for the knife on the table, feeling the tautness in his shoulder as he did. No pain though, which was something. He realised Ayla was watching him in silence and had not yet touched her food, in spite of how hungry she must have been. With one last effort, encouraged by the smell of the hot foot, he grabbed at the knife and managed to get a firm grip on it first try. He took hold of a leg of chicken and cut a piece free, then slowly lifted the morsel to his mouth. The act of raising his hand was difficult, and he had to strain against the resistance from his shoulder. It was only stiffness though, not pain.

The flavour of the chicken flooded through his mouth and he smiled. He looked at Ayla before they both attacked their food with fervour, and didn’t utter a word to one another until they had finished. It wasn’t just his appetite that dictated his silence, it took whatever concentration he had left over to make his hands work well enough to ensure the food ended up in his mouth rather than down the front of his doublet or on the floor. It was a struggle, but he was determined not to suffer the indignity of having to have Ayla help him in front of the inn’s patrons, who gave the pair regular and curious looks. It was a delight to manage it at all, but discomfiting that achieving something so simple should give him such satisfaction.

The pleasure of having hot food in his belly was difficult to describe, but from the expression on Ayla’s face, he could tell that she felt it too. The innkeeper came to take away their empty plates, and must have noticed the way they had been wiped clean with crusts of bread.

‘There’s still some pie left in the kitchen. Apple.’

Ayla started to shake her head in the way Bryn had seen people act when refusing something they actually wanted.

‘Two slices, please. Cream too, if there’s any to be had.’

The innkeeper smiled and nodded, clearly happy that people were appreciating his food. Ayla beamed at Bryn. They could afford one decent meal, and still have enough left over for a carriage the rest of the way to Ostenheim, all thanks to the highwayman. Bryn wondered what had become of him, having had a taste of his own medicine.

They ate the apple pie much the same way as they had devoured their dinner. Bryn tried to slow down and savour each bite, but he couldn’t help himself. He was sure it wasn’t the best meal he’d ever eaten, but after all he had been through, it certainly felt like it was.

As the food settled in his stomach he leaned back in his chair to relax, trying to lace his fingers over his full belly and just about succeeding. His doublet was rough and covered in what he first thought were crumbs. Then he realised that his clothes were caked in dry mud. He tentatively put his hand up to his face and realised it was the same, many days of beard growth matted in dried clumps. It was from when he dived to the ground to avoid the highwayman’s wayward crossbow shot. He must have looked a sorry state, and realised why he had attracted so many odd looks when they first arrived at the inn. All things considered, he was surprised they had been served at all.

He felt an impatient urge to get to his room and clean himself up, now that he realised how filthy he was.

‘Time for bed, I think,’ he said.

Ayla blushed, then nodded.

They walked up the stairs to the inn’s rooms. Theirs were on opposite sides of the corridor. He gave her a key to one of them, wondering after he had if he should have let her take a look at them both before deciding. He had never felt responsible for anyone before, and never felt so indebted to anyone. He owed her his life many times over.

She took the key and turned to open the door to her room. She looked over her shoulder as she stepped across the threshold. ‘Sleep well,’ she said, before closing the door behind her.

It was the first time in weeks that they hadn’t shared their sleeping space and as he stood there by his doorway, key in hand, he was filled with the most incredible sense of loneliness. Only then did he realise that he hadn’t even remembered to wish her a good night’s sleep.

T
heir journey had taken
them well into what Bryn believed was the middle of nowhere. It took four different carriages to get them the rest of the way to Ostenheim, making Bryn concerned that they wouldn’t have enough money to pay for their passage on each of them. He managed to stretch it far enough by sharing the box seat with the coach driver on two occasions, but there were no more extravagant meals for the remainder of the journey.

Bryn had mixed feelings when their carriage pulled up by the coaching stables outside Ostenheim’s walls. He didn’t know if his family had been told he was dead, or how they would react to his sudden appearance. He also wondered how they would feel about him arriving with a strange girl from the borderlands. It played on his mind during the inactivity of the carriage journey. When the idea of bringing Ayla south first came to him, it seemed like the only option. As the reality of bringing her into the city drew closer he started to worry. What if he couldn’t find work? What if he couldn’t provide for her? Take care of her the way she had taken care of him? The city was a dangerous place for someone not accustomed to it. He evaded the real cause of his concern, though he knew what it was. How would he take care of himself, let alone anyone else, without the proper use of his arms? Feeding himself was still his most impressive achievement. The feeling in his hands came and went, but he still couldn’t even fully draw his sword from its scabbard.

Bryn alighted from the carriage and stretched stiffly, flexing his arms slowly and uncertainly. His shoulders felt tight and restricted, as though he was wearing a doublet several sizes too small. He tried not to dwell on it, and told himself over and over that more time would improve them.

‘That’s Ostenheim?’ Ayla said, looking up toward the tops of the city walls as she followed Bryn out of the carriage.

‘It is,’ Bryn said. ‘Home. For you too now, if you choose it.’

‘It’s big. How many people live there?’

‘Over a hundred thousand. Near enough three times that, I think.’

Ayla’s eyes widened. ‘So many.’

As they passed through the city’s north gate and into the city, she looked on with awe. They walked under the great stone archway and into wide streets lined with four and five storey buildings. Bryn found her sense of wonderment and curiosity warming, and forced himself not to continually smile at her barrage of questions and fascination.

‘Where are we going?’ she said.

‘To my mother’s home. It’s not far from here.’

‘Does she own the entire building?’

Bryn laughed. ‘No, just an apartment.’

‘Lots of people living on top of each other,’ she said, her voice distant as she continued to take in all of the new sights, sounds and smells.

Finally they were standing outside the nondescript doorway to his mother’s apartment. He hesitated before knocking, afraid that he would discover they had moved out. It hadn’t been all that long since he left, but so much had changed for him, it seemed possible. They could have gone to Tanosa to be with his other sister and her husband. He knocked and waited.

When he heard the sound of the latch being opened he realised that he was holding his breath. The door swung open to reveal his mother standing there. She let out a gasp of surprise. She stood statue still for a moment, eyes wide, and then rushed forward and took him in her arms. He returned the embrace as best he could and his mother began to cry. A voice came from within the apartment.

‘Who’s that, Mother?’

‘It’s your brother. It’s Bryn.’

His sister came into view, peering out the doorway. Her reaction of surprise was much the same as his mother’s.

‘Can we come in?’ he said.

‘Of course, of course,’ his mother said. ‘We?’

His mother released him and moved back. Bryn beckoned to Ayla to follow him and went in. She went after him hesitantly.

His mother was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘This is Ayla,’ Bryn said.

His mother nodded to her and smiled, but seemed unsure how to react beyond this.

‘We were told your convoy had disappeared. That you were probably dead,’ Gilia said. She stifled a sob.

‘I was lucky. The wagons were attacked, and I was left for dead, but Ayla,’ he gestured to her stiffly, ‘saved me.’

It was clear to Bryn that Ayla was uncomfortable with the situation. It would take his mother and sister a time to come to terms with the fact that he was home alive, and had brought a woman with him.

‘Her village was destroyed before we got there. After the attack I was injured and she looked after me until I was up and about again. She had nothing left there, so I asked her to come back to Ostenheim with me. I said that we’d help her get on her feet.’

His mother looked at Ayla and smiled, her face a picture of gratitude.

W
hen Bryn woke
, it took a moment to realise that he was warm, and comfortable, and back in his old room in his mother’s apartment. He enjoyed that moment, brief though it was. He was home and safe, but all of his other problems still existed. He had no job, no income, and couldn’t use his sword. He flexed his shoulders, and grimaced at how tight and uncomfortable the movement was.

There wasn’t any time to waste in getting back to normal life. He knew his mother and sister could support themselves—they had survived thus far—but he wanted more than that for them. They were the close relatives of a banneret, and should have better. There was Ayla to think about too. Finally, there were still loans that needed to be paid off. There was no time to feel sorry for himself, nor to allow his uncertain recuperation to run its course.

The first call he needed to make was to the Guilds’ Hall. The mercenary company he had signed on with was bound under their contract, and after all he had been through, he very much wanted his pay. As a matter of courtesy, he felt he also needed to notify them of exactly what had happened, so the families of the dead men could have the bad news confirmed.

He left before anyone else woke, walking the short distance to the Guilds’ Hall in the crisp morning air. The market on Crossways was beginning to come to life, as traders set up their stalls and laid out their goods. Bryn bought an orange from one of them and ate it as he crossed the square.

The Guilds’ Hall was a huge building, home to the Congress of Guilds, who oversaw all business in the city. The ground floor was a great open expanse in which each guild had a counter or alcove, the size depending on their power and importance. Most of them would have their own private house somewhere else in Guilds, the quarter of the city behind the Guilds’ Hall, but all maintained a presence in the Hall.

Ostenheim’s wealth was based on trade and enterprise, and that wealth was enormous. The Hall was a firm statement of that, and no expense had been spared in its construction or decoration. It was as grand as the Barons’ Hall or the Cathedral, proclaiming that the merchant classes were every bit as important, wealthy and sophisticated as the church and the aristocracy.

There was an ornate counter just inside the door of wood so highly polished its surface was mirror-like. A number of clerks sat behind it, all waiting to deal with the enquiries of those who wandered in.

‘Which guild deals with the shipment of supplies to the army in the North?’ Bryn asked. ‘The one that holds the contract for the Guilds’ Company?’

The clerk smiled and referred to a large, leather-bound book. ‘That would be the Mercers’ Guild, the Wagoners’ Guild and Co-operative Guild Number Forty-Seven.’

‘Co-operative Guild?’

‘Yes, a number of small guilds that combine to satisfy particular contracts of work. They usually only last for the duration of the contract.’

It was a large number of potential employers. ‘I was, am, an escort with the Guilds’ Company. Who should I speak to?’

‘I believe the Wagoners’ Guild usually takes responsibility for the manning of the supply convoys. They’re at Counter Ninety-Six half way down the hall. If there’s no one there, their main house is on Eastbridge Lane.’

Bryn nodded his thanks and walked further into the hall, looking at the large gilt numbers painted on signs over each of the counters. Some of the larger guilds had impressive looking kiosks, but not all of them were manned.

Bryn groaned when he saw no sign of life at Counter Ninety-Six, turned on his heel and headed for Eastbridge Lane.

E
astbridge Lane wasn’t far
from the depot where his convoy had set off. It had seemed like such a mundane thing at the time. It was hard to believe everything that had happened—the fight with the Ruripathian soldiers seemed almost like a dream now.

The Wagoners were a large, wealthy guild and their private house was opulent. It was a microcosm of the enormous Guilds’ Hall, and was somewhere its members could meet, dine, find accommodation and regulate their industry.

Bryn walked in, to find a far less formal atmosphere than in the Guilds’ Hall. There was an open room with a large fireplace and a table surrounded by chairs. Several men were sitting there chatting. They ignored him when he first walked into the room.

‘I need to speak to someone about the convoy that went missing in the North.’

One of the men turned to face him. ‘Speak then, we’re all guild officers.’

‘I was with the Guilds’ Company convoy, with Banneret Deverardo.’

‘You’re one of Deverardo’s boys?’

‘Was,’ Bryn said.

‘Where is that fat fucker? And where’re our wagons?’

‘He’s dead. As best I know, all the men were killed and the wagons taken.’

‘Reckoned as much. Expensive loss. Still, the underwriters’ve already paid out on it, so no harm done in the long run. How’d you survive?’

‘Got lucky,’ Bryn said, taken aback by the casual disregard they had for all the men who were killed. ‘I’m here for the rest of my pay.’

All the men burst into laughter. ‘You don’t look like much of a runner, but I suppose you must be. We don’t pay out on lost cargoes. We certainly don’t pay the men who were supposed to be guarding them.’ There was no levity in the man’s voice.

‘I’ve done everything I was signed on to do. I fought when we got attacked, was lucky to survive, and have had a miserable time trying to get back to the city. I want my pay.’

‘You’re not getting it. Piss off.’ The man turned his back to Bryn.

‘I’m a banneret, you bloody oik. Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’ He realised that he sounded exactly like Amero, but he needed the money, and the prospect of being bilked caused his temper to flare.

‘I’ll speak to you any way I like. Now fuck off.’

Bryn pushed his cloak back from his sword, an instinctive reaction. He was well within his rights to strike this man down for insulting him. He just didn’t know if he could, not that he wanted to resort to violence. All he wanted was his pay. Was a threat going to be enough?

The guildsman looked at him and sneered. He turned his head to his colleagues. ‘Fella who ran from a convoy thinks he can come in here and act tough. I reckon he’s a coward.’ He looked back at Bryn. ‘Well then? Draw it. Draw it or fuck off.’

Bryn got his hand to the hilt of his sword. This was an insult that he couldn’t let stand. He gritted his teeth. He drew it out part way and stopped. He knew he could draw it now, albeit awkwardly, but that was all he knew. He had no faith in his ability to deal with the insult, or the guildsmen. He slid his sword back into its sheath.

‘See lads. Yellow to the core,’ the guildsman said.

They all roared with laughter, and Bryn was left with no option but to turn and walk out of the guild house, feeling more humiliated than he could possibly imagine.

H
e walked back
to the apartment filled with a rage that he had no way to express. Crossways was full of activity when he passed back through it, the city criers had taken their places and they were starting to fill the air with the news of the day. Bryn tried to ignore it, knowing their reports would make mention of the arena, and the ascendant swordsmen of the day, the last thing he wanted to hear.

His previous experience of bad publicity had done little to improve his skill at blocking out things he didn’t want to hear. He nearly made it off Crossways and out of earshot when he heard the words ‘one hundred and twenty-five’. Then he heard Amero’s name being called out. His sixth consecutive defence of his perfect one hundred and twenty five. Bryn wanted to vomit. His rage and frustration built so much that it felt like his head would burst. He tried to tighten his fists in anger, but could barely feel his fingertips pressing against his palms.

How in hells had Amero managed to accumulate such a tally in such a short period of time? It must have been the fastest one hundred and twenty-five in history. To get the requisite twenty-five matches in since he fought Bryn, Amero must have had at least two duels a week, and sometimes even three. However hard he worked for it, success still came far too easily for Amero.

H
e got
home in time for breakfast with the others, but ate in silence. He could see it made Ayla uncomfortable. His mother and sister were doing their best to make her welcome, but his mood was so foul that he felt opening his mouth would make things worse.

Eventually his mother—never best known for her patience in dealing with his moods—broke the silence.

‘You called at the Guilds’ Hall this morning?’

Bryn nodded.

‘And?’

‘And nothing. I told them about what happened. They’d already written the convoy off as lost, and didn’t seem to care.’

‘Did they give you your pay?’

Bryn shook his head. ‘They don’t pay for lost convoys.’

‘Can you— Are you going to do anything about that?’ his mother said, an edge to her voice.

Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Standing and walking out of the apartment was the least damaging reaction he could think of, so that was what he did.

As he walked through the streets with no destination, he realised that his mother didn’t know about the extent of the injury to his shoulders, or any of what had happened. All she knew was that bannerets didn’t stand for sharp treatment from guildsmen, or anyone else. He didn’t want her to know how bad the injury was, nor how enfeebled it had left him. She would find out soon enough if he had to keep swallowing his pride, but he didn’t want her to worry and he didn’t want to be a continued burden.

He racked his brains. What could he do to make a living? With his shoulders the way they were, there were few avenues still open to him. Teaching was all he could think of. His initial inclination was to go to the salons and see if they needed any additional trainers, but he knew how that would turn out. He’d been humiliated enough for one lifetime, and his name would still be mud in the salons.

That left private tutoring. There was plenty of that work to be had in the city, from children being taught the very basics all the way up to teenagers preparing for their Academy entrance tests. Bryn’s natural inclination was to teach as high a standard of pupil as he could; his interest lay more with the exploration of advanced techniques, rather than the grating rote process of instilling the basic movements in younger pupils. He knew the reality was that he would have to take whatever he could get, and even then he wasn’t sure if he could manage it.

‘
W
hat do
you mean there’s no one willing to book me?’ Amero said.

‘You’re a sure thing,’ dal Corsi said. ‘Everyone expects you to win.’

‘What? You want me to lose?’ Amero said. ‘You’ll have a hard time finding anyone who can beat me.’

Dal Corsi shrugged. ‘Things always get quiet for the First Blade. Your duels are all challenge matches now, and only those in the top ten can make one. It’s a bit harder for you though. No one believes you can be beaten. At least not by anyone around at the moment.’

‘Well, find someone. Hype them up. Make people think he has a chance,’ Amero said.

‘Easier said than done,’ dal Corsi said.

‘Just do it. I want a match every two weeks. People forget fast, and I’ll be damned if I let them forget me.’