The First Blade of Ostia (28 page)

W
hile Bryn had been gaining
good ground all night, with dawn now a couple of hours behind him, Ayla would most likely be on the move again. His hope was to catch up with her when she stopped that coming night, if not before.

His own pace was necessarily slowed. He had to give his horse longer breaks, stopping completely rather than mixing the halts with periods of walking alongside it. There might be the opportunity to trade it for a fresh mount at the next inn but he couldn’t count on it. Each second he stopped felt like an age and he was anxious to get going again. It was as though he could feel Ayla getting farther away. Reason dictated that by resting the horse he was going to be able to make better time, but it was difficult to convince himself of that fact.

As he stood next to the horse, Bryn worried that the rest he was affording the animal was still not enough. As eager as he was to catch Ayla, he couldn’t afford to have it drop dead underneath him. He didn’t know this horse well enough to be sure of how hard he could push it.

He still thought of her departure as sudden, but after what his mother said, he knew that it was only sudden to him. He wondered if he’d ever learn. He’d let Amero get back inside his head, but it wasn’t just Amero. Bryn had spent his entire life dreaming of being a swordsman and a duellist. It was too deeply ingrained in him to easily let go of. He had convinced himself he could have it all; the people he cared about and the dream he so desperately wanted to realise. His mother was right that he was a fool. Even with Bautisto putting the facts right in front of him, he refused to see the whole thing for what it was. There were things in life that were more important than settling a score, and they were too valuable to sacrifice for something as hollow as revenge. There was nothing as important, not even a dream. His horse was staring at him. Even he knew it was time to move on.

I
t was
dusk when a coaching inn came into view farther down the road. He smiled as he wondered how Amero had reacted to his absence, the appointed hour for their duel now long past. His thoughts didn’t dwell long on Amero, however. Bryn couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than a hot meal and a warm bed, but if Ayla wasn’t there he would have to make do with the meal—probably cold—before riding on.

The inn was quieter than Bryn would have expected. He slowed as he approached it and watched carefully. The war was a long way to the north, so Bryn didn’t think it likely marauding soldiers had raided this far south. That didn’t mean that there wasn’t something wrong, though. The roads were dangerous at the best of times, and banditry was always worse during times of war. Once you were a few miles from a city or town and beyond the protection of their watchmen, the roads were dangerous places, war or peace.

There was something about the scene that bothered him, but he could not put his finger on what it was. He dismounted before he reached the inn and secured his horse to a tree. Bryn drew his sword and started forward. The inn’s windows glowed with the light from inside, and he could hear movement in the stable to the inn’s side. He peered in to see the shapes of several horses in the darkness. He continued forward, stopping at the first window. It was made up of dozens of lozenge-shaped pieces of glass held in place by lead cames. It was an old window, and the pane had flexed outward, distorting the view of the interior.

There were several people moving around inside, and Bryn saw nothing to support his concerns. He watched a moment longer, but everything going on within was as he would expect of an ordinary coaching inn. He sheathed his sword and went inside.

‘
E
vening there
, traveller. Pardon me, Banneret,’ the innkeeper said, as soon as Bryn closed the door behind him.

Bryn self-consciously pulled his cloak back over the hilt of his rapier, and nodded to the innkeeper before surveying the taproom. Four other men, all minding their own business. Nothing threatening.

‘Can I get you anything, Banneret?’ the innkeeper said.

‘Water,’ Bryn said. ‘And some food. Whatever’s hot. Please.’

‘There’s still some stew in the pot,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Cider’s good too, if you fancy something more interesting than water.’

Bryn shook his head. ‘Is there a stable boy? My horse could do with some feed and water.’

‘Erco!’ the innkeeper shouted.

A boy of no more than sixteen appeared from the back room.

‘Take care of the Banneret’s horse.’

‘Just a light feed,’ Bryn said. ‘I might be riding on tonight.’ He flipped the boy a penny, which was dextrously caught as the boy headed for the door.

Bryn sat by the bar to wait for the food. ‘When did the last post carriage stop here?’

‘Few hours ago. Didn’t stop long though. Continued on to make the next inn before dark. Next one north should stop tomorrow afternoon. If you’re looking to take it?’

‘No,’ Bryn said. ‘I’m looking for someone that was on it. Do you have any fresh horses I could trade you for?’

The innkeeper shook his head. ‘Not at the moment. Sorry.’ He flicked his eyes toward someone behind Bryn. ‘I’ll get your stew,’ he said.

Bryn turned to look at the other occupants of the taproom. They were all sitting alone, keeping to themselves. They were a rough looking bunch, not necessarily what he would have expected, but a life on the road can have that effect on a man. He remembered his own appearance the last time he had called at a rural inn, so Bryn didn’t think too much of it.

The innkeeper returned from the kitchen with a bowl of stew in his hand. He placed it down on the bar counter in front of Bryn and smiled. His teeth were in bad condition, the kind of teeth a man accustomed to violence had.

Bryn looked down at the bowl as the innkeeper withdrew his hand. His knuckles were bruised, with traces of dried blood on them. Not something Bryn would have expected, unless he was using his fists to tenderise meat.

The innkeeper watched him, as though waiting for Bryn to start eating. He caught Bryn’s strange look. ‘Best eat up before it gets cold.’

‘What happened to your hand?’ Bryn said, nodding to the bloodied knuckles.

‘Ah. These.’ The innkeeper smiled and raised his hand up. ‘Shoulda washed ‘em better I suppose.’

‘Customer didn’t pay up?’

‘Something like that.’ The innkeeper’s eyes flicked to someone behind Bryn again.

He was communicating with one of the men. Something was up. ‘When did you buy the place?’ Bryn said, his suspicions all but confirmed.

‘Whatcha mean?’ the innkeeper said.

‘Well, when I passed this way a couple of months ago, there was a different owner.’ Bryn heard a chair move behind him. The innkeeper kept staring at Bryn, but said nothing. Bryn stood and drew his sword as soon as he heard a second chair move.

‘I don’t know what you lads are up to, but it’s none of my business, and I don’t want any trouble.’ It was his second lie in as many minutes, but there were five of them, six including the stable boy and he needed to put them off guard. If they had taken over the inn, it was with the intention of robbing whatever travellers passed through. There was no way a post carriage had gotten through untouched.

All of the men stood and slowly moved around Bryn, who backed toward the door.

‘‘Fraid you’ve found it, Banneret. Bad luck for you. Good luck for us. If you’ve anything worth having.’

‘Last chance, lads. Tell me what you did with the post carriage, and I’ll let you go.’

The innkeeper and his friends all roared with laughter.

Bryn only needed one alive to tell him what they had done to the carriage. The thought that they might have hurt Ayla filled him with rage. He lunged at the closest.

The men had all drawn weapons of some description; swords, hand axes and clubs. Bryn had spent so much of his life training to fight skilled swordsmen that it came as a surprise to fight one that wasn’t. The first man didn’t react to Bryn’s lunge at all, and still didn’t seem to have registered his injury even after Bryn had pulled his sword free. Bryn had already moved on to his closest colleague by the time he started his collapse to the floor.

Bryn cut down the next in the same movement. The third charged at Bryn with his small axe raised in the air. He roared with anger, but Bryn dodged his clumsy attack and stabbed him through the back when his momentum carried him past.

The fourth was more wary—smarter perhaps, or now forewarned. He made two feints with his short sword and bounced on the balls of his feet as though to give the impression he possessed some skill. Bryn thrust and stabbed him through the eye. He was turning to face the innkeeper before the bandit collapsed to the ground.

That left only the innkeeper in the taproom and their young accomplice outside, who would be galloping away as fast as he could by now if he had any sense. That meant Bryn needed the phoney innkeeper alive. Seeing his friends cut down with so little effort seemed to have robbed him of any desire to fight. He backed away from Bryn, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. A cudgel hung limply from his fingers, and his eyes flicked from left to right as though he was looking for an escape route.

‘The post carriage that stopped here today. There was a woman travelling on it.’

The innkeeper shook his head. ‘We didn’t touch her. Honest.’

‘Where is she then?’ Bryn took a step toward him and aimed the point of his rapier at the innkeeper’s throat.

‘Upstairs. Upstairs. Locked in a room. She’s fine. See for yourself. We didn’t lay a finger on her. You arrived before we could—’ The innkeeper snapped his mouth shut, clearly fearful that he had said too much.

‘Before you could do what?’ Bryn said. He felt a flush of anger. He took a deep breath and restrained himself. ‘Show me where she is.’

‘And you’ll let me live?’

Bryn shrugged. ‘Depends on how she is.’

The innkeeper nodded emphatically and beckoned for Bryn to follow him as he made for the staircase.

Bryn followed him at a distance, aware of the possibility that there might be more brigands hiding upstairs. He kept a lookout over his shoulder for the stable boy, although the threat posed by an unarmed boy was not a concern if his grown friends were anything to go by. Bryn suspected he was long gone anyway.

The innkeeper stopped outside a door on the upper landing and fumbled in his pocket for a key. His hands were shaking as he put the key in the lock, but Bryn was under no illusions; he might be frightened, but he would stick a knife in Bryn’s back the first chance he got.

He smiled congenially as he opened the door, trying to ingratiate himself with Bryn.

‘Stay away! I’ll cut you if you come anywhere near me!’ a woman snarled. Ayla.

Bryn couldn’t help but smile, but his relief was far greater than his amusement. He realised how frightened she must be, and didn’t want to prolong her ordeal. He gave the barkeeper a hard kick in the backside and sent him sprawling into the room. Bryn followed him.

‘Bryn?’ Ayla said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bryn said. It was all he could think of, and was something that was overdue.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

‘I came to get you. To bring you home.’

‘I don’t have a home anymore,’ she said. ‘It was burned to the ground.’

‘Yes you do. I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clearer to you. There were so many things from before I left the city, before I met you, that felt… unfinished. I thought I had to deal with them. Now I realise they aren’t worth it. I want you to come back with me.’

‘Bryn!’

The ardour of her response came as a surprise, and it took Bryn an instant to realise it was a warning. He turned in time to see the fake innkeeper lunge at him with a small knife. Bryn stepped back and out of the way. His reflexes were too well conditioned to be tested by a bandit. His thrust was an automatic response, and the fake innkeeper was dead before Bryn gave the attack any thought.

He pulled his sword free and looked to Ayla, concerned by her reaction of having seen him kill a man. She seemed unmoved. ‘Come back with me,’ he said. ‘Please.’

The hard look on her face faltered. ‘Things will be different?’

‘They will,’ Bryn said. ‘I promise. I know what’s important now. I can’t lose you.’

D
espite the storm
of abuse Bryn was sure awaited him back in the city, he felt better than he had in months as he and Ayla rode back to Ostenheim. All of the things that had been gnawing away at him were forgotten, or seemed so small as to barely be worthy of notice. His only regret was the guilt he felt knowing that Bautisto had been left to deal with the mess when they realised that Bryn wasn’t showing up for the duel.

For the first time, Bryn felt completely free of the addictive grip the desire to settle the score with Amero had placed on him. When he thought of it now, he couldn’t understand how he had ever been willing to sacrifice a single thing for it.

Amero was driven by his own demons; a desire to step out from the shadow of his family name, ambition, greed, arrogance. There were many that Bryn could think of, vices all, and in the end they would consume him entirely. Bryn even felt a small measure of pity for his former friend, but the farther he could put himself from it all, the happier he would be. With Ayla beside him, Bryn knew he had all he could ever want, or need.

T
here was
no hostile mob waiting for him when he got back to Ostenheim, the worst-case scenario he had envisioned. He left his horse back at the stables, and sold the second one he had taken from the inn for Ayla—the brigands had no more use for it, and he considered it a modest payment for the public service he had done. That brought a handful of coins, which were gratefully received.

From there, they walked back to his mother’s house. As they went, Bryn tried to eavesdrop on every conversation, both curious to hear if they were about his non-appearance and terrified that they would be. All he heard was gossip and idle chat; no mention of his name. It was as though they had never even heard of the intended duel. He expected that his mother or Gilia would be able to fill him in on how the city reacted.

When they arrived back at the door, his mother embraced Ayla without saying a word. Even Gilia gave Bryn a grudging nod of approval.

At the first opportunity, Bryn took his mother aside.

‘What was the reaction?’ he said. He’d wanted to ask from the moment they got back, but knew he had to tread carefully. There was still much work to be done to repair the damage he had caused.

‘The duel?’

Bryn nodded.

‘I knew you wouldn’t be back in time, so I went to see Maestro Bautisto after you left and told him what had happened,’ she said.

Bryn grimaced, not sure if he wanted to hear any more. At least Bautisto had been forewarned.

‘I think he was relieved, if anything,’ his mother said. ‘He sent a note to Amero’s people, said there was a gang of youths chanting abuse outside the salon. He said he was withdrawing you from the duel and was going to sue for breach of contract. He assured me that it would work, but didn’t explain why. It seemed to do the trick though, I didn’t hear anything said about it after that.’

Bryn sighed with relief and then smiled. He had worried that him not showing up would have made it all but impossible to find work in Ostenheim—there was only so much abuse a reputation could take before it was irreparable. He had resolved that he would leave the city if needs be. His brother-in-law’s business in Tanosa had seemed like his best bet, but perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary. He would have to get the full details of how it all played out from Bautisto.

‘Maestro Bautisto sent this around this morning,’ his mother said. She handed him a fat leather purse. ‘The note that came with it said it was in full and final settlement of any dispute arising out of the contract. Bautisto said in it that Amero’s people were worried that any fuss would harm Amero’s standing, so they require us to never talk about any of it again. Bautisto agreed on our behalf, and said that he’d explain it all to you when he sees you again.’

Bryn raised his eyebrows. Amero must have been very worried about his standing with the arena promoters if he was that eager to hush things up. It seemed like too much success might not be such a good thing after all. Either way, Bryn found that he really didn’t care. He opened the purse—it was stuffed to capacity with gold crowns. At a glance, it looked enough to live on for two years if he was careful with it. If
they
were careful with it.

B
ryn continued
to help Bautisto out in the salon while he looked for tutoring jobs. He felt it was the least he could do, after all Bautisto had done for him.

He was cleaning and oiling the training swords when dal Corsi blustered into the salon with his usual sense of entitlement, his little retinue of lickspittles scurrying after him. Bautisto was out giving a private lesson, so Bryn was the only one there. He groaned when he saw dal Corsi walk through the door.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ Bryn said.

‘Do I have an appointment?’ dal Corsi said, incredulously. ‘Do you hear that? Do I have an appointment?’ he said to his two aides. He turned back to Bryn. ‘You’re the one who had an appointment, lad. And you fucking missed it!’

It was the only time Bryn had ever heard anything other than arrogance in dal Corsi’s voice.

‘Didn’t feel like being used by you again,’ Bryn said. ‘You’ll have to find some other poor fool to make Amero look good.’

‘Oh, I will. You can count on that. You’re the bloody fool though. I’ll make sure you never get work in this city again. You can count yourself lucky that Amero’s having such trouble with opponents at the moment. If he wasn’t so concerned at upsetting the other promoters, you’d be getting pilloried right now. Don’t think for a minute that anyone fell for your breach of contract stunt. Absolute bullshit, and we all know it. If it were up to me I’d see you called a coward from here to Highgarden, and not fit to wear the Blue. Don’t think you can walk away from it all with no consequence though, you little shit. There won’t be a door open to you in this city. Mark my word.’

‘Maybe I am a fool,’ Bryn said, with a smile. ‘I didn’t think a fat old boor like you had the influence.’ Bryn looked at the broom and dustpan lying on the floor ready for his next chore. ‘There’s always shit to be shovelled, Banneret dal Corsi. It just won’t be your shit that I shovel. I think I’ll get by.’

Dal Corsi bristled with indignation, but there was nothing he could do. He was too old to draw his sword, and he had already levelled every threat he could at Bryn. He had nothing left, so he stormed out.

Bryn watched the door for a moment after dal Corsi left. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel, but his general sentiment these days was contentment, and that was unchanged. As soon as he resumed his sweeping, he heard the door open again.

‘Finally thought of a smart retort? Why don’t you just…’ He looked up at the door. ‘Master Dornish.’

‘Expecting someone else, Bryn?’

‘Yes, well, no.’ He laughed. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Death and the opportunities it brings,’ Dornish said, with his usual sardonic humour. ‘But more of that in a moment. I hear tell you’ve been working on a new technique.’

‘I have,’ Bryn said. ‘I’m surprised word of it has reached far beyond these four walls though.’

‘Well, all sorts of morsels of information come my way these days, and I like to keep abreast of what my former students are up to.’ He unbuttoned his cloak, letting it drop to the floor, and tapped the hilt of his rapier. ‘Any chance of a demonstration?’

Bryn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why not?’ He pulled his rapier from where it hung in its scabbard. He took his guard, and Dornish stepped forward to meet him.

Dornish attacked with slow, probing thrusts; nothing that challenged Bryn.

‘I know I was injured,’ Bryn said, ‘but give me some credit.’

Dornish nodded and Bryn launched into a blistering combination of attacks; tight, punchy and aggressive. It was ugly, but brutally effective. Above all, it was fast. He drove Dornish back across the salon floor, revelling in the way each strike flowed into the next, sword and body moving in perfect harmony. It was what he loved more than anything—almost anything—and losing it would have been something he would never have been able to come to terms with.

Dornish nodded and raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite a change from the last time we did this,’ Dornish said, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow. ‘Not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.’

‘Not surprised,’ Bryn said. ‘It’s entirely a creation of Bautisto’s Salon of Arms. I don’t have as good a range of motion in my shoulders anymore; they healed tight, so it’s tailored to allow for that. I’m trying to convince him to write an instruction manual for the style.’

‘It’s certainly effective,’ Dornish said.

Bryn raised an eyebrow.

‘More than effective,’ Dornish acknowledged. ‘I can imagine it will be very popular with Bannerets of a certain age who aren’t quite ready to hang up their swords, among others.’ He cleared his throat self referentially and attacked again.

He came at Bryn faster now, age obviously not having slowed or impeded him as much as he might have implied. Bryn was well able to deal with it. Indeed, better able than he was the last time they had fenced for his final Collegium examination at the Academy. There was no consideration for pride or style in what he did, only efficiency.

His attack spent, Dornish lowered his sword to indicate the bout was over, and saluted.

‘I’m impressed, he said, ‘and it confirms a decision I had all but made.’

Bryn furrowed his brow and gave Dornish a quizzical look.

‘Death and opportunities,’ Dornish said again. ‘Major dal Damaso passed away a short time ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Bryn said. He hadn’t been keeping up on Academy news with all the preparation for the rematch. ‘I always liked him.’

‘As did I. But that brings me to the topic of opportunity. I’ve been appointed as Master of the Academy.’

‘Congratulations,’ Bryn said, genuinely pleased for his former tutor.

‘The appointment of a new master always brings changes; people move on, some take it as time to retire. I want some fresh blood in the masters’ ranks, and was hoping you’d consider coming to teach.’

T
here were
some formalities to be complied with to become an instructor at the Academy; paperwork to be completed mainly. With it all done, he left the Bannerets’ Hall, excited by the challenge that lay ahead.

Dornish had seen to it that Bryn was paid his first term’s salary in advance, which covered the cost of his impending wedding, which he had to admit made him more nervous than any duel he had ever fought.

He stepped out into the street and almost stumbled into Joranna dal Verrara. It took a moment for them both to realise who the other was, followed by an uncomfortable silence while they both tried to decide what to do.

For Bryn, the discomfort was only fleeting. She represented a life that he no longer wanted, and a time he was happy to forget. Once it had passed, he felt nothing, except perhaps for pity. Joranna looked well, but she always did. It was a requirement for someone trying to find herself a wealthy husband, something it looked as though she had yet to achieve. He smiled at her, and as she was beginning to open her mouth to say something, he walked away.