The First Blade of Ostia (6 page)

Renald laughed. ‘You misunderstand me, Kristo. I want Amero to be outclassed, defeated and made to feel like a fool. But I want it done somewhere discreet, where there won’t be many to see it happen. One good, sharp kick to his pride should knock this nonsense from his head before he draws too much attention to himself.’

‘Even still, Renald. You’re asking too much. The only way I can see of doing it is to have him placed high on the Ladder before he starts, so he meets an experienced, successful duellist first time out. Tampering with the Ladder though…’

‘I seem to recall you once telling me you were in my debt. I think I was pulling you out from under a dead horse at the time.’

Dal Ronvel flushed. After a moment he shook his head and sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything. How good is he?’

Renald smiled. ‘He got his Blue, but he’s young, inexperienced, headstrong. Nothing someone with a few tricks up their sleeve couldn’t handle, I expect.’

T
here was no fame
, no glory and—contrary to what Amero seemed to believe—no adulation from a horde of beautiful women for victory. There was, however, a purse of silver florins that now hung from Bryn’s belt, the weight of which could not have felt more satisfying were it stuffed to capacity with gold crowns.

It was the first time that he had money earned by his own hand, and small sum though it might be, that in itself brought an extraordinary sense of accomplishment. That he had earned prize money from duelling in the arena was almost beyond his comprehension. There were too many years of dreaming and too many hours of training for him to be able to fully take that in.

Now that he had fought a duel and won, there was only one thing on his mind. Even a day after the event his name would be on the Ladder, and he had waited a lifetime to see it there in black and white.

‘
I
’d like
to see the Ladder please,’ Bryn said. It was early and the Bannerets’ Hall was empty but for some staff.

The clerk looked at Bryn with sleepy eyes before shuffling away from the counter and into a back room. He reappeared a moment later with a leather folio bulging with sheets of paper. He dropped it down onto the counter with a thud and returned to a stool by the doorway to the back room.

Bryn felt his skin tingle with excitement as his hand hovered over the folio. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t come to the Bannerets’ Hall to look at the Ladder until he had several winning duels under his belt, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. His name was in there now, inked onto the same pages as the duellists he had supported obsessively in his youth. Great men, men he very much admired had done as he was now doing; opening the Ladder to see their name contained within for the first time.

The leather folio—the Ladder in its physical incarnation—contained a listing of every registered duellist in the city and their ranking. It was updated regularly, and Bryn fully expected that his name would now be included in it.

Being in the Ladder was a rite of passage for any aspiring duellist. Baldario, Rosetto, Calduro; the names of all the greats had been contained within at some point, with all of the retired pages stored within the Bannerets’ Hall’s archive. All of his life he had dreamed of having his name join theirs within. Now it had.

He flipped open the leather cover to reveal the first page. He knew his name would be far from it, but he wanted to savour the moment, to allow his anticipation build until finally he came upon his own name, contained somewhere toward the back.

There were several columns written in black ink in a neat, uniform hand; rank, name, year of graduation from the Academy, number of duels fought, points scored, and an arrow with a number beside it, indicating their position in the previous edition and whether they had moved up or down. Number one was Panceri Mistria. In the excitement and fuss of preparing for his own duel, Bryn had missed Mistria’s most recent matches. Eighteen perfect scores. It seemed that he was destined to hit the magical one hundred and twenty-five. No one could stand in his way. In his most ambitious flights of fancy, Bryn saw himself stopping that meteoric rise, although he realised it was unlikely they would meet in the arena for months or perhaps years, if ever.

He flipped to the next page and scanned it briefly, some familiar names, some not so. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he flipped all the way to the last page. He ran his eyes down the list quickly until his heart leaped before his brain had the chance to register what his eyes had seen. There, five lines from the bottom of the last page, was his name. It had a star beside it indicating that he was a new addition to the Ladder. The rank didn’t matter to him, only the fact that there, in black, waterproof ink, was his name. Bryn Pendollo.

He felt an enormous sense of satisfaction as he stood staring at the page for what must have been an inappropriately long time. The clerk cleared his throat, still looking at Bryn with his languid eyes.

Aside from fulfilling the lifelong ambition of seeing his name on the Ladder, he did have another purpose in visiting the Bannerets’ Hall. The Ladder would also give him an idea of who his next competition would be. Tearing his eyes away from his own name, he ran his finger up the page, reading each name and trying to remember them.

As with the first two pages there were names that he recognised because they were his contemporaries. Two had been with him at the Academy, but had not gone on to the Collegium as Bryn had after graduating from the Academy. They had spent two years on the duelling circuit but had clearly not prospered if their names were so close to Bryn’s. At the bottom of the page was Nava Nozzo’s name.

He felt conflicted by the sight, both guilt and pride in the knowledge that he was responsible for the small downward pointing arrow next to his name. He flipped through the next few pages, wondering how many matches it would take him to reach and pass the familiar names on them. Again he ran his finger along the list, recognising a name here and there, until he stopped at one that he was very familiar with. Amero dal Moreno.

He turned back to the page that his name was on, checked the number and went back to Amero’s listing. He was ranked two hundred and forty places higher than Bryn, despite not yet having fought a duel. Where the number indicating his duels fought and points won should be, there were the letters ‘FR’. Bryn stared at the listing in bemusement, again for what must have been too long as the clerk cleared his throat once more. ‘FR’ meant ‘foreign ranking’. When a duellist from another country travelled abroad to test his skill, he could, with the appropriate letters of reference, be admitted to the foreign Ladder at a place commensurate with his home ranking. To the best of Bryn’s knowledge, Amero had not been out of the country in years. Having seen all he needed to, but no closer to understanding, he closed the folio and slid it across the countertop toward the clerk.

T
he next major
event in their schedule was Amero’s first duel. Bautisto had decided to refine his approach to how he would prepare them both for their matches. He intended to alternate their fixtures, so that he could tailor their training to address the needs of the one with the impending match for the few days leading up to it.

The system made sense to Bryn; it would allow each of them to focus on their own weaknesses and the strengths of their opponent in the run up to any individual duel. It wasn’t possible with Bryn’s first match as being a new entry, it was impossible to tell who he would be paired with. That would be different for his next match, but Amero’s rank meant they could narrow the list of potentials to five or six men.

Bryn was still confused about how Amero had been able to take his place on the Ladder but he kept the fact to himself. Bautisto had no reason to suspect there was anything unusual, or if he did he was too circumspect to comment. To anyone else asking, it would not be difficult for someone with Amero’s resources to fabricate documentation of a foreign ranking. It was also not that unusual, some men preferring to make their name elsewhere before coming home to compete. He recalled how Amero had been able to circumvent the complicated process of being registered as a duellist and realised that it must come down to his family’s position and the connections that brought with it. Drawing attention to the issue would not do Bryn any good, even had he wished to injure Amero by so doing. Putting the matter aside, Bryn was happy to help his friend prepare for his duel.

W
hile Bryn had fought
his first duel in a nondescript little arena, Amero would not suffer any such indignity. His first duel was in one of the small boutique arenas in Lowgarden. It was only when Bryn saw the venue that he fully appreciated the reason behind the phoney entry on the Ladder. By starting where he had, Amero would be spared fighting in the grottiest of the city’s arenas; the fictitious ranking being the minimum needed to get him to Lowgarden’s arenas.

The audience would be small, but they would all be wealthy and there were some decent swordsmen on the listing that evening. This type of arena was one that Bryn would hope to reach after perhaps two or three months of successful competition. Amero was starting there, and Bryn could not help but feel a tug of jealousy. A higher ranked swordsman at the salon would increase its profile and benefit him though, so he swallowed his feelings.

As Amero had done for him, Bryn attended the duel. Sitting next to Bautisto he noticed all of the differences between that arena and the one he had fought in. Stone steps formed the tiered stands surrounding the arena that Bryn had duelled in. They were covered with wooden planks; faded, worn and splintering. The crowd had been small and all of the competitors undistinguished. Here, the benches were covered with padded leather and were particularly comfortable. The most expensive seats had silken cushions. The sand of the arena floor was immaculate. It had been raked so that it was perfectly flat, with no ruts or holes that might cause a trip or fall.

There were two names on the list for that night that Bryn immediately recognised; both held high rankings on the Ladder. The others, though unfamiliar, would have all occupied respectable positions within it and it was beyond doubt that Amero, even with his artificially high position, was the lowliest ranked duellist there that day.

His rank was not going to be the talking point in the audience though; it was his name. His grandfather had been Duke of Ostia. His father was an elector count. He was the heir to one of the twelve most powerful families in Ostia, the closest thing to royalty that the city had.

Bryn realised how much hard work it was going to take him to get to an arena like that. He felt the rumbling of jealousy stir within him again. He took a deep breath and tried to push the thoughts away. He didn’t get to attend duels as often as he liked, so it was a treat to get to spend an evening at such a comfortable arena. The bonus of being part of a competitor’s entourage was that there was no admittance fee, which in that plush arena was extortionately high.

He could feel Amero’s tension from several feet away. There were two small areas where the swordsmen sat in wait for their duels, the opponents being separated. It was in marked contrast to the arena that Bryn had fought in, where he had to wait for his duel in the stands with the rest of the crowd.

The quality of the swordsmanship on display was the other remarkable factor of that small arena. It was exceptional. The first duel was over quickly, the speed and precision with which the swordsmen fought doing good service to the reputation of all that held a sword.

Amero was to fight in the third duel of the evening. Each duel that preceded his had been a model of gentlemanly conduct, a factor that attracted the polite appreciation of the equally genteel crowd. As a child and youth, Bryn had attended the Amphitheatre many times. It was the largest of the arenas in the city and was famed for the heights of passion that the audiences reached. Raucous shouts and jeers occasionally made themselves heard over the general noise of a crowd of tens of thousands and it had an atmosphere so pronounced that it was almost palpable.

The citizens reached such fervour that fights were known to break out within the audience. The most famed swordsmen attracted devoted followings and their legions of fans occasionally boiled over in their enthusiasm to the point of riot.

Here the atmosphere was significantly more subdued. Muted applause with the occasional hushed comment of appreciation was all that a swordsman could expect from a crowd such as this. The contrast amused Bryn. It seemed more like a library than a duelling arena.

Amero’s duel finally came around and he walked from the waiting area out onto the perfectly manicured sand. Between each duel, several men rushed out to rake smooth any of the imperfections that had been caused by the previous fight, ensuring it was pristine for each subsequent match.

Amero’s opponent was called Arno Banda. He had graduated from the Academy five years before they entered, so he was something of an unknown. He was coming into what many would consider the prime years for a swordsman and would have to be taken seriously.

Amero looked incredibly alone as he walked out to the black line in the centre of the arena. Whereas Bryn had been able to fight his first duel in relative anonymity against a swordsman that he knew to be inferior, with no pressure other than his own expectations, Amero carried the weight of his family name out onto the sand and every eye in the arena was fixed on him.

Up until that moment, Bryn hadn’t fully considered the effect all that additional pressure must have. He thought of his own nerves in the lead up to his first duel, and he wondered if he wasn’t the luckier of the two. A great many of those in the audience would probably be known to Amero’s family and those that were not would know who he was. This was confirmed by the whispers that Bryn could hear being exchanged among the crowd behind him. None of them were kind. That it was a small arena with only a few dozen spectators must have been little comfort for Amero.

As if all this were not enough of a burden, Amero didn’t have the advantage of crossing blades with an inferior swordsman. His opponent had a solid record and a respectable ranking that was testimony to his ability. He would be a hard challenge and would not give up touches without a fight. Bryn pitied Amero his position.

Amero took his place at the black mark and Banda did the same. The Master of Arms gave his instructions, inaudible to those in the audience and the duellists saluted one another.

‘Ready? Duel!’

Amero danced back several paces quickly, causing Banda’s initial attack to meet nothing but thin air. Undeterred, Banda pressed forward until the blade of his rapier connected with steel. There was a flurry of clashing metal, none of it dictated by Amero. Bryn could feel his heart race and realised that he was holding his breath as he tracked every move Amero’s opponent made, watching for any of the traits that they had identified in training and worked so hard to take advantage of.

Eventually Bryn spotted one; Amero did also. He thrust low, angling his blade up, trying to weave it past his opponent’s defence. Banda was good though; too good to be taken in so quickly. He parried and moved back, allowing Amero to seize the initiative and dictate the next few clashes of blades.

Unable to find a way through, Amero dropped back to catch his breath. He appeared to be fitter than Banda, which was the only advantage that Bryn was able to identify. Giving his opponent any opportunity to rest was a mistake.

Amero lashed forward with sudden speed that Bryn had rarely seen from him, catching Banda still enjoying the breather. He was unable to defend against it, and Amero’s sword struck home on the left side of his chest.

‘Still too bloody flashy,’ Bautisto said, louder than was appropriate for the otherwise subdued environment.

Bryn hoped that Amero was too far away to have heard it.

The duellists both returned to their respective sides of the black mark and took their guard. Amero was visibly more relaxed having scored his first touch, but Bryn was curious to see how his opponent reacted to having conceded a point to an arena novice.

As soon as the bout restarted, Banda fired in two quick thrusts, both striking at Amero’s sword and both intended as a challenge rather than attacking swordplay. Amero was playing a clever game though, and would not be baited by it. Cunning had always been a strength of his swordplay.

They circled one another for what seemed like an age. Bryn could feel the tension build in the audience. From the mutters he had heard when Amero first walked out onto the sand, it was obvious that he was expected to fail. It was also obvious that there were many sitting in the arena that would have delighted in seeing it happen. It was probably the only reason they were there.

Banda exploded into motion. After so long a lull in the fighting, everyone in the audience was caught off guard. As was Amero. He made a valiant attempt to defend but he was driven back across the arena floor struggling to keep up with the deluge of steel.

Bryn felt his heart leap each time Banda struck. He sighed with relief when Amero managed to get one of his blades in the way. The emotional turmoil was almost too much to bear. Bryn wanted to jump to his feet to shout out in support of his friend, but he knew it wasn’t appropriate in that arena and might result in him being thrown out. He wouldn’t have cared were it not for the fact that he was there as part of Amero’s entourage, and it would reflect badly on him, rather than Bryn.

As each one of his attacks was foiled, Banda followed in with a second and then a third. The intensity of the exchange was showing on both men, their gasps audible and unrestrained. Loud and overly emotive swordplay was considered crude and it would only be overlooked in the most extreme of circumstances; nobody took any notice of it now.

Eventually the inevitable happened; Amero was too slow, his opponent too fast. The previously restrained audience sighed in unison as Amero conceded a touch. Banda returned to the black mark without a pause, a look of satisfaction on his face. Amero’s face was a picture of frustration as he followed, his head down. There was nothing more that he could have done; he had been thrown into deep water and it would be a challenge for him to stay afloat. Bryn could see that Amero was rattled by losing the point.

The Master of Arms reset them and Banda, buoyed by his success in the previous point, came at Amero right away. Amero’s face was set with grim determination and Bryn found himself wondering if he would have been able to beat this opponent.

Amero showed true class fending off the attacks, working at his limit just to hold his own. He moved backward, slowly. He flicked his wrist to parry a strike, but it was a feint, and he realised too late. He couldn’t even react to the true strike, and stood dumbly as it hit him, knowing it was coming, unable to do anything about it.

Bryn’s heart was in his throat. Amero returned to the black mark trailing one touch to two, and Bryn feared that the match was all but over. One more touch and his opponent would win.

Banda wasted no time after the reset. Attacking quickly and aggressively, it seemed that he wanted to teach this young upstart a lesson; to show him that his name, and nothing else, had earned him his place in the arena that day. At first it looked as though Amero was being forced into the same situation that had cost him a point. Bryn could see that there was something different this time, however. Instead of the strained look that had been on his face previously, there was a focussed, calculating expression.

Just when it seemed as though his defence was going to falter—an opinion shared by the audience who were starting to whisper to one another that it was all over—Amero twisted out of a parry, locking both of Banda’s blades together and countering with his dagger. Banda was unable to get his weapons free in time enough to defend, and Amero scored his second touch.

As they both walked back to the black mark, Amero cast a brief glance toward Bryn and Bautisto. There was a hungry, predatory look on his face. The next touch would win it, one way or the other. Amero’s face said he had the measure of his opponent. His swordsmanship and experience might not yet be the match of Banda, but his cunning was superior and he would use this to his advantage.

They reset, but this time Banda looked doubtful, hesitant. He clearly didn’t know what to make of Amero. He must have known that he was a novice in the arena, that he was most likely there due to his being the heir to an elector count rather than having the experience of many foreign duels under his belt. Banda had expected an easy fight of it, or as easy a duel as can ever be expected when facing a Banneret of the Blue. Conceding the first touch might have just been a fluke, something he had probably felt was confirmed by the way he was able to take back the next point. But despite his greater experience, he was on the verge of losing the duel.

Banda resorted to his previous tactic, a furious and intense attack intended to wear down his opponent. It was foolish; it was already clear to everyone watching that Amero was the fitter of the two. Bautisto’s vomit-inducing sessions were paying their dividends yet again.

Amero was better prepared for Banda now; he had seen this approach once already, and while it had worked against him that time, Bryn was confident that it wouldn’t a second. Amero dropped back as he had before, but his face betrayed no strain. He was focussed and thinking; despite Banda appearing to dictate matters, Bryn knew his friend well enough to recognise that was not the case.

Amero put a foot wrong and stumbled. Banda saw his chance and moved to take advantage of it, a smile spreading across his face as he lunged forward to take the match. Amero danced out of the way, his stumble merely a ruse, and executed a quick thrust to his opponent’s midsection. The winning touch.