The First Blade of Ostia (7 page)

T
hey went
out after Amero’s victory to celebrate. Bryn thought that Amero would be in high spirits after his win, but he was sullen and moody. Bryn was beginning to wonder if there was anything that would satisfy him. He had won a difficult fight, and his career was starting at a level many duellists would never reach. The change in Amero since leaving the Academy was marked, but Bryn was puzzled. All things considered, he saw no reason for it.

After Amero’s outburst on the previous occasion in the Sail and Sword their other friends had all coincidentally found themselves to be busy, but Bryn was able to rally up a few who hadn’t been there and had not heard about Amero’s behaviour.

Bryn and Amero arrived before the others, and Bryn ordered a round of drinks. Amero had said hardly a word all evening, and when the two mugs of ale arrived he leaned against the bar, staring into the glass.

‘You won. You should be happy,’ Bryn said. ‘He was tough opposition. You did well.’

‘I was lucky,’ Amero said. ‘I might not be the next time. I need to be better then. All those bastards sitting there, waiting for me to make a fool of myself. A fool of my name. A fool of my father.’

Was that it? If so, Bryn thought Amero was being a little too sensitive. The crowd adored it when a duellist made a fool of himself in the arena. It was the same for everyone, Bryn included. There were even those who went purely in the hope that they would see a swordsman killed—an infrequent, but not unknown occurrence.

‘Ho there, gentlemen Bannerets,’ came a voice.

It was Rofier Cando and two others from the Academy, the sum total of friends that Bryn had been able to gather up for the evening.

In the instant of their arrival, Amero’s demeanour changed from dark to light. It was as though he put on a mask and became an entirely different person. Bryn was surprised but said nothing, joining the conversation with the others. He was bemused by what he’d just witnessed, never having seen anyone change their mood so quickly or convincingly before. Anyone seeing Amero now would think he was walking on air after his victory in the arena. One face for himself, one for everyone else. It was jarring.

‘So where’re you living now that they’ve turfed you out of your room at the Academy?’

Bryn was so caught up in his thoughts it took him a moment to realise the question was directed at him. His delay gave Amero enough time to answer for him.

‘He’s enjoying the hospitality of the House of Moreno. And a lucky fellow he is too. I brought one of my father’s cooks back, one of the better ones.’

Bryn flushed with embarrassment. Amero was still talking, light-hearted, jovial, and entertaining, but with Bryn as the butt of his jokes. It was the condescending, dismissive way he said it that irked Bryn most. Amero had asked Bryn to stay with him, and there hadn’t been any discussion on the topic of rent since Bryn made it clear he would pay when the offer was first made. He didn’t like their friends thinking that he was a charity case, or that he was dependent on Amero’s goodwill.

He had enough money to rent his own apartment now. There was no need for him to be in a position where he could be condescended to. He would get up early the next day and look for one.

‘And you’re both duelling now?’ Rofier said.

Bryn’s attention returned to the conversation. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice tinged with pride. ‘First match under the belt. A three-one win. Finally on the Ladder.’ He intended to show he was not sliding into the role of Amero’s retainer.

‘And how about you, Amero?’ Rofier said.

Bryn cringed, hoping that Amero wouldn’t be provoked into another outburst. They would quickly run out of friends if he kept that up.

‘Had my first duel too,’ Amero said.

He was still cheerful, upbeat. If it was an act, it was a convincing one. From moody to top of the world in a heartbeat.

‘How’d it go?’ Rofier said.

‘Three-two win, so I’m happy enough. Against Arno Banda. He’s well thought of by all accounts. It was a tough match. Tougher than Bryn’s at any rate. Can’t remember that fellow’s name. He was a bit of a hack and slasher, wasn’t he, Bryn?’

‘Nava Nozzo. He knew what he was about,’ Bryn said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t happy that the skill of his opponent was being called into question. It was bad manners to publicly disparage another Banneret’s skill in any event, but to do it now, to a friend was insulting, hurtful, and on the fringes of what Bryn would tolerate.

‘Yes, but he wasn’t a patch on the chap I fought. I mean, you don’t exactly get the cream of the crop in that dump you had to fight in, do you.’

Bryn couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but Amero seemed completely oblivious to the offence he was causing. Oblivious, or he just didn’t care.

‘Well, I think I’m going to call it a night,’ Bryn said.

He’d had enough, and ignored the moans of him being a lightweight and a boring git, but he wasn’t going to stand there while Amero continued to talk himself up and run him down.

B
ryn got
up early the next morning and went out to look at apartments. While the comforts on offer at Amero’s apartment in Oldtown would be hard to give up, he found their situation claustrophobic and after the way Amero had behaved the previous night, Bryn couldn’t even bear to look at him. Spending all day training together at the salon and then the rest of the day at the shared apartment was too much. He needed his own space; somewhere that he could be alone with his thoughts and somewhere that was his, not dependent on the goodwill of someone else. Particularly not if they were going to be in the habit of pointing that fact out.

Perhaps he had been getting on Amero’s nerves, and that, coupled with the pressure he was obviously under, was what had motivated his behaviour. One way or the other, if their friendship was to survive Bryn had to move into his own place.

Now that he had a victory under his belt, he could expect his career to get underway properly. He didn’t think it was expecting too much to have a duel at least every couple of weeks. He would still have to work his way up through the dross, so it would be some time before he could expect large prize purses, but a victory every two weeks would bring in more than enough to support himself, pay his rent and salon fees and have enough left over to put aside or enjoy.

The only issue that remained was a tricky one. How would he broach the issue of moving out of the apartment with Amero without causing irreparable damage? He felt less concerned about the sensitivity of it after the previous night, but it was best not to burn any bridges. One way or the other, he needed to find somewhere to live first.

He couldn’t afford to be extravagant, so Oldtown and the other more fashionable parts of the city were out of the question. Considering that Bautisto’s salon was in Docks and that he was always utterly exhausted leaving there, somewhere nearby seemed to be the most sensible idea.

Living in Docks itself was something he wasn’t willing to do. It was a hardworking and rough part of the town and definitely not somewhere he wanted to make his home.

Docks was sandwiched between the two rivers that ran through Ostenheim, the Westway and the Eastway. The Westway separated it from Oldtown, Highgarden and Castle Hill, while the Eastway did the same with the industrial parts of the city, most immediately where the shipbuilders and all of the related business were located.

Moving farther into the city, there were the four quarters that surrounded Crossways. Bankers and Guilds were the first quarters that one came to, sitting on either side of the main road that bisected the city from the docks in the south to the city wall in the north. Prices there for anything he was willing to live in would be higher, perhaps more than Bryn could afford.

Bankers was home to many of the counting houses and banks of the city, and also the Great Exchange where much of the city’s trade was arranged. It was also home to a great many people, living in apartments above the businesses. Of the four quarters, it was one of the wealthier ones, the better parts at least comparable to Oldtown and Lowgarden.

Guilds contained not only the institutions it took its name from, but also the homes of guild members. It was unusual for anyone not working in a trade represented by a guild to live there, and he would be an outsider in a close knit community were he to rent there.

All Bryn wanted was somewhere safe, convenient to the salon and reasonably quiet that fell within the rental bracket he had budgeted for.

He left Oldtown, passing through the ancient walls that marked the city’s original boundary and walked over the bridge that crossed the Westway. Turning left, he made his way along the embankment until the warehouses along the edge of Docks gave way to the four and five storey buildings of Bankers.

At various intervals along the embankment there were circular stone buildings that emitted a dull mechanical noise. They were the tow-houses, where great cranks turned all hours of the day without any intervention, a left over machination from the days before magic was outlawed. They were connected to heavy chains that pulled barges back up the river and away from the harbour. Once they were clear of the city walls, teams of horses pulled them to their destinations, but within the city there was not the space for the constant traffic on the embankment road.

Barges passed up and down the river day and night and the dull rumbling from within the tow-houses would only seem louder when the background noise of the city faded with the light. He had no desire to lie awake at night listening to it. In any event, Bautisto’s salon was toward the centre of Docks and he wanted to be closer.

Although Bryn had grown up in Ostenheim, it was a large city and surrounded on all sides by tall buildings. Once away from familiar areas and the main streets, it was easy to get lost. For natives, the warren of streets and alleys could be confusing—for a stranger, a nightmare. Bryn headed into the city to begin his search properly.

The first place that he looked at was small, dark and damp. If that wasn’t enough to put him off, the landlord looked sinister. Bryn didn’t have an especially active imagination but it did not take much to feel extremely uncomfortable in his presence. He excused himself politely and moved on.

Three more apartments fell short of the mark, but the fourth appeared to be exactly what he was looking for. It was small, but he really only needed somewhere to sleep. It was less than half the distance to Bautisto’s salon than Amero’s apartment, which he would be grateful for many times over. He signed the lease there and then, paying a deposit and his first month’s rent to the landlord.

A
mero did not consider
himself the pensive type. He had no quiet place that he would go to be alone with his thoughts, nor had he ever felt the need for one. The Academy might have been the reason for that; there was always the common room or the training halls to spend time in, thinking things through or thrashing them out while surrounded by noise and activity.

It was thus he found himself wandering the streets after Bryn had gone out that morning, trying to put his thoughts in order, losing himself to the city’s constant commotion. He knew how it all must seem to others; the privileged rich boy landing on the middle of the Ladder before his first duel with dubious foreign ranking points. They must all think him lucky, spoiled, not having to drag himself up through the rankings like everyone else. He knew damn well what the reality was, but no one would ever believe it. This was all meant to be a burden on him, one that would break him.

He knew his father too well to have thought the matter was settled that morning in his office. He had not expected this to be the answer though, a high Ladder ranking and a fight that he was unlikely to win. One that would most likely end in Amero being beaten, humiliated even, and left wanting no more to do with the arena or a career as a duellist.

It was one of Renald’s more subtle efforts of manipulation, and Amero had to hand it to his father; it was quite a feat to pull off, even for an elector count. Altering the Ladder rankings was a criminal offence. Amero laughed at the thought of his father being arrested for it. There was no way that would ever happen though. He was far too powerful, far too influential, as his ability to have the Ladder doctored showed.

He laughed too when he thought of how his father must have reacted when he heard his plan had backfired, but knew he wouldn’t have long to enjoy his victory. Amero felt sorry for the inept idiot who had arranged the whole thing; Renald was unlikely to be pleased with them. Amero knew only too well what his father’s displeasure could be like. There was something very satisfying about the thought of provoking more of it.

The duel had frightened Amero, however. It had taken everything he had to win, and even then he knew it was luck that Banda had fallen for his tricks. His duels were only going to get harder. He would not get the chance to ease into professional duelling and find his feet with a few less challenging matches. It was just a matter of time before his father got his wish, and saw Amero humiliated in the arena.

There was only so much punishment that his body could take each day before it needed rest. Even the training regime they had now was exhausting him. Each morning when he woke, he felt like he had been charged over by a stampeding bull. Given time—the year or two most fledgling duellists would have before they faced their first high ranked opponents—he knew he would be able to cope. He had the natural talent and the physical competence, just not the time to develop it. There was no point ruing the situation he found himself in; there was no way around it. How to deal with it and come out on top was the challenge.

B
ryn had only found
the time to make a couple of brief visits home since leaving the Academy. He knew he was neglectful, and determined to call more often when time allowed. While at the Academy he had called home at least two or three times a term. He knew his mother had been expecting to see more of him since he had left, but if anything he had been busier.

His sense of familiarity grew as he made his way through the streets that led him home until he was finally standing at its front door. He knocked and had to wait only a moment before the door opened and he was greeted by the sight of his sister. She looked at him for a moment, her expression changing from surprise to haughty indifference.

‘And you are?’ she said.

Bryn smiled. ‘It’s nice to see you too, Gilia.’

‘Mother was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten where we live.’

‘May I come in?’ Bryn said.

‘I suppose so.’ She stood aside and let him pass through.

His family home was an apartment on the ground floor of a building in Barons, a few streets back from the Blackwater Road. It was larger than his new apartment, but it couldn’t be described as spacious. It had never seemed too small when he was growing up and the advantage of being the only boy in the family was that he had a room to himself, while his two sisters had to share one. After Amero’s apartment though, he wondered how a family of five had lived there for all those years without driving each other mad. He supposed that at times they had.

Gilia led him into the living room and the table around which they had eaten all their meals together. His mother, Isotta, had come out from the kitchen to see who was there.

They knew that he had started his career as a professional duellist, but he had not told them about his first match. Telling them would be awkward, but unavoidable.

His mother said nothing but made her way across the room and embraced him. Gilia watched, still displeased by Bryn’s lack of contact but her countenance had mellowed a little.

‘Sit,’ his mother said.

Never one to disobey her, Bryn sat.

‘Are you eating properly? Are you still living in Oldtown with your friend?’

‘Yes, and no,’ Bryn said, interrupting what would have been a continuing stream of questions.

She was already moving in the direction of the kitchen by the time he spoke. She stopped when he answered.

‘Where are you living?’

‘I’ve taken a small apartment in Bankers. It’s close to the salon I’m training in. Closer to here also, so I’ll be able to call home more often.’

Gilia snorted in disbelief. Despite being younger than him, both she and his older sister had mothered him up until the point he had left for the Academy. She sat down at the table. ‘You’ve settled on the arena then.’

‘Yes, it seemed like a better option than the army. I’ll give it a year or two and if it doesn’t work out I shouldn’t have any difficulty in securing a commission. Bannerets of the Blue are always in demand.’

‘And when will we see you fight your first duel?’ his mother said.

Bryn grimaced. There was no delicate way of putting it.

‘I’ve fought it already,’ he said. He could see his mother’s face drop. ‘It was in an awful little arena. I just wanted to get my first one out of the way before I told anyone about it. I’ll be sure to let you know when my next one is coming up.’

Gilia scowled. ‘Be sure you do. I’m just sorry Father didn’t live to see it. He dreamed of watching you in the arena.’

Bryn felt his spirits drop, but still thought his decision was for the best. He had seen the pressure that Amero had been under for his first duel and he was glad that he hadn’t been subjected to anything similar. It had never been his intention to hurt or offend his family. He wondered if he would have been better off lying about the duel.

‘It really was just a case of getting it out of the way. It was a long way removed from the Amphitheatre, or even the arena on Carinale Street.’

He was trying to downplay the importance, but you only ever had one first duel. He was all too well aware of the sacrifices his family had made to provide him with the training and education needed to get into the Academy, and Gilia mentioning his father tugged at his heartstrings. He’d wanted his father to see him duel just as much.

They had never been wealthy; his father had been a clerk at Austorgas’ Banking House, a respectable middle class profession, but one which would struggle to pay for someone to get to and through the Academy. By rights Bryn should have left as soon as he had earned his banner to start contributing financially, but when he was able to get a scholarship to remain on for the two years required to achieve colours at the Collegium—the right to be called Banneret of the Blue—he had jumped at the chance. The long-term payback would be greater but income would be a longer time coming. He suddenly felt very guilty, and determined to change the subject.

‘How’s Lena?’ he asked.

‘She’s well,’ his mother said. ‘I had a letter from her only a week ago. She enjoys life in Tanosa. She’s settled in well there. I don’t think that we’ll see her back in the city though. Business seems to be going well for Nicolano so I expect he’ll wish to remain there.’

‘I’m glad,’ Bryn said. Lena’s husband hadn’t had much luck in business in Ostenheim, so he was glad to hear that their move to the regional city had proved to be a wise one.

It was only now that he noticed something different about the house, or rather an absence. There had always been the ticking sound of a clock in the apartment, a family heirloom that hung on the wall beside the door to the kitchen. It was gone.

‘Where’s the clock?’ he said.

His mother looked away as she answered. ‘It’s being repaired.’

She was lying. Bryn looked at his sister, who also avoided his gaze. He said nothing, hoping that an awkward silence would elicit more information, but he already knew what was going on. He needed to get money to them soon. His mother disappeared into the kitchen and Gilia fidgeted with a saltcellar that was sitting on the table.

‘I’ve written down my address,’ he said, finally breaking the silence. ‘I’m out most of the day, but I wanted you to have it so you know how to get hold of me.’

‘That’s good, just leave it on the table,’ his mother said from the kitchen. She popped her head through the open doorway. ‘I haven’t been to the market yet, but there’s some bread and salt beef if you want a sandwich.’

‘That’s all right, mother,’ Bryn said. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

‘You’re eating right?’ she asked. ‘With all that training you’ll need to make sure you do now that you can’t just call into the dining hall at the Academy.’

Bryn smiled at her concern. ‘I can’t really stay any longer I’m afraid, but I’ll try to call in more frequently now that I’m settled and have a regular routine. I’ll let you know when my next duel is.’

B
ryn felt unsettled
as he walked home. Guilt at not having visited more often was one part of it, as was the fact that he had not told them in advance about his duel. Being home had reminded Bryn of how much he had wanted his father to see him in the arena. The apartment seemed empty without him. He had died suddenly, when Bryn was away across the Middle Sea taking part in the Competition in Humberland. His father was long buried by the time he got home. Their trips to watch the duels had been a regular, and favourite, part of Bryn’s youth. His father had at least seen him graduate from the Academy. That was something. The look of pride on his face would never leave Bryn.

That was not the main cause of his unsettled feeling, however. The missing clock bothered him. His mother had very obviously been lying when she said it was being repaired. They must have been very hard pressed if they had been forced to sell it. Clocks were expensive, and good ones were difficult to come by. He would replace it though, with something even better.

The fact that there was little food in the house also concerned him. His mother always kept the pantry well stocked; too well stocked if anything. Now that only the two of them were there, it was understandable that there would be less. Bryn himself had eaten nearly as much as all three of the women of his family when he had lived there, so his absence was one possible explanation. He could not explain it all away so easily though, and the feeling in his gut would not go away. He wasn’t in a position to help yet, but that would change. He would make sure of that.

A
mero had thought long
and hard about what he could do to survive the next few months of duelling against skilled, experienced opponents. He was already training at the limit of what his body could endure, so increasing his workload was not an option. In any event, quantity did not mean quality and extra hours were of no use if his body was too fatigued to train effectively. It occurred to him that he should drop out of the arena for a few months, but that would be counter-productive; in order to improve, he needed the fitness and sharpness that only came with fighting regular competitive duels.

An idea had lurked in the back of his head for several days. It had not been one that he was willing to give attention to initially, but as he circled his problem over and over and continually failed to find an answer, the idea solidified and became more tempting.

There were people in Ostenheim who could help with problems; unwanted pregnancies, injuries and illnesses. Practitioners of magic still lived in the city. It was illegal, and they were few, but they could be found when needed. None were as powerful as the mages of old; the city’s Intelligenciers saw to that. Amero had heard gossip of duellists seeking out magical aid when he was at the Academy. They were always scurrilous rumours, never naming names or saying what benefit they sought or whether they received any.

He did not like the idea of letting one of these backstreet magic practitioners anywhere near him, but he wondered what they could offer. There was risk involved, and not just the potential of some feckless sorcerer blowing him up or turning him into a goat, ridiculous as the notion seemed. If it were to be found out that he had received some sort of magical assistance, the disgrace would be far greater than any he could earn in defeat on the arena floor. It could also land him in the city dungeons, son of an elector count or not. He could imagine many risks and consequences, but no benefits. Anything he considered seemed like foolish speculation. He thought of his father, of how smug he would be to see Amero made a fool of, then of having to scurry off to Breganzo’s Regiment of Medium Horse.

The decision to make enquiries caused him anxiety, but the temptation to know what he might gain was too strong to suppress. He would be careful and discreet—and might not go through with anything. He just wanted to know. The best solution to a problem was always found when all options were considered.

T
hey trained
as usual the next day, although Amero was quiet and edgy throughout the entire session. He didn’t grumble, but there were none of his usual wisecracks or tongue in cheek moans when Bautisto subjected them to something particularly difficult. He seemed tense; his swordplay was tight and lacking in the usual fluid grace that characterised his style.

Bryn had been friends with Amero long enough to know better than to try and talk his spirits up, and that it was not the time to broach the matter of him moving out. He had never seen Amero like this before and his moods were becoming harder to predict. When Bryn was in a bad humour, he was best left alone to come out of it in his own time.

When Bautisto was satisfied that he had tortured them enough for one day, he let them go. As they were packing up their training swords Amero spoke for the first time that day.

‘Lunch?’

‘Absolutely,’ Bryn said. It would be the ideal opportunity to tell Amero he was moving out, but he was relieved by the fact that the invitation suggested Amero’s mood might be improving.

‘I really don’t fancy having to deal with that prima donna cook today. Let’s just find a tavern and get something simple.’

Amero’s cook was wasted in a private apartment and was quite extravagant. Asking him for a simple sandwich would result in something that although technically a sandwich, would be far more elaborate. The only reason he put up with the indignity of such an anonymous position was that he knew if he stuck with Amero, even in the obscurity of an Oldtown apartment, he would one day head the kitchen of perhaps the finest house in Ostenheim and would cater for dukes and princes. Even if tending toward the overly dramatic, Bryn had to credit that he was certainly patient. All he had to do was stay on Amero’s good side, something that wasn’t the easiest thing to do those days.

Bryn was disappointed at not getting one last meal from the cook; he would be living on his own culinary disasters soon enough, or more likely whatever slop the nearest tavern served up. Nonetheless, for the sake of a peaceful life he didn’t argue.

They walked in silence to the tavern, a short distance from the salon along Harbour Road in the direction of Crossways. When they got there, they ordered and sat in silence until the food arrived. It was a little awkward, but being as tired as he was, Bryn didn’t mind.

‘I envy you, you know,’ Amero said, finally breaking the silence.

No money, no estates, an uncertain future; there was much to be envious of, Bryn thought. ‘How do you mean?’

‘The only expectations weighing on you are the ones you’ve put there yourself. That must be nice, following your own goals and setting your own standards.’

It gave Bryn a strong hint as to what was causing Amero’s moods, but there must have been more going on behind the scenes. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He would have given both arms to swap places with Amero, no matter what pressure of expectation was on him.

‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Bryn said. His thoughts returned to the clock, and the bare patch on his mother’s wall.

Amero didn’t seem to be listening to him. ‘I’ve always been aware of what’s expected of me, but it only struck me how bad it is the other day in the Arena. All those stuffy fuckers sitting in the audience passing judgement on me; what a scandal it is for the son of the Count of Moreno to be in the arena. I could feel their eyes burrowing into me the whole time I was out there. And I could tell most of them wanted me to fail. What a wheeze it would be for the grandson of a duke to be made to look a fool in the arena. I nearly did, because that was all I could think about for most of the duel.