The First Blade of Ostia (19 page)

B
ryn came
to in the recovery room where Bautisto had bandaged him up before the duel. It took him a moment to recognise where he was, and a moment longer to remember what had come before. His heart sank. Bautisto was sitting on a stool next to the wall; otherwise the room was empty. Bryn tried to sit up but was quickly persuaded not to by the pain in his side. He noticed that someone had removed his doublet and the bandages were fresh.

Bautisto reacted to his movement and stood up. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not really sure. How long have I been here?’

‘A little while now. The surgeon stitched your wound. It was far larger than before, but he thinks it will heal well.’

‘That’s something,’ Bryn said.

‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘Some,’ Bryn said. ‘I remember the reset for the last point, dropping back, then… nothing.’

‘You stumbled onto Amero’s blade. He couldn’t believe his luck. You’re fortunate to be alive. The mob wanted him to finish you. When he declined I was worried they might charge down onto the arena floor to do it themselves. If he hadn’t been so surprised by the way he won it, he might have given it further consideration.’

Bryn sighed. ‘I suppose we should get moving.’

‘It would be better to rest a little longer. You could use it, and I want to wait until all of the crowd have left.’

‘They were that bad?’

Bautisto nodded. ‘Yes, but they will forget before long.’

Bryn felt like he had woken up from a nightmare, only to discover it wasn’t a nightmare. ‘I’m done with this.’

Bautisto nodded. ‘I thought you might say that, but perhaps you should take a few days to consider it. It will be difficult to get duels for a while, but when the vitriol fades the notoriety will stand in your favour.’

‘No, I don’t need any more time to think about it. I had my mind made up before today. This whole experience has killed it for me. I don’t want fame or fortune; after all of this I’ll just be glad to be unknown again.’

‘And for money?’

‘Duelling hasn’t exactly been the best source of that. I need regular income. Part of this whole mess,’ he gestured to the bandages, ‘is because my family had to take out loans to put me through the Academy. It’s a foolish way to make a living. There are far better ones.’

‘Yes. Baking, brewing, carpentry. They would be a waste of your skills though.’

‘The Master at the Academy said he could arrange a commission for me. I think it’s time I took him up on his offer.

B
ryn’s sister
took charge of his care while he was recovering. Both she and his mother had witnessed his debacle in the Amphitheatre, the only time either of them had seen him duel as a professional swordsman. He found it difficult to quell his anger at the whole experience as he lay on his sickbed. It made him wonder what he could have done to so anger the gods to ignore all of his hard work and hopes and bestow their rewards on Amero. Perhaps they had simply abandoned him.

Gilia diligently called each day to make sure that the wound and bandages were clean and that he had decent food to eat; even fully fit, his own culinary offerings were less than attractive so he appreciated this above all. However, having her selflessly tend to him like that made him feel worse about things. The only consolation behind his experience in the Amphitheatre was the purse. When duelling there, a swordsman got paid whether he won or not. If the debt collectors came calling again, there would be enough to get rid of them; unfortunately there wasn’t enough to pay them off once and for all.

Someone knocked at his door and he moved to answer it. Gilia held out her hand before standing and walking to the door and opening it.

She was blocking the door and Bryn couldn’t see who was there. He tried to catch a glimpse without straining too much. If he opened his wound, he knew he would incur Gilia’s wrath, and the expense of another doctor’s visit.

‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ Gilia said.

Bryn felt a flush of panic at the thought it might be Amero, there to gloat. He couldn’t make out what the other person was saying, but it was a woman’s voice. That could only mean one person.

‘It’s all right, Gilia,’ Bryn said. ‘Let her in.’

Joranna walked into the room, followed by Gilia’s disapproving gaze.

‘You’ve looked better,’ Joranna said, smiling.

‘Felt better too,’ Bryn said, wondering what she was there for.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I will be,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you’ll be in greater demand now that you’re the most infamous swordsman in Ostenheim.’

‘You always see the positives, don’t you?’ Bryn said.

‘When you’re broke and you’ve a position to maintain, you have to,’ she said, smiling wryly.

Bryn gestured around at his sparsely furnished apartment. He noticed his sister had tactfully stepped outside and closed the door behind her. ‘I’m not planning on going back to the arena.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll scrounge up a commission with a regiment most likely, if I can’t find anything better.’

‘From penniless duellist to penniless officer. At least you’ll have a nice uniform…’

‘Always with the positives,’ Bryn said.

‘Like I said.’ She smiled, then hesitated for a moment. ‘I should go.’

Bryn knew it was foolish after all that had happened, but for some reason he felt as though there was something worth salvaging.

‘I take it that an officer isn’t enough either,’ he said, rhetorically.

She smiled and shook her head. ‘If I had a choice, it would be.’ She left, giving Gilia a polite nod.

W
hen Bryn’s
sister finally agreed that he was well enough to go out of the apartment without opening his wound again, he headed straight to see Major dal Damaso at the Academy.

The combination of the wound and several days of inactivity meant that the walk up the hill felt harder than it should have. He was sweating and out of breath by the time he got to the Academy’s entrance gates. It was a harsh reminder of the past few weeks, but it was a relief to know they were now behind him. He hadn’t heard a single mention of his name on the way there, the first time he could say that of a trip through the city in quite a while.

The adjutant sitting outside dal Damaso’s office immediately recognised Bryn; he had passed by often enough over the years and was still a recent enough graduate to be fresh in his memory. He went into the office to check with the Major before bringing Bryn in.

‘I’ve seen you better,’ dal Damaso said.

‘I’ve been better.’ Bryn had to stop himself from adding sir, as had been his habit for all his years at the Academy, remembering the last conversation that they had.

‘Nasty business with the Moreno lad. Never liked him, but could never put my finger on why. I don’t imagine much of what’s been touted around the city over the past couple of weeks is true, is it?’

‘No. I could go into it all but it’s not a particularly enjoyable story. Suffice to say it’s all rubbish.’

‘Bad business all the same. Not a good choice of someone to cross, although I never imagined he’d make much of a friend either unless you had something he wanted.’

It was only now, after his falling out with Amero, that people were revealing what they truly thought of him. It seemed that he was someone that everyone knew, but nobody actually liked. Bryn was disappointed that he had been such a bad judge of character for so long.

‘Anyway,’ the Major said, ‘I’m sure this isn’t a social call. What can I do for you?’

‘When we last spoke, you mentioned that you’d be able to arrange an infantry commission for me. I’m not going anywhere near the arena again after last week, so I need to find something else.’

The Major shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I don’t doubt anything you’ve said to me, Bryn, not for a moment. I’ve known you since you weren’t much more than a lad and that’s long enough to know the things being said about you aren’t true. Sadly what I think doesn’t count for very much.’

This wasn’t going how Bryn had expected it to. He could see what was coming.

‘The long and short of it is,’ the Major said, ‘the regiment won’t have you. It’ll just embarrass us both to ask now. Your name has been dragged through the mud and true or not, it’s all too fresh for them to take you on as an officer. I’m sure that will change with a bit of time. If you were to come back in a few months, once it’s all blown over, I don’t foresee a difficulty.’

Bryn pursed his lips and nodded. There was nothing to say, and profound disappointment didn’t come close to how he felt. There was a time when a military career would have been disappointing to him. Now that option wasn’t even available. Amero had turned him into a pariah.

‘It’s one of the reasons I counselled against the arena in the first place,’ the Major said. His face softened when he saw Bryn’s reaction. ‘Look, memories are short in this city. There’s always a new hero to love, a new villain to hate. Come back to me in a few months’ time, I’m sure I’ll be able to place you after that.’

W
aiting
a few months for his infamy to fade would have been all well and good if Bryn had enough money. He didn’t, and the bills facing his family would not wait. He could cover them for a few weeks, but no more. After leaving Major dal Damaso’s office he wandered back down the hill into the city, not heading anywhere in particular. It was probably habit that brought him to Bautisto’s salon in Docks. Seeing that Bautisto was there, he decided to go in.

He had only been away a week, and although Bautisto had called on him to see how his recovery was progressing, it felt far longer. A gulf had opened between him and the life he had led only a handful of days earlier. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the sound of clashing blades. Bautisto had already found his replacement.

He shut the door and waited by it for the swordsmen to finish. The salon was no different than before—still grotty, in need of painting and looking as though it might fall down in the not too distant future—but he felt like a stranger there.

Bautisto stopped and saluted his sparring partner, who looked to be about eighteen, the right age to be preparing for entry to the Academy.

‘Thank you, Brevio, that will be all for today.’

The lad quickly gathered his belongings and made his way out, nodding to Bryn as he passed.

‘Good to see you on your feet again,’ Bautisto said.

‘Good to be up and about. I was getting bored lying around at home all day. I see you’ve found some new students.’

‘Yes, four in total. All preparing to sit their entrance tests for the Academy so they won’t be here for long, but I’m happy to have the work nonetheless. A couple of duellists have expressed an interest too, but nothing certain yet.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, you deserve the business.’

‘Yes.’ Bautisto shrugged. ‘The only reason they’re here is because I used to train Amero. Still, I’ll take their money.’

‘Might as well,’ Bryn said. ‘A bit of coin never hurts.’

‘How is your search for new employment going?’

‘Badly. Apparently my name is too tarnished for a commission right now. The Major said I should wait a few months and he’d be able to find me something, but I need to make money now.’

‘I’d offer you work here, but you know how it is. Four students is still not enough to pay to have the place painted, and they’ll be gone by the end of the month.’

‘That’s all right,’ Bryn said. ‘I was just wandering around and ended up here without really thinking about it.’

‘I can’t offer you much advice on how to live your life. I wouldn’t be living in this city if I’d made all the correct decisions. The only one I can advise you against making with any confidence is the Black Carpet. Stay away from it. There are always better ways to make money.’

In truth, Bryn hadn’t even thought of the illegal duelling clubs, named after the patch of black painted on the ground where the matches were held. There was decent money to be made and regular matches, though not as good as in the arena and only then if you weren’t killed first, which happened as often as not. With his new found infamy, he’d probably be able to command a higher than average price, but contemplating it made him feel nauseous.

‘No, I hadn’t even considered it. I’ve farther to fall before I end up there.’

R
ejection followed
rejection as Bryn searched Ostenheim for a job. He looked at tutoring and body guarding, the two main city occupations for bannerets. Despite the damage done to his name, it was his firm desire to stay in the city. He wanted to be close to his family, both to protect them from another episode like the bailiffs, and so that he could ensure they were properly provided for. He couldn’t do that if he was traipsing around the countryside as a mercenary, never knowing when he’d be able to send money home.

The Bannerets’ Hall kept a list of vacant positions in the city for the benefit of its members, but Bryn had exhausted the list of suitable jobs quickly. Everyone knew his name and didn’t want anything to do with him. Becoming a mercenary and leaving the city looked like the only option when, on his last visit to see if anything new was available, he spotted something. It would never have been his first choice, but he was long beyond that point.

The headsman dealt with the ordinary citizens of Ostenheim who were convicted of crimes that warranted the death penalty, which were surprisingly numerous. A member of the gentle classes, a banneret or an aristocrat—the higher echelons of the merchant class, the burgesses, were considered commoners—would only meet with the headsman’s axe if found guilty of treason, again something that came in numerous forms and was far more regularly committed as a result than one might think. Otherwise, the gentle classes had the right to choose trial by combat.

In order to facilitate this right, the city magistrates had to maintain a panel of swordsmen to represent the Duke in these matters. It was not a sought-after job. The judicial duels were always fought to the death. If the accused killed the city’s appointed swordsman they were free to go. It was rare; hardly any were skilled enough for the duel to give them a better chance of survival than the headsman’s block.

Few swordsmen saw the job as being anything other than an executioner with a fancier title. It was well paid however, and was certainly better than the Black Carpet, Bryn’s only other alternative if he wanted to remain in the city.

With no particular enthusiasm, Bryn called to the Palace of Justice located beside the Barons’ Hall on Crossways. He announced himself as a banneret and was led through to see the magistrate in charge of the judicial swordsmen, who resided in a small office tucked away in the back of the building.

‘I’m told you’re a banneret,’ the magistrate said, when the clerk led Bryn in.

‘Yes, Banneret of the Blue,’ he said, sitting in the chair the magistrate gestured to.

‘Fantastic.’ The magistrate had a ruddy, fleshy face, but intelligent eyes behind a pair of wire framed spectacles. The rim of white hair around his otherwise bald head was messed by the black felt magistrate’s hat that now resided on a wooden stand on his desk.

‘What’s your name, Banneret?’

‘Bryn Pendollo.’

The magistrate’s face fell, the change from animated to taciturn very pronounced. Bryn wondered if he was as good guarding his thoughts when hearing trials.

‘Is that a problem?’ Bryn asked.

‘No, no. Not at all. Just recognise the name is all. None of that’s important here. We haven’t had a Banneret of the Blue apply for a position in all my time as a magistrate. You know what the job entails?’

‘Representing the Duke and the city when someone accused of a capital offence chooses trial by combat.’ He would have said something glib were it not for how much he needed the job.

‘That’s exactly it,’ the magistrate said. ‘You understand that you will be expected to kill without compunction. I know bannerets have moral considerations, honour and what not, when it comes to killing.’

‘I realise that,’ Bryn said.

‘The best way to think of it is upholding the city’s honour. The Duke’s. You are comfortable with fighting to the death? You must remember that you might also be killed. It’s rare, but it has happened.’

‘I can reconcile myself to what needs to be done, and the risk it involves.’

‘Excellent. Sign this warrant and you will be the newest of the Duke’s Judicial Swordsmen. Before you do though, there is one other thing. If you fail in your duty to the Duke, and refuse to carry out your charge while in the court, you will be guilty of an offence against the state. Treason.’ He slid a piece of parchment covered with ornate script across the table to Bryn, and handed him a pen.

Bryn thought for a moment, and signed. He didn’t bother asking what the pay was.

‘Excellent,’ the magistrate said. He took the parchment back and blotted Bryn’s signature before adding his own and repeating the process.

‘The aristocracy aren’t quite as riddled with criminals as one might expect, or they don’t get caught that often, so your services will only be required once a month or so. The payment is fifty crowns per trial.’

It was a good living for very little work, distasteful though it was.

‘It just so happens that there’s a trial next week in which the Duke needs representation. Are you comfortable starting so soon?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Bryn said.

‘You’ll need to be properly equipped. Plain, black duelling clothes. An undecorated sword, and dagger if you choose to fence with one. They’ll all be provided if you speak with the commissary on your way out. A level of… solemnity needs to be maintained, if you follow.’

‘Of course,’ Bryn said.