Nearly every one of the abominably numerous courtroom romances, churned out in such profusion by the hack professional poets and any number of talentless amateurs, had as the heroine the lovely swordmaiden, slender as a wand but quick and deadly, capable of skewering the mighty advocate or cutting a bloody path through any number of bandits, pirates or barbarian warriors. Once upon a time, Loredan had bothered to explain to lay acquaintances exactly why this poetic fancy was impossible; that without weight and reach and a strong enough wrist to turn the other man’s blade, all the speed and athleticism in the world wouldn’t save you from an early death. He’d told them how quickly the arms and knees tire, how a full-blooded slash from a fifteen-stone man would knock a sweet young thing off her feet even if her parry was textbook perfect; how, in short, the courtroom floor was no place for a woman, or any decent human being, come to that. He still believed it; nevertheless, the girl had talent.
Of course, she was no willow wand. She carried no superfluous weight, but she was strong and sure on her feet – clearly used to working, though not farm work, to judge by her hands. The only child of a craftsman, Loredan guessed; a daughter who did a son’s work because it had to be done and there was no one else to do it. (In which case, what the hell was she doing here?)
Mostly, though, she was determined. It wasn’t the boyish eagerness of the tall, thin twins; no sense of a childhood ambition being realised, no fun. It was almost as if this was something she had to do successfully, whether she liked it or not, as if her life depended on it. Thinking about her, Loredan shook his head and took a long pull at his cider. The ticklish feeling she gave him was more than his dislike of female fencers. It was-
– Personal.
He yawned, suddenly aware of how tired he was. Next day he’d have to teach these tiresome children the grip, more elementary footwork and the basic elements of the defence. The next day he’d have to drill them in the lunge and go back over everything they’d done so far and make them learn it all over again. That was assuming his voice held up and he didn’t get accidentally spitted or lose his temper and murder one of them. If he was really lucky, he’d educate this lot, get rid of them and start all over from scratch with another bunch of inadequates.
Really fallen on my feet this time.
Yes. Well, at least nobody was deliberately trying to kill him.
He really wanted another jug of cider. Instead he stood, gathered up his various props and kitbags and trudged home, across the city and up the stairs. There was someone waiting in the doorway.
He saw whoever it was before he/she saw him, and flattened himself against the wall just outside the meagre circle of light thrown by the sconce. Once he’d calmed himself down, it occurred to him that if the muffled and cloaked figure was an assassin he was a pretty incompetent one; besides, who could possibly be bothered to have him killed? A robber wouldn’t waste good darkness lurking outside a door in a fairly poor area on the off chance that the householder might come home and be worth robbing; in the unlikely event of there being anything worth stealing, he’d have pushed open the unlocked door, helped himself and gone away.
Nevertheless. Carefully and by feel, Loredan teased out the knot at the top of his sword case and let the canvas slip fall away. Then, as quietly as he could manage after climbing all those stairs, he edged up the last few steps and grabbed the torch.
‘Athli!’ he groaned. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me.’
‘Sorry,’ Athli said. Damn! It hadn’t even occurred to her. ‘I was just passing, and…’
‘Really?’ He knew that wasn’t true. ‘Well, you’d better come in. The door’s not locked.’
She was looking at the sword in his hand. He felt foolish. ‘You startled me,’ he said, replacing the torch in the sconce. ‘Been here long?’
‘No,’ she said.
He closed the door after them and fiddled with his tinderbox to get the lamp lit. The tinder was damp; like everything in this rat-trap.
‘Why do you live in a place like this?’ she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘You make good money.’
‘Used to,’ he replied, lifting the wine jug and finding it empty, as usual. ‘I’ve retired, remember. Now I’m nothing but a humble trainer, with precisely six pupils.’
‘At a silver quarter a day each, makes six quarters,’ she replied. ‘Most of the people in this place are lucky if they see that much in a month. What is it with you? You can’t have drunk it all – you’d be dead.’
Loredan grinned. He wouldn’t say anything about the gold five in his pocket; for which, incidentally, he’d had change. ‘My business,’ he replied. ‘Maybe I like it here. I mean, it’s such a picturesque district that people go out of their way just to stand in doorways.’
‘I-’ She was looking at the toes of her boots. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on, that’s all. Six pupils; is that good or bad?’
‘Pretty fair average, actually,’ he replied. ‘And, as you say, if I can keep it up it’s a fair living. Hard work, though.’
‘Are you any good at it?’
He shrugged. ‘Give me a chance,’ he said, ‘it’s my first day.’ He kicked off his boots and flexed his cramped toes. ‘I’ve been afflicted with five idiots and a Valkyrie, and I’ve taught them how to shuffle in a straight line without falling over. I reckon they had their money’s worth.’ He leant back in the chair and closed his eyes. ‘So what are you really doing here?’
Good question, at that. Of course, there was one reason why a young girl should fabricate an excuse to come and visit a man she hadn’t seen in three whole days – Athli was a young girl, after all, although it was something he’d not allowed himself to notice more than a handful of times in the three years they’d known each other. In fact, it was the only reason he could think of. Which could be – embarrassing.
‘You don’t think, do you?’ she replied petulantly. ‘Bardas, how many fencers do you think I clerk for? Have you ever stopped to wonder?’
He frowned. ‘You’re right, I haven’t. You’re good at it, no reason why you shouldn’t have a pretty good practice.’
‘One,’ she replied. ‘Until just recently. And then the selfish pig went and retired on me, leaving me out of a job.’
‘Oh.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Well, of course, I should have said something. I should have said, Oh, no, you can’t retire, I need you to carry on risking your life at regular intervals so I can keep getting my ten per cent. Don’t be so…’
‘All right, point taken. In which case, if you’ll forgive me being ruthlessly logical, why mention it now?’
She gave him a nasty look. ‘Because I need to earn a living,’ she said. The nasty look evaporated, and was replaced by embarrassment. ‘So I was wondering. Trainers have clerks, don’t they? Have you got one yet?’
He shook his head. ‘Figured I could do that myself. But why would you want to give up the job you know just because I’ve retired? You’ve got regular clients who produce good work. There’s plenty of fencers who’d give anything for a client base like that.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, looking at him steadily now. ‘Including their lives. Use your imagination, Bardas. Why d’you think I only clerked for you?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
‘Because you never looked like getting yourself killed,’ she said quietly. ‘Bardas, I don’t want to send young men to their deaths. I don’t think that’d be a very nice way to live. I only stuck it out with you because…’
‘Because?’
‘Because I trusted you,’ she replied sharply. ‘Oh, I knew that the odds were that one day you’d – lose. But not needlessly. Not…’