Smiling Tovey pointed at Tor, gesturing with his whole hand really, the polite way of addressing an equal, or even a near equal, so really nice of the guy all things considered, and told him that they'd actually come to see that he got his daily exercise, which was to be weapons practice in the salle with Countess Printer and several others. Whatever a salle was. Nodding Tor went to find his socks and shoes. Ger shifted uneasily.
Right, what to do with him?
“Ger is it? What's your full name, if that's not it I mean…” Tor didn't want the kid to be uneasy if that was all the name he had. Not everyone used last names even in the Capital. Ger was a fine name. Certainly as good as Tor. Better probably, since more people had it, or something similar.
“Gerald Negev Cannor, Master Tor sir.” The boy sounded humble and could be barely heard suddenly.
“Tor. Not Master Tor. Especially if we're going to be working together. Were too close in age for anything like that. Do you have exercise clothes around? I guess for the time being you should just go to my practices with me, unless you have some of your own to go to? I don't know… what kind of training have you had?”
As a palace serving boy, grandson of Laura the head cook that had died in the attack at the Queen’s birthday it turned out, and otherwise an orphan, he knew how to read and write and do sums, as well as cook and bake a little as well as palace protocol. No one had ever taught the boy to fight, even though he clearly had the reflexes for it. An oversight for sure. So really, about where Tor had been at the same age. Only bigger, stronger, and made of sterner stuff all around. Nodding he suggested that Ger go and do all the exercises with them that day, until proper training could be set up. Tovey agreed with him at least, though Rolph wrinkled his nose.
“Even the little kids can do more than I can right now, it's embarrassing.” It was clear that the Prince was kidding, at least mainly, but Ger ducked his head again, as if ashamed that his abilities might outstrip the wounded royal.
It took half an hour for everyone to show up in the salle, which turned out just to be a large open room with vaulted ceilings, sanded wooden floors that were well worn instead of polished, and high windows to let in natural light. Tor wondered if they'd been constructed that high on purpose so that when his practice weapons flew out of his hand they wouldn't shatter as easily, being hard to hit way up there. It made sense, though how the builders had anticipated his coming Tor didn't know.
To his surprise half the people in the room were the royal family. All of them. Even the King had turned out, wearing a set of worn black canvas exercise clothes. Next to him the Queen wore a white outfit of similar material. They both looked good, Tor realized, fit. Already working with Holly was Karina, the middle child and second in line to the throne, both with shining saber and dagger combinations, fighting as if their lives depended on it.
The sword work was nearly as good as Tor had ever seen.
Countess Printer was what he'd always referred to as a “combat giant” back in school. Mainly royal kids that were trained particularly for war. Strong fighters that were groomed for handling their families’ petty squabbles, or on very rare occasions, attacks from other lands on Noram. Holly had been more muscular in school, but then she'd recently been poisoned nearly to death, which he knew from personal experience could cause muscles to waste away and weight to be lost fast. That she came at the exercise with such skill and ferocity only made sense. Indeed, now that he thought about it, he could recall the woman having beaten him around the exercise yard at school a few times before she graduated. It had been a popular sport at school, his small size and tendency to scurry away rapidly being considered a bit of a challenge.
What surprised him was that Karina, who he'd always thought of as a little vain and shallow, a little too concerned with what other people thought of her and a little prissy, was giving at least as good as she was getting, even though Holly was nearly six inches taller than she was. It was impressive to say the least. If Tor had been faced with the woman, he would have run away himself. Either woman, he realized.
“Ger, watch them. Try to pick up what you can until I call you over for exercises all right?” He pointed at the two women broadly, the motion catching the Queen’s attention, though she didn't move, going back to watching the action herself.
That made sense, because when they ended a few minutes later she moved out to work against Holly and Karina herself, taking on both of them at once. If either of the younger women was holding back, it wasn't readily apparent at all. In fact, if anything it looked like they were both trying even harder, hacking and slashing from both sides, their four blades moving to attack and being pushed aside over and again. Eventually the Queen lost, but it took nearly ten minutes and was close. As she “killed” her daughter, Holly moved in and got her in the back, tapping her lightly.
When that was done Tor loosened up, swinging around in the familiar exercises, Ger joining him, trying to copy what he did watching with careful side long glances. The King started working with Tovey as they limbered and stretched. It was a lot more even a match-up than he'd have thought, the King being huge, over eight foot tall, nearly a foot larger than Tovey, but the Count having just a little more actual skill with a blade. The shining silver swords shone and gleamed as they danced, singing out a familiar tune. If the women had been impressive, this display was a little awe inspiring. Intellectually Tor knew he'd seen better fighting. Kolb fairly regularly handed Tovey his behind pretty easily for instance. Then again, Sir Martin Kolbrin, Kolb to his friends and students, had been the weapons instructor at the Lairdgren School for a reason. But in this moment, these giants, feet tapping a staccato rhythm on the gray stone of the floor, looked almost untouchable.
When they finished Rolph pointed at the King and Tovey, both a little out of breath. The King raised his eyebrows.
“Do you think this much activity would be wise just yet? Your wounds…”
“No, not me, that would be silly, I'd end up bleeding all over the floor and it looks freshly cleaned. The boy that washes them would be most put out, and rightly so, probably come and take his own turn thrashing me too. No, you two against my champion. Tor, if you'd be so good as to dispatch these ruffians?” Everyone laughed, including Tor, but he went out onto the floor clutching his borrowed practice blades gamely enough. They were short compared to what everyone else had of course, and he wondered for a second if he'd picked up Varley's old set, since the youngest royal had only started to shoot up in the last six months, having been closer to his own height before that.
Since they were playing the part of ruffians, the King and the Count didn't bother saluting or letting him actually get out onto the floor. Torrance had to suppress the urge to simply run away, that being what he'd really been trained to do at school and dove for the floor instead, rolling with blades held out carefully, directly towards the King. With his right hand blade, the longer saber, only about two and a half feet, he “sliced” the counts leg off at just below the knee and then stabbed him several times in the stomach as fast as he could, then came to his feet running fast before the King could use the giant blade in his hand.