The innkeeper gave him a suspicious look, then nodded. “A florin a night, and you’ll have the room to yourself. For tonight, at least. Breakfast too. You’ll have that to yourself for as long as you’re here.”
He chuckled and Val did his best to laugh with him, as he felt men of the world did. He had the uncomfortable feeling he wasn’t fooling anyone, however. The hair on his chin and upper lip was darkening in a satisfying way, but it was still too light and sparse to be proud of.
“I’ll take it,” Val said. “Could do with some food now, too.”
“Three pennies for stew. Five for beef.”
“The stew will be fine.”
“Since those lads is having a private conversation,” the innkeeper said, pointing to the large group of men, “best you sit up here at the bar.”
Val glanced at the men and realised several of them were staring at him. He didn’t allow his gaze to dwell long, but saw nothing untoward about the men. One or two had the hardened look of fellows who made their livings with violence, but the rest looked perfectly respectable. Whatever they might be up to, Val had no reason to stick his nose in, so turned his back and waited for his stew. He had plenty to occupy his thoughts.
His route into the Academy had been blocked by the death of its master, but that didn’t necessarily change anything. He still had Guillot’s recommendation, and every lad who knew anything about the Academy knew being nominated by a Banneret of the White was the surest way in. All he was lacking was someone who could train him up to the standard of the place.
As Val ate, his spirits rose. There was a chance his dream of attending the Academy was not dead just yet. How to keep moving toward it was another question entirely. He would need a skilled banneret to train him and Gill had said it would take him a year at least to be ready to take the entrance exam. Maestro dal Volenne was supposed to have been the answer to that, but there were sure to be other swordmasters in the city looking for pupils.
He wondered how much lessons would cost, and how much money he would need to survive on. That was all he needed to do—survive long enough to reach the skill level he needed. Once he was in the Academy, everything would be taken care of; he simply had to get there.
Val knew how much money was in his purse, down to the last penny, and at the rate of a florin a day for bed and breakfast, he would be broke by the end of the month. He could get a job—he had never been shy of hard work—but going back to mucking out stables seemed like a step in the wrong direction. As he munched his way through three pennies that he would probably have been better off saving, he tried to make a plan.
The first thing he would do was sell his horse. It was true that she had faced down dragons with him, and that had created a bond between them. He didn’t like the idea of selling her, but stabling a horse was expensive and he needed every penny he had to support himself. Not to mention that whatever he got for her would lengthen his stay in Mirabay.
He also had to find a cheaper place to live. Then, he needed to find a fencing master who would take him on as a pupil, at a modest fee. After that, he would likely need to find a job. When he laid out each step, it didn’t seem like so great a task. However, the city was large and he was a stranger. Nothing would come easily to him, but then again, nothing ever had.
That morning, after breakfast, he’d taken his horse to a livery near the south gate. The few pennies he got for her would help stave off penury for a few more days. It was a sad parting but a necessary one. That done, salon hunting was next on his to-do list.
It wasn’t too difficult for Val to find the addresses of a few fencing salons in the city. Most wealthy men, and some women, practised fencing to varying degrees, so there were plenty of salons to choose from. What would be difficult was finding one who would take him on. He hoped the fact that he had a recommendation from a Banneret of the White would help, but despite the countless hours he had spent shadow-fencing in the Black Drake’s stable yard and studying the fencers competing in Trelain’s small arena, he had no formal training.
With luck, Gill’s letter would convince someone to take Val on. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to offer more than their usual rates—in fact, he was hoping he might be able to get a discount if he helped clean up the salon in the evenings. Difficult or not, he hadn’t come this far to turn away now.
He made his first attempt on a street that housed four salons. Picking one at random, he let himself in and was greeted by the sounds of activity—the clatter of blades, shouts, and the stamping of boots. Above it all rose a single voice, and it didn’t take long to separate the man to whom it belonged from the sparring couples around him. He prowled up and down the salon with a rapier in his hand, using it to correct the positions of his students.
Val watched in silence, wondering how to approach the maestro. His quandary was taken care of when the man’s intense stare fell on Val.
“Who are you?”
“I, uh…”
The sparring fencers stopped to see who the maestro was speaking to.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” the maestro barked. The stamping and clattering resumed. “Now, who are you?”
“My name’s Val. I’m looking for instruction.”
The maestro approached and looked Val over, including the crude short sword he wore at his waist. Val cringed, wishing he hadn’t worn it. Having had it at his side every day since Gill had instructed him to have it made, he felt naked without it, particularly in a big and dangerous city. He’d strapped it on as usual that morning, without giving it a second thought.
“Who have you trained with?”
“Guillot dal Villerauvais,” Val said. “I was his squire for a short time. He gave me his recommendation for the Acad—”
“I know of him,” the maestro said. “If he trained you, why do you carry that?” He pointed to the short sword.
“It’s all I have.”
“Guillot dal Villerauvais was a master of masters until he threw it all away. It’s sad to see he’s lowered himself to instructing youths in how to fight with…” He gestured with his free hand as he searched for the word. “… farm implements. I do not, and can’t assist you. Good day.”
He returned to prowling amongst his students, leaving Val red-faced. There was nothing to be gained by responding to the insult, nor by remaining there, so he left, angry and ashamed. Was this the treatment he could expect everywhere? He had been so proud of his short sword, but now it felt like a badge of shame. He stared at the signs for the other fencing salons and asked himself if he wanted to go through that experience all over again.
Val received much the same response at the next two salons he tried. One was a little more polite, but the meaning was the same. He wandered through the warren of alleys behind the cathedral until he felt his resolve build enough for another try. Spotting another sign with the familiar crossed swords on it, he took a deep breath and reminded himself of how Gill took every blow, then picked himself up, and got on with his business.
This premises was in a smaller building on a narrower, quieter street than the others. The inside proved to be as quiet as the exterior, with none of the frantic activity that Val had encountered at the other salons. Not seeing anyone, he turned to leave—and walked right into someone. Val looked into the taller man’s face and excused himself. They each stepped to the side to allow the other to pass.
“Wait,” the man said as Val headed out the door, “I know you.”
Val looked back and frowned. “I don’t think so.”