“He is lazy, Sand, and stubborn. He lacks courage. He lacks dedication. His heart is just not in it, and time is running out. I was wondering, if you have the time of course,” Varuz looked Glokta in the eye for just an instant, “whether you might be able to speak to him for me.”
I can hardly wait! Lecturing that whining ass would be the realisation of all my dreams. You arrogant old dolt, how dare you? You built your reputation on my successes, then when I needed your help you cut me off. And now you come to me, and seek my help, and call me friend?
“Of course, Marshal Varuz, I would be glad to speak to him. Anything for an old friend.”
“Excellent, excellent! I’m sure you’ll make all the difference! I train him every morning, in that courtyard near the House of the Maker, where I used to train you…” The old Marshal trailed off awkwardly.
“I will come as soon as my duties permit.”
“Of course, your duties…” Varuz was already getting up, evidently keen to be on his way. Glokta held out his hand, making the old soldier pause for a moment. You needn’t worry, Lord Marshal, I am not contagious. Varuz gave it a limp shake, as though worried it might snap off, then he mumbled his excuses and strode away, head held high. The dripping soldiers bowed and saluted as he walked past, somewhat embarrassed.
Glokta stretched out his leg, wondering whether to get up. And go where? The world will not end if I sit here a moment longer. There is no rush. No rush.
An Offer and a Gift
“And, forward!” bellowed Marshal Varuz. Jezal lurched at him, toes curling round the edges of the beam, trying desperately to keep his balance, making a clumsy lunge or two just to give the impression of his heart being in it. Four hours of training a day were taking their toll on him, and he felt beyond mere exhaustion.
Varuz frowned and flicked Jezal’s blunted steel aside, moving effortlessly along the beam as though it was a garden path. “And back!”
Jezal stumbled back on his heels, left arm waving stupidly around him in an attempt to keep his balance. Everything above his knees was aching terribly from the effort. Below the knees it was much, much worse. Varuz was over sixty, but he showed no signs of fatigue. He wasn’t even sweating as he danced forward down the beam, swishing his steels around. Jezal himself was gasping for air as he parried desperately with his left hand, badly off balance, his right foot fishing in space for the safety of the beam behind him.
“And, forward!” Jezal’s calves were agony as he stumbled to change his direction and shove a blow at the infuriating old man, but Varuz did not move back. Instead he ducked under the despairing cut and used the back of his arm to sweep Jezal’s feet away.
Jezal let out a howl as the courtyard turned over around him. His leg smacked painfully against the edge of the beam, then he sprawled on his face on the grass, chin thumping into the turf and making his teeth rattle. He rolled a short distance then lay there on his back, gasping like a fish snatched suddenly from the water, leg throbbing where it had collided with the beam on his way down. He would have yet another ugly bruise in the morning.
“Awful, Jezal, awful!” cried the old soldier as he sprang nimbly down onto the lawn. “You teeter about the beam as though it were a tightrope!” Jezal rolled over, cursing, and started to climb stiffly to his feet. “It is a solid piece of oak, wide enough to get lost in!” The Lord Marshal illustrated his point by whacking at the beam with his short steel, making splinters fly.
“I thought you said forward,” moaned Jezal.
Varuz’ eyebrows went up sharply. “Do you seriously suppose, Captain Luthar, that Bremer dan Gorst gives his opponents reliable information as to his intentions?”
“Bremer dan Gorst will be trying to beat me, you old shit! You are supposed to be helping me to beat him!” That was what Jezal thought, but he knew better than to say it. He just shook his head dumbly.
“No! No indeed he does not! He makes every effort to deceive and confuse his opponents, as all great swordsmen must!” The Lord Marshal paced up and down, shaking his head. Jezal considered again whether to give it all up. He was sick of falling into bed exhausted each night, at a time when he should have been just starting to get drunk. He was sick of waking up every morning, bruised and aching, to face another four interminable hours of running, beam, bar, forms. He was sick of being knocked on his arse by Major West. Most of all he was sick of being bullied by this old fool.
“…A depressing display, Captain, very depressing. I do believe you are actually getting worse…”
Jezal would never win the Contest. No one expected him to, himself least of all. So why not give it up, and go back to his cards and late nights? Wasn’t that all he really wanted from life? But then what would mark him out from a thousand other noble younger sons? He had decided long ago that he wanted to be something special. A Lord Marshal himself perhaps, and then Lord Chamberlain. Something big and important anyway. He wanted a big chair on the Closed Council, and to make big decisions. He wanted people to fawn and smile around him and hang on his every word. He wanted people to whisper, “There goes Lord Luthar!” as he swept past. Could he be happy being forever a richer, cleverer, better-looking version of Lieutenant Brint? Ugh! It was not to be thought of.
“…We have a terribly long way to go, and not enough time to get there, not unless you change your attitude. Your sparring is lamentable, your stamina is still weak, and as for your balance, the less said about that the better…”
And what would everyone else think if he gave up? What would his father do? What would his brothers say? What about the other officers? He would look a coward. And then there was Ardee West. She seemed to have been much on his mind during the past couple of days. Would she lean so close to him if he didn’t fence? Would she talk to him in such soft tones? Would she laugh at his jokes? Would she look up at him with those big, dark eyes, so he could almost feel her breath on his face—
“Are you listening, boy?” thundered Varuz. Jezal felt a bit of his breath on his face alright, and a deal of spit too.
“Yes, sir! Sparring lamentable, stamina weak!” Jezal swallowed nervously. “Less said about balance the better.”
“That’s right! I am beginning to think, though I can hardly believe it after the trouble you have put me to, that your heart really isn’t in this.” He glared into Jezal’s eyes. “What do you think, Major?”
There was no reply. West was slumped in his chair, arms folded, frowning grimly and staring into space.
“Major West?” snapped the Lord Marshal.
He looked up suddenly, as though he had only just become aware of their presence. “I’m sorry, sir, I had become distracted.”
“So I see.” Varuz sucked his teeth. “It seems that nobody has been concentrating this morning.” It was a great relief that some of the old man’s anger had been deflected elsewhere, but Jezal’s happiness was not long-lived.
“Very well,” snapped the old Marshal, “if that’s the way you want it. Starting tomorrow we will begin each session with a swim in the moat. A mile or two should do it.” Jezal squeezed his teeth together to keep from screaming. “Cold water has a wonderful way of sharpening the senses. And perhaps we need to start a little earlier, to catch you in your most receptive frame of mind. That means we begin at five. In the meantime, Captain Luthar, I suggest that you consider whether you are here in order to win the Contest, or simply for the pleasure of my company.” And he turned on his heel and stalked off.