He did it again, faster. But she was ready and made both covers.
He thrust.
He left the needle sharp point of his arming sword at the laces of her pourpoint. “Up until that point, you were positively excellent, except your sloppy draw.”
All she could think was, How can anyone be that fast?
From that point until they were summoned to breakfast, he made her draw her sword and return it without looking at her scabbard. She put the point of her sword through the web of her left thumb and cursed. He made her continue, and she hated him.
Father Arnaud came out in his black pourpoint. It was a handsome garment for a priest sworn to poverty-black wool velvet, closely embroidered in organic curves that emphasized his physique, which was excellent even by the company’s standards.
“You’re my third customer this morning,” the captain joked, waving his sword at his confessor. “Nell, don’t be angry. You are coming along nicely. But if you fumble your draw you never get to test your swordsmanship, because you’re dead. And if you can’t sheath your sword while you watch your opponent-” He shrugged. “You might still be dead.”
Nell bent her knee to the captain. “Thank you, my lord, for the lesson.”
Ser Gabriel nodded his head. “Every morning, now, I think-you and Toby.”
She had moved from anger to floating on a cloud. Praise? For her use of arms? Training with Ser Gabriel his self?
Nell wanted to be a knight. So badly she could taste it. And she knew she’d just moved a rung up that ladder.
“She pricked her hand,” Ser Gabriel said to Father Arnaud.
The priest smiled. It was a happy smile, a joyous smile. “May I see?” he asked.
She held out her hand.
He made a face and said, “In nomine patris,” and her hand was whole. Just like that. It didn’t even hurt.
“My God!” she said, shocked.
“Yes,” said Father Arnaud. He beamed.
Breakfast had been called twice, but one of the advantages of being the captain of a rich company of mercenaries is that you know someone will keep your food hot.
“He doesn’t threaten your beliefs?” the captain asked as he stepped to the right, trying to baffle his adversary’s patient attempts to change the tempo.
Father Arnaud smiled. “Not in the least,” he said. “If belief were easy, everyone would do it.”
The captain’s sword flicked out. The two men were wearing steel gauntlets as a concession to the sheer danger of sparring with sharps. Father Arnaud twisted and flicked the captain’s blade up and to his own right but his counter-cut found the captain out of distance.
“He scares the crap out of me,” the captain said. He cut down from a high inside guard-sopra di braccio-but it was a feint. Father Arnaud pulled his hand back but the captain’s blade wasn’t there anymore, but describing the almost-lazy arc of an envelopment. Father Arnaud slipped it with a wrist-flick to find that it, too, had been a feint.
“That’s it,” he said with the captain’s sword at his chest. “Now I know you are the spawn of Satan. No mortal man can use a double envelopment with a war sword.”
The captain laughed so hard he had to go down on one knee. “You should fight my brother,” he said, breathing like a smith’s bellows. “They must have searched your entire order for a man so good with both weapons and flattery,” he wheezed. “Hah!” He laughed again. “It was pretty good. I was afraid… I don’t know.”
“You are a curious man,” Father Arnaud said. “You were afraid that I would be hurt by your friend the dragon. Instead, he healed me, and in more than just my own powers.”
Gabriel sat back on his heels. “I’m glad. Let’s eat.”
They walked companionably into the common room. There were boards laid on a trestles and long benches and boxes, and grey-clad drovers sat intermixed with the knights and archers of the company. It was warm, and there was food-piles of cut bacon in big, deep wooden bowls cut from tree burls, and bread fried in fat with egg on it; good maple syrup in pitchers, buttermilk and hot wine and sassafras tea. Again, the inn staff moved like the professionals they were-huge wooden platters of food emerged from the kitchens to replace those emptied by guests-hot wine was produced, and honey.
There was a hush when the captain came into the hall, and then everyone went back to eating. The captain sat at a table with Father Arnaud, Sauce, and Ser Alcaeus. Bad Tom paused to talk to a drover and then came and settled next to Sauce, making the bench creak.
“Well?” Tom asked.
Gabriel shook his head. “We have to be very careful about our talking,” he said.
“Do you trust him?” Sauce asked with a head jerk to indicate the absent Wyrm.
Gabriel wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad and shook his head rapidly. He pulled a knife and a pricker from his baselard sheath and began to eat.
Tom nodded. “I need to move while the weather holds,” he said. “My lads will be that sorry to miss another night here, but I have-” He shrugged. “Three thousand head or more for Harndon. Last year the whole herd went to Lissen Carak. And the army.”
Gabriel didn’t quite look up, but their eyes met. “You’re going to Lissen Carak and then to Harndon? Yes?”
Tom frowned. “If I can find a buyer at Southford, I’m of a mind to sell him part of the herd for Lissen Carak-for the fair.”
“I need you at Ser James’s council,” the captain said.
Tom was entirely reasonable. “I wouldn’t miss it. But that’s Albinkirk, and I don’ need to risk me beasties one league west o’ the fords.” He leaned forward. “Keeper says there’s daemons in the woods and the Huran are moving.”
Ser Gabriel’s smile was thin. “Then we should probably stop talking and get a move on. Corporals and above, outside in the yard. Then we move.”
His authority was so palpable that Ser Gavin almost saluted his brother.
Armoured and ready to ride, Sauce stood by her horse in her ancient arming jacket, the one she’d stopped wearing almost a year before. She’d been forced into it this morning because her new, beautiful scarlet arming coat with its finely worked grommets and fancy quilting had torn-two grommets ripped clean through by the lace that held her right arm harness. The old one was smelly and too tight and crisp with old sweat on old leather and linen so filthy it felt like felt.
She mused on the feeling. Considering, as she munched an apple still hale after a winter in the inn’s cellars, that she’d once been used to clothes this filthy; she’d once been quite a tough thing, and now she chafed, her shoulders unused to the rough fabric.
“I’m getting soft,” she said.
Mag was already up in her wagon seat, high above Sauce. “Don’t you believe it, my sweet,” Mag muttered. “What you are getting is older.”
Sauce winced.
Mag was sewing away at her nice arming coat, and Sauce, who was virtually blind to both ops and potentia was still able to feel the strength of the older woman’s working, the way a blindfolded prisoner might feel the kiss of the sun.
Around them, one by one, the knights and men-at-arms of the company came out of the common room, paid their tabs and tallies at a long table set in the yard for the purpose and went to get the last points tied on their harnesses, or to get a strap or buckle looked at.
Ser Dagon La Forêt paused by Sauce’s horse. He was shifting uncomfortably inside his new six-piece breastplate. He settled it on his hips and winced. He gave Sauce a rueful smile. “Must we ride in harness every day? Couldn’t we let some of the bruises heal?”
Sauce was pleased at some remove to know that she wasn’t the only one bitching.
Ser George sighed. “If there’s a safer place in all Nova Terra than the country around the Inn of Dorling,” he said.
Mag laughed and nodded her agreement. “Only a fool would come inside the Circle of the Wyrm,” she said.