“Gods below,” muttered Jean, rolling away from the light. Jean was definitely in his proper place, and their cell was once again the cluttered mess of daily life rather than the dark private stage of Locke’s dream.
“Arrrrrrrrrrrgh,” said Locke. It didn’t help much, so he tried again. “Arrrrrrrrrrr—”
“You know,” said Jean, yawning irritably, “you should burn some offerings in thanks for the fact that you don’t actually talk in your sleep.”
“ …rrrrrrgh. What the hell do you mean?”
“Sabetha’s got really sharp ears.”
“Nnngh.”
“I mean, it’s pretty gods-damned obvious you’re not dreaming about calligraphy over there.”
There was a loud knock on the wall just outside their cell, and then the curtain was swept aside to reveal Calo Sanza, long hair hanging in his eyes, working his way into a pair of breeches.
“Good morning, sunshines! What’s with all the noise?”
“Someone took a tumble,” muttered Jean.
“What’s so hard about sleeping on a cot like a normal person, ya fuckin’ spastic dog?”
“Kiss my ass, Sanza,” Locke gasped.
“Heyyyyyyyyy EVERYBODY!” Calo pounded on the wall as he shouted. “I know we’ve got half an hour yet to sleep, but Locke thinks we should all be up right now! Find your happy faces, Gentlefucker Bastards, it’s a bright new day and we get to start it EARLY!”
“Calo, what the hell is wrong with you?” hollered Sabetha, somewhere down the hall.
Locke put his forehead against the floor and moaned. It was the height of the endless steaming summer of the seventy-eighth Year of Preva, Lady of the Red Madness, and everything was absolutely screwed up to hell.
2
SABETHA DARTED in, parried Locke’s attempt at a guard, and smacked the outside of his left knee with her chestnut wood baton.
“Ow,” he said, hopping up and down while the sting faded. Locke wiped his forehead, lined up again in the duelist’s stance, and touched the tip of his baton to Sabetha’s. They were using the sanctuary of the Temple of Perelandro as a practice room, under Jean’s watchful eye.
“High diamond, low square,” said Jean. “Go!”
This was more an exercise in speed and precision than actual fighting technique. They slammed their batons together in the patterns demanded by Jean, and after the final contact they were free to swipe at one another, scoring touches against arms or legs.
Clack! Clack! Clack!The sound of their batons echoed across the stone-walled chamber.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
Clack! Clack! Thump!
“Yeow,” said Locke, shaking his left wrist, where a fresh red welt was rising.
“You’re faster than this, Locke.” Sabetha returned to her starting position. “Something distracting you this morning?”
Sabetha wore a loose white tunic and black silk knee-breeches that left nothing about her lithely-muscled legs to the imagination. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair pulled tightly back with linen cord. If she’d heard anything specific about the disturbance he’d kicked off to start the day, at least she wasn’t saying much.
“More than one something?” she said. “Any of them attached to me?”
So much for the lukewarm comfort of uncertainty.
“You know I’mattached to you,” said Locke, trying to sound cheerful as they touched batons again.
“Or might like to be, hmmm?”
“Middle square,” yelled Jean, “middle square, middle diamond! Go!”
They wove their pattern of strikes and counter-strikes, rattling their batons off one another until the end of the sequence, when Sabetha flicked Locke’s weapon down and smacked a painful crease into his right bicep. Sabetha’s only commentary on this victory was to idly twirl her baton while Locke rubbed at his arm.
“Hold it,” said Jean. “We’ll try a new exercise. Locke, stand there with your hands at your sides. Sabetha, you just hit him until you get tired. Be sure to concentrate on his head so he won’t feel anything.”
“Very funny.” Locke lined up again. “I’m ready for another.”
He was nothing of the sort. At the end of the next pattern, Sabetha slapped him on the right bicep again. And again, following the pattern after that, with precision that was obviously deliberate.
“You know, most days you can at least manage to hit back,” she said. “Want to give it up as a bad job?”
“Of course not,” said Locke, trying to be subtle about wiping the nascent tears from the corners of his eyes. “Barely getting started.”
“Have it your way.” She lined up again, and Locke couldn’t miss the coldness of her poise. Ah, gods. When Sabetha felt she was being trifled with, she had a way of radiating the same calm, chilly regard that Locke imagined might pass from executioner to condemned victim. He knew all too well what it meant to be the object of that regard.
“High diamond,” said Jean warily, apprehending the change in Sabetha’s mood. “Middle square, low cross. Go.”
They flew through the patterns with furious speed, Sabetha setting the pace and Locke straining to match her. The instant the last stroke of the formal exercise was made, Locke flew into a guard position that would have deflected any blow aimed at his much-abused right bicep. Sabetha, however, was actually aiming for a point just above his heart, and the hotly stinging slap nearly knocked him over.
“Gods above,” said Jean, stepping between them. “You know the rules, Sabetha. No cuts at anything but arms or legs.”
“Are there rules in a tavern brawl or an alley fight?”
“This isn’t a damned alley fight. It’s just an exercise for building vigor!”
“Doesn’t seem to be working for one of us.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“What’s gotten into you, Jean? Are you going to stand in front of him for the rest of his life?”
“Hey, hey,” said Locke, stepping around Jean and attempting to hide a considerable amount of pain behind a disingenuous smile. “All’s well, Jean.”
“All’s not well,” said Jean. “Someone is taking this far too seriously.”
“Stand aside, Jean,” said Sabetha. “If he wants to stick his hand in a fire, he can learn to pull it out himself.”
“ Heis right here, thank you very much, and heis fine,” said Locke. “It’s fine, Jean. Let’s have another pattern.”
“Sabetha needs to calm down.”
“Aren’t I calm?” said Sabetha. “Locke can have quarter any time he asks for it himself.”
“I don’t choose to yield just yet,” said Locke, with what he hoped was a charming, devil-may-care sort of grin. Sabetha’s countenance only darkened in response. “However, if you’re concerned about me, you can back off to any degree you prefer.”
“Oh, no.” Sabetha was anything but calm. “No, no, no. I don’t withdraw. Youyield! Deliberately. Or we keep going until you can’t stand up.”
“That might take a while,” said Locke. “Let’s see if you have the patience—”
“Damn it, when will you learn that refusing to admit you’ve lost isn’t the same as winning?”
“Sort of depends on how long one keeps refusing, doesn’t it?”
Sabetha scowled, an expression that cut Locke more deeply than any baton-lash. Staring fixedly at him, she took her baton in both hands, snapped it over her knee, and bounced the pieces off the floor.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” she said. “I seem to be unable to conform to the intended spirit of this exercise.”
She turned and left. When she’d vanished into the rear hall of the temple, Locke let out a dejected sigh.
“Gods,” he said. “What the hell is going on between us? What happened, just now?”
“She has a cruel streak, that one,” said Jean.
“No more than any of us!” said Locke, more hotly than he might have intended. “Well, we’ve got some … philosophical differences, to be sure.”
“She’s a perfectionist.” Jean picked up the broken halves of Sabetha’s baton. “And you’re a real idiot from time to time.”