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  'Your master judges others quickly, it seems.'

  'He supposes we will likely fight, you being a Mercian and I being an Imperial,' explained Aleas, observing him with lazy, intelligent eyes. As Nico forced himself to return the young man's confident gaze, he found himself thinking: An Imperial? I'm actually standing here face-to-face with the enemy. Strange that he does not seem so terrible.

  'So,' said the other, 'how does it feel?

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Standing here, conversing with a foul Mannian?'

  Nico considered the question. 'It feels fine,' he said at last. 'Though in truth I'm somewhat hungover just now, so it may be hard to discern any true discomfort.'

  Aleas's smile was genuine. 'Then well met,' he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Desertion Nico tried to settle into his new environment, though at first it was not so easy.

  There were nine other apprentices at the monastery, and all of them male. It was not that women were barred from the order – according to the other apprentices, they were simply never recruited, nor put themselves forth for recruitment.

  Not surprisingly, all these young men spoke the common tongue that was Trade, their speech peppered with words and expressions from the older – and sometimes still native – languages of their homelands. Nico was pleased that almost the first thing he learned at the monastery was a variety of swear words he had never heard before.

  Each morning the young men awoke well before first light and washed themselves in the communal washroom alongside the other silent Rshun of the order. Then they sat in the candle-lit dining hall, with the sun still not yet risen over the mountains to the east, and ate a simple breakfast of porridge and dried fruits accompanied by a choice of water or chee. The apprentices had to make the most of this fare, for their next and only other meal of the day would be dinner in the evening. Often they slept hungry, the food barely enough for their requirements. It was as though the Rshun wished to encourage the theft of foodstuffs. For certain, they did not condemn such activity, only admonished the apprentice who was clumsy enough to get caught in the act.

  Straight after breakfast, it was off to whatever lesson was scheduled first for that morning, the young men's faces brightening along with the early light of dawn. For Nico, the rest of the day would comprise a confusing jumble of instructions quickly forgotten and lessons barely understood in terms of what purpose they might serve.

  The evening meal, when it finally came round, was a relief like no other. He would sit and eat in numb exhaustion, thinking of nothing but his bunk.

  The apprentices hailed from various corners of the Empire, though there was a surprising lack of tension for all the cultural differences between them. Still, Nico prepared himself for the worst, having never been overly sociable as a child. As a boy he had attended the local schoolhouse, and knew how his peers looked upon his solitary nature and his quick tongue when provoked.

  But not so here, it seemed. Those few most likely to pick on him – big Sanse with strength on his side, fierce little Arados with the most to prove to the others – hung back for some reason. At first, Nico thought it was simply the strictness of monastery discipline. After a week or so, he realized it was something more than that. He realized they were somewhat in awe of Ash, and in return a portion of that respect rubbed off on to Nico himself, as the first apprentice Ash had ever taken on.

  Those first early weeks of training were to be the most difficult. In a way the glamour that seemed to surround Ash, and therefore in a lesser form Nico, began to work against him. Nico felt as though he had a reputation to uphold, one that he had done nothing to gain – save for this assumption by the other apprentices that he must have something special about him for Ash to have chosen him in the first place. Yet he did not feel very special. He did not know why Ash had chosen him, though he suspected it had little to do with his abilities.

  Nico would have told them as much, the truth of it, but each time he tried to, he found some inner resistance stopping him. He had begun to enjoy his minor celebrity. The others treated him with a respect he was barely familiar with after living rough on the streets of Bar-Khos and, before that, sharing a cottage with his mother's succession of indifferent lovers. He had found that he was standing up straighter than ever before in the presence of others. He would now meet their eyes and not so readily look away.

  And so, in those early days, he tried too hard to impress, and because of this eagerness only made himself more inept in the trying.

  He fumbled during his cali lessons – the style of sword-fighting practised by the Rshun, and designed for confronting multiple opponents while always advancing, never moving backwards. He would wheeze to a dead halt during his fell running, vomiting from the sheer exertion of it; broke two fingers in unarmed combat and cried from the shock of seeing them bent out of shape; lost his temper with the frustrations of oni-oni, a test of the reflexes that involved the contenders trying to slap each other across the face every time a gong was struck. He even fell off while riding a zel, not once but twice – nearly snapping his neck in the process.

  However, Nico distinguished himself in other activities, enough at least to preserve his reputation with the others. He flipped and jumped and climbed like a natural during the acrobatics classes; performed especially well in acting, requiring the use of subterfuge and disguise; grasped quickly the basics of breaching, in other words breaking and entry; remained undiscovered for hours in tests of stealth and concealment; excelled at archery, in which he did in fact have much ability, having both a natural eye and a great deal of experience from shooting birds for his mother back home. And, most especially, he shone in ali, the combined arts of evasion – otherwise known as running away – in which Nico found himself particularly talented.

  Under different circumstances Nico might have expected to suffer from homesickness, longing for the familiar streets of Bar-Khos, or even for his mother's cottage. But for an apprenticing Rshun there was, simply too much to learn and practise for his mind to dwell on such distracting thoughts. Only at night would a sense of isolation oppress his spirits, but even then not for long, since he was usually so weary that he fell asleep in minutes.

  He saw very little of Ash during this time. It seemed the old man did not get involved in training the disciples. Neither did he offer personal instruction to his own apprentice, perhaps intending instead to train Nico only in the field, where it was said that the learning ceased and the knowing began.

  Overall, the old farlander kept himself to himself, rarely seeking out his young protege at all. It seemed almost as though he had discarded Nico at the first opportunity to present itself.

  Nico was stung more than he would ever admit by this apparent desertion.

  *

  'Whet your knives!' Holt bawled over the heads of the ten apprentices gathered in the courtyard on a sunny day filled with wind. Instantly they bent their heads to the task.

  Nico did not move, today. Instead he watched what the others were doing. Particularly he kept his eye on Aleas who he had already noticed tended to get things right first time. After a while, grasping a wooden practice knife in one hand and a steel carving knife in the other, he began to shave a fresh edge into the curved piece of wood that had been left blunt from its last usage. A guppy, they called this type of practice knife, perhaps because of the fish it resembled. The weapon lacked a point and was made from a piece of wintervine, a rare hardwood that normally grew on the sheerest of wind-exposed cliffs and, for some reason, only flowered in the depths of winter.

  Suddenly Ash arrived by Nico's side, clasping a leather cup of chee in his hand. Haggard-faced, the old man stood and watched him work, one eye squinting against the stiff breeze snapping his robe around his ankles.

  This was the day of the scenarios, mock situations intended to replicate, to some degree, the possible conditions in the actual field. The presence of their masters was compulsory at these fortnightly sessions, so today
they were uncharacteristically tense and serious.

  Nico had not spoken to Ash in six days. The old man had almost become a ghost to him, glimpsed only through windows, or occasionally in his sleep. Even the other youths had begun to notice this lack of attention, shown towards his apprentice. They had begun to mutter about it, fascinated by such behaviour from the order's most famous Rshun, and they increasingly gave Nico strange looks whenever he chanced to walk in on them.

  'Quickly, now, we haven't all week for this.' Holt, stood eyeballing them, with his chin held high.

  Nico tested the edge of his wooden blade and found it sharp enough to draw blood. He sucked his thumb as he waited, and did not look at Ash.

  Holt strode amongst them, testing the blades and retrieving the steel knives as he went. 'Now, my young squires,' said the blond-headed Pathian. 'The scenario today shall be cat and rat. Yes, Pantush, I know how much you adore this one. All of you now, choose a partner so we can begin.'

  A partner? Nico mused, and cast a forlorn glance about him as the other youths quickly paired up with their friends. Within moments the press had parted to either side into pairs. Facing Nico, across a dozen feet of settling dust, Aleas stood alone, too skilled for anyone else to choose as his competitor on this of all days.

  Nico's heart sank as the young man grinned at him. Towering behind Aleas, Baracha gave Ash a questioning glance.

  'Cat, rat, west wing, first floor…' Holt was saying, tapping one boy on the head and then the other, 'Cat, rat, west wing, second floor…'

  He came to Nico and Aleas, and smiled. Everyone was smiling except for the two pairs facing each other. 'Cat,' he said, with emphasis, as he lay his palm on Nico's head. 'Rat,' he gestured to Aleas.

  To their two masters he announced: 'West wing, attic. But be careful not to break anything up there, gentlemen.'

  He then clapped his hands and marched onwards, hollering once more. 'You have until the next bell. One must hide, one must find. The first to draw blood wins. If you stay hidden until the bell sounds, you also win. That's it. Rats may go!'

  Aleas was off, loping towards the door into the west wing. He ran like an athlete on the track, supremely confident in his own physicality.

  First blood, reflected Nico, his hand already clammy around the hilt of his wooden knife. His mouth had gone dry. How much of a wound could this thing inflict? How bad was one allowed to make it? Typical of these Rshun to tell you the bare minimum, then throw you in head first.

  Baracha remained behind with arms folded, disdain in his eyes, confident of an easy victory.

  'Better your boy had been the rat, eh? He hides well, I hear.'

  Ash stiffened up at that, as if too world-weary to hold back what he would say next. 'Perhaps if you yourself were a little better at hiding, we might have spared ourselves much trouble in the past.'

  A hoot from those of the Rshun who stood close enough to hear him. Baracha hawked loudly and spat in the dirt.

  It somewhat heartened Nico to hear the old man standing up for him. But then, he knew it was more than that. It was also this on going rivalry between the two – or, at least, sense of rivalry which seemed to emanate from Baracha.

  A soft breath against his ear, almost lost in the breeze. 'Know that Aleas will not hide like a rat. He will position himself for an ambush, as the predator would. Tread with care, boy.'

  'Cats may go!' came the order.

  The remaining apprentices sprinted for the various doors of the monastery. Nico hesitated, and at last he met the old farlander's eyes. What he saw made him blink.

  He thinks I will lose!

  With the slightest of nods, the old man gestured for Nico to go.

  Nico headed for the far door of the north wing. He was all at once focused on what he must accomplish, the urge almost overwhelming to prove them all wrong.

  *

  It was good, at least, to be out of the wind.

  The monastery was even quieter than usual, its inhabitants having vacated much of the building for this afternoon devoted to scenarios. The west wing housed the library and study rooms, also the large chachen hall used for indoor meditation. Such spaces were brightly lit from their large windows, and smelled of polished wood and old dust.

  A gust from outside as Baracha, and then Ash, entered the hallway, cup of chee still in the farlander's hand. Both wore white armbands, and were to follow him from a distance as supervisors only, since no instruction was to be the given during the coming trial. The object was to learn by doing, and thus nurture faith in following one's own instincts.

  The attic, Holt had said, so Nico found the stairwell, and trod upwards to the first floor. A young Rshun bustled past him. He acted as though Nico wasn't even there.

  The wooden stairs leading to the attic were at the far end of a corridor lined with the doors to individual sleeping quarters. A window on the other side looked out over the rugged valley and towards an escarpment of dark rock beyond. A cloud mass drifted torn and tattered across a distant peak. Nico stopped and studied the open trapdoor at the top of the stairs. It was dark up there. Perhaps he should first find a lantern?

  No, he thought, that was a stupid idea, he'd only make himself an easier target.

  Ash and Baracha waited behind at the other end of the long corridor. They watched as he removed his sandals, laid them with care to one side.

  Taking a deep breath Nico ascended as slowly as he could, staying to one side of the steps where it would make least noise under his weight. He ducked as he neared the opening. This would be as good a place as any for Aleas to launch an ambush, just after Nico poked his head though, momentarily blinded by the gloom.

  Moments of reflection passed, and no ideas came to him.

  There was only one thing for it, then.

  He scrambled upwards, vaulted through the opening and tumbled across the creaking floor of the attic. He lay there on his back with the knife held before him, waiting for an attack.

  When nothing happened, Nico lay where he was, trying to subdue his breathing. He'd already made enough racket by his entrance. He remained like that, until his vision adjusted to the lack of light, and gradually he could see about him the shadows of dark objects.

  Without sound, Nico stood and inched away from the dim light of the opening. The attic was warm, and larger than he had expected. It ran for ten or so feet in all directions before becoming veiled in blackness, but he could sense the scale of the place from its faint motions of air. Items in storage stood everywhere: crates and boxes, piles of cloth, discarded furniture, even stands of arms. To hide in here successfully was just to pick a spot, any spot, and simply not move.

  Nico took a step forwards, testing his weight on the floorboards for creaking, then another step… The wind outside pulled at the wooden roof tiles above his head. Some had worked loose enough to clatter, and now a chorus of them provided an eerie accompaniment to the keening of the wind itself.

  He stopped at the very edge of the light infiltrating up through the trapdoor. Here too was a likely place for the ambush. Nico was still visible here, while the ambusher could remain in darkness.

  Aleas was close by. He could sense him.

  Nico squinted and peered into the dark spaces beyond. To the right of him, a cobweb hung from the sloping roof, glowing a ghostly white. Beneath it lay a jumble of shapes he could barely discern. To his left was an even deeper gloom, the light obstructed by something large. Nico took a step backwards. By inches he eased to one side at a crouch, continually scanning from left to right. He opened his mouth to hear better. He waited, almost without breathing.

  It suddenly struck Nico how absurd this situation was: like playing a children's game of hide-and-go-seek, armed only with wooden knives. But then he thought of the knife in Aleas's hand, doubtless somewhere close, sharp as his own, and as capable of drawing blood. Nico's heartbeat began to pump in his ears.

  For a moment the light diminished behind him, enveloping all in deeper blackness. He swung
his head around to see the silhouettes of Ash and Baracha stepping through the opening. They made no sound either.

  Nico waved them out of the way, until they had crouched either side of the opening and the meagre light was restored.

  Now, he urged himself, think.

  The cobweb nearby stirred. Nico had only time to lean back sharply as a vague form loosed itself at him from his right. He felt the air brush past his face, detected a blur of motion… then lunged forward, with his own knife. But it slashed through empty space, and then he felt the sting of pain across his left cheek, and again, across his right.

  He was stunned enough to fall back upon his haunches. Crouching there, he clasped a hand to his face, blood leaking through his fingers.

  'Owhh,' he moaned.

  Aleas stepped before him into the dim light. The young man had streaked his face with grime, so that only the skin immediately under his hairline was still white. A chuckle sounded elsewhere in the attic, before Baracha clomped heavily back down the stairs.

  Ash still waited, as Nico gained his feet and turned to him. He could not read the old man's expression.

  Ash took a drink of chee and smacked his lips.

  'Keep trying,' Ash murmured. 'You must be ready when I take you into the field.' And, with a swirl of his robes, he departed too.

  Aleas nodded to Nico's facial wounds. 'Coat them with beeswax,' he suggested. 'It will keep the scars small. Come, I'll help you.'

  For a moment, Nico found himself alone in the clammy darkness of the attic. Through his fingers blood dripped in a slowing rhythm. His right hand, shaking, sought the cool hard assurance of the wooden floor, and he sank down with it, his legs dangling over the edge of the trapdoor. He let out a long breath, and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Cull The night lay brooding in its own heat.

  At the centre of the Lake of Birds, the imperial barge rocked gently, far from the distant lights of the towns that glittered around its shoreline. A jangle of music could be heard from those towns across the still water, and shouts and laughter, and the barking of dogs.