Firebrand
Page 57
“I, for one, am glad,” Karigan said, though she thought her father wouldn’t be. “We need you.”
“Thank you for that. Sometimes I am so buried in paperwork and meetings I wonder if my Riders even know who I am.”
“Of course we do,” Karigan replied.
The captain nodded and said, “You had better get going so you are not late for your meeting with Agemon. You may be dismissed.”
New sword in hand, Karigan left her bemused captain behind and hurried out into the cold, trying not to slip on the slick path. With any luck, she could fit in a hot bath, or at least change, before having to meet Agemon in the tombs at the appointed hour.
CAPTAIN AND ARMS MASTER
Laren had her own appointment to attend, and after Karigan left, she drew on her greatcoat, and the hat and mittens knitted by Stevic’s sisters. Her shock over Loon diminished as she stepped out into the bright winter air. She stood blinking on her step for a moment before setting off in a purposeful stride down the path that led to the field house. She would visit her horses—the plural felt odd—later. First she needed to have a word with Drent.
She found him in the weapons room tidying up racks of practice swords. He turned when she entered, and when he saw who it was, a muscle spasmed in his cheek.
“Ah, Captain.”
“Arms Master.”
“What can I do for you?”
Now that she was here, she found her fire from the previous night had subsided. “Next time you decide to make one of my Riders a swordmaster, I’d very much appreciate the courtesy of a forewarning.”
He weighed a couple of wooden practice swords in his hands. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“Why is that?”
“The only other Rider who has a chance of it is never around.”
“Beryl Spencer.”
“That’s right. The king has her away all the time. She can’t keep up on her skills, and at this rate she will never make swordmaster.”
Beryl was often off on secret missions to which even Laren was not privy. Her special ability was to assume a role, and Zachary and his spymasters had made good use of it. Even now Laren could not say where her Rider was.
“As for your other Riders,” Drent continued, “even if they come along with their skills, their training isn’t consistent enough. Always gone on errands. Here, hold these.” He handed her the practice swords, then lumbered away toward the big room with its tall windows, where bouts and training took place. She strode after him.
“Your Rider G’ladheon,” he continued, stepping into one of the bout rings, “was well trained during her school years in Selium by Rendle, as much as it pains me to admit it, so she had a good foundation. Has a knack for the sword. Plus, she has proven herself in other ways, so she is a swordmaster.”
“That is fine and good,” Laren said, “but I should have been informed she was receiving a status that may affect her duties.”
Drent shrugged. “Should enhance her ability to perform her duties.”
Laren’s ire began to reignite. Talking to Drent was like talking to a stone wall. He was as big as a wall, actually. “She is my Rider.”
“Possessive, are we? Hand me a sword. No, the other.”
She passed him the heavier of the two, and he swept it through the air.
“Of course I’m possessive! I am responsible for the Riders and how they serve the king. I am responsible for their lives.”
“The king told you what was going on, didn’t he?”
“Only after the fact and her so-called honorary Weapon status was formalized.”
He took her by the elbow and guided her into the ring, she stepping over one of the low planks that delineated it. “Stand here, please. I do think you are overreacting, Captain.”
Laren wanted to tear out her hair. “If it was one of yours being given honorary Rider status—”
“Wouldn’t happen,” he replied implacably.
“What do you mean it wouldn’t happen?”
Drent shrugged. “I just don’t think any of my swordmasters or Weapons would be of a messenger bent.”
“I am being theoretical,” she almost shouted, her voice echoing in the expanse of the building, “about me stealing one of your swordmasters.”
“Wouldn’t happen. Now, instead of waving that sword around every time you have something to say, hold it like so.” He moved her arms and wrist into a guard position.
“Drent?”
“Captain?”
“What are you doing?”
In response, he attacked. She jumped backward, scrambling to block an onslaught of blows, the sound of clacking wooden blades thundering in the high-ceilinged space. She was too shocked by the suddenness of his attack, his jabs and thrusts and cuts, to even protest.
Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Laren stood at the edge of the ring trying to catch her breath. “What in the hells was that for?” she demanded.
Drent gazed critically at her. “How often have you been training with Gresia?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. It had probably been years since she did any regular training.
“I heard you were quite good in your day.”
“In my day? Now wait a—”
He raised his sword as if to strike once more. “Yes. In your day. But clearly you’ve not kept up your skills. You are rusty, Captain. How are you to lead your Riders in the field when your skills are not up to par, eh? What sort of example are you setting for them? Too much sitting around in your quarters, I’ll warrant.”
“Thank you for that. Sometimes I am so buried in paperwork and meetings I wonder if my Riders even know who I am.”
“Of course we do,” Karigan replied.
The captain nodded and said, “You had better get going so you are not late for your meeting with Agemon. You may be dismissed.”
New sword in hand, Karigan left her bemused captain behind and hurried out into the cold, trying not to slip on the slick path. With any luck, she could fit in a hot bath, or at least change, before having to meet Agemon in the tombs at the appointed hour.
CAPTAIN AND ARMS MASTER
Laren had her own appointment to attend, and after Karigan left, she drew on her greatcoat, and the hat and mittens knitted by Stevic’s sisters. Her shock over Loon diminished as she stepped out into the bright winter air. She stood blinking on her step for a moment before setting off in a purposeful stride down the path that led to the field house. She would visit her horses—the plural felt odd—later. First she needed to have a word with Drent.
She found him in the weapons room tidying up racks of practice swords. He turned when she entered, and when he saw who it was, a muscle spasmed in his cheek.
“Ah, Captain.”
“Arms Master.”
“What can I do for you?”
Now that she was here, she found her fire from the previous night had subsided. “Next time you decide to make one of my Riders a swordmaster, I’d very much appreciate the courtesy of a forewarning.”
He weighed a couple of wooden practice swords in his hands. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“Why is that?”
“The only other Rider who has a chance of it is never around.”
“Beryl Spencer.”
“That’s right. The king has her away all the time. She can’t keep up on her skills, and at this rate she will never make swordmaster.”
Beryl was often off on secret missions to which even Laren was not privy. Her special ability was to assume a role, and Zachary and his spymasters had made good use of it. Even now Laren could not say where her Rider was.
“As for your other Riders,” Drent continued, “even if they come along with their skills, their training isn’t consistent enough. Always gone on errands. Here, hold these.” He handed her the practice swords, then lumbered away toward the big room with its tall windows, where bouts and training took place. She strode after him.
“Your Rider G’ladheon,” he continued, stepping into one of the bout rings, “was well trained during her school years in Selium by Rendle, as much as it pains me to admit it, so she had a good foundation. Has a knack for the sword. Plus, she has proven herself in other ways, so she is a swordmaster.”
“That is fine and good,” Laren said, “but I should have been informed she was receiving a status that may affect her duties.”
Drent shrugged. “Should enhance her ability to perform her duties.”
Laren’s ire began to reignite. Talking to Drent was like talking to a stone wall. He was as big as a wall, actually. “She is my Rider.”
“Possessive, are we? Hand me a sword. No, the other.”
She passed him the heavier of the two, and he swept it through the air.
“Of course I’m possessive! I am responsible for the Riders and how they serve the king. I am responsible for their lives.”
“The king told you what was going on, didn’t he?”
“Only after the fact and her so-called honorary Weapon status was formalized.”
He took her by the elbow and guided her into the ring, she stepping over one of the low planks that delineated it. “Stand here, please. I do think you are overreacting, Captain.”
Laren wanted to tear out her hair. “If it was one of yours being given honorary Rider status—”
“Wouldn’t happen,” he replied implacably.
“What do you mean it wouldn’t happen?”
Drent shrugged. “I just don’t think any of my swordmasters or Weapons would be of a messenger bent.”
“I am being theoretical,” she almost shouted, her voice echoing in the expanse of the building, “about me stealing one of your swordmasters.”
“Wouldn’t happen. Now, instead of waving that sword around every time you have something to say, hold it like so.” He moved her arms and wrist into a guard position.
“Drent?”
“Captain?”
“What are you doing?”
In response, he attacked. She jumped backward, scrambling to block an onslaught of blows, the sound of clacking wooden blades thundering in the high-ceilinged space. She was too shocked by the suddenness of his attack, his jabs and thrusts and cuts, to even protest.
Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Laren stood at the edge of the ring trying to catch her breath. “What in the hells was that for?” she demanded.
Drent gazed critically at her. “How often have you been training with Gresia?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. It had probably been years since she did any regular training.
“I heard you were quite good in your day.”
“In my day? Now wait a—”
He raised his sword as if to strike once more. “Yes. In your day. But clearly you’ve not kept up your skills. You are rusty, Captain. How are you to lead your Riders in the field when your skills are not up to par, eh? What sort of example are you setting for them? Too much sitting around in your quarters, I’ll warrant.”
