The Blade Itself

“Yes,” murmured Varuz with a deep sigh, “damn it indeed. An even more detestable performance than yesterday’s, if that’s possible! You let Major West make a fool of you again!” Jezal slapped West’s hand away with a scowl and got to his feet. “He never once lost control of that bout! You allowed yourself to be drawn in, and then disarmed! Disarmed! My grandson would not have made that mistake, and he is eight years old!” Varuz whacked at the floor with his stick. “Explain to me please, Captain Luthar, how you will win a fencing match from a prone position, and without your steels?”

Jezal sulked and rubbed the back of his head.

“No? In future, if you fall off a cliff carrying your steels, I want to see you smashed to bits at the bottom, gripping them tightly in your dead fingers, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Marshal Varuz,” mumbled a sullen Jezal, wishing the old bastard would take a tumble off a cliff himself. Or perhaps the Tower of Chains. That would be adequate. Maybe Major West could join him.

“Over-confidence is a curse to the swordsman! You must treat every opponent as though he will be your last. As for your footwork,” and Varuz curled his lip with disgust, “fine and fancy coming forward, but put you on the back foot and you quite wither away. The Major only had to tap you and you fell down like a fainting schoolgirl.”

West grinned across at him. He was loving this. Absolutely loving it, damn him.

“They say Bremer dan Gorst has a back leg like a pillar of steel. A pillar of steel they say! It would be easier to knock down the House of the Maker than him.” The Lord Marshal pointed over at the outline of the huge tower, looming up over the buildings of the courtyard. “The House of the Maker!” he shouted in disgust.

Jezal sniffed and kicked at the floor with his boot. For the hundredth time he entertained the notion of giving it up and never holding a steel again. But what would people say? His father was absurdly proud of him, always boasting about his skill to anyone who would listen. He had his heart set on seeing his son fight in the Square of Marshals before a screaming crowd. If Jezal threw it over now his father would be mortified, and he could say goodbye to his commission, goodbye to his allowance, goodbye to his ambitions. No doubt his brothers would love that.

“Balance is the key,” Varuz was spouting. “Your strength rises up through the legs! From now on we will add an hour on the beam to your training. Every day.” Jezal winced. “So: a run, exercises with the heavy bar, forms, an hour of sparring, forms again, an hour on the beam.” The Lord Marshal nodded with satisfaction. “That will suffice, for now. I will see you at six o’clock tomorrow morning, ice cold sober.” Varuz frowned. “Ice. Cold. Sober.”

“I can’t do this forever, you know,” said Jezal as he hobbled stiffly back towards his quarters. “How much of this horrible shit should a man have to take?”

West grinned. “This is nothing. I’ve never seen the old bastard so soft on anyone. He must really like you. He wasn’t half so friendly with me.”

Jezal wasn’t sure he believed it. “Worse than this?”

“I didn’t have the grounding that you’ve had. He made me hold the heavy bar over my head all afternoon until it fell on me.” The Major winced slightly, as though even the memory was painful. “He made me run up and down the Tower of Chains in full armour. He had me sparring four hours a day, every day.”

“How did you put up with it?”

“I didn’t have a choice. I’m not a nobleman. Fencing was the only way for me to get noticed. But it paid off in the end. How many commoners do you know with a commission in the King’s Own?”

Jezal shrugged. “Come to think of it, very few.” As a nobleman himself, he didn’t think there should be any.

“But you’re from a good family, and a Captain already. If you can win the Contest there’s no telling how far you could go. Hoff—the Lord Chamberlain, Marovia—the High Justice, Varuz himself for that matter, they were all champions in their day. Champions with the right blood always go on to great things.”

Jezal snorted. “Like your friend Sand dan Glokta?”

The name dropped between them like a stone. “Well… almost always.”

“Major West!” came a rough voice from behind.

A thickset sergeant with a scar down his cheek was hurrying over to them. “Sergeant Forest, how are you?” asked West, clapping the soldier warmly on the back. He had a touch with peasants, but then Jezal had to keep reminding himself that West was little better than a peasant himself. He might be educated, and an officer, and so forth, but he still had more in common with the sergeant than he did with Jezal, once you thought about it.

The sergeant beamed. “Very well, thank you, sir.” He nodded respectfully to Jezal. “Morning, Captain.”

Jezal favoured him with a terse nod and turned away to look up the avenue. He could think of no possible reason why an officer would want to be familiar with the common soldiers. Furthermore, he was scarred and ugly. Jezal had no use whatever for ugly people.