Rosemary Jones: Cold Steel and Secrets Part 1

His redheaded judge frowned at his deliberate emphasis of rebel terms, for he had said “gnash” quite as firmly as “son,” but she motioned for him to step forward. “Elyne Tschavarz,” she said. “My family stayed, although not without cost. Here you will find naught but loyal sons and daughters of Neverwinter.”

“Save for Montimort,” said one brawny youth, clapping the shoulder of the skinny young man next to him. The one named Montimort twitched away from him with a scowl.

“Oh, yes, none of us are sure what Montimort is,” giggled a blonde girl carrying a practice cutlass.

“Enough,” snapped Elyne. “He comes here as my friend.”

“I’m just as l-l-loyal to Neverwinter as any of you,” rejoined Montimort with a scowl at his fellow students. Alone, of all the students, he carried no weapon. His dress was notably shabbier than the rest, with a patch sloppily sewn across the knee of his breeches and his cuffs clearly frayed.

A poor youth, guessed Sarfael, and one with an interesting hint of that pirate’s den Luskan in his narrow features and husky accent. One to watch closely, for the disgruntled outsider can become a spy’s best friend. The rest, he judged, were such as Dhafiyand described, young sprigs of Neverwinter’s much diminished nobility and wealthier houses.

“So you’ve come here for a lesson?” Elyne asked, and the others around her snickered.

“The first of many, I hope,” he answered with a flirtatious smile.

She ignored that, as she had ignored his earlier flattery. She must have seen similar smirks many times. If he thought he could woo her secrets from her, he needed to reconsider his plans. “You always did set too much store on a grin and a wink,” Mavreen muttered in his head.

“You may have nothing to teach me,” Sarfael said offhandedly. A puzzled expression flitted across her face-and he pressed his advantage at once. “But I am here, and I have nothing else to do for the moment.”

“Very well,” Elyne snapped back. “Let’s see how good you are.” She motioned to the center of the floor. “Stand there and let the first lesson begin.”

He strode to the center, and, at the turning motion of her fingers, twirled twice in place. She motioned him to stand still and then turned to the other students.

“So, now you’ve taken a good look at him, how do you judge him?”

The brawny youth swaggered forward. “Old, and perhaps not as quick as some.”

Elyne looked Sarfael up and down. “Five-and-thirty at the most. The waist is trim, the shoulders and the back straight, he favors neither the left nor the right leg in his stance.”

“Vain,” said the giggling blonde. “Look at the embroidery on his cloak and the polish on his boots. They look as if they were just shined today.”

“Cleaned, and not long ago,” Sarfael admitted with a laugh, sticking out one leg to better show off his boots. “The cloak was a most recent purchase, as the one I wore yesterday suffered some abuse. The seamstress assured me that it would find favor with Neverwinter’s ladies.”

“Dangerous,” squeaked Montimort.

Elyne smiled at the thin young man who stood close to her and nodded. “Note this one as a fighter, for his leather and harness are plain but well kept beneath that tawdry cloak. A man who pays so much attention to his gear knows how to use it.”

Sarfael coughed lightly.

“Yes?” said Elyne.

“All correct,” he said. “Save my age. Nine-and-twenty, but I have lived rough.”

She nodded. “Now turn and face the wall and describe three in the room as carefully.”

He spun to the wall and reeled off the list: “To my left, there is the stocky young lad who called me old. He favors the heavy blade, the broadsword, and depends upon those wide shoulders to beat his opponent down, flat and edge, but little point work, for his feet toe in and he’s graceless in his stance.”

A murmur from the crowd and whispers of “are you sure that you haven’t fought him, Parnadiz?”

“As for the young lady with the light laugh and the blonde curls,” Sarfael continued without pause, “she prefers the short sword and the hidden dagger, one in her boot, the other behind her back. The pretty cloak around her shoulders is merely clipped to her collar, not fastened with a chain, so she might pull it off in a hurry and use it to confuse another’s thrusts. The harlot’s trick, or so I’ve heard it called in other cities.”

There was a squeal of indignation at that, but the blonde was shushed. Sarfael checked over his shoulder for Elyne’s reaction. She looked more relaxed and slightly amused at the abuse he heaped upon her students. He judged her a lady quick to see the foibles of others, most particularly those she taught. But, judging by her earlier defense of the boy, there was one that she favored and he turned to him last.

“Finally, I come to the youth called Montimort. His wrists are thin, his shoulders stooped, and I think he may be the most tricky of the lot, because, being a wizard, he would not depend upon the blade to defend or attack.” Another murmur among the students confirmed his guess as correct.

“Enough,” said Elyne. “Turn and pick an opponent and a weapon.”

He spun in place and pointed at the brawny youth with an angry flush mottling his cheeks. “Let him use his broadsword. And, as an apology for any insult to her honor, I’ll take the young lady’s cape and let her hold my own.”

And then it was Elyne who raised one questioning eyebrow at such brashness. No doubt Dhafiyand’s other spies had not been so bold or so willing to expose themselves in a fight. Which, Sarfael judged, made him far less suspect in her eyes.

Parnadiz stepped forward, his practice blade already up. “Give him your cape, Charinyn.”

Charinyn pulled it off and tossed it to Sarfael. He shrugged off his own, giving it to her. Then he wrapped one corner of Charinyn’s much smaller cape in his left hand and nodded to Parnadiz.

The boy rushed at him, much as he predicted, with a heavy downward stroke meant to strike hard upon the upper shoulder and cripple his left arm. Sarfael stepped lightly to one side, stuck out one of his booted feet, and tripped him into stumbling. The cloak swung unused from his left hand.

With a roar and more dexterity than Sarfael would have guessed, Parnadiz kept his balance, whirled, and came charging back with a low sweeping blow to knock him off his feet. Sarfael sidestepped again, hopping neatly out of Parnadiz’s reach.

Parnadiz backed up two steps and shook his head like an angry bull. “I thought you wanted to fight? Or will you keep hopping around? It’s most shameful to refuse to engage.”

“Oh there’s nothing ignoble about escaping a blow to the head,” said Sarfael. Then he raised the cape high and shook it at Parnadiz. “This is just for show. As long as you’re looking at it, you’re not paying enough attention to me or my quick feet.”

The boy grunted, circling left and then circling right. Sarfael stayed still in the center of the floor, tracking him only with his eyes. “I’m an old man,” he explained, pitching his voice so all could hear, “so I’m not given to such rushing around as you prefer.”

Parnadiz feigned an attack from the left, and Sarfael did not move. The boy grunted then drove forward. Sarfael lifted his left arm at the last moment, let Parnadiz’s blade slide harmlessly beneath, and then dropped the girl’s cape over the lad’s head.

Sarfael’s right hand snaked out, grabbed Parnadiz’s wrist, and twisted it hard enough to make him cry out and loose his grip upon the blade. Sarfael knocked the broadsword down to the floor, kicking it to the wall. Then, with a flourish, he pulled the cape off Parnadiz’s head and handed it back to the startled Charinyn.