Rosemary Jones - Cold Steel and Secrets Part 1

Disarmed and obviously disgruntled, Parnadiz scowled at Sarfael. “I thought you said it was for show.”

“I lied,” said Sarfael. “I may do that quite often. Or I may not.”

Parnadiz ran at a nearby rack and pulled out another practice sword. “A proper fight,” he challenged Sarfael. “Draw that sword on your hip and let us see what you can do.”

“No,” said Sarfael.

“Are you a coward?” yelled Parnadiz.

“No more than most sensible men. Dueling is outlawed, young hothead, and your teacher says you hold to the law. Besides, if I draw my sword, it will all end with blood on the floor and somebody needing to clean it and somebody sent to fetch a healer. A poor showing for my first day among you.”

“This lesson is done,” said Elyne, stepping between the two men. “Parnadiz, your anger will trip you as often as your feet. Control both, and stop rushing your attacks.”

“I can protect myself,” Sarfael said to her.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I am sure you can. But I must look to the welfare of all my students, even the reckless.”

Sarfael bowed and moved out of her way. “Perhaps you and I can duel, for practice only, when the others leave.”

She chewed her lip and looked him slowly up and down. “I think we have been dueling, have we not? But I’m not sure who has won.”

“Perhaps we should call it a draw,” he said with a true smile. “For I have no wish for argument.”

Elyne turned to her other students, gesturing to Sarfael. “This is not one who you can prick and then disengage,” she said. “If you mark him in a fight, be prepared to finish it for real. Now, return to your homes and, remember, what is learned here is for sport, not injury.”

Sarfael let out the breath that he had been holding with a relieved but muffled sigh. The lady seemed inclined to take him as he wished, something of a rogue but no threat to her or her students. That argued well for him keeping his skin whole for that night at least.

With backward glances, and much whispering, the others left. Only Montimort lingered, until Elyne drove him out with rejoinders to find his supper and come back the next day.

Elyne walked the room, checking that all the practice weapons were aligned within their racks, rearranging the stones into new patterns for the next day’s lessons, and finally reaching for a long-handled broom propped in the corner.

Sarfael gently lifted it from her hands. “A small payment for today’s lesson,” he said to her.

“Oh I doubt that you learned anything from me,” she replied, leaning back on one of the practice butts and watching him sweep. He counted it another sign of victory that she let him do the humble chore.

Still, he wondered how much she believed about his earlier lies of having family ties to Neverwinter. She seemed a cautious duelist, preferring to keep her opponent clearly before her. But, her hand was off her sword hilt, which showed more trust than the beginning of their encounter.

“I did learn something today,” he said, trying to draw her out and assess her mood. “I learned that I show my skills too quickly. Pride made me boast, and that was foolish.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, it can save you from the fight. It made the others stop and think.”

Sarfael said no more but kept to his cleaning, making even strokes across the floor as he learned long before when he played the servant in a high-class inn that catered to a privileged and talkative crowd. Sometimes silence was better than questions for luring the wary into conversation.

“May I see it?” Elyne finally asked. “That sword that you would not draw?”

With a nod, he unhooked the scabbard from his belt and presented it to her with the hilt foremost. He knew the risk, to give away his weapon so easily, except he would never truly surrender Mavreen’s sword. However, he already judged Elyne to be an honorable woman, as evidenced by her earlier actions with her students, most especially the young Luskar, and he felt that the sword was safe with her. It was a feeling that surprised him slightly, for he rarely trusted anyone since Mavreen’s death.

Elyne half turned away from Sarfael and drew the blade forth, carefully and cleanly, a practiced move to protect the edge.

She held it balanced in her right hand, twisting only her wrist to examine it from all sides. Two passes in the air, high and low, and then she sheathed it with the same careful attention.

“The balance is very fine and the edge exceptional,” she said. “But you have the height and the length of arm to carry a longer blade.”

“You could tell that from the scabbard,” he rejoined, taking the sword back from her. “So why look so close?”

“Some blades are enchanted, and the enchantment makes it worth carrying a lesser sword. But not this, I think. A well-forged rapier, nothing more, made for a smaller man or a woman.”

“It was a woman,” he admitted with the utmost truth. Lies he always told with honeyed-tongue ease, but, for Mavreen’s memorial, the sword’s story never varied and his voice always sounded rough when he told it. “She died and I did not.”

It took Rucas Sarfael four days to attain an invitation from Elyne to rob one of General Sabine’s armories.

“We must assume that this is a test,” Dhafiyand said.

“Oh, most certainly, it is a test, but it was designed earlier for the rest of the brats. She’s not happy about it,” Sarfael said as he paced back and forth in the old man’s room. “Elyne is forbidden to accompany us. But she and other Nashers will meet us when the task is done to take charge of whatever we carry away.”

“And how do you know she is unhappy about this?”

“Montimort told me that she has put off this raid three times already. And been reprimanded for the delay. So I went to the lady and told her that I knew a certain cache of weapons that would be easy to steal-better than easy, one that would pose little risk for her students. You will find me such a thing, I assume?”

Dhafiyand waved one ink-stained hand in assurance. “It can be arranged without much difficulty. The question is whether or not we inform the general that she must sacrifice a few weapons for our purposes. On the whole, I think it better to leave her in the dark and make our own arrangements.”

“As you wish. It makes no matter to me.”

“What else have you learned?”

“Very little of use to you.” Sarfael continued his perambulation around the room, stopping to admire a miniature painting. Framed in silver and pearls, it showed a delicate young moon elf peering out at the world. Sarfael wondered who the lady was and how her portrait came to grace the spymaster’s collection of trinkets. Dhafiyand had a crow’s propensity of picking up shiny little treasures to line his nest.

“They are brats, these so-called Nashers, young idiots for the most part. Most of Elyne’s students are still barely out of their teens,” he said to Dhafiyand. “Their foolish parents stuffed their heads with stories of a Neverwinter that is no more.”

“But they talk of sedition?”

“They daydream, no more than that. Gnash their teeth about Neverember as you said and take that for a nickname to make themselves sound fierce. Children’s games, I tell you.” Having fully circled the room, Sarfael leaned his broad shoulders against the mantel and crossed his arms. “Idle chatter about reclaiming the throne and finding a royal heir to unite the ancient families and bring back the splendors of the past fills their days. Truly, if they, and their teacher, are the biggest threat Lord Neverember faces, then we should look for sport elsewhere. Red Wizards, perhaps?”

Dhafiyand ignored the last remark. “Have you heard any talk of a crown?”