Себастьян Кастелл - Traitor's Blade

Anyway, Murrow, Kest’s father, was a fine swordsman, and since Kest showed no interest, he thought he could induce him to jealousy by teaching me. He showed me how to fight with the broadsword, often called the war-sword these days because duels are now fought with lighter weapons. But the sword I most fell in love with was the rapier: straight, sharp point, lightweight – at least in comparison to a war-sword – and with an elegant style that felt like dancing with Death. I was a good student, and I loved spending time with the family. But strangely, Kest was never swayed by the jealousy his father had sought to create. He watched me, complimented me periodically, but never showed any interest in taking up the sword himself.

When I was ten years old, Murrow took me aside after practice one day and said, ‘Falcio, my boy, you’re going to be a fine swordsman one day. A fine one. I’ve never seen anyone take to it so quickly.’

A ball of warm fire lit itself in my chest. He had never called me ‘my boy’ before, and it made me feel something, just for a moment, that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I resented Kest, not for having a father, or even for not caring, because he did, but rather because he didn’t try half so hard to please his father as I had done to please mine. But I didn’t really hold a grudge with Kest over his disinterest. He was smart, he told jokes; everyone liked him. He was good at plenty of things. I was happy he had left the sword to me.

Years passed but I hardly took notice and before long we were turning twelve. My birthday had just passed and Kest’s was coming up. I won’t ever forget the day he came over to my mother’s cottage to tell me—

Well, here’s how it played: he knocked on the door. I came out with a half-eaten piece of bread in my hand and he said, ‘Falcio, I need to ask you something. Well, to be truthful, I need to tell you something.’

I placed the piece of bread down on the step and put my hands together in front of me, a nervous habit I had in those days. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Well …’ He hesitated for a second, but then he took a breath and said, ‘I’m going to take up the sword, Falcio.’

I let out my own breath all at once. ‘Damn, Kest, you scared the Saints out of me.’

‘I’m serious, Falcio. I’m going to take up the sword. I’m going to start today. I don’t want you to be upset or offended – it’s not because of anything to do with you. I just have to do this. I have to take up the sword.’

I looked at him. I wanted to ask why, but somehow I knew he would never tell me. ‘Does this mean we can’t be friends?’ I asked, confused and a little hurt.

‘No – of course we’ll always be friends. That’s why I’m telling you this now, so you won’t think it’s something bad between us.’

I thought about that for a second. ‘Well, okay then. That’s good. We can practise together. We can be the two best sword fighters in the town. People will come from all around to watch us. We can go see your father and start today!’ I figured I was being nice, since Kest was almost twelve and would never be able to catch up to me.

Kest grinned, and we went to his house. When Murrow saw Kest, somehow he knew something had changed, and he pulled down another sword from his shelf without anyone saying a word.

When Kest first picked up the sword, I thought it would be hard for him – sure, he had watched me train and he probably had a good idea about how the parries and strikes should go, but he was bound to be awkward, and he hadn’t built up his muscles the way I had from years of practise. And, for the first hour or so, he was, missing the parries and falling all over himself whenever he tried a cut. But he just kept at it, going back and repeating move after move, stroke after stroke.

By the end of the morning, he could beat me every time. By the end of that evening, he had beaten his father, and by the time Kest’s thirteenth birthday passed, there was no one on this earth who could best him with a sword. He never told me why he changed his mind about fighting, but he was the greatest swordsman in the world, and he never, ever told jokes.

‘Let it be, Brasti,’ Kest said, but Brasti shook his head and climbed down from his horse.

‘Right, of course, why bother complaining about it when we’re good and buggered no matter which way we go?’

All the main exits from town were sealed except for caravan traffic.

‘Hide, fight or flee?’ Kest asked me.

I started to think about it for a second, but Brasti didn’t wait. ‘I already told you, we can’t get out of here. They aren’t letting anyone but the Saints-damned caravans through, and we can’t fight them all. We have to hide out until things die down.’

‘Things won’t die down until we do, or until we find the assassin,’ Kest said. He folded his arms and went back to waiting for me to say something intelligent.

Whoever had killed Lord Caravaner Tremondi had worked out their plan perfectly. Everybody knew he was rich and everyone knew his bodyguards were Greatcoats. It wasn’t hard to believe that three Trattari would kill their employer to take his money. If we were caught, no one was likely to believe us, and if we escaped – well, that just proved our guilt, didn’t it? Either way, the murderer was completely free of suspicion. She was probably walking around the city right now, enjoying the rest of her day.

‘There’s no way we’re going to be able to track down the killer,’ I said. ‘We can’t possibly say we were right there in the room with her but can’t describe what she looked like. In a few hours the whole city of Solat is going to be looking for us.’

Brasti threw his hands up in the air. ‘So we run. Again. Like cowards.’

‘We’ve got fairly skilled at it,’ Kest pointed out.

‘You can get good at anything if you practise every day.’

‘We go to the caravan market,’ I said. ‘The constables are still searching for us in the city – they know we’ll try to hide out, so they’ll want to catch us before we go underground. But they won’t have alerted anyone in the caravan market yet.’

‘Brilliant,’ Brasti said, clapping his hands. ‘The caravan market – and I thought I was supposed to be the dumb one.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kest said evenly, ‘you still are.’

‘I thought you didn’t tell jokes.’

‘I don’t.’

I let the two of them bicker while I considered our situation. Our best chance at getting out of the city and getting hold of some money was to be hired as guards or duellists at the caravan market. A warrior who could fight military-style or solo was a great asset on the roads these days. But other than Lord Tremondi, few caravaners were willing to hire Trattari, so that meant we’d have to take what we could get – and take it quickly – before the constables decided to search the market. I suspected it was the last place they would want to find us, though; word that a Lord Caravaner had been murdered in the city would spread quickly, and that wouldn’t do much for trade. Better for the city constables if they could keep it quiet for a while. Better for us, too.

‘We stick to the plan,’ I said at last. ‘We were heading out with Lord Tremondi because he was taking the southern trade routes and we needed passage to Baern, right? We don’t have any money, and even if we could sneak our way past the civilian gates, we won’t get far without coin. So I say we make for the caravan market, get ourselves hired with another caravan and follow them right out of the Market Gate. The constables don’t control that one anyway, so we’re less likely to get caught.’

‘What about Tremondi’s plan? What about the Greatcoats becoming the wardens of the trade routes?’ Brasti asked.