CHAPTER 20
The morning sun spilled into the courtyard, warming up the laundry benches. I squinted at the sunshine.
Gort sat on the other side of the bench, twisting a thick wire into some sort of object. Occasionally he squished it with a pair of tongs, then twisted again. Across from us, Kaiden sat cross-legged on the wall around the wine tree, messing with another lock.
In the center of the courtyard, Reynald and the Magnar brothers clashed. All three wore padded gambesons, formfitting quilted jackets shielding their torsos and arms. Will’s gambeson was blue, Lute’s pale green, and Reynald was in dark, charcoal gray.
Both Will and Lute towered over the blademaster by about four inches and the quilted gambesons made them seem even larger.
Both were remarkably strong and fast. Both were younger and had the training and experience of professional mercenaries.
At twenty-one and nineteen, they were seasoned veterans, who identified weaknesses and zeroed in on them like hungry wolves.
They should’ve dominated Reynald, yet he moved through them like water. I’d been watching them for twenty minutes. Both brothers were out of breath and their necks and hands were covered with red welts, while Reynald hadn’t even broken a sweat.
The books said he was one of the best swordsmen in Rellas.
But reading about it and watching it were two different things.
I was used to movie fights. The clashing of the blades, the dramatic scene with two guys crossing their swords and pushing against each other, the long sequence of spectacular moves . . . This was nothing like that.
The Magnars circled Reynald. At first, they attacked at the same time, but he kept using them against each other, so now they were taking turns.
He waited for them, his sword held in both hands, the blade pointing up over his left shoulder.
Will struck from the right, swinging his axe in a short, vicious arc. Lute hung back. Reynald turned, gliding past the axe, and rammed the pommel of his sword into Will’s solar plexus.
“Ooh,” Gort grunted.
Will’s mouth fell open, and he landed on his ass and stayed there.
Lute thrust, fast as a snake. Reynald knocked his blade aside, turned, grabbed Lute by his neck with his left hand, and kicked his leading leg from under him. Lute crashed on his back, the point of Reynald’s sword half an inch from his throat.
It was all so fast. I barely followed this one. Most of the time I couldn’t. They would clash, and then one of the brothers would be either on the ground or walking away, cursing.
Will clambered to his feet, trudged over to us, grabbed a pitcher of water from the table, and drank from it.
Gort kept working on his wire.
Will wiped his mouth with his arm and growled. “The man isn’t human.”
“There are people in the kingdom who would trade years of their life for one lesson from him,” Gort said. “Learn while you can. You’ll live a little longer.”
Reynald offered Lute his hand and pulled him to his feet. He raised his arm slowly and thrust the blade, turning his arm. “Look at the angle.”
Lute mirrored his stance and thrust. The point of his blade quivered.
“Imagine the muscles in your arm,” Reynald said. “Feel them work.”
Lute thrust again.
“Slower,” Reynald said.
Another thrust.
“Slower.”
Lute thrust very slowly. The point of his sword danced.
“Don’t worry about keeping it steady for now. Concentrate on learning the motion.”
Lute squared his shoulders and tried again.
“Better,” Reynald said.
“Feels awkward.”
“Do it just like that thirty times every morning until it starts to feel natural. Break it into three sets of ten.”
“Why thirty? Why not a hundred?”
“Too many and you’ll overwork your shoulder. You won’t get there any faster, and we have a fight in seven days.”
Will took a deep breath and headed back to the center of the courtyard.
I wasn’t great at sports, but I played volleyball and swam in high school. I could tell when someone was phoning it in during practice. The brothers were giving it their all, and tonight they would be sore as hell.
Will landed on his butt again. I sucked in a breath in sympathy.
“It’s good for them,” Gort said, still examining the weird-looking tool in his fingers. “Knowing that even though you’re big and strong, a smaller, older opponent can still kill you.”
I nodded at the tool in his hands. “What is that?”
“A lockpick for Kaiden. I need to make six more. He gave me drawings.” Gort smiled.
I glanced at Kaiden. He slouched on the wall, the lock forgotten, watching Reynald. His face looked grim. Almost haunted.
“How did you find out he was a locksmith’s son?”
“Reynald told me,” Gort said.
Kaiden followed Reynald around like a devoted puppy. He should’ve been excited watching this fight. Instead, he looked like he was at a funeral.
I had two younger cousins on my mom’s side.
I remembered visiting them a few years back, when they were twelve and eleven.
They were borderline feral and bouncing off the walls.
Kaiden was usually so quiet, half of the time I forgot he was even there and right now he might as well have been a ghost.
Our stares connected. Kaiden looked down at his lock and started fiddling with it.
“What about from the Southerner’s Guard?” Lute asked.
Reynald moved into a stance, sword in both hands, the blade resting over his left shoulder. Lute mirrored him.
“Got it?” Reynald asked.
Lute nodded.
“Come on,” Reynald said.
The younger man charged, his sword raised for a strike.
Reynald parried and turned around Lute, somehow grabbing his opponent’s arm and locking it in the bend of his elbow.
His sword slipped around Lute’s blade, as if it were liquid.
Lute’s sword went flying and clattered onto the stone.
Half a second, and Lute was on one foot, off-balance, bent forward, with Reynald controlling his arm and the blade of Reynald’s sword touching his neck.
Gort raised his thick eyebrows.
How did he do that? Did he catch Lute’s sword with his cross guard and pry it free? It was so damn fast.
Reynald let go. Lute fell and cursed.
It was beautiful and so controlled. Reynald never stumbled, he never missed. He owned his battlespace. Everyone else was just a guest in it.
Watching Reynald was dangerous for me. When he took a blade into his hand, he transformed into a different man and that man pulled me like a magnet. It wasn’t just his muscular body and the way he moved; it was the eyes. Cold, calculating eyes. Merciless. Powerful.
I needed to have my head examined.
Seven days until the Butcher displayed his next kill. Thinking about that was like pouring cold water over my head.
“What’s bothering you?” Gort asked. “Is it Drugh?”
“No.”
A messenger from Taryz had come first thing in the morning. One of Drugh’s mercenaries had stopped by asking about the Magnars. Tonight Reynald and I would go to the teahouse and try to settle things.
“Then what is it?” Gort asked.
“The Butcher is good enough to kill Eliarde.”
In the courtyard, Reynald thrust past Will’s swing and stopped the tip of his sword an inch from Will’s throat.
“Reynald knows his limits,” Gort said. “He won’t throw his life away or ours. If he says he can do it, it’s because he’s calculated the odds.”
“I understand that. And I know Reynald is amazing. I can see him being amazing right now. But nobody knows how good the Butcher is.”
Gort shrugged. “True.”
“There’s a part of Reynald that wants to find that out,” I said.
“Also true,” Gort said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Gort cut a new length of wire. “You can’t afford doubt in a swordfight. You come to it to win, or you don’t fight at all.”
Lute staggered to us and sat on the ground by the benches. “I’m done. Just done.”
“Weak,” Gort told him.
“You try him, old man. All you do now is tinker and complain.”
“Don’t make me get up off this bench, boy.”
“Maybe you should. Watch out for those knees breaking.”
The doorbell rang. Lute groaned and dragged himself to the front door.
Will parried Reynald’s cut with the haft of his axe.
“Good,” Reynald said.
“About Drugh,” Gort said. “This is a mess of our making. Our family should fix it.”
I didn’t have much in the way of secrets to hit Drugh with, so I had come up with a backup plan. They didn’t need to know about it.
“It will be fine. I’ll take care of it.” Hopefully. “Reynald said he’d help me.”
“We could . . .”
I pitched my voice low and intoned, “‘Reynald knows his limits. If he says he can do it, it’s because he’s calculated the odds.’”
“Aspects preserve us,” Gort muttered. “The boys are bad enough. Don’t you start.”
Lute trotted to us, all fatigue forgotten. “A noble is here to see you.”
What?
“He won’t tell us who he is. He brought a bodyguard with him.”
“Did he ask for me by name?”
“Yes.”
Strange. Did Solentine send someone my way? “Did he say what he wants or who sent him?”
“He wants to ask you a question. He didn’t say anything else.”
If this was coming from the Shears, it was in our best interest to let him in. However, that was highly unlikely. I was still an unknown to Solentine. He wouldn’t recommend me to any clients. And if he wanted information, he would come himself.
No, this visit was a bad idea.
“Please inform him that I’m not receiving visitors. Let’s see what he does.”
Lute nodded and went to the door.
In the courtyard, Reynald paused, looking at me.
Will decided it would be a great chance for a surprise attack and struck.
Reynald stepped out of the way without looking.
Will’s axe whistled past the blademaster.
Reynald kicked the back of Will’s right knee and shoved him forward, his gaze still on me.
Will went down. His knee slammed on the ground. He grunted.
“Hey!” Gort growled. “That was a cheap shot, boy!”
Lute jogged back to me from the front door. “He says his name is Earl Berengur.”
Oh.
I jumped to my feet. “Please ask him to wait. Clover!”