Chapter 50 Friend Northman #2
“Merchant,” the tall swordsman agreed, clasping his hands behind his back.
“The merchant children come for to learn, and the children of noblemen, so any person with money likes to send their children here to become known and to make the correct friends. We have now, even, fourth prince Zavindien’s children.
” He said this with pride. Niel, who had grown up with a queen for an aunt, only shrugged.
“Doan Paolo’s school is considered best in Cirancia.
They come to Laticillo to learn. The morning with tutors and books and maps, the afternoon, with the blades. ”
The spindly man overseeing the sparring children corrected the form of the one Niel had noticed getting sloppy.
“After this class, I teach the best of the older students in the sword-and-cape style,” Niel’s translator said. “You will teach one class instead, yes? And then, we will see.”
“Now? You want me to teach today?” Niel turned to look at him.
The swordsman shrugged, and spread his hands wide, palm up.
“If you would, friend northman. Doan Paolo cannot hire a man he has not seen teach.”
Niel’s mouth went dry.
“Alright,” he said. He hesitated. “Your practice swords aren’t right.”
“If Doan Paolo makes to hire you, you will give instruction to the school’s woodworker.”
Niel nodded, and watched the rest of the class, trying to figure out what he could possibly do for an entire group of youths who’d never held an Enarian-style sword, in the span of a single lesson.
Without even having the right swords to practice with.
He ran through ideas as he watched, discarding memory after memory of his father shouting and Corin bearing down on him; and memories of Vulmar Cutthroat taking Niel aside and trying to teach him dirty tricks to survive the matches longer.
And then, he remembered cold mornings spent in the small library at Mount Eyron, studying the gilded illustrations of blocks and strikes in his father’s training manuals.
Fundamentals so basic Niel had memorized them before he lost his first tooth.
The children were dismissed, and trotted off to get water before filtering inside the large building.
Through the windows, he could see other classes were happening inside.
The shorter man in red silk settled onto a chair, legs crossed and ring-studded hands draped over them.
Niel’s translator barked a few words, clapping his hands.
The older youths lounging on the far side of the trees looked up in surprise, then ambled over.
There were half a dozen of them, from perhaps the ages of fourteen to sixteen.
Niel could feel them taking his measure.
He stared back at them, unflinching as they took in his cheap, ill-tailored tunic, and the fact that he did not wear an empty scabbard on his belt.
One of them asked a question in Cirani, an eyebrow raised. The translating swordsman spoke back sharply, as if reprimanding.
“What’s he saying?” Niel asked.
His translator clicked his tongue.
“You do not dress like the other instructors, friend northman. He wonders why we have brought in a common man instead of one of your north’s famous knights. Prince Ario’s tongue is yet sharper than his sword.”
Niel met the youth’s eyes levelly. He looked to be about fifteen.
“I am a knight,” he said. “And my name is Niel, not ‘northman.’”
“Truly, friend Niel?” the translator said, wide-eyed, before relaying the message.
Niel didn’t bother answering. If this was a test, he was wasting time. Niel gestured for the youths to form a horizontal line in front of him. From watching the children, he’d guessed they would be used to this; and they moved into place quickly, each spaced equally apart from the others.
Niel grabbed the largest practice sword off the rack and slid into plow, one of the basic sword stances.
The youths were quick to mimic him, but their balance was off; they were used to their southern style, with the feet closer together.
As far as Niel was concerned, it had more in common with dancing than it did with warfare.
He walked slowly down the line, using his wooden sword blade to make adjustments like he’d seen the last teacher do.
The same youth, Ario, called something out again.
“He wish to know if you have fought a knight’s duel,” the translator said.
“Yes,” Niel said. Reaching Ario, he made the youth bring his hands lower to his hip, and widened his stance slightly. Niel moved on.
“He wish to know if you have won a knight’s duel,” the translator said, as the other youths snickered.
Niel sighed and strode back to the front of the line.
“Tell him the last knight I dueled demanded that he have a sword while I be unarmed, to make it a fair fight,” Niel said.
He shifted smoothly from a natural stance into plow, then stepped forward, swinging the sword over his shoulder into ox.
The students shifted as well. He went down the line again, correcting them, and wondered if he ought to be doing something flashier.
But a good swordsman’s technique started with knowing how to stand and how to hold a sword, and these children, for all they may have mastered their own country’s sword, knew nothing of the fundamentals Niel was schooled in.
Ario called something, and the other youths laughed again. Niel drew a deep breath. The translator snapped something at them in their own language, then sighed.
“He says you do not answer whether you won, friend Niel. He wonders if you do not say this because you cannot.”
Niel shook his head.
“Tell him it was a death match. I killed my opponent with my bare hands,” Niel said. “And then tell him to stop interrupting with stupid questions, or I will make him hold ox pose with the heaviest sword in this place for the entire rest of the class, prince or not.”
The translator repeated this, and Niel was met with the startled, wide eyes of the youths. He ignored their stares.
He moved them into high guard, then demonstrated how to move smoothly between the three positions while advancing, and then in reverse while retreating, each step bringing the sword into a different guard in sharp, clean swings.
Next he showed strikes that would pair with each guard, and set them in two lines, facing each other, to advance and retreat as they practiced the basic moves that Niel considered a knight’s bread and butter.
The youths were used to schooling, and used to holding a blade, but none of their instincts were of use here.
He found no shortage of things to correct, walking up and down the line.
Conscious that a constant need for translation might make him look incapable, he tried to correct without speaking, simply adjusting their bodies and demonstrating with his own stance, occasionally stepping into one of the student’s places so he could show exactly how the strikes should be landed or blocked himself.
For all their errors, they learned fast and stayed focused.
The hour ended before Niel realized it. His translator clapped his hands and shouted something to the youths, who bowed quickly to Niel—even the young princeling—and trotted to the water table with their wooden swords tucked under their elbows.
“I’m sure I can do better,” Niel said.
The swordsman clapped him on the shoulder and went to speak to Doan Paolo.
Niel, uncertain whether he should approach or give them space, even though he couldn’t understand more than one word in ten, found himself smoothing out the gravel training yard with his shoes.
At last, the swordsman strode back towards him as Doan Paolo went inside.
Niel took a deep breath. His heart hammered into his throat.
“You will need better clothes,” the man said.
“I have the job?” Niel asked, barely daring to believe.
“Three days a week. The better students only. Two classes, from the first afternoon bell to the third.”
His body was humming. All he could think about was telling Ayla.
“Alright. Good. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow. Are you not even to ask about money?” the man asked with a grin. He stretched out his hand, offering Niel two of the large gold-and-silver coins. He wasn’t certain of the currency yet, but he thought it was about half what he’d earned in the pit. A huge sum.
“For the week?” Niel asked, startled. They could live well on that. He could outfit the house, and feed them properly, and buy the things a baby might need.
The swordsman’s eyes widened.
“Friend Niel, I will not tell Doan Paolo you have said this,” the man told him.
“He would find it a great insult to his reputation. This is the finest school of swordsmen in Cirancia, perhaps the world. That is payment for today’s class only.
But you will need better clothes, before you return.
There is a tailor in the market who might help you. Ask for Mastro Faldine.”
Niel stared at him, heart thumping, and slowly closed his fingers around the coins.
“I’ll get clothes,” Niel promised.
“And tomorrow, we will arrange that the wood-worker comes, so you can speak to him of swords after your classes.”
“Alright,” Niel said hoarsely. His fist was so tight the coins were cutting into his skin. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Odilon,” the swordsman said. “Perhaps one day you will honor me to spar?”
“Yes. Any day,” Niel said. “I would… I cannot thank you enough.” His eyes felt like they were burning. Drat it all, if he started tearing they’d probably take the job back.
“Go,” Odilon said softly, his forehead furrowed. “Come back tomorrow, no later than the first bell. And someday, friend Niel, perhaps you will tell me how a grand master came to be here, like this.”
Niel nodded sharply and turned to leave. He hadn’t made it two steps out of the school before he broke into a run, grinning, overflowing with the news, and desperate to tell her their troubles were over.