The Swords & Salt Collection Page 5

  “I should like to see how you’re doing.” Zirabo smiled again.

  The smile seemed genuine, but for some reason, Yanko didn’t quite believe the words that accompanied it. It made sense that someone might come out to check on the mines, but why send a prince to travel so far? And why would Zirabo—or anyone—care about some whelp who had yet to take his entrance exams? His family had been honored once, working closely with the Great Chief’s clan, but his mother’s choices had changed everything. Yanko had expected his entire school career to be a non-event for anyone in the government, and that it would only be if he distinguished himself later on that he might earn some degree of honor back for the family.

  “Yanko,” Father said, another cool look suggesting this wasn’t the time for gaping in thoughtful silence. Perhaps it appeared more as stupefied silence to the outside observer. “Gather your weapons and collect your opponent from the tunnel.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Yanko grabbed his saber from the rack but hesitated with his hand over the kyzar. He liked the style the Turgonian had shown him, but a couple of days of practice didn’t make him an expert. Also, what would Father think if he abandoned the techniques his great uncle had been teaching him for years?

  Dak walked in, the guards trailing. His fierce one-eyed gaze raked the room, taking everyone in but lingering on no one, not even the prince. Either he didn’t know the significance of the purple-clad warriors… or he did and wasn’t intimidated. Zirabo blinked in surprise at the appearance of this bare-chested Turgonian, but he recovered his equanimity and stroked his flute thoughtfully. Wondering if he would need to tame the man to keep him from killing Yanko?

  Yanko lowered his hand without picking up the kyzar. He would do this the new way, punishment and disapproving glares be damned. Maybe he would even perform well. He thought about trying to catch Dak’s eye with an imploring please-help-me-perform-well look but strode to the center of the room instead. No, he wouldn’t ask for lenience in any manner. What he knew, he knew. Let these people judge him as they saw fit.

  Dak chose his usual dual-edged sword and shield. He joined Yanko in the center of the chamber, facing him as they had done all the previous times, ignoring the guards surrounding him. Uncle Mishnal shifted from foot to foot. Did he think the prince might be in danger? Or did he think Dak would attempt to kill Yanko and that he must be prepared to send commands to the collar?

  After seeing Dak carry the injured overseer out of the mine, Yanko doubted he was in danger of dying in this practice arena. He wouldn’t assume the Turgonian to be an ally either, but had the feeling he was the sort of man to kill face-to-face on the field of battle and not in some inappropriate setting. Of course, if he found his opportunity to escape, these mines could very well become a field of battle in his eyes.

  “Both combatants are prepared?” Uncle Mishnal asked.

  Yanko nodded. Dak didn’t give an indication that he understood. At some point, Yanko might have to inform the others that he could understand, but it didn’t matter now.

  “Begin,” Mishnal barked, then stepped back.

  Without hesitation, Yanko lowered into the side-facing-front combat stance and bounced lightly on his toes, ready to spring back. After their previous encounters, he expected Dak to charge immediately, to attempt to barrel him to the ground again, but the Turgonian merely lowered into a combat stance as well, his torso guarded by the shield, the sword loose and ready.

  This was more what Yanko had expected with their first encounter. They traded a few experimental blows, simple combinations of feints and attacks designed to test one’s opponent. Dak had to know all about him by now—Yanko wished he could say the same for the Turgonian—so this must be for the sake of their observers. Interesting.

  After the opening blows, Dak picked up his speed and his aggressiveness, throwing out combinations of maneuvers in quick succession rather than allowing Yanko a turn to attack. A barrage of slashes angled toward his head, and he found himself backing around the room, a fast-paced dance where the lead belonged to another. If he wanted a turn, he would have to find a way to take it. By focusing on evading the blows and providing a smaller target than he had been when he’d been parrying with the off blade, he felt less frenzied—that he had more time to think. He hadn’t been struck yet, but he hadn’t come close to striking his opponent either, and watching him retreat around the room couldn’t be impressing his father.

  Unlike Great Uncle and others that Yanko had sparred with, the Turgonian didn’t offer up predictable patterns of combinations he liked to repeat. He did use the shield to cover the blind spot that his missing left eye gave him. He held the weapon higher and tighter than another might.

  On a whim, Yanko ducked an attack and darted toward Dak’s left, as if he meant to come in behind the shield and strike at the back. As the Turgonian moved to compensate, Yanko lunged back around to the man’s right. Dak wasn’t quite as fast, but he sensed the switch before he saw it, and whipped his blade back over to protect his chest. Remembering the lesson of the cut hand, Yanko slashed his saber toward Dak’s calf. Not a vital target, but the opportunity to make contact excited him nonetheless. With the blunt practice blades, it probably wouldn’t even draw blood, but maybe it would give the Turgonian pause.

  Dak was faster than a man that size had a right to be and lifted the leg a split second before the saber struck his flesh. Yanko held back a groan. Don’t give up; you have the advantage. The maneuver left Dak off balance and backpedaling to recover. Yanko pressed him, advancing, feinting, and lunging, taking the offensive for once. Dak retreated, but his momentary falter had already passed, and he parried each blow with the experience of years Yanko just didn’t have.

  You’ve got to do more than beat at him and hope, fool. Set something up. Create an opening.

  Already the fury of the pace was winding him, but he tried to take his own advice. He bent his knees and thrust off his back foot for a deep, low lunge, targeting Dak’s legs again, the inside of a shin this time. As a tall man, Dak must find the low strikes more irritating to defend against than the ones at a comfortable level. While the Turgonian was concentrating on the low attack, Yanko ran to the man’s left again, rounding the shield. This time he didn’t make it a feint. He threw all his effort into trying to get in behind Dak to strike at his back. Again, as with the calf, he saw the opening and lunged. But once again, he huffed in frustration because his opponent was too quick and recovered in time, or maybe he had read his intent from the beginning. Or both.

  Dak drove him backward with a series of attacks of his own, and when they had some distance between them, they both paused by some unspoken agreement. Sweat ran down Yanko’s back, and his breaths came like the pants of a dog. His only satisfaction was that sweat dripped down the Turgonian’s torso as well, and he’d come far closer to hitting the man than he had in their previous sessions.

  “Enough,” Uncle Mishnal said. “Lower your weapons.”

  Yanko lowered his saber but didn’t take his eyes from Dak, not right away. He was not positive where he stood with the man. Would he view those near misses with anger and be reluctant to stop the fight until he had ground Yanko into the floor again?

  No. He inclined his head and walked to the rack where he deposited the sword and shield. He clasped his hands behind his back and faced the room in such a way that nobody could get behind him.

  Yanko looked to his father, wondering if his own display had been… satisfactory. Uncle Mishnal gave him a slight nod. He had seen Yanko’s first encounter with the Turgonian and could compare. That faint approval satisfied Yanko, but his father didn’t meet his eyes. He was looking at the prince, concern on his face.

  He doesn’t think I was good enough.

  The tip of Yanko’s saber drooped to touch the ground. Father was more concerned with the prince’s reaction than with anything else. And the prince… To say he appeared bored wouldn’t quite be fair, but he did look… distracted. He was e
yeing Dak. Dak in turn remained in his military rest stance, his face cool, his focus on a spot on the wall above the wolf god’s statue across the chamber.

  Yanko walked past the guards and returned his saber to the rack.

  Zirabo shifted his attention to him and smiled again. “You can’t ask for a better practice partner than a Turgonian, can you? Their close combat skills haven’t diminished in the centuries since they’ve started shooting at us with rifles.”

  “Yes, honored Prince. I find him a challenging opponent.” Yanko was relieved when his uncle didn’t snort. Challenging was perhaps an insufficient term to describe those early encounters with Dak.

  “Indeed,” Zirabo said. “Your father mentioned that you’ve been studying the Science as well, and that you might be persuaded to give us a demonstration.”

  Fireball time. After seeing the infernos of burning methane, he was less enthused than usual at handling such a force, but it was what they would expect, what everyone who wanted to become a combat mage studied these days. Yanko wiped his hands on his shirt, an ineffective gesture given how much he had sweated during that sparring match—his shirt was as damp as the rest of him.

  “Yes, honored Prince.”

  “Good.” Zirabo picked up a satchel and opened the flap. He pulled out a small potted fern, its leaves drooping and brown. Most people would have called it dead. They wouldn’t have been far off.

  “I picked it up before I started into the mountains,” Zirabo said. “The climate is a touch dry on this side of the ridge, and it doesn’t seem to be doing well.”

  “Er,” Yanko said. “It would have been smarter to remove it from its home during a dormant growth period. And to have not then… stuffed it in a bag.”

  Father cleared his throat.

  “Honored Prince,” Yanko added.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Zirabo walked over and set the pot down on the smooth salt floor. “Do you think you could do anything for it?”

  Oh. This was a test. And not the test Yanko had expected. Had Father said something about his preference for nature science? It didn’t seem like he would—there weren’t any warrior mages with that specialty, nor were there many men who favored earth studies to fire these days—but how else could Zirabo have known? And why would he care to ask after some plant?

  “You can do it,” Father said, perhaps mistaking his hesitation for uncertainty.

  Now, he urges me. After all the times he’s asked me to study something else.

  Aware of the dozen pairs of eyes watching him—not to mention the single eye of the Turgonian—Yanko sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the bedraggled fern. He rested his hand on the side of the pot and closed his eyes as he had so often done in the forest as a boy. He sensed the disrupted soil, the dryness of the root system, the hunger of the fronds for the sun’s energy. Up above, he would have more access to nutrients that could be found in the earth—the salt offered very little the plant needed. But perhaps some little progress could be made here. An illusion would certainly not fool the prince, not when he had studied the Science himself.

  Yanko summoned a ball of light, choosing a radiation that matched that of the sun’s as closely as he could. Next, he drew water from the humidity of the air and bypassed the roots to infuse the microscopic droplets directly into the fern’s cell walls. Dehydration was the plant’s most grievous injury. He accelerated its uptake and processing of the light as well. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but when he opened his eyes, the withered brown fronds had taken on a green hue. It would take some time for the fern to regain its health, but with a regular supply of water and perhaps some compost to enrich the poor soil in the pot, it could survive. He allowed a pleased smile to stretch across his face before remembering his audience.

  The guards wore bored expressions, both Dak’s men and the purple-clad fellows accompanying the prince. Well, fireballs were more exciting to observers, Yanko supposed. Uncle Mishnal was scratching his head. Father was tugging at his mustachios and eyeing the prince, apparently as perplexed as Yanko as to this choice of test. With his hands still clasped behind his back, Dak hadn’t shifted his stance an inch, but his brow seemed less lined than usual, his face thoughtful rather than grim.

  “Nicely done,” Zirabo said, wearing the same smile. Yanko was beginning to suspect that smile was part of his diplomatic veneer and might not give a true indication of his thoughts, but his tone held a warmth that Yanko rarely received. He allowed himself to feel pleased anew and smiled back, though he kept the gesture slight and modest, as Grandfather had always encouraged.

  “If I may presume,” Yanko said, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice soft, “the honored prince may wish to leave the pot in his wagon where it can receive light. And assign someone to water it.”

  “I’m sure one of my men will be most pleased to do so,” Zirabo, lips quirked up in a smile more wry than diplomatic, eyed the large, muscular, and most certainly skilled warrior guards. They all nodded to him, then, before the prince’s face had turned away, started pointing at each other and silently trying to foist the task off on the nearest comrade. This brazenness surprised Yanko, and he decided Zirabo must not only be lenient with his men but that perhaps they’d also gone into war together. Yanko had often heard of the bonds men formed in dire situations of forced closeness. Though Yanko still struggled to see himself marching into battle, he did feel a wistful pang at the notion of having such comrades. These last weeks in the mine with no one his own age to talk to, nor even his hounds to hike into the forest with, had been particularly lonely.

  Zirabo picked up the pot. “Any other suggestions for furthering its health?”

  Yanko was surprised the prince bothered asking. He couldn’t truly care about this plant beyond the bounds of this test, could he? Perhaps it was simply his diplomatic side that urged him to make all around him feel at ease.

  “A bigger pot if you’re going to keep it long,” Yanko suggested. “And better soil. If you’re going back across the ridge with my father, and you have time to stop in our village, you could see my cousin Ishee. She promised she’d take care of my bees and my worms.”

  “Your worms?” Zirabo asked even as Father covered his brow with his hand.

  Yanko cleared his throat, reminded of the elders who’d pointed out that some of his hobbies were more appropriate for geriatric women than boys. “Yes, honored Prince. I made some boxes, homes for them if you will, and feed them the spoiled vegetables and table scraps. They produce wonderful rich castings—” he prayed thirteen-year-old Ishee would have the sense not to call it worm poop, as she so often did, to the Great Chief’s son, “—that are full of nutrients and can improve the overall health of the soil.”

  “I see, I see,” Zirabo murmured, nodding to himself.

  Yanko would have been happy to expound on the subject but feared his rambling might not be appreciated by everyone present. Indeed, the amusement on the guards’ faces had grown a touch dry, as they perhaps wondered which of them might be assigned to gathering worm castings.

  Zirabo clapped once and spread his hands. “A good showing, young man, thank you. You must be tired from your physical and mental exertions.” He touched his flute. “Shall I play a tune to alleviate your weariness?”

  “It would be magnificent to hear you play,” Yanko said.

  “Honored Prince.” Father stepped forward. “This is a great blessing you offer us. Would you perhaps wish some refreshments before beginning? Or a greater stage from which to be heard? This meager chamber hardly seems fitting.”

  “I assure you, this will be fine, Gar Moon.” Zirabo lifted a hand to keep Father from running off to gather who knew what drinks or chairs or flower arrangements he thought necessary for such an event.

  With obvious reluctance, Father bowed and subsided.

  Zirabo lifted his flute on its leather cord but peered at Dak before bringing the instrument to his lips. Did he not think the Turgonian worthy of heari
ng his song?

  “He is surely weary, too, honored Prince,” Yanko said before he could think wiser of speaking out. “As are all the miners, certainly. We would all appreciate your song, if it will carry.”

  Father frowned at this presumptuousness, and Yanko knew he would receive a lecture later.

  “Hm,” was all Zirabo said, resting his fingers lightly on the holes.

  The first few notes were soft and drawn out, though they resonated and seemed to linger in the air. Yanko had only had the few months of required music studies as a child, enough to accompany a singer or group with a drum if needed, but it was enough to identify the haunting tune as having a minor key. It wasn’t what he would have expected from a melody meant to rejuvenate the body, but the music stirred the hairs on the back of his neck; he sensed the power within it, power that went beyond the simple appreciation of a song.

  He had thought he’d already recovered from his sparring match, but a new freshness flowed into his limbs, invigorating him like stepping out into chilly mountain air first thing in the morning. He flexed his arms, ready to swing a sword or a pickaxe or whatever one might need. The power of the flute was thus that he could almost see the music flowing out of it, as if the notes were tangible strands, floating in the air, toward Father and Uncle Mishnal and toward the Turgonian as well.

  Yanko paused, focusing his sensitivity. Something was different about the strands flowing toward Dak. Did the Turgonian sense it as well? Dak was watching the prince and standing statue still.

  Surely, Zirabo hadn’t been sent to complete the “accident” that Yanko had averted the other day. And if he had, what could Yanko do? This wasn’t some uneducated gang of workers he could cow with illusions. This was someone who might have been sent by the Great Chief himself.

  A few final notes played, and the music ended. Dak remained standing, his eye open. Yanko let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Whatever that had been, it hadn’t killed Dak. At least not yet.

  Your imagination, boy.