Elva’s flushed face, “We don’t hit above
the collarbones in competition fencing, which is why I’m unused to blocking
upward.”
“Nor do you defend against a mounted attacker, is my guess,”
Zathdar observed.
“True enough. Plus he’s a tad taller, and definitely bigger
through the upper body than I, so he’s got a longer reach. That makes a
difference even when the training is the same, but his is better, I think.”
“Practical experience.” He gestured with a mocking air of
apology and flashed a grin. “However. As this is supposed to be learning, want
to show them some tricks of the trade from the other world?”
“All right.” I scrambled to my feet. “But I saw those hits
you scored on Owl. Anyone have a pair of gloves I can borrow?”
Several women offered, but their hands were all smaller than
mine. Only the blonde did not offer, though she was my size. A gangly fellow passed
me his, and they fit perfectly.
So Zathdar and I squared off, and the entire crew fell
silent, even those in the tops, who leaned out to watch.
We began by making a few passes to test reflexes and
strength. On the former we were roughly equal, but he had the edge on the
latter. Also, his drill hadn’t been confined to the rules, and while I’d seen
opportunities to use street-fighting techniques with slower fighters, he was
too well practiced high, low, behind—all the places sport fencing forbade. He seemed
to be holding back. He was demonstrating. Gradually we sped up, until my arm
felt like string and my eyes burned with sweat, and then came the inevitable
tap of the point lightly in the hollow of my collarbones.
The crew burst into cheers. “That was fantastic,” I
exclaimed and flourished a salute.
“Want another?” he offered.
“Nope. I can already tell I’m going to be sore and stiff by
nightfall. I haven’t had a workout that good in much too long.”
He turned away to select another volunteer as I returned the
gloves to their owner, apologizing for their dampness. At least there was a
cleaning frame below, I thought, sitting gratefully.
We observed two more sessions before the watch bell rang. In
the general movement Zathdar appeared at my side. “Come to the cabin?”
“All right.” I swung to my feet. “I have some questions.”
“I thought you might.” He twitched his eyebrows at me before
leading the way. I followed that silk, no less blinding for being sodden from
the increasing mist, as around us the day watches changed, people talking and
laughing, the armorer keeping up a running stream of insults if weapons were
not wiped down and put back in the racks to his exact specifications.
The other two captains had long since rowed back to their
own ships to oversee their own combat sessions. Zathdar waved me into the
cabin, and I ducked my head absently as I passed inside. This time I noticed
things I hadn’t before: the neatly made bunk, and the coverlet dyed various
shades of green from pale silver to deep forest. Green was green, but somehow
the thing radiated masculine vibes.
Above the bunk at the head end, someone had built shelves,
which were crammed with handmade books. Next to the shelves, a silverwork crane
taking flight rested on its own little shelf, jury rigged between a bulkhead
and the hull. Stacked next to that, in eye-pleasing array, a series of
maps—Khanerenth, Sartor, Colend. Chwahirsland. Some of the western lands that I
did not recognize.
Above the foot of the bunk, a shelf held an exquisitely
rendered tiny carving of a tree, the bark indicated by the grain of the wood,
each branch curving up into impossibly tiny and intricate twigs, attached to
which were tiny five-point leaves made of green silk.
“I didn’t steal that,” Zathdar said from right behind me.
I jumped and whirled around, unsettled, as if I’d been
caught prying through someone’s personal things.
Zathdar did not glance my way. He shifted around me, the
crimson silk of his shirt shimmering
the collarbones in competition fencing, which is why I’m unused to blocking
upward.”
“Nor do you defend against a mounted attacker, is my guess,”
Zathdar observed.
“True enough. Plus he’s a tad taller, and definitely bigger
through the upper body than I, so he’s got a longer reach. That makes a
difference even when the training is the same, but his is better, I think.”
“Practical experience.” He gestured with a mocking air of
apology and flashed a grin. “However. As this is supposed to be learning, want
to show them some tricks of the trade from the other world?”
“All right.” I scrambled to my feet. “But I saw those hits
you scored on Owl. Anyone have a pair of gloves I can borrow?”
Several women offered, but their hands were all smaller than
mine. Only the blonde did not offer, though she was my size. A gangly fellow passed
me his, and they fit perfectly.
So Zathdar and I squared off, and the entire crew fell
silent, even those in the tops, who leaned out to watch.
We began by making a few passes to test reflexes and
strength. On the former we were roughly equal, but he had the edge on the
latter. Also, his drill hadn’t been confined to the rules, and while I’d seen
opportunities to use street-fighting techniques with slower fighters, he was
too well practiced high, low, behind—all the places sport fencing forbade. He seemed
to be holding back. He was demonstrating. Gradually we sped up, until my arm
felt like string and my eyes burned with sweat, and then came the inevitable
tap of the point lightly in the hollow of my collarbones.
The crew burst into cheers. “That was fantastic,” I
exclaimed and flourished a salute.
“Want another?” he offered.
“Nope. I can already tell I’m going to be sore and stiff by
nightfall. I haven’t had a workout that good in much too long.”
He turned away to select another volunteer as I returned the
gloves to their owner, apologizing for their dampness. At least there was a
cleaning frame below, I thought, sitting gratefully.
We observed two more sessions before the watch bell rang. In
the general movement Zathdar appeared at my side. “Come to the cabin?”
“All right.” I swung to my feet. “I have some questions.”
“I thought you might.” He twitched his eyebrows at me before
leading the way. I followed that silk, no less blinding for being sodden from
the increasing mist, as around us the day watches changed, people talking and
laughing, the armorer keeping up a running stream of insults if weapons were
not wiped down and put back in the racks to his exact specifications.
The other two captains had long since rowed back to their
own ships to oversee their own combat sessions. Zathdar waved me into the
cabin, and I ducked my head absently as I passed inside. This time I noticed
things I hadn’t before: the neatly made bunk, and the coverlet dyed various
shades of green from pale silver to deep forest. Green was green, but somehow
the thing radiated masculine vibes.
Above the bunk at the head end, someone had built shelves,
which were crammed with handmade books. Next to the shelves, a silverwork crane
taking flight rested on its own little shelf, jury rigged between a bulkhead
and the hull. Stacked next to that, in eye-pleasing array, a series of
maps—Khanerenth, Sartor, Colend. Chwahirsland. Some of the western lands that I
did not recognize.
Above the foot of the bunk, a shelf held an exquisitely
rendered tiny carving of a tree, the bark indicated by the grain of the wood,
each branch curving up into impossibly tiny and intricate twigs, attached to
which were tiny five-point leaves made of green silk.
“I didn’t steal that,” Zathdar said from right behind me.
I jumped and whirled around, unsettled, as if I’d been
caught prying through someone’s personal things.
Zathdar did not glance my way. He shifted around me, the
crimson silk of his shirt shimmering
Similar Books
