was quick to point out to him) that naturally lent itself to horsemanship or any but gross combative skills. Besides, the rumor had gone the rounds that the youth had been put under Narbu’s tutelage not even because of his exceptional strength, but because he was some high Court lady’s catamite. But one morning Master Narbu woke, frowned at some sound outside, and sat up on his pallet. Through the bars on his window, he looked out across the yardwhere the training dummies and exercise forms stood in moonlight – it was over an hour to sunup. On the porch of the student barracks, beneath the frayed thatch, a great form, naked and crossed with shadow from the nearest porch poles, moved and turned and moved.
The new pupil was practicing. First he would try a few swings with the light wooden sword to develop form, moving slowly, returning to starting position, hefting the blade again. And going through the swing, parry, recovery … a little too self-consciously; and the arm not fully extended at the peak of the swing, the blade a little too high … Narbu frowned. The new student put down the wooden blade against the barracks wall, picked up the treble-weight iron blade used to improve strength: swing, parry, recovery; again, swing, parry – the student halted, stepped back, began again. Good. He’d remembered the extension this time. Better, Narbu reflected. Better … but not excellent. Of course, for the weighted blade, it was better than most of the youths – with those great sacks of muscle about his bones, really not so surprising … No, he didn’t let the blade sag. But what was he doing up this early anyway …?
Then Narbu saw something.
Narbu squinted a little to make sure he saw it.
What he saw was something he could not have named himself, either to baron or commoner. Indeed, we may have trouble describing it: he saw a concentration in this extremely strong, naked young man’s practicing that, by so many little twists and sets of the body, flicks of the eye, bearings of the arms and hips, signed its origins in inspiration. He saw something that much resembled not a younger Narbu, but something that had been part of the younger Narbu and which, when he recognized it now, he realized was all-important. The others, Narbu thought (and his lips, set about with gray stubble, shaped thewords), were too pampered, too soft …
how
many hours before sunrise? Not those others, no, not on your … that one, yes,
was
good common stock.
Narbu lay back down.
No, this common, one-time mercenary slave still did not know how to speak to a common, one-time pit slave as a teacher; and no, six weeks were
not
enough. But now, in the practice sessions, and sometimes in the rest periods during and after them, Narbu began to say things to the tall, scarfaced youth: ‘In rocky terrain, look for a rider who holds one rein up near his beast’s ear, with his thumb tucked well down; he’ll be a Narnisman and the one to show you how to coax most from your mount in the mountains. Stick by him and watch him fast …’ And: ‘The best men with throwing weapons I’ve ever seen are the desert Adami: shy men, with little brass wires sewn up around the backs of their ears. You’ll be lucky if you have a few in your garrison. Get one of them to practice with you, and you might learn something…’ Or: ‘When you requisition cart oxen in the Avila swamplands, if you get them from the Men of the Hide Shields, you must get one of them to drive, for it will be a good beast, but nervous. If you get a beast from the Men of the Palm Fiber Shields, then anyone in your garrison can drive it – they train them differently, but just how I am not sure.’ Narbu said these things and many others. His saws cut through to where and how and what one might need to learn beyond those six weeks. They came out in no organized manner. But there were many of them. Gorgik remembered many; and he forgot many. Some of those he forgot would have saved him
The new pupil was practicing. First he would try a few swings with the light wooden sword to develop form, moving slowly, returning to starting position, hefting the blade again. And going through the swing, parry, recovery … a little too self-consciously; and the arm not fully extended at the peak of the swing, the blade a little too high … Narbu frowned. The new student put down the wooden blade against the barracks wall, picked up the treble-weight iron blade used to improve strength: swing, parry, recovery; again, swing, parry – the student halted, stepped back, began again. Good. He’d remembered the extension this time. Better, Narbu reflected. Better … but not excellent. Of course, for the weighted blade, it was better than most of the youths – with those great sacks of muscle about his bones, really not so surprising … No, he didn’t let the blade sag. But what was he doing up this early anyway …?
Then Narbu saw something.
Narbu squinted a little to make sure he saw it.
What he saw was something he could not have named himself, either to baron or commoner. Indeed, we may have trouble describing it: he saw a concentration in this extremely strong, naked young man’s practicing that, by so many little twists and sets of the body, flicks of the eye, bearings of the arms and hips, signed its origins in inspiration. He saw something that much resembled not a younger Narbu, but something that had been part of the younger Narbu and which, when he recognized it now, he realized was all-important. The others, Narbu thought (and his lips, set about with gray stubble, shaped thewords), were too pampered, too soft …
how
many hours before sunrise? Not those others, no, not on your … that one, yes,
was
good common stock.
Narbu lay back down.
No, this common, one-time mercenary slave still did not know how to speak to a common, one-time pit slave as a teacher; and no, six weeks were
not
enough. But now, in the practice sessions, and sometimes in the rest periods during and after them, Narbu began to say things to the tall, scarfaced youth: ‘In rocky terrain, look for a rider who holds one rein up near his beast’s ear, with his thumb tucked well down; he’ll be a Narnisman and the one to show you how to coax most from your mount in the mountains. Stick by him and watch him fast …’ And: ‘The best men with throwing weapons I’ve ever seen are the desert Adami: shy men, with little brass wires sewn up around the backs of their ears. You’ll be lucky if you have a few in your garrison. Get one of them to practice with you, and you might learn something…’ Or: ‘When you requisition cart oxen in the Avila swamplands, if you get them from the Men of the Hide Shields, you must get one of them to drive, for it will be a good beast, but nervous. If you get a beast from the Men of the Palm Fiber Shields, then anyone in your garrison can drive it – they train them differently, but just how I am not sure.’ Narbu said these things and many others. His saws cut through to where and how and what one might need to learn beyond those six weeks. They came out in no organized manner. But there were many of them. Gorgik remembered many; and he forgot many. Some of those he forgot would have saved him
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