Sword of Waters Page 2

  On the other hand, it probably made sense to try to gain some influence with Edoran before he became king. Half the shareholders in the realm seemed to think so, anyway. All of their daughters did.

  Arisa sighed. “If I don’t have anything to do but wear gowns and befriend that… prince, I’ll go stark mad from boredom. Next time I’ll probably kill someone. I can think of several people who’d be the better for it.” More than several, actually. She could make a list, and work her way down.

  Her mother laughed. “Are you telling me you started that fight because you were bored?”

  Could she get away with saying yes? Arisa had been praying her mother wouldn’t ask what the fight had been about.

  “In part, I think it was,” she said truthfully. “They made me angry, and I don’t like them. But I don’t think I’d have punched them if I hadn’t… If I wasn’t… I feel like there’s a corset around my entire life! And it keeps getting tighter, too.”

  The cause they had fought so hard for had triumphed—she should rejoice. But who could have predicted that victory would turn out to be so wretched? Arisa rose from the chair, kicked off the clumsy heels, and began to pace.

  “It’s not just the clothes, and the dancing, and embroidery; it’s me. I feel all out of balance, like a piece of me is missing. I hate this! I’m bad at it too,” she finished glumly.

  “You have to learn to be a lady.” The Falcon’s voice was gentle. “That’s our rank now. That will be your status for the rest of your life.”

  Arisa grimaced.

  The Falcon’s chuckle held a note of sympathy. “Would you rather go back to banditry, Ris? Always in hiding, everything you own stolen from others?”

  “Yes!” said Arisa.

  Her mother waited.

  “Oh, all right, I wouldn’t. Not really. But at least I had a job then. A real job,” she added, before her mother could nag her about Edoran again. “One that mattered.”

  She waited for her mother to tell her that influencing Edoran did matter, but the Falcon sat in silence, watching her pace.

  “Then maybe I should give you another job,” the Falcon murmured finally. “A real one. It will be hard. It might not be possible. Though if you could bring it off… It’s certainly important.”

  “What?” Arisa asked warily.

  “I’d planned to assign one of my men to this,” said the Falcon. “But you might do better. You have access, if you choose to use it. And you’re not stupid, even if you sometimes act that way.”

  Arisa blushed with shame and anger. “So, what is this job?”

  “I’d like you to find the sword for me. Do you think you could handle that?”

  Arisa’s heart leaped, but… “No,” she answered reluctantly. “The sword’s been lost for centuries, just like the shield was.”

  “The shield was found.” The Falcon gestured at the wall behind her.

  “Every item in the storeroom where the shield was found has been examined ten times over,” Arisa reminded her mother. “And every other storeroom, and passage, and cellar, and stable, and closet in the palace has been searched and searched again. When Justice Holis decreed that the five-hundred-blessing reward for the sword still stood, the servants were crazy to find it. And they know this palace better than I ever could.”

  “So what does that tell you?” the Falcon asked.

  “That it’s not in the palace,” said Arisa, working it out as she spoke. “But if it’s not here, it could be anywhere in Deorthas. Anywhere in the world by now!”

  “I don’t think it left Deorthas,” said the Falcon.

  Arisa didn’t either. The sword and the shield were bound to Deorthas… unless Justice Holis was right, and they were only symbols, after all. Still… “Deorthas is a pretty big closet.”

  “So?” Mischief glinted in the Falcon’s eyes. “If it wasn’t harder than embroidery, it wouldn’t be a real job.”

  “Real isn’t the same as impossible,” Arisa grumbled. “And nothing’s harder than embroidery. Except that cursed pianoforte.”

  “I thought you liked your embroidery class. And you do like music,” the Falcon added.

  “I like listening to music,” said Arisa. “Not plunking out wrong notes. And I like my embroidery teacher, but that’s not the same as liking embroidery.”

  “How do you feel about historical research?” the Falcon asked softly.

  Arisa wasn’t stupid. “The prince. You think I’ll have to ask the prince for help, to access old records and things to find out what happened to the sword. You think this will force me to make friends with him.”

  “He has access to more records than anyone else,” the Falcon pointed out. “And you can’t deny that finding it is important.”

  She couldn’t. When Weasel had given the shield to the Falcon, it had granted an ex-bandit rebel leader enough legitimacy that the army had agreed to accept her as their commander. In fact, Arisa had once told Weasel that they should look for the sword themselves, promising to give it to Justice Holis since he’d given her mother the shield.

  Of course, that had been before the servants turned the palace inside out, and pretty much proved that the sword wasn’t there. But if it could be found…

  “This really is important,” the Falcon echoed her thoughts. “And I think you’ve got a better chance than any of my men. Will you try?”

  “Yes,” said Arisa. “Though I might not find it.” A wonderful thought struck her. “And it will take time. Lots of it. So I won’t have time for dancing lessons, or singing, or—”

  “No.” The Falcon’s voice was firm, even though her lips twitched. “You have to learn to be a lady, and putting it off will only make it harder. On the other hand…”

  Arisa waited hopefully.

  “On the other hand, it might be a good idea to give your aggressive impulses some target besides the court ladies. Would you like to share the prince’s fencing lessons?”

  “With the prince? It’s not enough if he helps me find the sword? Besides, ladies aren’t supposed to fence with men. It would cause a scandal if I shared his lessons.”

  “Ladies aren’t supposed to fence at all,” said the Falcon. “Or shoot, or fight with knives. But that didn’t keep you from begging lessons from every man in my camp. You don’t care about scandal any more than I do.”

  Arisa had begged lessons from her mother’s men, learning to use every weapon she could lay hands on. But the sword was a nobleman’s weapon, and the countrymen who had joined her mother had known little about it. In fact, it was her weakest weapon, which made lessons with the foremost master in the realm a tempting bribe.

  “All right,” said Arisa. “Fencing lessons with the prince, and I’ll try to find the sword in my free time. Though I can’t guarantee I’ll succeed.”

  “I know you might not find it,” her mother said soberly. “All I ask is that you try. And free time means afternoons, and when there’s no evening court scheduled. You’re not getting out of coming to court by punching a couple of girls. You’d enjoy it more if you talked with your friend, Weasel.”

  “Weasel is usually with the prince, and that’s the most boring part of a really boring crowd,” Arisa told her.

  “Then why isn’t Weasel bored?” the Falcon asked.

  Arisa grinned. “He says he uses the time to practice picking pockets, but I think he’s bluffing. Mostly.”

  “Then get him to teach you to pick pockets,” said her mother. “Maybe he’ll teach the prince as well, and you can all practice together. Do we have a deal, Ris?”

  She’d gotten fencing lessons out of it. And trying to find the sword, even if it proved impossible, was more interesting than anything she was doing now.

  “Deal,” said Arisa.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Seven of Fires: the battle.

  Conflict, whether spiritual, emotional or physical.

  Most mornings, the sound of the chambermaid sweeping out the hearth in the room next to Arisa’
s barely roused her. This morning she had set herself to wake when the clattering thumps came through the wall, for she knew the prince’s fencing lessons commenced soon after sunrise.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but the sky in the long windows that opened onto her balcony was gray with its approach. Arisa could see the sky, because once her maid had put her to bed, drawn the brocade curtains and left the room, Arisa had gotten out of bed, opened the curtains, and braced the glass door open just an inch. Yes, it was winter, but the great city that surrounded the palace was a seaport. Even in Udan it was seldom cold enough to snow on the coast.

  Arisa was accustomed to sleeping in a tent. The hot, dark cavern her maid considered “proper” stifled her.

  Still, she shivered as she slid from her warm blankets and pulled on her dressing gown before she went to the wardrobe and dug into the drawer where she’d insisted on keeping some of her old clothes. The rough britches and coat were still there, and slipping into them was like slipping into the embrace of an old friend.

  The first time Arisa had seen herself in one of the gowns the seamstress presented she’d been delighted with its beauty, and enjoyed the swish of its heavy skirts. Of course, at that point she hadn’t worn it for more than a minute.

  She hadn’t realized how good it was to be… well, not poor— but certainly not so cursed rich!

  At least this morning she could wear her britches again, for not even her maid would expect her to fence in a skirt.

  She splashed some water onto her face, rinsed her mouth, and wove her hair into a thick braid that would keep it out of her way in a fight. She was ready!

  The servants stared as she passed them in the corridors. Arisa nodded politely, and winked when one of the footmen grinned at her.

  She knew the way to the mirrored salon where the prince’s fencing lessons took place. The sun was barely over the horizon when she opened the door, so she was surprised to hear voices inside. Or rather, one voice, speaking in tones of bored disdain, “Today we will work on your guard, Your Highness. Again. Do try to—”

  Light flooded through the windows and shone in the mirrors that covered the opposite wall. Weasel and Prince Edoran stared at her, and the fencing master turned, his brows rising.

  “What are you doing here, Mistress… Arisa, isn’t it?”

  She had met Master Giles at evening court, a man of medium height and average looks whose compact body moved like a spring. He was a very good dancer. Now, watching his brows draw down and his mouth prim as he took in her country clothes, she realized he was also a snob.

  Arisa stiffened. “My mother has given me permission to join the prince’s fencing lessons.”

  And my mother works with the man who pays your salary. But she didn’t say that aloud. She was beginning to get the hang of this wealth and power business. She gazed at him, trying for hauteur. His face tightened further, and then relaxed in a martyred sigh.

  “If your mother wishes it. But I can’t start today, for you have no padding. And I’d hate to see you bruised.”

  Arisa looked at Weasel and the prince, who were wearing stiff canvas britches and jackets that would lessen the sting of a blow. But the practice foils they held had blunted edges and wooden buttons on the tips.

  The prince’s thin face showed only lingering surprise, but Weasel’s lips twitched.

  Arisa returned her gaze to Master Giles’ face. “I’ll take my chances. I need to borrow a sword.”

  The fencing master’s eyes widened, as he realized she was serious. “That I can provide. But I have no mask, to protect a lady’s face.”

  Weasel and Edoran weren’t fighting with masks. “My face isn’t a lady’s,” Arisa told him, and his brows climbed again.

  “If you say so, Mistress Arisa. First, we will all stretch.”

  The exercises that followed weren’t completely unfamiliar. Rudy, who had taught Arisa the finer points of knife fighting, had insisted on stretching before a bout. Arisa had been skeptical— you didn’t have time to warm and loosen your muscles before a real fight, so why do it in practice?

  Rudy had replied that if you limbered up for practice, when a real fight surprised you, you’d be more flexible even if your muscles were cold.

  Perhaps he was right; Master Giles moved far more easily than Arisa and Weasel, and the prince was stiffer than they were.

  “Enough,” Master Giles finally decreed. “Today, as I said, we work on guards, but first I will evaluate my new pupil. Mistress Arisa,” he pulled a fencing foil from the stand and extended the hilt toward her, blade over his arm, “your sword.”

  The hilt was wrapped in leather to keep it from slipping in a sweaty grip. It was too big for Arisa’s hand but she was used to that. It was also lighter than the other swords she’d handled, and she slashed it back and forth, getting a feel for the balance.

  Master Giles frowned. “Spread your fingers. It gives more control. And raise the elbow. All your opponents will be taller than you, so your— Not the shoulder, the elbow! Now hold.”

  He walked around her, correcting her stance as she posed for him. She felt like an idiot.

  Weasel and the prince stood aside, watching, and Arisa wondered why Master Giles didn’t set them some exercises. She’d never had formal lessons before, but some of her mother’s men had been masters of their various weapons. None of them would have let a class stand idle while he evaluated a new student.

  But perhaps those who taught noblemen used different methods from those who taught common soldiers.

  Master Giles moved in front of her, coming on guard himself, though far more gracefully than she had. “Now, Mistress, set to!”

  Arisa just managed to block his blade as it swept in, and the next thrust had her skipping back.

  He wasn’t fighting at full speed, she realized, as he backed her down the room. He might not even be at half his speed, but he was fighting at the very top of hers. His foil seemed to come at her from all directions at once, but she remembered the training Clem and Murray had given her and managed to keep her tip forward and her blade in position as she blocked and blocked again.

  “Not bad,” said Master Giles thoughtfully. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Not a strong guard, to be sure, but a guard.” His gaze flicked to Prince Edoran. “Note, Highness, how her point remains forward, upon me, even when she moves the blade to block. Thus, should I give her an opening, she’ll be in position to thrust.”

  He’d just given her an opening when he’d looked aside, but Arisa had been so focused on blocking that she hadn’t taken advantage of it. She gritted her teeth. Next time.

  She stepped to the side as they neared the end of the salon, so Giles couldn’t pin her in the corner, and he gave her an approving nod.

  “Note again, Highness, that she remains aware of the room, of her surroundings, just as I’ve tried to teach you.”

  He could have forced her into a corner, Arisa realized. He could cut her to ribbons anytime he chose. He was toying with her. Or maybe he was evaluating her skills, but it felt like he was toying with her.

  She was breathing in gasps now; the hilt was slippery in her grip despite its leather wrapping. Her wrist ached. Her shoulder began to tire.

  Come on, you arrogant bully. Do it again!

  “Also note, Your Highness, that she controls her feet better than you do, though there is still room”—his blade lashed down, faster than Arisa could possibly block, stinging her knee—“for improvement.”

  He drove her back up the floor, and if anything he’d picked up the pace. Sweat ran down her face into her eyes. Her shoulder ached. Her wrist was on fire.

  “Her wrist, on the other hand, is almost as weak as yours.” Master Giles’ gaze flicked to the prince.

  In that small blind moment, for the first time since the fight began, Arisa lunged. Her point slid over his blade, past his guard, into his ribs.

  Master Giles stepped back, knocking her blade aside.

  It wasn’t a perfect str
ike, Arisa thought, in the startled silence that followed. Not to the heart. But if they’d been fighting for real, with sharp weapons, it would have pierced his lung.

  Of course, if they’d been fighting for real, he’d have killed her in the first ten seconds.

  Arisa lowered her sword, then laid it down and rubbed her wrist. Her right hand was numb. Now that she had time to notice it, every muscle in her body shook, and she was breathing like a bellows.

  The shock died from Giles’ face, leaving a faint frown.

  Arisa scowled back. He might be the best swordsman she’d ever seen, but that didn’t mean she liked him.

  “You’ve been very ill taught,” Master Giles pronounced. “But there is… aptitude. I will teach you.”

  Arisa considered. She didn’t like him. On the other hand, he was the best swordsman she’d ever seen.

  “All ri—”

  Master Giles turned away. “You will walk for a time, while I work with the prince. William will join you. When you have cooled, I shall set you some exercises.”

  Weasel didn’t like being called William, but he said nothing.

  The prince’s mousey face was blanker than usual as he picked up his foil and stepped forward.

  “Your Highness.” Master Giles saluted him, a hissing swipe of the blade. “Set to!”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Arisa told Weasel as the swords clashed, and they started walking around the room. “My mother’s given me a job.”

  A foil cracked on canvas. Weasel grimaced but he didn’t look over at the fight, which told Arisa that he knew who’d been hit. Which meant that Edoran wasn’t good enough to get past Master Giles’ guard—not that many people were.

  “If you think that’s worth letting Giles pound on you,” said Weasel, “then you’re out of your mind. Of course, I already knew that. Dawn rising and all.” He shuddered.

  Arisa grinned. She usually woke early, but Weasel never got out of bed before he had to.

  “Edoran’s like you,” Weasel added glumly. “No, he’s worse. He wakes up at sunrise every day, even when he doesn’t have to do this.”