tones around the fire in the tavern Vocho’s father drank in.
The guild was funny, Vocho thought, because they didn’t use crossbows and all the other new weapons people were making. An anachro… something, Vocho’s da once called them, but still everyone loved the guild. They recalled the old stories, of the men and women with nothing but their swords and hearts and guts, who’d beaten people from far to the north and south, and lions and dragons and gods. They said that the guild had been the ones to fight against the Great Fall, the last line against the blackness of ignorance that followed, and that this was the only battle they’d lost, but they at least remembered what had caused it even while everyone else forgot. Some things changed, but not the guild, and not the men and women in it. Kingdoms were won or lost by duellists. Vocho knew every one of the stories by heart.
This duellist had a bundle of wooden swords at his feet and was handing them out to every child old enough to hold one and young enough not to have started sprouting new hairs in funny places. Vocho almost fainted with excitement. Apprentice Day – how had he not remembered? Every year the guild sent a few men into the city looking for recruits, for raw, natural talent. Most unsworn duellists – the lessers and journeymen – were nobles, and their parents paid through the nose for the honour of their children getting a duelling education, which involved rubbish food, longer hours than most labourers worked and a good chance of getting hurt or worse, or so Da said. A few stayed on to become masters, swearing their lives away to the service of the guild, just as they had once sworn their lives to protect the Castan emperors. But those who ran the guild knew that money couldn’t buy talent with a blade or loyalty, and so, one day a year, Apprentice Day.
Kacha was getting in Vocho’s way so he used his elbows, but too late – the man had given her a sword with a smile and a wink. “Show me how good you are.”
She gave it a practice swish and dinged Vocho around the back of the head, knocking him to the dust. “Teach you to stop following me around like a dog.”
“That any good?” she said to the duellist.
He grinned down at the pair of them. “Not really fair if he’s not got a sword of his own. First rule of duelling, never go for an unarmed man. Or boy.” He pulled Vocho up off his arse. “You going to let her get away with that?”
“Not ruddy likely!” The boy next to him had a sword, and Vocho wrenched it off him, kicked him in the shins when he howled about it and went after a suddenly fleet Kacha.
It was a game and not a game; even at six he was dimly aware of that. A game they played most days, him annoying her till she snapped, and then the chase, though it was her chasing him. Jumping bollards, scooting around longshoremen, onto ships, off again, swinging on a rope here or through a man’s legs there, ignoring the good-natured shouts that followed them.
As usual, he couldn’t catch Kacha by speed alone – two years older than him meant her legs were longer. Instead he had to outwit her, but she had two years on him in canniness too. Today the game ended with her atop a mast he couldn’t climb – the spar he needed was just out of reach – laughing at him. It burned in his gut, that laugh, brought with it all the little looks he endured at home, and worse. Perfect Kacha, couldn’t you be more like her? Why can’t you tie your laces as well as she does, read as well, be as kind, as obedient, as clever? Why are you so stupid, Vocho, when she’s so smart?
He swallowed it and taunted her down, said the things he knew would have her fit to burst and off that mast in moments. “So, afraid of me then? Afraid of your little brother?” The real kicker. “Afraid I’ll be better than you? Afraid they won’t want you in the guild?”
She was down the ropes almost faster than he took his next breath, wooden sword coming for him, and he laughed, knowing that he’d got her riled up.