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Soumet subsided, scowling, and Eslingen submitted to having the padding pulled away from his body. He would be bruised, all right, he could feel half a dozen spots that would be agony in the morning– but with luck, he told himself, he wouldn’t stiffen until after this final bout. Siredy bundled the heavy coat away again, and Eslingen ran his fingers through his hair, loosening strands that clung to his forehead. Caiazzo was still in his corner, but sitting now, all at ease, and Eslingen wondered briefly who’d thought to fetch the stool.
“Water?” That was Siredy again, holding out a cup, and Eslingen took it gratefully. It had been on the stovetop–the masters clearly subscribed to the notion that cold water was dangerous to a fighting man–but he drank it down, glad of the relief.
“Master de Vicheau,” Duca said. “You have the last bout.”
De Vicheau bowed gracefully in answer. “I do, Master Duca.”
“And your weapon?”
“Master Duca.” De Vicheau bowed again. They all know what’s going to happen, Eslingen thought suddenly. They’ve got something pla
“I cede choice of weapon, and replace it with a different challenge.” De Vicheau waved a hand, and Rieux pulled open a cabinet that stood against the wall beside the drummer. There was something in it, a table on wheels, but a table covered with tiny, brightly painted figures that chimed softly as Rieux rolled it out into the light. Toy soldiers, Eslingen realized, a tiny–regiment? no, a company–all strung on wires in perfect rank and file, complete with flags and fife and drum, and in spite of himself, he glanced toward Caiazzo, to see the merchant‑venturer frowning in what seemed to be honest confusion.
“Lieutenant Eslingen is called to our company to teach drill.” De Vicheau smiled thinly. “I challenge him to put our little company through its paces.”
Duca bowed in return, and looked at Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”
“I have a question first.” Eslingen took a breath. He’d boasted once, years ago, that he could drill pigs if he had to; he’d been drunk, but it seemed that the words were coming back to haunt him. “I’ve never seen such a thing. How is it done?”
Soumet sneered at him, but Duca said, “No great trick to it, Lieutenant. The figures are set on wires and moved by gears and levers. Sergeant Rieux will work the mechanism, and move them as you call.”
And she could destroy him if she wanted, Eslingen realized, but doubted somehow that she would cheat him. As if she guessed the thought, she smiled crookedly, and settled herself behind the table.
Eslingen looked back at Duca. “I accept, then. Will your drummer there give the cadence?”
“She will.”
“Then set the figure.” Eslingen looked at de Vicheau, whose fair head lifted in answer.
“To a hollow square, and then back to ranks.”
Not the easiest figure, but not the hardest–and mercifully not one of the drillbook figures, stars and moons and octagons, that amateurs made up in winter quarters. Eslingen took a deep breath, marshaling old skills, and looked at the drummer. “Sound the march.”
Instantly, the familiar beat filled the room, the heavy music almost palpable, and Eslingen said, “Forward march.”
Instantly, the metal figures began to move, the mechanism clinking in time to the drum, and Eslingen realized there wouldn’t be enough room if they kept going straight ahead. “About‑face.”
The figures turned, not quite as one–the machine was as real there as most regiments he’d served in–and he gave the next command. “Files to the right hand double.”
There was a louder clank, and the lines lengthened and thi
“Silence, the drums.”
The music stopped instantly, without the usual ruffle, and de Rieux straightened from the table. “Neatly done, Lieutenant.”
“Indeed.” Duca stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Master Lieutenant vaan Esling, allow me to be the first to welcome you as a Master of Defense.”
So it was real, Eslingen thought, automatically accepting the other man’s hand. It had really happened, and he was really one of them. In spite of everything, there was a part of him that felt like laughing, and he hoped this wasn’t the folly he’d been warned against. Rieux nodded briskly, offering a calloused palm, and then de Vicheau and Siredy and, finally, Soumet. At least the ox had the grace to swallow his temper, Eslingen thought, and braced his fingers against the other’s grasp. Caiazzo had risen to his feet, and came forward now, his smile matching Duca’s.
“Congratulations, Philip. I can count you well bestowed, then.”
“And I’m grateful, Master Caiazzo,” Eslingen answered automatically, and then wondered how much time he’d have to get his belongings out of Caiazzo’s house–and where he’d be living, for that matter.
“This is much more suitable for someone of your station,” Caiazzo answered, and there was laughter in his black eyes. “So I’ll leave you to it.”
“Master Caiazzo–” Eslingen stopped, not quite knowing how to ask, and the merchant‑venturer’s smile became an open grin.
“Oh, you can send for your goods as soon as you’re settled, Philip. There’s no hurry, I’m sure.”
“No, none,” Eslingen repeated. Particularly since he didn’t actually know where he would be sleeping. Oh, Rathe would give him house room until he found something else, but he didn’t like to assume that he was that completely welcome. He shoved the thought aside, knowing Caiazzo had seen and was amused by the hesitation, and the merchant‑venturer nodded to Duca.
“And I leave him to you. Good day, masters.”
“And a good day to you,” Duca answered, but Caiazzo was already starting down the stairs. The senior master sighed, and looked back at his people. “Under the circumstances, my masters, I trust none of you will object to starting at once to work.”
Eslingen shook his head, recognizing an order when he heard it, and the others murmured their agreement. The panier rumbled as the drummer slacked the heads and covered them, and Duca put his hands on his hips.
“Right, then. The sides are ready, so we’d better take a look at them.”
“I’ll take the lieutenant,” Rieux said, “and Siredy, if I may.”
Duca nodded. “Ja
The flat‑faced man scowled, but made no protest. Eslingen wondered briefly just how his ma
“This way. And again, congratulations.”
Eslingen followed the slighter man back down the stairs and into the library. The lace‑capped woman was still there, still frowning over her stacks of papers, but as the others entered, she set aside her pen and tapped them into order.
“The sides are done, Master Duca, and one full copy.”
She wore a Scriveners badge on her bodice, Eslingen saw, with some surprise–he would never have expected the Masters of Defense to employ a copyist–and Duca nodded absently. “Thank you, Auriol. We’ll try not to disturb you too much.”
“Not at all, master,” the woman answered, demurely, and scooped up one of the stacks of paper. She retreated with it to a smaller table in the corner, and a moment later light flared as she lit a lamp and resumed her work, pen scratching over the paper.
“Now, my masters,” Duca said. The papers were odd cuts, Eslingen saw, long and thin like the broadsheets that listed upcoming plays. Duca flipped through one, and then methodically handed a stack to each of the others. Eslingen took his curiously, skimming the half dozen pages. Each one held a few lines of dialogue, and then a description of an action–a battle and a dance, on the first page, and more of the same on each of the others. He looked up, confused, and Duca cleared his throat.