Chapter 10: Where You Stand

Chapter 10: Where You Stand

On their first morning in the practice yard, Bren gave them a bench.

Rigar looked at it, then at the weapon racks.

“Under the awning,” Bren said. “You can move it together.”

Liya took one end with her good hand.

Rigar took the other.

They carried it into the shade and sat.

For the next hour, they watched a woman with a spear repeatedly fail to keep two opponents in front of her. Whenever she drove one backward, the other approached her unguarded side. Bren stopped the exercise each time, returned them to their starting positions, and made them begin again.

Rigar thought he understood the mistake after the second attempt.

After the fifth, Bren turned toward the awning.

“What should she do?”

“Keep moving,” Rigar said.

“Where?”

Rigar studied the rectangle marked on the ground.

There was room behind her, but retreating straight back would let the two opponents spread farther apart.

“To her left,” he said. “Toward the one with the shorter weapon.”

“Why?”

“So the other has to come around him.”

Bren nodded and returned to the exercise.

Beside Rigar, Liya shifted on the bench.

“What would you have done?”

He watched the woman take a careful step to her left.

“I’d have tried to force one of them back.”

“You’ve seen her try that.”

“I know.”

For the rest of the morning, he paid closer attention.

They returned the next day, and the day after.

At first, Rigar found the waiting harder than the walk from the inn. His arm hurt less, which made the prohibition against using it seem less reasonable. Whenever he began to forget the wound, however, some ordinary movement reminded him: reaching behind his back, lifting a water jug, catching a door before it closed.

Liya’s fingers improved sooner. The swelling subsided, though she still struggled to grip her staff tightly.

Bren noticed every attempt either of them made to test an injury.

He rarely commented. He simply found them something else to watch.

On the third morning, he placed a wooden cup on the bench beside Liya and set a bucket of water at her feet.

“Fill it.”

She glanced at him.

“With magic?”

“That is why I brought the bucket.”

She raised her hand.

A narrow stream rose from the water and curved toward the cup. It struck the rim, splashed across the bench, and soaked Rigar’s trousers.

He moved his knee aside.

Liya lowered her hand.

“The cup’s small.”

“It will remain that size,” Bren said.

She tried again.

This time, the water reached the bottom. She stopped too late, and some spilled over the edge.

Bren emptied the cup into the bucket.

“Again.”

Rigar watched her shoulders tighten.

After the sixth attempt, the stream thinned before it reached the cup.

Bren took the bucket away.

“That’s enough.”

“I can still—”

“I asked you to fill a cup. You’re beginning to fight it.”

She stared at the wet wood.

He handed her a cloth.

“Dry the bench. Watch the next exercise.”

Later, when Bren was elsewhere, she said, “I could move more water than that.”

“I’ve seen you.”

“I know you have.”

Rigar rubbed at the damp patch on his knee.

After a moment, she sighed.

“I thought this would be easier.”

Across the yard, the woman with the spear finally kept both opponents in front of her.

Bren let the exercise continue.

At the healer’s second examination, Rigar’s wound had remained closed. She changed the dressing and told him to return once more before attempting anything strenuous.

He paid without arguing.

By then, he had begun to notice how often the people in the yard stopped themselves halfway through a movement. A foot withdrawn before it crossed the other. A sword lowered when a partner stepped into its path. A retreat begun early enough to remain a choice.

He remembered the canal differently each time he watched.

The doorway had been behind him. Harn had still been crossing it. Liya had needed room to help.

He had known all three things.

He had not kept track of them together.

When the healer finally permitted light practice, Bren gave him a wooden sword and made him walk the length of the yard.

“Keep the point steady.”

Rigar reached the far wall and turned.

“Again.”

He did it six times before Bren let him strike a padded post.

His forearm tired sooner than he expected.

Bren stopped him at once.

The next day, they did a little more.

Liya worked beside the water trough, directing small streams between cups placed at different distances. Sometimes Bren called a cup’s position before she began. Sometimes he changed it while the water was moving.

On those attempts, more water reached the ground than the cups.

Gradually, the puddles became smaller.

The shared exercise came several mornings later.

Bren arranged three low hurdles across a chalk rectangle, leaving narrow passages between them. At the far end, two upright posts marked an exit.

A bucket stood near each side of the course.

A young trainee waited at the starting line with a sack of sand held against his chest. The load was not especially heavy, but it blocked his view of the ground immediately before him.

“This is Oren,” Bren said. “You’re taking him and his load through the yard.”

Oren shifted the sack.

Bren picked up a staff with padded ends.

“I’ll try to touch him with this. One clean touch, and you start again.”

Rigar studied the hurdles.

“Can he run?”

“Not while he’s carrying that.”

“Can he put it down?”

“If you decide that helps. Both he and the sack must reach the exit.”

Liya looked at the buckets.

“How much water can I use?”

“As much as you can control. Keep it below the waist.”

Bren stepped outside the rectangle.

“Plan first.”

Rigar moved closer to Liya and Oren.

“I’ll stay in front. Liya, keep to his left. If Bren comes around me, use the water to slow his step.”

She nodded.

“What signal?”

“I’ll say ‘now.’”

“And if I see him first?”

“Tell me.”

Oren looked between them.

“Which side of the first hurdle?”

Rigar pointed.

“Right. There’s more room.”

They took their positions.

Bren waited until they began moving.

The first hurdle passed easily.

Rigar kept his sword between Bren and Oren, turning when the older man approached from the side. Liya walked close to the sack carrier, watching over his shoulder.

Bren feinted toward the opening between the next two hurdles.

Rigar stepped across it.

The staff withdrew.

He followed.

Bren gave ground, leaving space beside his shoulder.

Rigar recognized the offered opening from the sparring exercise. He did not lunge.

Instead, he advanced carefully, keeping his feet apart.

He had time to think he was doing better.

Then Bren struck his sword aside.

Rigar recovered and moved to close the distance before the staff could turn.

“Now!”

Water splashed across the ground beside him.

Bren changed direction.

Rigar tried to follow, but his boot landed in the wet patch. His foot slid just far enough to delay him.

The padded staff passed beyond his shoulder.

It touched Oren lightly in the ribs.

“Stop.”

Oren lowered the sack.

Liya let the remaining water fall back into the bucket.

Rigar looked at the wet earth beneath his boot.

“You put it under me.”

“You stepped into it.”

“I told you to slow him.”

“You called when you were both moving.”

Bren rested the staff against his shoulder.

“Where was Oren?”

Rigar turned.

The trainee stood beside the second hurdle, several paces behind him.

“I was keeping Bren away,” Rigar said.

“You were following me,” Bren replied.

Rigar looked back at the route.

He had left the wider passage open.

Bren pointed toward the bench.

“Work out what you want to do. We’ll try again after the next pair.”

Rigar sat at one end of the bench.

Liya remained standing.

For a while, neither spoke.

In the yard, two other trainees took their places around Oren. One asked him whether he could see the hurdle. Oren shook his head, and she moved the sack lower in his arms before they started.

Liya watched them.

“You told me to warn you if I saw him first.”

“Yes.”

“I did.”

Rigar looked up.

“When?”

“When you passed the second hurdle.”

He remembered hearing her voice.

He had been concentrating on the staff.

“I thought you were telling me he was coming around.”

“He was. But you kept going.”

Rigar rested the wooden sword across his knees.

The pair in the yard moved slowly. Bren tested one side, then the other, making them turn around the person between them.

“I didn’t hear what you said,” he admitted.

Liya sat, leaving a little space between them.

“When you shouted, I thought you wanted water immediately.”

“I did.”

“Where?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

She looked toward the wet patch.

“I chose where his foot was going. Then you followed him.”

Rigar rubbed a thumb along the wooden hilt.

“I should have stayed with Oren.”

“Yes.”

“And ‘now’ wasn’t much of a signal.”

“No.”

He glanced at her.

“You can agree a little less quickly.”

“I’ve been waiting.”

That drew a brief smile from him, but she did not let the conversation end there.

“I can’t watch his feet, your feet, and Oren’s path at the same time.”

Rigar turned the sword over in his hands.

“Then we divide it.”

They called Oren over when his round ended.

This time, they asked where he had felt most exposed.

“When you both looked away,” he said.

They walked the empty course before trying again.

Rigar stayed near Oren’s right shoulder. Liya took the left, where she could see the passages between the hurdles.

“Short steps,” she told Oren. “If I say stop, stop.”

Rigar pointed to the space in front of them.

“If I need water, I’ll tell you which side. If you need me to move, say my name first.”

“And no chasing him,” Liya said.

Rigar nodded.

They practiced the signals without Bren.

Once, Liya called for a stop because Oren’s sack had shifted. Another time, Rigar asked her to hold the water when he needed to cross in front.

It felt awkward. They spoke too much, then tried to shorten everything and became unclear.

They settled on a few words they could understand without explanation.

When Bren returned, Rigar was still beside Oren.

“Ready?”

They nodded.

Bren lifted the staff.

He approached from Liya’s side.

Rigar began to turn toward him, then stopped.

Liya had seen him.

“Stop.”

Oren halted.

Rigar moved around the front of the sack while Liya stepped back, giving him room. The staff struck his wooden blade and slid away.

Bren withdrew.

Rigar let him.

They resumed.

At the first hurdle, Bren circled toward the wider opening. Rigar kept his shoulder near Oren’s, forcing the older man to approach within reach of the sword.

The staff flicked high.

Rigar raised the point, but did not swing.

The lower end came toward Oren’s hip.

“Back.”

Oren took a short step.

The padded tip passed in front of him.

They moved again.

By the second hurdle, Rigar’s good forearm had begun to ache. He loosened his grip between exchanges, as Aris had taught him, and kept the blade close.

Bren tested the same opening he had offered before.

Rigar saw it.

Beyond it, he could also see the empty space that would open beside Oren if he followed.

He stayed where he was.

Bren’s expression did not change.

He shifted toward the other side.

“Rigar. Hold.”

Liya’s voice reached him clearly.

He stopped advancing.

A shallow wash of water spread across the narrow passage to their left.

Bren placed his forward foot, felt it slide, and shortened his step.

It cost him almost nothing.

It gave Oren enough time to clear the hurdle.

Liya lowered her hand at once.

They were close to the exit now.

Rigar could see the posts over his shoulder. Oren’s breathing had grown louder, and the sack was beginning to sag in his arms.

Bren came straight at them.

The first strike drove Rigar’s sword inward. The second forced him half a step aside.

He wanted to push back.

Instead, he called, “Keep going.”

Oren moved behind him.

Liya guided the trainee past the nearer post.

Bren turned the staff toward the opening.

Rigar stepped across its path and caught it on the strong part of his blade, close to the hilt.

The impact shook his arm.

“Through,” Liya said.

He gave ground.

The staff stopped.

Oren stood beyond both posts with the sack still in his arms.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Oren dropped the sand at his feet.

“Can I stop carrying that now?”

Bren nodded.

Liya laughed first.

Rigar lowered his sword and discovered how tightly he had been holding it.

Bren made them return the equipment before speaking.

Rigar wiped the wooden blade and placed it on the rack. Liya emptied the remaining water into the trough, carrying the bucket with both hands.

“You finished,” Bren said.

Rigar waited.

“You also let yourselves be crowded at the last hurdle. With another attacker, you would have needed a different route.”

He looked at Liya.

“You stopped the water when it had done enough. Keep doing that.”

She nodded.

Then he turned to Rigar.

“You saw the opening.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you take it?”

“Oren was behind me.”

Bren glanced toward the young trainee, who was rubbing his arms.

“That’s an answer I can use.”

He took a small slate from beneath the awning and checked something written on it.

“There’s a short escort outside the western gate later this week. A wagon of tools going to an orchard storehouse. An Iron-ranked wayfarer is leading it.”

Rigar straightened.

“Are we eligible?”

“As assistants under supervision. I’ll recommend you both, provided your arm remains sound. The leader will have the final say.”

“And afterward?”

Bren set the slate down.

“Afterward, we read the report.”

Liya looked at Rigar.

He nodded before she could speak.

They were washing the dirt from their hands when the side gate opened.

Four wayfarers entered.

Their clothes were stained with gray silt. One carried a lantern with a cracked horn pane. Another had a bandage around his calf and leaned heavily on a companion.

Silver badges hung at their belts.

The yard quieted.

Rigar recognized the folded notice in the leading woman’s hand before he saw the streak of dried mud across its heading.

The eastern channel.

Bren went to meet them.

“Anyone still out?”

“Two at the lower junction,” the woman said. “The guards are relieving them.”

She glanced toward the younger trainees.

“Is the records officer inside?”

Bren nodded toward the passage.

The woman started that way, then stopped when the wayfarer behind her set a cloth-wrapped object on the bench.

It landed with a weight that made the wood creak.

Rigar stepped aside to give them room.

The cloth had come loose at one corner.

Beneath it lay a curved band of dark iron, wider than his hand. One end was jagged. Near the other, a heavy fastening remained shut, its surface clogged with pale mud.

Bren bent over it.

“This was caught in the lower grating?”

“No,” the woman said.

She pulled the cloth back into place.

“It was still fastened around a neck.”

Rigar looked at her.

The wayfarer with the injured leg had lowered himself onto the bench. He was staring at the ground between his boots.

Bren straightened.

“Take it inside.”

They carried the wrapped iron through the passage.

Liya stood beside Rigar, her hands still wet.

Neither of them followed.

Beyond the awning, Oren was dragging the sack back to its place beside the wall.

Rigar watched him for a moment, then reached for the cloth to dry his hands.

He had spent days wondering what had forced the canal bars apart.

Now he tried to imagine the hands that had closed that fastening.