“Heh.” Ossien nodded to him. “I hear that.” He stretched. “Care for an opponent? I warn you, I’m old and slow, so I’m probably not much of a challenge, but I always like to spar with someone new. I already know what mistakes to make against Sylla.” His companion rolled her eyes at this, but didn’t argue.
“Certainly,” said Shane. He wondered briefly if this was some kind of trap, but it seemed unlikely. If someone was trying to kill him, the training room would be a terrible place for it. There were at least a dozen other people here watching. I suppose that if they’ve been hired to take out Marguerite’s bodyguard, Ossien could bash me over the head and claim it was an accident. Of course, he’d have to hit me first.
Ossien dropped off his weapons next to Shane’s and returned with a pair of wooden blades with blunt edges. “Fair warning, they’re weighted,” he said, taking up a sideways stance facing Shane.
“Can leave a bruise if I get a good hit in.”
Shane nodded. “Mine as well, I expect.” He saluted with the tip.
Within a few moves, he began to relax. Ossien was good, there was no question, and for all his claims of being old and slow, he moved fast, though he was slightly unbalanced on his left foot. Shane had strength and reach, though, and while he had to be quick and clever to keep Ossien at bay, it felt like a workout, not like a battle. The black tide muttered a little inside his head, but never tried to rise.
“Enough,” said Ossien finally, falling back. “Much more and my back will remind me that I’m not twenty-five anymore.” He grinned. “Thank you for the bout, son, even if you were just toying with me.”
“Never,” said Shane. “You got a few good hits in. If you had a blade, I’d be down a kidney.”
“And I’d be down both arms and my head,” said Ossien. He returned the weapons to the racks and sat down to change his boots. Shane noticed that one of his feet was made of wood, articulated with a metal swivel at the ankle. Ah. That explains the balance. Impressive piece of equipment. He doesn’t even have a limp.
Ossien followed his gaze and slapped his knee. “Got this in the Blue Marshes,” he said cheerfully. “Miserable place for a campaign. If there was a patch of solid ground big enough to get one foot on, the enemy was standing there and shooting at us.”
“You took an arrow?”
“Oh, I took three, but none of those signified. No, I lost my boot in the mud, banged up my foot, and the damn thing took an infection and had to come off.” He pulled his boot on over the prosthesis.
“Got off lightly, frankly, but that was the end of my mercenary days.”
“Mud is the worst,” said Shane, with feeling. He still had grim memories of one battle where the Saint of Steel’s chosen had been called to clear bandits out of a village that was too deep in mud for horses to get through. They’d done it, but no one’s thigh muscles had worked right for a week afterward.
“One nice thing about being a duelist—not a lot of mud to deal with now.” Ossien cocked his head at Shane. “Now you…you’re a knight, aren’t you?”
Shane raised his eyebrows. Can everybody tell? Do I have a sign on my back? “Trained as one, although I don’t use the title. How did you know?”
Ossien shrugged. “Lotta little things. Your salute at the beginning was a little too crisp to be enlisted, unless I’d pissed you off somehow. And your accent’s from over by the Dowager’s city, but you don’t fight like her infantry. They drill tight together, always keep their elbows in close and they don’t make the big sweeps like you did.” He held up a hand. “It ain’t none of my business, you don’t have to tell me. I run my mouth sometimes and I know it.”
“It’s fine,” said Shane, bemused.
Sylla pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If you ever feel like drinking in company some time,” she said,
“and you don’t mind Ossien running his mouth, the place on the other side of the old barracks is cheap and doesn’t water the ale too badly.” She nodded to him and went back to practice.
Ossien lingered a moment longer. “Most of us tame duelists drink there,” he added. “The chevaliers don’t bother us there.”
Shane paused in the middle of drying his hair. “Do they bother you elsewhere?”
The man hitched one shoulder up in a shrug. “They’ve got a lot of honor,” he said dryly, “and they always seem to think someone’s stepping on it.” He tapped a finger against his forehead in a small salute. “I’d watch where you step. You’re big enough to attract attention.”
“Thank you,” said Shane. “I appreciate the warning.” He watched Ossien stroll away and thought, Great. Just what I needed, another complication.
“OOF,” said Wren, shifting from foot to foot. “These shoes were not made for these floors.”
“If we’d had time to wait on a cobbler, we could have gotten court shoes made for you,” said Marguerite sympathetically. “Double thick soles.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” The paladin put her foot down. “I don’t mean to complain. I’ve done forced marches before; it’s not like wandering around for a few hours is anything much.”
“It is when you’re not wearing the right footwear.” She looked over her shoulder at Shane. “Of course, Tall, Strong, and Handsome there gets to wear his usual boots.”
“Next time we do this, let’s put him in the dress and I’ll be the bodyguard.”
Marguerite grinned. “You know he’d look just devastating in it, though. That’s the annoying thing.”
Wren paused, tapping her fan against her lower lip. “That is…quite an image.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Marguerite stepped back and made a slight bow, a merchant to her patron.
Pitching her voice up, she said, “Always a pleasure, my lady.”
“Miss Florian.” Wren sailed off, fan aloft. I must speak to her about not holding it like a weapon. Though for all I know, it could be. I wonder how many people she could kill with a fan.
It was easy to see, if you were trained to read people, that Wren was not nearly so confident as she looked. That was a good thing, really. No one would ever think that she was a spy. The best lies are mostly true.
“What an odious little mushroom,” murmured Davith in her ear.
Marguerite had a strong desire to come to Wren’s defense, or failing that, to kick Davith in the shins. She squelched it. “Useful enough, though. One of my top suppliers comes from her town and I was able to convince her to take me along. She was enchanted by the idea of having an entourage.”
His lip curled slightly. “Poor you.”
“She’s not so bad, the poor dear. Just young and completely lacking in airs and graces.”
Marguerite gave a slight shrug. She did not feel guilty for playing her part well, but she hated the necessity. “Also…well, you know how it is. Anything that saves me money. I have to attend Court to sell perfume, but all my cash is tied up in stock.”
Davith grunted. “I hear that,” he muttered. “I begin to wish I hadn’t set my sights on Lady Sancha.
Wealthy and widowed, but she’s making me work to get into her good graces. Much longer and I’ll be reduced to card sharping.”