Farlander (26 page)

He saw very little of Ash during this time. It seemed the old man did not get involved in training the disciples. Neither did he offer personal instruction to his own apprentice, perhaps intending instead to train Nico only in the field, where it was said that the learning ceased and the knowing began.

Overall, the old farlander kept himself to himself, rarely seeking out his young protégé at all. It seemed almost as though he had discarded Nico at the first opportunity to present itself.

Nico was stung more than he would ever admit by this apparent desertion.

*

‘Whet your knives!’ Holt bawled over the heads of the ten apprentices gathered in the courtyard on a sunny day filled with wind. Instantly they bent their heads to the task.

Nico did not move, today. Instead he watched what the others were doing. Particularly he kept his eye on Aléas who he had already noticed tended to get things right first time. After a while, grasping a wooden practice knife in one hand and a steel carving knife in the other, he began to shave a fresh edge into the curved piece of wood that had been left blunt from its last usage. A guppy, they called this type of practice knife, perhaps because of the fish it resembled. The weapon lacked a point and was made from a piece of wintervine, a rare hardwood that normally grew on the sheerest of wind-exposed cliffs and, for some reason, only flowered in the depths of winter.

Suddenly Ash arrived by Nico’s side, clasping a leather cup of chee in his hand. Haggard-faced, the old man stood and watched him work, one eye squinting against the stiff breeze snapping his robe around his ankles.

This was the day of the scenarios, mock situations intended to replicate, to some degree, the possible conditions in the actual field. The presence of their masters was compulsory at these fortnightly sessions, so today they were uncharacteristically tense and serious.

Nico had not spoken to Ash in six days. The old man had almost become a ghost to him, glimpsed only through windows, or occasionally in his sleep. Even the other youths had begun to notice this lack of attention, shown towards his apprentice. They had begun to mutter about it, fascinated by such behaviour from the order’s most famous R
shun, and they increasingly gave Nico strange looks whenever he chanced to walk in on them.

‘Quickly, now, we haven’t all week for this.’ Holt, stood eyeballing them, with his chin held high.

Nico tested the edge of his wooden blade and found it sharp enough to draw blood. He sucked his thumb as he waited, and did not look at Ash.

Holt strode amongst them, testing the blades and retrieving the steel knives as he went. ‘Now, my young squires,’ said the blond-headed Pathian. ‘The scenario today shall be cat and rat. Yes, Pantush, I know how much you adore this one. All of you now, choose a partner so we can begin.’

A partner
? Nico mused, and cast a forlorn glance about him as the other youths quickly paired up with their friends. Within moments the press had parted to either side into pairs. Facing Nico, across a dozen feet of settling dust, Aléas stood alone, too skilled for anyone else to choose as his competitor on this of all days.

Nico’s heart sank as the young man grinned at him. Towering behind Aléas, Baracha gave Ash a questioning glance.

‘Cat, rat, west wing, first floor . . .’ Holt was saying, tapping one boy on the head and then the other, ‘Cat, rat, west wing, second floor . . .’

He came to Nico and Aléas, and smiled. Everyone was smiling except for the two pairs facing each other. ‘Cat,’ he said, with emphasis, as he lay his palm on Nico’s head. ‘Rat,’ he gestured to Aléas.

To their two masters he announced: ‘West wing, attic. But be careful not to break anything up there, gentlemen.’

He then clapped his hands and marched onwards, hollering once more. ‘You have until the next bell. One must hide, one must find. The first to draw blood wins. If you stay hidden until the bell sounds, you also win. That’s it. Rats may go!’

Aléas was off, loping towards the door into the west wing. He ran like an athlete on the track, supremely confident in his own physicality.

First blood
, reflected Nico, his hand already clammy around the hilt of his wooden knife. His mouth had gone dry. How much of a wound could this thing inflict? How bad was one allowed to make it? Typical of these R
shun to tell you the bare minimum, then throw you in head first.

Baracha remained behind with arms folded, disdain in his eyes, confident of an easy victory.

‘Better your boy had been the rat, eh? He hides well, I hear.’

Ash stiffened up at that, as if too world-weary to hold back what he would say next. ‘Perhaps if you yourself were a little better at hiding, we might have spared ourselves much trouble in the past.’

A hoot from those of the R
shun who stood close enough to hear him. Baracha hawked loudly and spat in the dirt.

It somewhat heartened Nico to hear the old man standing up for him. But then, he knew it was more than that. It was also this on going rivalry between the two – or, at least, sense of rivalry which seemed to emanate from Baracha.

A soft breath against his ear, almost lost in the breeze. ‘Know that Aléas will not hide like a rat. He will position himself for an ambush, as the predator would. Tread with care, boy.’

‘Cats may go!’ came the order.

The remaining apprentices sprinted for the various doors of the monastery. Nico hesitated, and at last he met the old farlander’s eyes. What he saw made him blink.

He thinks I will lose!

With the slightest of nods, the old man gestured for Nico to go.

Nico headed for the far door of the north wing. He was all at once focused on what he must accomplish, the urge almost overwhelming to prove them all wrong.

*

It was good, at least, to be out of the wind.

The monastery was even quieter than usual, its inhabitants having vacated much of the building for this afternoon devoted to scenarios. The west wing housed the library and study rooms, also the large chachen hall used for indoor meditation. Such spaces were brightly lit from their large windows, and smelled of polished wood and old dust.

A gust from outside as Baracha, and then Ash, entered the hallway, cup of chee still in the farlander’s hand. Both wore white armbands, and were to follow him from a distance as supervisors only, since no instruction was to be the given during the coming trial. The object was to learn by
doing
, and thus nurture faith in following one’s own instincts.

The attic, Holt had said, so Nico found the stairwell, and trod upwards to the first floor. A young R
shun bustled past him. He acted as though Nico wasn’t even there.

The wooden stairs leading to the attic were at the far end of a corridor lined with the doors to individual sleeping quarters. A window on the other side looked out over the rugged valley and towards an escarpment of dark rock beyond. A cloud mass drifted torn and tattered across a distant peak. Nico stopped and studied the open trapdoor at the top of the stairs. It was dark up there. Perhaps he should first find a lantern?

No, he thought, that was a stupid idea, he’d only make himself an easier target.

Ash and Baracha waited behind at the other end of the long corridor. They watched as he removed his sandals, laid them with care to one side.

Taking a deep breath Nico ascended as slowly as he could, staying to one side of the steps where it would make least noise under his weight. He ducked as he neared the opening. This would be as good a place as any for Aléas to launch an ambush, just after Nico poked his head though, momentarily blinded by the gloom.

Moments of reflection passed, and no ideas came to him.

There was only one thing for it, then.

He scrambled upwards, vaulted through the opening and tumbled across the creaking floor of the attic. He lay there on his back with the knife held before him, waiting for an attack.

When nothing happened, Nico lay where he was, trying to subdue his breathing. He’d already made enough racket by his entrance. He remained like that, until his vision adjusted to the lack of light, and gradually he could see about him the shadows of dark objects.

Without sound, Nico stood and inched away from the dim light of the opening. The attic was warm, and larger than he had expected. It ran for ten or so feet in all directions before becoming veiled in blackness, but he could sense the scale of the place from its faint motions of air. Items in storage stood everywhere: crates and boxes, piles of cloth, discarded furniture, even stands of arms. To hide in here successfully was just to pick a spot, any spot, and simply not move.

Nico took a step forwards, testing his weight on the floorboards for creaking, then another step . . . The wind outside pulled at the wooden roof tiles above his head. Some had worked loose enough to clatter, and now a chorus of them provided an eerie accompaniment to the keening of the wind itself.

He stopped at the very edge of the light infiltrating up through the trapdoor. Here too was a likely place for the ambush. Nico was still visible here, while the ambusher could remain in darkness.

Aléas was close by. He could sense him.

Nico squinted and peered into the dark spaces beyond. To the right of him, a cobweb hung from the sloping roof, glowing a ghostly white. Beneath it lay a jumble of shapes he could barely discern. To his left was an even deeper gloom, the light obstructed by something large. Nico took a step backwards. By inches he eased to one side at a crouch, continually scanning from left to right. He opened his mouth to hear better. He waited, almost without breathing.