The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (4 page)

The night was drawing in and the boulevards were quiet, but not empty. The occasional gentleman passed by, often drawing with him the bittersweet stench of alcohol. Soren and Emeric were attracting the odd glance but Soren was somewhat comforted by the fact that Emeric was attracting just as many as he was. The Count’s retainer had a completely bald head and a wicked scar that ran down the right side of his face, turning his scowling mouth into something more like a sneer. Were it not for a doublet bearing the arms of his employer, Soren was certain the Watch would be making themselves known.

The Academy overlooked a square, or more correctly a triangle, a small cobbled courtyard with trees in each corner and a small fountain in the centre. Lining two sides were grandly built five story buildings, luxury goods shops on the ground floors, with apartments, no doubt also the height of luxury, above them. On the longest side of the courtyard sat the façade of the Academy.

With broad columns, graceful lines and windows along its length, it was an austere yet strong statement and, like all the other Libraries of Mages in the cities of the former Empire, had architectural designs that had been copied but never since improved upon. Emeric walked confidently up to the large, dark wooden doors recessed in the archway in the middle of the façade. He pounded on the door with his fist, ignoring the knocker and stepped back to wait. It was a moment before they could finally hear some shuffling from behind it. A small panel opened and a face illuminated in the pale yellow glow of a mage lamp could be seen behind it.

‘What do you want? The Academy is closed for the night,’ said the man. His voice was rough, suggesting he had just been woken from his sleep. A pair of sleepy eyes surveyed Emeric for a moment and then Soren. His voice took on an even less pleasant tone, if such was possible. ‘Trade entrance is around the back anyhow. Now clear off and come back in the morning. The back gate mind!’

Emeric took a step back so the doorman could see his doublet.

‘I’m here on the business of Count Amero dal Moreno. Open the door or I’ll have the hide off your back!’ said Emeric, with menace in his voice.

The doorman instantly took on a more formal and less dismissive approach. ‘What business do you have at this hour of the night?’ he asked.

‘I have a new student for admission,’ Emeric said.

‘Term started a week ago. His lordship should know that,’ said the doorman. ‘That boy is far too old to start here anyway,’ he added, nodding toward Soren.

‘Enough of your impudence.’ Emeric’s voice was calm and level, if anything a little quieter than usual, but it was far more frightening than any roar of anger Soren had heard. ‘The Count requests that this boy be admitted to the Academy right away. Neither one of us wants for him to have to come down here and see to it himself.’

The doorman remained silent for a moment, then the panel was slammed shut and a clank of metal rang out from behind the door. The main doors remained shut, but a smaller wicket door opened in the centre of one of them. The doorman stood behind it, mage lamp in hand with a dark cloak covering his nightclothes.

‘Well, be quick about it then,’ he said impatiently.

Soren looked at Emeric, who remained motionless. He smiled for the first time.

‘Well, on you go, lad, I’ve taken you as far as I can.’ He paused abruptly, as though he had stopped himself from saying something, but then continued. ‘Don’t let where you’ve come from hold you back. This place isn’t everything, but it’s as much as the likes of us can hope for. Just make the best you can out of this opportunity, another one this good ain’t likely to come along again.’

With that he took a step back, turned, and paced away into the night. Soren walked hesitantly through the door to be greeted by the grimacing doorman. He slammed the door, bolted it shut, and turned to Soren.

‘You’re filthy, and you stink. It’s the stables for you tonight, m’lad. The Master can decide what he wants to do with you in the morning,’ he said. He beckoned for Soren to follow him and walked off into the darkness, his mage lamp creating a soft bubble of warm light around them.

The stable was, compared to what Soren was used to, palatial. He couldn’t even guess at how many horses it housed, but it must have run into the hundreds. When he had asked the doorman, he had been ignored. The doorman had led him to an empty stall, told him that someone would be there for him in the morning and left him to the darkness and the sound of hundreds of restless horses. Soren didn’t mind however; the straw was fresh and deep, the stall a perfect shelter.

As he sat down on the hay, he found it hard to believe what had occurred that day. The sponsorship of promising young men of humble backgrounds into the Academy was a well known tradition in the city, and a source of popular pride. Even the most lowly man could reach beyond what he had been born into and achieve virtually anything if he was lucky enough to have the opportunity to attend the Academy. When Soren was a boy at his orphanage, both he and all of the other boys dreamed of being spotted by a wealthy benefactor and trained for entry to the Academy. It was probably the dream of every boy of a modest background. As he had gotten older and the dream ever less likely, he had forgotten it, along with all of the other dreams of childhood as life became a daily struggle just to survive. Now, it seemed, the dream was coming true. He was almost too afraid to go to sleep in case he awoke to discover this day had all in fact been a dream of the dream coming true. Nevertheless, eventually he lay back on the fresh straw and had the best night’s sleep that he could remember.

He awoke to beams of sunlight piercing down through ventilation slats in the roof. They illuminated the countless particles of dust drifting through the air, which made it seem chokingly thick. There were two men standing over him, silhouetted in the contrasting murk and brilliant illumination of the stables. Soren’s heart raced until he remembered that he was in safe surroundings. They were talking, clearly unaware that he was awake.

‘He’s too tall, and far too old to be starting off his training. What was Amero thinking? He must have been drunk again,’ said the taller of the two men.

‘Hmm, I agree. Too tall by far,’ said the other, standing with his arms akimbo.

‘And it looks as though he has just been dragged out of the gutter,’ uttered the taller one.

‘He probably has, but there’s many more than him here that have been dragged out of the gutter. Be that as it may, Amero’s man handed over a purse of crowns this morning that will more than cover his fee, lodging and expenses for two years, so he must have seen something in the lad.’

‘Maybe he’s taken a fancy to him!’ said the taller man.

‘Ha! I don’t like the man any more than you do, Bryn, but I like unfounded speculation even less. Amero is a Banneret of the Blue and has the right to nominate one student every year. This is the first time he has ever done so, so we must give the lad a chance. Wake him up.’

The taller man, the one who had been called Bryn, stepped forward and nudged Soren with his boot. Soren made his best attempt to seem startled and sleepy.

‘I am Dornish, Banneret of the Blue and Master of the Academy,’ said the shorter man, his arms still akimbo and his features still hidden in the dark. ‘What is your name, boy?’

‘Soren, sir.’ He added the sir as an afterthought as he got to his feet. Standing, he was taller than both men. He had assumed himself to be over six feet, but didn’t really know for certain.

Dornish gave him an appraising and not particularly encouraging look.

‘A bloody giant, and scrawny as a starving rat. I expect you’re as clumsy as an ox, lad! Still, you’ll have reach and strength if we can put some muscle on you,’ said Dornish. He stared at Soren with a look of uncertainty on his face. ‘You will have a chance here, lad. I don’t have high hopes, I’ll be honest, but you’ll be given a fair run. If you aren’t up to it, having the Count of Moreno as sponsor won’t do an ounce of good.’ He turned back to the taller man. ‘See that he’s washed, fed and given proper clothes. We’ll have a look at him this afternoon, and if he isn’t up to it we shall send him on his way.’

C h a p t e r   5

THE ACADEMY OF SWORDSMEN

A
fter being pushed into an ablutions block with a towel and a bar of soap, Soren was taken to the Academy supply shop, where he was given a new set of clothes, the uniform of a student at the Academy. Having been used to loose rags, the fitted clothes he was given felt restricting. He conceded that they fit well and allowed him a full range of movement, it was just that being fully enclosed in cloth was a new experience. After washing he had looked at himself in a mirror, and had to acknowledge how thin he was. With the muck washed off there was more bone than flesh and next to the people around him, he looked like a walking skeleton. With the new clothes he looked like an entirely different person; perhaps even one that might fit in there. He hoped they let him at least keep them if they threw him out, as they most certainly would. They would come in very handy in winter, if they weren’t stolen first.

When taken to the canteen, referred to simply as the ‘Dining Hall’, it became clear to him that his emaciated look would soon change if he managed to stay at the Academy. The hall was a long, high ceilinged room, with dark and ancient looking roof timbers. At the end opposite the doors, there was a long table upon which was placed great silver serving dishes full of food. Porridges, stews, soups, potatoes, vegetables, fruits, meats and breads of all description. The hall was open all day and you could eat as much as you wanted, he was told. It sounded too good to be true, but then everything he had heard so far that morning had. The only other place he had seen this much food was in the Crossways, and access to that fare was considerably harder to come by.

He loaded up his tray with a little of everything that caught his eye, which amounted to an awful lot, and picked a seat on the end of one of the long tables as far away from anyone else as he could get. In the deepest recess of his mind he feared that the food would be stolen, and his natural reaction to it was defensive even though he knew that this would not happen. What was this strange place, and how did he end up there?

The steward who had shown him to the dining hall had told him that he would be back in twenty minutes or so to take him to class, so he tucked into his food with ravenous intent. As he ate, he surveyed his surroundings in more detail. The walls were lined with great portraits of distinguished looking men. They could all have been great heroes of Ostia, but the images meant nothing to Soren. He might have heard of their names, but he had never seen paintings like that before. In the centre of the long, wood panelled walls on both sides of the hall, great marble fireplaces housed roaring fires. The heat they gave out kept the massive hall comfortably warm.

There weren’t that many people there and Soren supposed most of the students would be in a class of some sort. There were a few small groups huddled together around the hall though, eating and talking intently. They were all dressed identically in their uniform of white shirt, beige britches and sleeveless white waistcoat, with their dark blue doublets hanging over the back of their chairs. They paid Soren little interest. He supposed he didn’t stand out all that much anymore now that he was clean and wearing the same uniform as them. He had not yet been given a doublet, but was told that he would be in due course. There was a black, brimless felt hat also, but he was told that it was only worn for assemblies and reviews and such like. He was glad that this was the case as he thought the hat looked ridiculous, and it made him feel ridiculous when he had tried it on.