Chapter 8 Choice
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The hammer pounded into the old wood, methodically, blow by blow. It was uncomfortable with her left hand, so she had to tap less often, aiming each time. But Elena noted she was getting much better. Practice was a great thing. She took a breath and breathed in the fresh air.
She was watched, however, as in the very first, still autumn visit, from the corners and back alleys with sharp rat-like stares. And passers-by mostly just ignored the tall girl with a hammer, who was smashing someone else's door for some reason. Some, however, slowed down, but not for long, as if some force was drawing them away from the old house, which looked more like a small fortress. There were no guards in sight. Elena took another deep breath, tightened the old scarf, and swung again.
"Draftsman!" she yelled and struck the crossbar. Then, on the grate, enjoying the deafening ringing. The sound of metal hitting metal traveled farther and sounded more pleasant.
"Figueredo nicknamed the Draftsman!" the girl shouted, swinging around again. "Come out, damn you!"
Two more strikes, including one on the ring. Copper, unlike bronze, sounded quite muffled.
"Come out, oath-breaker!"
Some kind of life was clearly visible behind the door. Something shuffled, something clattered. There was a slurred sound, like someone cursing. The way old men mutter when they miss their slippers in the morning. Finally, through the window on the door came the sound of footsteps, as if the owner were wearing wooden-soled shoes. Whether the lock or the deadbolt rattled, Elena couldn't remember exactly how the door of the house was locked, but either way - if her ears were to be believed - it was something solid, heavy. The angry girl stepped back a step and grabbed the hammer more deftly.
Draftsman stood up. Or rather, appeared on the threshold like a ghost from a crypt. Her mentor hadn't changed much since the last time they'd met. He was still tall, thin, and angry. Except his camisole was even more frayed, and his shirt needed repeated washing. The fencer's hair looked as if it had been dusted with dirty flour and dust, and his eyes were swollen, rolling out of eye sockets that had become too small. Figueredo hadn't looked like a model of health before, but now he seemed terrifying in every way. His dead stare made Elena shiver, and she took another step back and raised her hammer, pointing it at her former teacher.
"You're alive," the master stated. "I didn't expect that."
"I'm alive," hummed the hapless apprentice. "Unexpectedly?"
"Yes," agreed Draftsman. "Quite," and inexpressively asked. "Is that a challenge?"
His voice sounded dull, muffled, completely matching the image of a dusty scarecrow. The master did not seem surprised at the unexpected return of his "apprentice".
"No," Elena said, raising the hammer even higher. She did her best not to flinch, not to slur her words. At the sight of the Draftsman, the fear returned, flooding her consciousness with a tidal wave. She felt again - acutely, vividly as if it had happened not more than a month ago, but just now - the fear, the feeling of helplessness and complete dependence on someone else's whim. Her right arm ached with weeping pain. Elena exhaled, grinned, and set her right foot back as if preparing to lunge with her left.
"I came for what's mine."
The silence around her seemed to thicken into an invisible sour cream. Elena could literally feel dozens of stares, and everyone who passed by suddenly quickened their steps. It was strange, as normally everything in the City attracted the attention of gawkers, including pooping vixens and fights between spouses (not to mention all the other fights). But now it was as if an invisible dome had grown around the Draftsman's house, pushing the gawkers as far away from the bad place as possible.
He leaned his shoulder on the joint and swallowed. Judging by the grimace that slid across the master's face like a wave across a sea surface, it was painful. Elena looked at the fencer, and the fear was leaving her, but her resolve was also draining away like water escaping through a ruptured fur. Surprisingly, the fierce hatred that was boiling in her soul seemed to have burned out, leaving only barely warm embers. It was enough to take one look at Draftsman, who was not a man but a ruin, a remnant of human nature.
The hammer came down with jerky jerks. Figueredo stared silently at his former apprentice with the same painful, expressionless gaze. Elena exhaled, finally getting rid of her heated emotions. With that exhalation, it was as if her soul had all gone at once-hatred, humiliation, suffering. Nothing was left, all burned out in a fierce flash. A quarter of an hour ago, Elena had been ready to die, clutching at Draftsman's throat. Now all she wanted was for it to be over.
Elena took a step towards the master and looked at him straight ahead without averting her eyes. Surprisingly, the girl still did not doubt that Draftsman could kill her with anything and at any moment. At the same time, she wasn't afraid of it, as if a higher power whispered in her ear with absolute certainty that the fencer wouldn't kill her on his porch.
"You gave your word," she said softly.
The hammer felt incredibly heavy, pulling her hand down like a half-pound weight. Her neck was sore where the stiff loop touched her skin. The sun had already disappeared behind the high roofs, and the evening light was dying. Soon, the lamplighters would go again, lighting wax torches, and the rich houses would glow with the light of magic lamps...
"You swore an oath," reminded the girl even more quietly. "Before the image of Pantocrator in the attributes of the Father of Swords. You took my money. You took my dagger. And taught me nothing."
Figueredo moved his lip, lifted it in a nervous tic, as if showing a yellow, predatory fang. He seemed ready to pounce on his accuser and gnaw at her throat, but something inside him wouldn't let him. Maybe it was the sharp pain that gripped his gut. Maybe something else ...
"You're not a mentor," Elena said like a sword slash. "You are a thief and an oathbreaker."
"The opposite edge of his lip twitched, and now the Draftsman looked like a hyena on its hind legs. He remained silent, however."
"You took my blade. It was given to me by Vensan Mongaillard," the girl uttered quite quietly, not taking her gaze away from the black dots in the middle of the inflamed whites beneath Draftsman's eyebrows. "Vensan said you were a bad man but a good tutor who honored Àrd-Ealain. He was wrong."
Figueredo's face stiffened, the blood draining away, giving his skin a waxy tint, his eyes bulging even more. His pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. It was as if a corpse was staring at Elena with dead eyes.
"You betrayed the Grande Art," inspiration came over Elena, the girl slashing at the words like a knife, twisting through her wounds. "And when you die, will the First Master ask what kind of mentor you were? Will you lie to the Father of Truth? Or will you answer honestly? Yeah, you'll probably say you robbed your last apprentice. Took his money, his weapons, and then threw him out the door to his doom."
The snow fell in infrequent tracery parachutes. Everything had turned gray, suspended in the brief interval when daylight had followed the sun, but the shadows were still creeping in, preparing to take over. The moon must have rolled into the sky by now, but it was hidden by the island-topped roofs and the slate stove chimneys.
"But you know..."
Elena hummed and looked at the hammer, bowing her head as if seeing for the first time the object she had recently ready to smash her "mentor's" head in or to lay her corpse in the fresh snow.
"You know," the girl repeated, smiling crookedly. "And to hell with you. Give back what you stole. I don't need more than that."
Figueredo continued to stand and stare as if he hadn't heard what was said. Then he suddenly mumbled:
"Follow me."
And he retreated into the darkness of the house, like an evil spirit that lurks in a crypt.
Elena shuddered. She'd been prepared for everything, but here, "things didn't go according to plan."
The hell with it! She thought in a cocky voice and stepped through the threshold. Her soul was boiling like the ingredients in an alchemical elixir. Indifference mixed with morbid interest. What would happen next? Strangely, however, now the girl was not afraid of the fencer at all, although, despite the obvious illness, Figueredo did not become less disgusting and dangerous.
The hall was unchanged. Stone floor, wood-paneled walls, a broken dummy, and weapons that hadn't moved in weeks. Shutters closed and propped up with sticks. Even the night pot lay in the same place. It looked as if no human being had ever set foot in the hall, not just an apprentice, but a human being.
"The dagger," Elena repeated.
Draftsman ignored her demand. He walked around the girl, scrutinizing her. The movements of the master's bulging eyes were unpleasantly reminiscent of the rotating eyepieces of some scanning optic. Just as attentive, not missing a single feature, completely devoid of life.
"Soooo..." the master stretched out.
Elena sensed something was different from the previous visit, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Maybe Draftsman seemed more businesslike. Maybe the atmosphere of the dusty, abandoned hall was a little more lively. It was unclear. The dead light of the lamp stung her pupils unpleasantly, like the sun on the summit of Mount Elbrus on a bright day.
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"Hand," Figueredo said demandingly. "The right one."
Elena gritted her teeth and pulled the barely healed limb, the movement jerky, like a series of small jerks. Her fingers were still weak, unable to hold anything heavier than a spoon. The draftsman took her palm, quickly ran his thin fingers along the tendons, pulled up her sleeve, and palpated the fracture. Elena clenched her jaw even tighter to keep from moaning. It hurt so much. His fingers seemed hard and lifeless, a little colder than air.
"Interesting," summarized Draftsman. "By yourself?"
Elena understood the question and answered just as succinctly:
"Yes."
"Didn't expect it," Figueredo admitted honestly.
He let go of the girl's hand, interlocked his fingers, and set his lower jaw very low, like an old man who'd lost all his teeth. Or a reptile.
"I didn't expect that," repeated the master. "Well, you certainly have the will to live."
"The knife," repeated the girl.
"You will not have Vensan's weapon," Draftsman cut off. "I once gave him this dagger, and I find it right that the blade has returned to me. You will receive another."
He wrinkled his wrinkled lips. Elena was silent, not knowing what to say.
Things didn't go according to plan...
"I will teach you," Figueredo said curtly. "But you must understand three things."
Elena opened her mouth and closed it, unable to say anything. It was too sudden.
"First," just as clearly, cutting off phrases, the fencer continued. "You will not become a master. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Yes, there are female fighters, though rarely. But no amount of Perseverance will help if its sister - Time is not by your side. A good brether picks up a wooden sword at the age of ten or thirteen. At fifteen, he is already practicing with sharp steel. By seventeen, he knows the color of his blood. By your age, he has years of experience and a few dead men under his belt. You've lost the years of youth when the foundation of skill is laid, and no power in the world will balance that flaw."
Elena remained silent, unable to counter the obvious statement.
"In a year of training, you'll be able to fight off one or two armed soldiers. After another year, you'll defeat them with confidence. When three winters change, you'll be able to stand up to a good swordsman or a very average brether. This is a pinnacle you will never surpass."
"I'm re.." The girl started, and the master cut her off as if pulling an invisible curtain.
"Shut up," commanded Figueredo boringly. "And never dare interrupt your mentor again. My every word is the quintessence of experience, passed down from generation to generation since the days of the Old Empire and multiplied. It is the elixir of divine knowledge, which you must drink like precious wine without missing a drop."
"Y ... " Elena caught herself in time, and instead of bursting out "Yes" she just nodded.
"Second. We always speak of the High Art with reverence. We worship it and call the Lord the First Master, the Father of Swords. All of that is true. But you must realize that the way of Àrd-Ealain is actually the way of contempt for life. We take from men the greatest value the Pantocrator gave them. We take it of our own free will and by our own choice. And every Brether knows he can be as devout as he likes, pray and sacrifice in the temples, but in the afterlife, his soul will go to the Dark Jeweler [1]."
Elena nodded.
"Third. Weapons are made to kill. Every blade, even if it were made entirely of silver and gold, has only one purpose in its nature: to take lives, to maim, to torment. And my science, too, exists to punish my enemies with pain and death. When a disciple steps on a road paved with the suffering of others, he renounces his former life. Sooner or later, he will shed blood and do it again. And again. Or die by the sword himself."
Draftsman's dead gaze was hypnotizing, drawing him into the darkness where there was only death and the glint of sharpened steel. There, flames danced on the ruins, and death reaped what it did not sow.
"There," Figueredo pointed his hand toward the door. "A city of ordinary people. Here," the master's white fingers pointed to the star-shaped figure beneath the girl's feet. "A different world. And you can't live equally in both."
Elena felt chills. She felt like a participant in a creepy ritual, a real ritual, not a book ritual. The absolute seriousness of every word of the fencer filled her soul with a lingering eeriness. Elena only now remembered that she was still holding the hammer and quickly put its handle behind her belt.
"I will neither advise anything nor dissuade you. Moreover, if you leave now, I will return the silver to you. The decision is yours and yours alone. But you must understand the consequences. Killing people, making them bleed, screaming in unbearable pain, suffering from festering wounds and punctured guts. Going down the road of fate, leaving broken lives behind you, throwing your own on the line over and over again - is that really what your true desire is?"
Always yours.
That's what the girl with chrysolite-colored eyes whispered before she died. Teine, the Fire-haired one, was the name of the friend with whom she wanted to live many years in happiness and peace.
Elena squeezed her eyes shut and staggered. The grief that had been simmering in the far corners of her soul for month after month splashed outward with fierce generosity like a tub of boiling water.
They took her. They killed her. They sent a witch with hellfire in her eyes, and the monster struck Shena down with a single blow. With one single blow...
Always yours.
You're not going to be a master.
"Yes."
"Louder! I don't hear you."
"Yes," Elena said, like a hammer hitting a hammer. And strangely enough, for a moment, it seemed to her that a door had indeed slammed somewhere. A big, heavy, stained oak door with a thick bronze frame. A door that could neither be broken nor opened with a lock pick. A door that only opens one way and only once.
"I take you as my apprentice," Draftsman said without any pathos or intensity. Only now, it sounded really creepy, with the inevitability of an executioner's axe swing.
"And today, your old life will end. All that has gone before," Figueredo indicated a wide circular motion, as if drawing a line with an invisible blade. "It will be completed. And a new one will begin."
Elena didn't notice where the knife had come from in the old man's hand, only flinched in surprise. Figueredo had literally pulled the weapon out of nothing like a magician. Or a wizard. A rather small blade - longer than a mountain knife - leaf-shaped of good steel, without cavities or cracks. A small, rather symbolic hilt. Through the hole in the tip was threaded a hair cord, strong in appearance. It had no beads or any of the other ornaments they liked to decorate such knives with.
"Put it on," Figueredo ordered and showed her how to put the lace on. "That's it."
It looked really unusual. The noose did not cover the wrist, but the middle and ring fingers.
"Not many people know this trick now, but it's quite useful. You are not tied to the knife and can easily drop it. If the blade doesn't have a guard, the hinge will keep your fingers from snapping at the blade when you stab it. And it'll also help you change grip quickly, like this."
The small blade fluttered around the master's palm, alternating between a straight grip and a reverse grip. It looked mesmerizingly smooth and, at the same time, fast and beautiful.
"We will begin with the short blade, for the dagger is the lord of all weapons, the first and last sign of the alphabet of killing. It stabs and cuts, wards off the enemy's blade, and twists and breaks arms in a struggle. It can be stealthy and silent like a poisoner's needle or open and fearsome like the wrath of the lord. Your armor may shatter, your shield may crack, and your sword may break, but as long as you have your dagger, you are not defenseless. You hold your life in your own hands. Now stand here."
Elena obediently stepped into the center of the figure formed by two concentric circles. Eight lines ran from her feet, like the sides of the world on a compass circle.
"Stretch out your arm."
The master walked around the girl again, measured something in the air with his fingers, made a few movements as if he were lowering an invisible weight on a pendant.
"Good, the arms are as long as a man's," he muttered to himself. "Drawing out the Figure specifically for you won't have to be done. Put it down."
The word - "Figure" - sounded almost reverent, the way one might say it about a shrine. Elena took a new look at the circles and lines. Somehow, all this geometry resembled Destreza's circle but only resembled it. The base here was completely different, with no rhombuses.
"You're going to have a very hard time," the fencer informed, and it was clear from the tone that this was how the first lesson was going to start. "Not the right age, not the right strength. But every flaw can be at least partially balanced. For you, the cure for your infirmity will be a mastery of Movements and Positions."
He looked at Elena without blinking as if he wanted to make sure the student was absorbing every drop of precious knowledge. Elena listened, trying to breathe even more quietly.
"Most people think that High Art is about being able to swing a blade and fend off blows. They are mistaken. In fact, what makes a blade master a true killer is the ability to move properly. So, at any given moment, the enemy would have the hardest time hitting the master. And the master, in turn, could get the enemy in different ways, choosing the best according to the moment. That is why, in the old language, the art of fencing was literally called - the Science of Steps".
Again, the pause with the mute question - did the girl who wanted to kill her enemies understand everything? Elena understood. In fact, she hadn't heard anything new yet, well, almost nothing. Draftsman's science, in general, lay quite well on the general idea and principles of sports fencing. Only in the old man's words, there was an unpleasant coldness of ruthless practicality of the concentrated knowledge of how to kill a man in the best possible way.
"Before you pick up a sword, you will learn the Play of the Dagger. And before I show you the Play, I will teach you the Steps."
Draftsman pointed to a larger circle whose radius corresponded to the length of the apprentice's outstretched arm plus about a meter.
"This is the Circle of Life. The space of the long blade."
Figueredo then marked a smaller circle, a couple palms shorter than his outstretched hand.
"This is the Circle of Death, the final line of battle, when grapples, pinches, fists, nails, teeth, and anything else you will not to die prompts you to do."
Draftsman alternately pointed to the eight rays spreading out from a point beneath Elena's feet.
"This is the Star of the Eight Directions. Proper movement always follows a properly chosen line. The right attack should strike the enemy between his Directions because that is where the Vulnerabilities are located, where the movement is slower, the blow weaker, the balance more precarious."
Draftsman made a move. He shifted a little to the side, swung like a boxer hitting a left hook, and marked a blow with the palm of his hand from top to bottom as if he were chopping with a sword. The air slapped Elena's face. The girl blinked and only then realized she had seen the fencer's combination.... and didn't realize it at all, so fast it had happened. The signal traveled along the nerves from her eyes to her brain, but before it could spread further along the neurons, it was over. Her right arm ached again, reminding her of the careless dexterity and ease with which Figueredo had broken it with a thin stick. But at the same time, running the combination of the Draftsman's step and blow through her head, Elena realized the essence of the idea.
She wouldn't have had time to fend off the blow anyway, much less dodge it. But thanks to the short shift to the side, the fencer's action was as uncomfortable as possible for the target, and if there was any kind of equal combat here, this inconvenience could well be a speck of dust that would outweigh the right cup.
"Every step, every Position must be constructed like an exact blueprint so that your Directions can hit other people's Vulnerabilities."
Well, now she knows why the old fencer had such an unusual nickname.
"Now, let's get started. But before ..."
Draftsman stepped almost close to the apprentice, his gaze penetrating as if he could see into the very depths of her soul.
"Àrd-Ealain is like a demon of the old world from a time when Pantocrator had not yet illuminated the world with his will. It is greedy and knows no mercy. It demands service and sacrifice. You will give me money. But the Art of the Brether takes only blood as payment. Some thought they could leave the path of the sword, but they were wrong. Even Vensan, the best brether in his generation, did not escape the reckoning. He was charged a very high price. I will ask one last time - is this the path you choose?"
Elena raised her head and froze, her lips tightly pressed together. The girl thought she hid her feelings well, but the old assassin read faces like open books. He saw that the painted girl was frozen on the thin line between Desire and Decision. And Figueredo nicknamed the Draftsman, waited patiently because such a moment comes only once in a lifetime, and the choice to be made was so significant that it was worthy of thought and doubt.
And Elena...
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