We arrive one week before the tournament and accompanying festival. I tell Jer to spend all the time he can training with someone more skilled as he can afford to do so. Lacking similar funds for training, I elect to train Ker instead. Teaching him the basics will help me to deepen my understanding of them, a pauper's pedagogy. My Father gave me money, but that would have to last two years, and trainers are expensive.

Our first session begins with a run that empties Ker. My laughter takes a poor first step in building a new dynamic. We move into forms as I focus on his strengths. First Willow, then Reed Panther, and back to Reed. Both finish quickly; his stance is strong, but the rest isn’t. I consider the best outcome, prompting me to ask:

“What will be the ideal outcome?”

“Just standing my ground for a match or two, I guess…”

“You need to focus on the grip. Axes are more forward-balanced than swords; gripping the lower portion like that will lower mobility but offer a greater impact. Keep your grip higher for defense versus striking, but first, a default position between the two.” I instruct, moving his hand to the appropriate positions.

My control tests sparring as Ker tries to hold his weapon once struck. It’s a dozen false starts before we can enter the training tempo. Here, I will be able to test him. Slow attacks bolster his confidence while we work up the pace. Ker’s footwork necessitates frequent halts as I demonstrate proper steps.

The worst is a tendency to trip himself when I am attacking. Scraps and bruises speckle Ker by the end of our training, necessitating my help in the baths. Jer joins us in a similar state, adding to my workload. Jer is twice as hard to clean as Ker, but I am used to the task. We eat our supper in a subdued atmosphere. Ker retires, leaving Jer and me alone.

“You doubt your chances.” Jer guesses.

“Better to keep options open.”

“I understand what you are doing, just don't give up on it yet. I know you can make it, Vesh.”

“I don’t know if I can. I always thought I had a chance, but the more I see, the more I realize how far the gap is. We are at risk so far from our goal. Failing here is too real and more present than I can confront.” I sulk.

“Whether you can or not isn’t even something you can control, Vesh. Do your best to show people what you are capable of.”

The training seemed like a good idea, but Ker is hopeless presently. He chokes under pressure, stumbles every third step, and can't keep a hand on his weapon. This recognition is more disappointing than frustrating, and it doesn’t seem to help me at all—not as much as training with someone skilled would. The years I spent training with Jer for the tournament will matter more than the week of this.

After our second training day, we break for lunch, picking randomly within our budget. The streets thicken as more people arrive for the festivities. We sat at a communal table in a sandwich shop. Unlike places I have been to, you can choose things here. All the sandwiches come with fried eggplant, but you can select the bread, cheese, and sauce. There are so many choices that I freeze, looking at the board for a minute.

“Try the fennel sourdough with cashew cheddar and ginger aioli. If you want, you can try some of mine,” Someone suggests, offering an appealing sandwich.

“I’ll take your word. Any person willing to share their sandwich is a good sort.”

“I am Terfer, child of Cosm. Would you mind if I ate with you?” they introduce themselves with a smile.

“I am Vesh’dan, and I’d be pleased. I'll make some room here. We just got off a Kandor caravan.”

“I am Kerten, son of Holia.”

“Well, it’s appreciated. Kandor is a house of honest traders. You two are in town for the tournament?”

“We are, in fact, both promising contenders,” I lie.

“I’m sure you will put on a show. Are you looking for some work?” They hedge, smiling again.

“Here comes the pitch,” Ker announces.

“If you’re not interested, I understand.”

“Come now; we will hear you out,” I insist.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Okay. I oversee a portion of the festival setup and could use some contenders to assist.” They finish with the last of their sandwich.

“How much are we talking about here?”

“Hmmm, let’s say two silver bits a day?”

“Three?” I counter

“Call it three,” they concede. Putting down a few coppers as they stand, “I’ll see you at the fairgrounds at first light.”

“We will see you there,” I call.

Our sandwiches arrive soon, and we are satisfied with their suggestion. With the sort of money, I worry it is disreputable work, though we will probably be alright if that is the case. I sense nothing but formality from them and find it hard to consider them a criminal. Ker doesn’t mention what this means for training.

We meet Terfer the following day outside the walls of the Citadel. Tents and attractions rise from the empty field, littering the ground in a rough outline. The overt meeting place contents my alert posture. They are easy enough to track down, being so tall and attractive. We come upon them with a jovial greeting to express our excitement for this opportunity.

“Good morning, my new friends,” Terfer returns as we approach, “No— are you confused? Place this on the front,” they finish with another person before turning fully to us.

“What will you have your new friends doing this fine morning?”

“I’ll have the two of you on my right and left as extra hands,” they acquiesce, looking over some scrolls.

“Seems rather important to grab two people off the streets for?” I question.

“Yeah, for all you know, we could be buffoons.” Ker agrees.

“You rightly could. Sadly, it is a tough position to fill, and I can spot good workers when I see them,” Terfer admits.

“With the money you're offering?” I grill.

“Compliments won’t deflect you. Well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Hmm. Sure, it’s nothing we need to know.” Ker mumbles.

“Precisely why I won’t tell, and you failed to ask sooner. There is a lesson there.” Terfer finishes finding the relevant sheet and hands it over. “This should keep you busy for a couple of hours. Follow each instruction to the letter. If I must clean a mess, you’ll go the way of the Buckleys.”

“Who are the Buckleys?” Ker asks.

“Why, the two brothers of the Buckley house, who held this position before you.”

“And what happened to them?” I ask.

“See, you’re already learning. Now, off with you, I have important things to do. When done, find me. Hey! You there, don’t walk away from me.”

“I’m going to quit. It’s just. There have to be a hundred things on there.”

“Let’s give it a chance. We could meet some beauties or an important guild official. Sweeping away either with our charms is sure to turn this around. These will be, oh, there are a lot…”

“Alright. We can do this your way.” Ker relents.

“There is the incorrigible friend.”

“Run while you can.” A passerby mutters.

Over the next four days, I spend my waking hours on the festival grounds with Terfer. Ker complains endlessly about the absurdity of the tasks. He complains about Terefs' meticulous nature, Terfers’ yells, and even the handwriting getting mocked. One just says, “Build the sign better.” Another directs us to fire someone. Ker whines through the whole thing. On the second day, I realize the popularity of Ker's opinion.

“Don’cha sees the bloody diagrams! This whole mess a stans needin’ rebuildin’ ey? Wonder how much it’ll set us back?” A hammer-waving carpenter defends me in my duties.

“Damn ya and ya diagram. Most of'em built like this. We should just leave it?” A person in a gray smock yells at me and the carpenter.

“Terfer told me-” I try again.

“‘Leave it, ‘ey says, ‘take my damn diagram and shove it, ‘ey says. Ya’ill fix this less I’ll be fixin’ you.” They threaten, still waving said hammer.

“Leave 'em alone. It’s all these damn details Terfer frets over, don’t make a lick of difference,” An onlooker adds.

“An’ who ask you?” Grey smock returns.

“What’s this fuss?” Terfer interjects.

“These idits can’t read.” Hammer Waver announces.

“What is your problem with the diagram?” Terfer seeks.

“We built these without the forward facin’ cupboards, see— look, here’s the diagram; clear as day.”

“Simply fixed. We will use these elsewhere and have the stands rebuilt.” Terfer determines my previous plan.

“Why do we need to do that? Sr, it’ll be more work for us,” Grey Smock pleads.

“For the good of the festival and its goers.” Terfer proclaims.

Ker quits that day, being replaced by a similarly ignorant tourist. Ker asks me to leave and pouts when I refuse, but he isn’t profoundly wounded. The money is worth the work. I understood that my coworkers don’t like Terfer, but what of those who did? The fairgrounds empty at dusk. I am passing through when a sight halts me. Terfer sits on a crate in the middle of the desolate city of tents— weeping?

“Are you okay?” I request, walking up from behind them.

“Oh. Vesh, I didn't hear you there.”

“I don't mean to intrude. I can go.”

“No— Don’t be silly. It’s beautiful. The beginning of a generation on its path to enlightenment. Creation speaks through me, and this is the culmination of that speech.”

“I guess I haven’t taken the time to appreciate Creation in this.”

“You should, as you should with all things. Let not time wither away your eye in anything, my friend.” They advise, gesturing to a box beside them and proffering a metal cup.

“I will heed your words,” I promise, sitting next to them and taking the drink.

“It’s a proverb? But I can’t blame you there. You lasted longer than most.”

“I have? I can’t see why; you’re a delight to work for.”

“That I am.”

“Why did you have them rebuild the stands?” I query after a moment of sipping sounds.

“Those shelves on the bottom of the stand are essential. The woodworkers put toys there for the children who attend the fair.”

“I see…”

“Don’t let this chance or any go by without consideration. It is what we owe to those who can’t.”

“I will do what I can.”

“As will we all.”

We drink and talk into the night, reliving horror stories from the last few days, seeking shared pasts, dreams, or fears. A crack reveals the person underneath perfection. Tefer's devotion normalizes my goals in some reassuring way. Accomplishment itself is discarded, in his view, by the imperative to be without reservation.