Chapter 3

The next two days were horrible. Friends, family, and business partners came through the house in a steady stream. Mother looked exhausted, but she was gracious to everyone. Mato didn’t know how she did it. He would have chased them away, but he could not bear to add to her burdens.

Chenoa and her mother came through.

“I’m so sorry, Mato.”

He couldn’t tell if she was apologizing for his father, or hers. “Thank you.”

When they left, he retreated to his room and cried for a while.

At daybreak on the third day Mato collected his things and returned to the academy gates. He nodded to the guards, then stood and waited.

The slender man approached just as the sun crested the eastern wall.

“I see you are on time. Follow me.”

Mato lived toward the southwest wall. The eastern side of the city was for the wealthy, and for royalty. They walked along on the sunbaked stone, skirted the minor palaces of the nobles, and arrived at the last home before the clear space between the city and the wall.

The home was much different than Mato expected. He had grown up with many rooms, skylights, and plants or animals growing everywhere. This was a set of stairs that led below the surface. There appeared to be a single level, with one large room. It was thirty paces long by fifteen paces wide, and the ceiling was a complex arch like a dome, but stretched in the east-west directions.

“Welcome to my home. My name is Ezhno. I don’t know who my mother or father was, so I don’t have a family name. Don’t ask.”

“Yes, Ezhno.”

“Put your things over there.” Ezhno pointed to a curtain on the northeast wall.

Mato pulled the curtain aside and found a simple room. There was a bed, a bit of shelving, and a cubby in the wall for a lamp.

“Put everything in here?”

“For now.”

Mato set his bundle down, then turned to the center of the room.

“Sword too,” Ezhno said.

Mato met his employer back in the shaft of sunlight from the large skylight in the common room.

“We have work to do,” Ezhno said. “First, we move everything to the edges of the room.”

It didn’t take long. Ezhno had a bit of furniture, plus some training equipment. Mato helped him shift the lot of it to the walls, then waited for instruction.

“Next, we do this,” Ezhno said. He held up a hastily scrawled drawing on a piece of slate. It was a set of concentric circles. One in the center, another around it, and then a border.

Mato cocked his head and studied the simple drawing, hoping to discover some hidden meaning.

“I don’t understand.”

“No questions,” Ezhno said. “You observe, you think. I should not have to explain everything.”

They walked to the market, where Ezhno purchased a clay jar of white paint. Then they returned to Ezhno’s house, where Mato carefully painted a circle two paces across. Then they traced another circle two paces out, and Mato painted that. When the third circle was complete Ezhno called a break for lunch.

The food was awful. Ezhno had dried meat and crackers. Mato got some water from the barrel, then nearly spit it out. It clearly had not been freshened for several days.

He watched his employer eat, and tried to do the same. It was nothing like Mother’s cooking.

“This is the warrior’s reach,” Ezhno said. He swept his foot around the central circle. “When something is within your reach, you can kick it, claw it, or strike it.”

He advanced to the next circle. “This is the warrior’s blade. It is the extra reach provided by your sword.”

He moved to the final circle. “This is the warrior’s lunge. It is everything you can reach with your blade, plus one step. Get a blade.” Ezhno pointed to a rack of practice swords at the edge of the room.

They spent the afternoon learning various ways to draw a blade and return it to its scabbard. Mato did his best to pay attention, but after the first hour it grew repetitious. He reminded himself that he could be home, scooping cavi drops, but then supper arrived.

Once again they ate dried meat, ate dry crackers, and drank stale water. Mato remembered that at home he would be eating fried fish, or baked yams, or fresh melon…

Evening was a time when most people gathered on the surface. It was pleasant to feel the breeze as the temperature dropped, and to watch the final rays of the sun as it slipped into the west.

Ezhno gave him a scroll of sword techniques, and Mato fell asleep trying to understand old phrases and awkward diagrams.

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“Up.”

Mato pried his eyes open. It was still dark.

“What?”

Ezhno dragged him out of bed. For such a slender man, he had amazing strength. After a bit of a tussle, Mato found himself in the center of the circles. Ezhno pressed a practice sword into his hands.

“Buckle it on.”

Mato fastened the belt around his waist.

“Draw.”

Mato drew.

“Sheath.”

Mato sheathed.

They repeated the exercise until the sun was high enough to see. Mato was furious. Dragged from his bed, forced to repeat an exercise he had already learned, over and over.

“Look at your hands,” Ezhno said.

They were covered with red. He frowned and wiped at them.

“Draw.”

Mato drew his practice blade. The edges were smeared with red paste.

“You have cut your hands to ribbons,” Ezhno said. “Go wash. Then we will eat. After that, you will practice.”

Mato washed, then went to the well and returned with fresh water. Breakfast was dried meat and stale bread.

“I thought we were going to travel,” Mato said.

“You cannot travel yet. You would die the first day. I will train you. Then we will go.”

“Don’t we need to go with a caravan?”

“Yes, but I lead caravans. It will not be a problem.”

“Are you a trail master?”

“Yes. Eventually you will be too.”

That was a jolt. Trail masters were crucial to Abo. They guided caravans across the salts, and ensured that trade between Abo and the rest of the world continued. Somehow he had stumbled into a better opportunity than the guards. Mato resolved to succeed.

Morning practice was awful. He tried to stay focused, but the motions were far from interesting. Draw with the right hand. Sheath with the right hand. Draw with the left hand. Sheath with the left hand.

Ezhno made him wear the sword in various positions and repeat the full range of exercises. Draw with the right hand. Sheath with the left hand. And on, and on, and on.

Lunch was dried meat and more stale bread. At least they had fresh water this time.

Mato returned to the training circle and strapped his training sword on. He drew the blade, then started to sheath it.

“Teacher?”

“What is it?”

“I would like to practice something else.”

“Good,” Ezhno said. He drew his own practice sword and moved to stand beside Mato. “Do what I do.”

“You mean I could have asked for a new exercise before?”

“Of course.”

So he just let me waste his time for hours?

“You said not to ask questions.”

Ezhno smiled. “Yes, I did. I also told you to think. How is a student supposed to master their lessons if they cannot ask questions?”

“But, you contradicted yourself.”

“Of course. The first thing you should learn from me is that what people say is often not what they mean. Watch for contradictions, you will learn much.”

That made sense. Mato focused on following the lesson, and tried to think of questions to ask.

“Do we need armor?”

“No. We will be traveling, and avoiding violence as much as we can. Armor is useful if you know you will need it, but otherwise it is just heavy.”

Mato had little experience with fighting. He’d expected sword training to involve clashes, like he sometimes saw in plays or heard about in stories.

Ezhno avoided clashes. He used quick footwork and an uncanny sense of balance to stay out of Mato’s path. His counterattacks were designed to maim or kill. Mato would lunge, and Ezhno would step aside and sweep his blade over Mato’s throat, or up the inside of his thigh.

“This is where you cut.” He pointed to his neck. “Also here, here, and here.” He pointed to the inside of his leg, the inside of his arm, and a spot low on the side of his stomach. “This is where the blood is. Let the blood out, and strength soon fades.”

Afternoon training was fast, and fun. When Ezhno called a halt for dinner, Mato was shocked that the day was already gone.

“Teacher, perhaps we could eat something other than dried meat?”

“Good idea. Survival food is terrible. Go pick something out.” He handed Mato a few coins, and Mato headed for the market.

* * *

There were two true markets in the city. The west market was near Mato’s family home. The east market was not far from Ezhno’s house, and while Mato had been there before, it was unusual enough to capture his attention.

Chenoa walked by up the street, and Mato started toward her. She shook her head, then turned and walked away. Mato slumped and turned back to his business.

A caravan had arrived, and Mato pushed his way into the crowd. The market was a wide street, with enough room for temporary stalls in front of the permanent shops. Trees grew in the center of the street, providing shade.

Caravans to Abo had a common form. There were typically eight to twelve ox-drawn wagons, strings of animals, a trader, and a few guards.

They brought goods like sugar, honey, coffee, and tea that were always in short supply here. They also sold at least half of their oxen and all of the other animals. However many wagons the trader wished to sell would be broken down for their wood and iron.

The remaining wagons would make the return trip loaded with pomegranates, dates, salt, cocoanuts, and avocados. And gold. Abo had gold deposits, you just had to dig deep enough. It was a perfect system, Mato thought. The gold provided enough value for traders to visit, but only once in the city’s history had anyone attempted a siege.

The siege had been a short-lived affair, where the invaders arrived, stayed for almost two weeks, ran out of water, then tried to leave. That was when Abo’s soldiers hit them.

Mato spent most of the coins on an oxtail, and added some vegetables on his way out. The final coin paid for a skin of pomegranate wine.

“Hey, kid,” someone called as Mato passed an empty shop. He walked to the doorway, but he was pretty sure he knew what they wanted.

“Thanks for stopping. Got any water?” He held up a pair of silver coins.

Silver was rare. Abo could dig its own gold, but silver only came in with the traders.

“Sorry, no,” Mato said.

“Let’s make a deal. You go get some, then bring it to me.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Sorry.”

Mato walked away. The silver was tempting, but participating in the unlawful sale of Abo’s water came with harsh penalties. He’d seen a man beaten nearly to death for it.