The pale gold light of early sunrise streamed into the small training yard. Zevran grunted and skipped back, barely avoiding a sideways sweep meant to knock him to his feet. Maker, six solid weeks of waking before dawn. Master Nylos roused him even before the birds were up, or so it seemed.
The first morning after his arrival, the master had dumped him out of bed in the gray light of false dawn. Trained reflexes had sent Zevran into a tight roll and tumbling out a door he clearly remembered closing and locking before he'd collapsed onto the bed. As if the master wouldn't be able to unlock the doors in his own house. And the master's expression, hands on hips and grinning down at him, as if at some private joke. Amused, but not mocking, he'd even extended his hand and pulled the young elf to his feet before herding him through the house to the training yard.
Master Nylos came in for another leg sweep. "So, tell me, Arainai, why have we been sparring with peasant weapons, as well as blades?"
Zevran skipped back again and bumped into the high sandstone wall. "Because you plan on selling me to some farmer as a sheepherder?" He grinned and came back with a jab, aimed at Master Nylos throat. "Or perhaps a goatherd? I think I would prefer that, actually. I hear they're smarter than sheep."
Master Nylos laughed, easily blocking the jab. "Anything is smarter than a sheep."
Then the master pressed the attack, coming in fast and hard, knocking the staff from his hands. A sweep sent Zevran tumbling onto his backside and staring down a heavy length of oak poised just above his throat. He glanced up. Master Nylos was still smiling, the plain gold loops in his ears gleaming in the early morning light.
"You haven't answered the question."
Zevran grinned. "We're sparring with peasant weapons because you want to make my life miserable?"
Master Nylos' smile disappeared, and the end of the staff pressed into the base of his throat. "Trust me, Zevran Arainai, if I wanted to make your life miserable, there are far more effective ways."
Zevran swallowed and dropped his gaze, his fingers tightening on the packed earth of the practice yard. The staff pressed a little harder against his flesh. Ah, perhaps he shouldn't have been quite so joking. He couldn't help it, sometimes. Masters –in his experience – were always so damned serious, droning on about tradition and decorum till he wanted to scream. Couldn't one ever do or learn something just because it was fun?
"I…I'm not sure, master." He dared a glance. "But it never hurts to know a variety of weapons, yes?"
The pressure on his throat eased. "You've given me the beginning of an answer."
Oh? And where am I supposed to find the end? Pull it out of my ass? Zevran clamped his teeth against the words that had almost spilled out of his mouth. Master Nylos seemed more tolerant of his comments, but even he would punish back-talk.
"In a contest of sword against staff, which would win?" Master Nylos asked.
Maker, that was easy. "The sword, of course. Steel against wood? That's no contest."
Master Nylos pulled the staff away, and nodded at the weapons rack across the compound. "Get a saber, and make sure it has an edge."
Wary, Zevran rolled to his feet. There was a trick in this, he thought, as he examined the weapons and pulled the requested blade. There was always a trick in whatever a master wanted. Master Nylos kept a casual pose, one hand loosely holding his staff as Zevran settled into the required pose after a crisp salute.
A heartbeat after they resumed sparring, Zevran spotted the weakness. The master had an advantage in reach on him of almost two feet. For a handful of seconds, Zevran managed to fend off attack. He never saw the blow that sent his sword flying. He did see the one that sent him tumbling to the ground, coming in too quick and low to avoid. For the second time that morning, he found himself sprawled on the packed earth, leaning back on his arms and staring down that length of hardened oak, shod with steel at both ends.
"You said something about no contest?"
Zevran grinned. "Clearly, master, I was wrong. I assume the lesson is not to underestimate an opponent…or to choose one's weapons and strategies carefully. Or something along those lines. Though, I am curious as to the ways to counter such a weapon. I mean-"
"You like to talk, don't you?"
Zevran dropped his eyes. "I…that is…" He swallowed. Maker, how should he answer that? Perhaps, it would be better to keep quiet.
The staff never wavered. Zevran swallowed, wondering how long Master Nylos planned on keeping it just above his throat.
"I asked you a question. Haven't you learned by now that I always expect an answer?"
"Well, yes, master, but…" Zevran swallowed, his eyes still on the ground, and then he grimaced and looked up. "I suppose I do like to talk. But for one who has no coin, words are free."
"No, quite the contrary. They cost a great deal, especially for one who has no coin. Say the wrong ones, and the cost can be your life." Master Nylos pulled the staff away and set the steel-shod end on the ground next to his feet, then motioned towards the house. "Get cleaned up, then change into something sensible. We're going into the city after breakfast." He held up a hand. "And don't ask me why. You'll find out soon enough."
Zevran scrambled to his feet and bowed before retrieving the saber and his staff, then returning them to the weapons rack. Master Nylos had already returned to the center of the yard, flowing through his routine with easy grace. Zevran glanced back before slipping out of the yard and heading to the tiny room he'd been given for a clean change of clothes.
He paused a moment in his doorway, the clothes draped over his arm. A bed, with a large chest at the foot, and a small desk and chair tucked under a rather wide window were the only furnishings. But he didn't have to share it with anyone, which meant he didn't have to worry about any of his few belongings 'growing feet and creeping away' as the saying went. Of course, the master could strip out anything he wanted at any time. But Master Nylos didn't seem to indulge in the casual cruelty that Master Jepheth embraced.
Not that Master Nylos was soft, Zevran thought as he headed for the bath house. Arms practice started before sunrise every morning and usually went till he was wobbly and could barely stand, and had gained at least a few bruises. There were also the usual exercises that involved holding uncomfortable positions for long periods of time, and running, of course, to build endurance. Maker, the man liked to impose running as a punishment. Be even a handful of seconds late, and Zevran could expect at least half-a- dozen laps between here and the dockside.
He smiled as he stepped into the bath house. Hard, yes, but after a month and a half of this, and being able to fill his belly whenever he was hungry, the muscles in his arms and legs were filling out and taking on pleasing contours. Further, there was an unadulterated healing potion available after practice if the Master deemed it was needed.
Zevran hummed a bawdy tavern song as he stripped off his sweat soaked clothes and then dropped them into a basket in the small changing room. He still had to do his own laundry, but not till after lunch, in the time set aside for doing chores, all part of the 'discipline' of training. Maker, he appreciated the concept of clean clothes and a clean living place, but how was spending an hour or so every day scrubbing his room and dirty clothes supposed to make him a better assassin? The masters certainly didn't do their own laundry or wash their bedroom floors.
Strange, though, with just his clothes and the small bedroom, the time set aside for cleaning was still the same. Which meant that he had idle time left over, though he couldn't leave his room till the master came for him.
He hated being confined to a place, even if it was a reasonably pleasant room with an open door and a fine view of Antiva City Harbor. The first few days the master had found him watching the ships sailing in the harbor. After that, books started showing up on the desk. Geographies and histories of Antiva. Books on herbalism, though they must have been written with the Crows in mind since the plants discussed were either antidotes, or sources of poison. Obviously, Master Nylos intended him to read them. Why else would they be there? Though he was puzzled by some of the selections, poetry, a book on fine wines and brandies. The latest had been a collection of maps of Antiva City Harbor.
He opened the spigot and let warm water flow into the shallow narrow bath he'd been told to use. The larger one on the other side was reserved for the master, Malusa, the housekeeper had told him. Water stored in the black cistern on the bath house's rooftop came from an aqueduct. Warmed by the hot Antivan sun, there was always plenty of warm water for washing or bathing, at least in summer. The bath itself was just big enough for a large human, the back sloped and surprisingly comfortable for lounging.
Zevran sighed as he slipped in, and then leaned back. As he did every morning, he just lay there for a few minutes, relishing the silence and the brief time of solitude, and the way the early sun brushed across the dark blue floor tiles. Some had sea creatures painted on them, fanciful starfish with a dozen arms, or tiny delicate fish in a rainbow of colors the master claimed lived in the coral reefs far off the coast.
Some things were very much the same as his last house, though: a dissection of what he had done wrong in the morning arms practice and how to correct it, the preparation of poisons and antidotes. The status of the current political alignments between the major merchant princes that ruled Antiva in all but name was frequently discussed, along with a liberal dose of Crow history and traditions. And the usual fare about traps, locks and their unlocking, how to trail a mark without being spotted, the best sources of information, and on and on. All infinitely familiar, and infinitely boring, topics. Zevran knew well enough to play close attention, since Master Nylos always asked detailed and pointed questions about what he'd just lectured on.
Not much different from his last house, really. But, in the evening when the wind blew in cool off the harbor, Master Nylos took him up to the tiny rooftop garden. They sat under a green awning, the master with a fine crystal glass of his favorite brandy and Zevran with fruit juice lightly spiked with wine. Nothing would be said for a while, and then the master would drift into a conversation about the making of fine brandies and wine, or how a jeweler found the perfect cut for a stone. Sometimes, there were stories of other lands, Ferelden to the south or the Tevinter Imperium to the west, even stories about things that happened in the market squares or along the dockside that day. And sometimes, they just sat there, watching the sun go down.
Zevran reached for the soap and a washcloth he'd placed on the side before entering the bath. Master Nylos didn't hesitate to cuff him on the head if he'd thought Zevran had stepped too far or wasn't paying proper attention. But those cuffs didn't even sting in the least. The master was a temperate man, as a Crow would judge it. But soft? No, Zevran decided. He wasn't quite sure, yet, how he would describe Master Nylos, but soft would not be one of the traits he chose. Under a seemingly easy surface lay a core of strength and will that tolerated nothing less than Zevran's best effort.
He bathed quickly, letting the water drain out while he replaced the soap in the cupboard, and then dumped the towels and washcloth into the laundry basket with his training clothes.
He finished dressing, then stepped outside and caught the scent of frying onions and hot peppers. Malusa, the fishwife who did the cooking and cleaning, was making omelets this morning. She was as plain as the black dresses she favored, but a marvel in the kitchen. His belly rumbled, and Zevran smiled as he hurried back into the house. Maybe he could flatter her into making some of those spicy sausages of hers, as well.
#
Nylos finished the last form and came to rest in the exact center of the training yard. By now, the sun was high enough to shine directly into the yard, as well as cast shadows from nearby houses. One shadow skewed a little too much to the right. He turned and looked up at the chimney on his roof.
"You're getting careless, Sylvie."
She slipped out from behind it and settled on the edge of the gently sloping roof, crouched like a cat, and dressed in sleek black leather. Her thick hair was pulled back in a braid and coiled at the base of her neck.
"Perhaps I wanted to be caught," she said with a smile, then dropped lightly down. He noted a spot of blood on her left shoulder, barely dry.
"So, Antiva lacks one less lyrium smuggler this fine day." He crossed the yard and replaced the staff in the rack.
"Two, actually."
He pivoted and arched a brow at her. "Oh?"
"Yes, an opportunity presented itself to exercise the option in the contract." She patted the bulging purse hanging from her belt. "So I took it."
"And you came here to celebrate."
She laughed softly as she glided forward. "You know me too well, Nylos."
Not really. I know only what you let me see. But we both play the game, don't we, Sylvie, because it's less painful than dealing with the truth. As quickly as it formed, he buried the thought in the bottom corner of his soul where he kept all the other painful truths of his life.
She slid her hands around his neck, and he let his hands settle on her waist. "I assume you listened in our practice session."
He smiled as she smoothed back a strand of his hair. "Hmm, most of it. You're entirely too lenient with that whoreson. He needs to learn his place and keep his mouth shut, especially during weapons training. And why, in Andraste's name, do you tolerate those insolent looks?"
His pleasure in her unexpected arrival congealed into a tight, hard knot. Even the first stirrings of desire settled, though his smile never wavered as his hands slid down to her hips. She never quite let him forget that even as a master, he was still subject to any human. Not deliberately, but in the end that didn't matter.
"As much as I would enjoy a diversion with you, I have plans for today."
She tilted her head. "So I heard. Well, tonight, then. I've been saving a bottle of that thirty-year old brandy you're so fond of."
He hid his irritation at her presumption of his availability beneath a kiss. "I'm afraid not. My plans, alas, include the evening hours."
She laughed. "I thought you preferred riper fruit. Though I'll admit he's starting to fill out quite nicely."
"My tastes haven't changed," Nylos said evenly. "But don't look for me tomorrow, either."
"Well, aren't you being mysterious."
He stepped back, sliding his hand down her arm to take her hand and kiss her fingers. For a heartbeat, she let her hand linger in his. He watched her as she nimbly climbed back up onto his roof, and then glided away, never making a sound.
He folded his arms, leaned back against the wall beside the weapons rack and gazed up at the late spring sky. He'd noticed the changes in his young apprentice and understood, better than any human, that beauty was a weapon as sharp and deadly as any dagger. And the only reason a Crow enforcer tasked with buying new apprentices had paid three sovereigns for a scrawny whorehouse boy. That Zevran possessed wit and agility in equal measure had been an unexpected bonus, but those traits were still secondary to his burgeoning physical charms as far as the shem were concerned.
Nylos smiled. The kind of smile he made sure his human masters never saw. Let them think what they will, he would ensure that Zevran was trained to as fine an edge as possible before someone decided that a certain elven master'susefulness was over.