Credits: Which seems more appropriate than 'authors note'. Thanks to BlueTrillium for beta reading this chapter. I'm glad you like Jul (^_^).

xxxxx

Chapter 6: The Trial

The first round of bouts began as expected. Jul watched with distaste as the roughest of the 'applicants' quickly claimed the most likely looking recruits as partners. He had seen these types often enough to know how they functioned. They would be over-aggressive, particularly if their opponents had the makings of guards.

The old Sergeant's eye fell on the Kilahb youngster. He had to admit one thing: This Ashre kid can fight. The minute his adversary ––a brawny fellow on record for robbery––began to press him, the child's posture corrected itself. Though clearly unused to fighting with a staff, the youth was adapting quickly. The burglar had yet to land a blow, while the Kilahb's movements were getting more complex.

As Jul had guessed, Estus the ex-farmer was no warrior. His tormentor was obviously aware of this by now, and was enjoying the poor man's humiliation. Estus, however, looked far from cowed. On the contrary, the Sergeant could almost see a rock hard stubbornness crystallizing behind the country man's eyes.

Briefly, the old man glanced back at the Kilahb. He could not have said what, but there was something strange about that kid. Was it the foreign complexion; the wide forehead and tapering chin? The scraggly, gloss-less straw-colored locks falling well below shoulder length? Or was it the oddly shaped short sword the child had produced from his sash when Jul ordered the recruits to surrender their weapons?

A yelp resounded in the yard. The wizened officer was not surprised to see the foe of Orne, the former gladiator, stumble back. Trained in blunt force combat, Orne had gone straight for the hands, rapping hard on sensitive joints. Disarm first, subdue later. Smart. Oddly, Orne did not seem to be enjoying his success. Rather, there was a grim sobriety in the once-gladiator's face. So, strictly business, eh? We might get along after all.

Jul almost felt sorry for Izark's partner. The man could only be called a thug; one of those paid to intimidate and punish whomever his superiors chose. A hulk of a specimen, he towered over his current 'victim', but one could see realization dawning slowly in his brutish face––he was hopelessly outmatched. He was in no way prepared to deal with someone of Izark's caliber.

Drops of sweat flew as the thug brought down a desperate, shattering blow. The paving stones where the swordsman had stood an instant before cracked under the force of the strike. The man gaped at his staff, confused, then stiffened as the butt of Izark's weapon touched up under his jaw.

"You mustn't swing down like that," Jul heard the warrior remark, as if discussing the weather. "It leaves all your vital points wide open. Look, I could hit you here, or here, or…"

Jul was finding it hard not to gape just like the thug. But he was there. It had looked like the brute's staff had split Izark's head. And yet there he stood, only just to the left, casually using his staff to prod his dumbfounded would-be attacker.

It was at that moment that Orne's opponent lost his temper. Jul's head snapped around as the man roared a curse. The gangster's staff lay on the ground; Orne had succeeded in knocking it out of his hands. In its place, a knife––a throwing iron––had appeared. Orne made the mistake of stepping back when he saw the blade. Seeing his advantage, the gangster took a throwing stance and loosed his missile.

Jul felt a breeze, and suddenly Izark was back in his field of view; the knife plucked from the air and held benignly in his hand. The Sergeant could hear groans coming from his left; whatever had happened, the big thug was on his back in the dust. Meanwhile, the knife thrower had returned to his senses and was staring at the swordsman in horror.

I should be doing something. But what? Ah, that's right. Guard Sergeant Jul took a breath and roared, "Kenwan! Sigurad!"

Two of the guards stationed unobtrusively around the training yard leapt forward, grabbing hold of the offender's arms. They had, like the others, dropped into fighting positions when they saw the knife. Izark's intervention had confused them, and they had been waiting for Jul's command.

The Sergeant stalked over, stopping beside Izark to hold out his hand. Obediently, the warrior relinquished the knife. Jul turned and walked up to the knife thrower, presenting him with his instrument.

"Young man," the old commander addressed him in a slow, gravelly rumble, dangling the blade in front of his nose. "What would you call this thing?"

Held captive, the knife thrower––Brander Milika Durk, a so called doorman at the Roc's Egg––had decided to play dim. "A knife, sir."

"And what is a knife, my lad?"

"Why, it's a knife, sir. Just a plain, ordinary––"

"Not the way you just used it. You used this fine utensil as an iron, a weapon. And what did I say at the beginning of this trial concerning weapons?"

"That we was––That we was to hand them over, sir, but I didn' think––"

"That a mere knife would count? Well, it didn't, until you tried to stick Orne there with it. Jail him," the old man growled to his men, jerking a thumb backward at the garrison building. An idea was whispering in his mind. "Search him, jail him, and have the rest searched. If you find anything deserving attention, confiscate it and detain the person you found it on."

"Define anything, sir." That was Sigurad, an officer and senior guard, speaking quietly. Jul knew that he was not above using any kind of evidence he could get to bring down a criminal.

"Items that were reported stolen," the old Sergeant returned in kind. "Injuries that match those that crime witnesses have reported dealing. Tools, like this knife, that have been linked to accusations which could never be proven." Jul grinned savagely at Brander, whose eyes had widened considerably at the last statement. "Thought I didn't know about that, lad? Oh, no, I make it a point to read all accounts, past and present, and I don't give up until I catch the real culprit. Line up on that wall!" he roared to the other recruits. "I want all your belongings in full view, and if you're carrying weapons, this is your last chance!" He turned back to Sigurad and Kenwan. "This lad here has given us the perfect excuse. Don't any of you waste this opportunity."

The two guards grinned at him, hard toothy smiles like those of predators on a scent trail.

VI VI VI VI VI

Noriko.

Anita was somewhat disconcerted when, in the middle of asking for vinegar and water, Noriko's eyes lost focus and she stopped talking.

Yes, Izark?

Please tell Wei to meet Alef at the Market District Guard Station by the next bell. Things are moving faster than we expected.

What happened?

Nothing serious––the Sergeant just found a good excuse to search all the applicants. He'll be giving half of us the boot, maybe more, so it speeds up the process a bit.

I'll tell Wei, but can you stay with me until I do? I want to make sure I tell it right.

Of course. Then, You're going up the stairs, aren't you? What is that in your hands?

Oh! I forgot about that! It's a bowl. Rottenina and Wei and I are cleaning Auntie Zena's workroom. I was supposed to get vinegar and water to clean the glass, but oh well. I can get it after Wei goes, and then I won't have to worry about him trying one of his experiments.

She knew that Izark shook his head. That guy.

Here we are. "Wei, Izark wants you to meet Alef at the guard station by the next bell." Is that all?

Yes. Tell him that Alef will explain what must be done. Thank you.

You'll all be coming back tonight, won't you?

Yes. It might take some doing, getting back without being followed, but we'll mana––he was cut off as his concentration broke.

Izark? Izark? Noriko sighed.

"What happened? You can't hear him anymore?" That was Wei, wiping his hands on a polishing cloth.

Noriko nodded. "Something distracted him. I think someone was shouting."

"But," Rottenina was frowning, trying to find the words to express her confusion. "But in Ennamarna, when you and Izark drove back those sand monsters… You said that you and he were one… that his power reached through you… That must have taken much more concentration than simply talking."

"It does," Noriko explained, "and that state of mind is very difficult to achieve. We have tried, but we haven't managed to do it again yet. I mean––" she paused, then shook her head. "It's hard to explain. There is a feeling that is knowing, and that knowing lets you… go outside yourself, into the world of light…Or inside yourself, it's the same thing, really…" She sighed again. "We've gotten close, but we can't seem to capture that feeling. I don't think it's something that happens by trying. Do you understand?"

Rottenina looked at Wei. Wei looked at Rottenina. It was clear that neither of them understood. Wei shrugged.

"No, but there's not enough time for you to explain it. Where's the garrison, again?"

Rottenina answered him. "Market District. It's the square building with the courtyard in the center. Tan stone––which reminds me! If you have time, check and see if there is any boiling sand for sale. Won't you?" She amended, smiling sweetly.

The Gray Bird smiled back. "If I have time." He left the room. Rottenina went back to work dusting the mirrors, but Noriko stood for a moment, processing this last exchange. Finally, she cleared her throat.

"I'll go get the vinegar water, then."

"…"

VI VI VI VI VI

Jul watched as the recruits, under the surveillance of twenty guards, placed their belongings in ten piles. Some, mostly those who seemed to be there looking for a job and not because of their job, looked merely irked at the inconvenience. The remainder, mostly those already suspected of being plants, sweated more than the fair autumn day warranted.

Izark the warrior's pile was just two items: a little pouch containing coins and three curious cloth balls which gave off a strong scent of herbs, and a knife; a four inch dagger the like of which anyone would keep for everyday use. He must have left his stuff at an inn. Or, the old man thought suddenly, he might be staying with the Seer Zena. And I heard something about his Grace visiting the city…

Ashre the Kilahb produced similar articles: a single edged bone knife, a neck pouch for money. Also in the youth's pile were several coils of slim strong cord, a wooden whistle, and a mysterious purse of dried meat scraps. Thinking back, Jul remembered seeing a sling and ammunition pouch next to the little saber the child had given up earlier.

Orne the ex-prize fighter had already parted with his everyday knife. The leather of his purse was stretched and sagging, as if it had lost quite a bit of weight. In his sash, he carried several wooden discs, tokens from arenas in various cities.

It was almost comical, watching the thugs. Two put down money pouches and nothing else. Three, hoping to evade suspicion, offered up two or even three fighting type knives. When Sigurad and his friend performed their manual search, they were all of them discovered to be carrying more concealed weapons. One of them had two purses that were clearly not his own, while another carried a bracelet that had been involved in a kidnapping threat not two days ago.

It was the ex-farmer, Estus, that surprised––no, shocked Jul. He would never have suspected that the level-looking man had been hiding a wicked looking dagger, several big coins, and a token stamped with the seal of Harsho, one of the thief lords; perhaps the Thief Lord of Guzena. These items surfaced when Sigurad searched the first of the gangsters, demonstrating his expertise in that office. The "ex-farmer" must have decided that it wasn't worth trying to hide them if they were going to be found anyway. A grim smile quickly replaced the dismay stealing over Jul's face. Trawling through the records, the Sergeant had seen that Harsho had never accepted bribes from government officials. While the activities of his organization were widespread, they were based largely on smuggling, and rarely violent. Estus was indeed an agent, but he was a passive agent, sent by his master to simply observe rather than hinder Jul's endeavors. Still, it was a humbling experience to be proved wrong about a person's character, one Jul did not enjoy in the least.

Both drunks were carrying canteens of liquor.

While the offenders were either escorted to the gate or hustled off to the garrison's jail cells, Jul had the chance to observe the five remaining recruits: Kess, Godana, Ashre, Orne, and Izark. The two drunks had sobered up a little during their mock fights, but were still intoxicated enough to see no harm in good-naturedly harassing Izark, who bore them with studied tolerance. The two others watched; Ashre with a kind of guarded awe left over from the warrior's midair knife catch, Orne with a perplexed frown. It seemed to Jul that the ex-prize fighter was more relaxed than he had been previously, as if his rescue from attack had eased some personal fear, allowing puzzlement to take its place.

Five recruits, total. Five, after weeks of promotion and trials, high hopes and let downs. Five: a warrior, a gladiator, two drunks, and an infant. If I had a choice, I'd only hire the first two. But I need more men, now. At this point, I'll have to take whomever I can get. He ground his teeth. And I need to keep them safe, to boot.

Jul cleared his throat, and the five turned to listen. "You may have noticed, but we are a bit short on acceptable applicants at the moment. Also, you may have heard why. With this in mind, I would like to compliment the courage you lads have shown in coming here today. I will now speak to each of you alone, to discuss employment. If any of you would prefer to stay at the Garrison tonight, you have merely to make a request and accommodations will be made for you. Izark Kia Tarj, if you please, follow me."

Gently, the warrior disentangled himself from Godana and Kess, then fell into step behind the Sergeant, slowing to match the old man's limping gait.

VI VI VI VI VI

Ordinarily, Jul would have led a recruit to a small office nearer the training yard, but this was far from an ordinary recruit, no matter how he wished to be presented. The Guard Sergeant of Market District led Izark to his own personal office, the one he kept under lock and key and with a secretary's open door where said desk worker could watch anyone who even glanced at the name plate. That said, the old man was thoroughly displeased to discover that the key ring he drew out was not needed; the door was unlocked. Scowling terribly, Jul checked the lock for signs of being forced, but found nothing. Still feeling uneasy, he opened the door and ushered Izark through, then closed it behind him.

The instant the latch clicked, the veteran soldier knew he had made a mistake. It was a classic blunder to enter a room that should have been locked without half expecting someone to be lying in wait. It was even stupider to close the door. A wrinkled hand flashed to the light club slung at his belt as the Sergeant turned to face any attackers.