Sir Edwin was silently swirled his cup. The wine was sweet but there was no pleasure in it. He had never enjoyed wine nor its sweet variants. It was not the drink but rather that all pleasures were lost to him. He absently looked up from his idling to see three pairs of eyes locked on him. The old harbor official looked uncomfortable whilst Marcus had something akin to understanding on his face. Nicholas looked as if he was caught between fascination and impatience.

“What happened then? Did you catch the whales? How big were they?”

The official shot the boy a look and turned to Sir Edwin in horror. He took no offence and just laughed at the questions.

“We did but I didn’t do much. I was too little to be of much help.”

“How many?”

“Later. It is late and I think it is well past the hour of your sleep.”

Nicholas pouted then cast a pleading look toward his guardian. The old man unhelpfully nodded at the Knights assessment.

“Tomorrow at midday, come with your master then. We have business to discuss.”

The boy was unsatisfied but nodded his agreement to the arrangement. He and his master left the lounge soon afterwards. Marcus leaned back in his couch and rummaged through his robes for his pipe. He packed then repacked its bowl until he was satisfied. Upon achieving his desired consistency, he lit the blend with the embers from a fireplace. Soon he had the room filled with sweet pungent clouds. Neither men had said anything throughout the process.

“Why are you looking at me Marcus?”

“Well I must say that my seat is angled towards you. Should I take a comfortable pose it would naturally seem like I’m looking at you.”

Sir Edwin raised a brow.

“However, this time you are correct, I was looking at you.”

“Marcus…”

“No, I apologies lord. This lowly- “

“Marcus.” There was a hollow flatness to the knight’s tone.

“Fine you humorless bastard. I was just wondering what bought on this little confessional.”

“Confessional? What about it?”

“What about it? You never tell anybody anything. So, forgive me for finding this change in behavior a little curious. Gods, has your daughter ever heard the full story?

“No. Only the Lord Protector should know. He hasn’t heard everything either, it would probably bore him.”

“Oh, she’s going to murder you when she hears about this. She deserves to know.”

“She will.”

The conversation died again. Marcus wanted to press the issue, but he did not know quite how. Smoke rings soon filled the air. With nothing better to do, Marcus absently tried to blow a ring into another one.

“You should get some sleep too. Feathered beds, or at least that is what the innkeeper promised. I am sure it will be an improvement from your quarters aboard the Rusalka.”

“I find myself needing less sleep as I grow older, that and other less convenient developments. By the way I’m sorry for what happened.”

“About what?”

“About what happened. About your past.”

“Why? You had nothing to do with it.”

The equerry paused for a moment then let out an inaudible sigh.

“Sorry does not always mean an acceptance of responsibility. It can also mean an extension of sympathy… Good night Edwin. I think I do need a lie down.”

A clatter of steel filled the morning courtyard of the Salted Maiden. The inn consisted of multiple large buildings enclosing an open central plaza. Under the rising midday sun, men at arms traded blows, maintained their arms, or sat outside to shake off the previous night’s excess. They were the Rusalka’s marine contingent. Most were from the Isle, a few Kingdom subjects and city states citizens. All had adopted the Isle habit of bluing their steel. The courtyard was filled with a rather grim looking company. However, the general good cheer and occasional laughter spoiled the image of dark warriors. Some men wore the new plate harnesses, others a smaller coat of plates, all had mail shirts and hauberks. They were gentlemen marines, men of lesser rank who had nevertheless earnt their titles through hard service.

Into this throng of warriors walked in the captain of the militia. Martin Arras had been sent again by his father, the lord mayor, to call upon Sir Edwin. He had been shamed by the Knight and still felt the bitter sting of embarrassment. It had been a hard thing to be scorned then to come back again in supplication. In truth he had been in awe of the figure. Perhaps he was no Sir Bram or Roland, but he was a peer and the commander of the late queen’s vanguard.

Entering the courtyard full of fighting men rekindled that awe. Here was a scene that could have come out of the romances he was so fond of. Whilst the men were more northern housecarl than gleaming knights, they had a martial air that his militia could never muster. Martin too young to have had any memory of the Autumn Rebellion or the following War of Independence. But like most children he had been raised on the stories of the conflict. As a boy he and his father had visited the royal capital to attend the King’s coronation. There he had watched knights at the list trade blows on horseback. It had been a grand affair. He had fallen in love with the pageantry and romance of the life of arms. As his father’s firstborn, he had never had the opportunity to pursue the life he dreamed of. Lost in admiration he failed to notice the approach of the figure behind him.

“You lost lad?”

“I’m sorry?”

Startled he turned to find a man in linen shirt sizing him up. There was no hostility in his appraisal, just a professionalism a farmer may give a horse at market. The warrior was only slightly older than him, but he had none of his awkwardness. Flushing in embarrassment at his frankness, Martin blurted his reply.

“I’m looking for Sir Edwin.”

“Ah, the Cap’an. He’s around, I’ll take you to him.”

Martin followed his man through the occupied courtyard. He often stopped to trade greetings with his comrades or strike up brief conversation. The malingering may have irked Martin on another occasion, but he did not mind the interruptions. They gave him a chance to watch the men drill and spar. After making his rounds, the guide finally led Martin to his destination. Sir Edwin was again in full harness with his visor down. He was slowly honing the edge of his war spear. It was a heavy weapon slightly taller than the wielder. As he worked the whetstone against its edge, a soft regular rasp sounded the motions.

“Someone to see you Cap’an.”

“Is that so Osric. Who is our guest?”

“Begging your attention sir. We had met yesterday.”

Martin stepped ahead of his guide and presented himself to the Knight. Sir Edwin turned to him and said nothing for a while. In the meanwhile, he continued his work a moment longer. Putting a satisfactory edge on the blade, he put down his implements.

“So, I see. What brings you here today Commander?”

Osric raised a brow and made a quick reassessment of his charge but said nothing. Martin did his best to affect a calm respectful tone. He was nervous and not a little resentful of the knight.

“I have come to extend my father’s greetings and hospitality to you sir.” Martin swallowed. “I have also come to personally apologies for yesterday’s discourtesy. I meant no offence; I was just ignorant of proper protocol.”

Again silence. Martin waited for an answer as his counterpart faced him from his inscrutable helmet. After long uncomfortable moment the man rose and addressed him.

“Do you know how to use that sword of yours?”

He nodded to Martins waist. He wore a blade as a part of his dress and occasionally swung it. He had never drawn it in anger and thought modesty would serve him best.

“No sir. I have never had an instructor nor fought with it. Other than practice with the militia.”

“Come then, show me what you have practiced.”

“Now sir?”

“Yes. Now. Strike me.”

Martin stared at the man and when no other answer was forthcoming, he looked aghast to Osric. The warrior just shrugged and smiled at him. With his encouragement he quickly made himself scarce. Martin eyed his departing companion until a sudden movement made him flinch in alarm. Turning to the direction of the threat he found a spear point poised at his nose.

“Do I have your attention now young man.”

Martin nodded very slightly to avoid the razor tip. The offending point was withdrawn but remained in an active guard. Sir Edwin was now facing him in a combat stance with his weapon advanced.

“I have time till my business at noon. Humor me.”

Helplessly searching around for a voice of reason, Martin drew his weapon. It was an arming sword, triangular in its blade. The weapon ended in a needle point and was shorter than the new long swords. He had liked the feel of it in his hand and its aesthetics. Now the weapon felt like it was wholly inadequate against a man plated in steel. He took one last desperate look around him and saw that nobody would step forth and end this terrible idea. Resigning himself he blearily swung at the Knight.

When Marcus entered the courtyard, he found a braying crowd gathered around the center of the plaza. He weaved his way around the bodies and caught sight of the spectacle. At the center was his lord sparring against yesterday’s messenger. Sparring in the sense that one was rooted to his spot gently parrying their red-faced partner. There was a disparity between their skill and engagement. Where one expended a minimum of movement the other positively rained a barrage of ineffectual blows. Marcus smiled at the display. Evidently his friend had taken a liking to the mayors’ son. Watching for a while, he soon turned away and attended to more important matters. Ambling cheerfully to the inn’s kitchen, he set his mind to the culinary potential of the days lunch.

At first Martin had halfheartedly taken to this impromptu practice. After a few hesitant exchanges he found himself thoroughly engaged. His partner had not taken a single step and seemed to turn his blows with contemptuous ease. A slight change of angle, a twitch of the point. He moved his weapon very little and that infuriated him. If he would not take the initiative, he would find the point of a spear at unpleasant locations. They would build up a cadence until his opponent would suddenly change tempo, causing Martin to flail or lose his footing. The gathered audience would break into laughter at these moments urging him to greater recklessness. Was this bout a method of shaming him further? Had the bastard not taken satisfaction with his apology?

Martin felt a fresh spur of anger lending vigor to his leaden limbs. This time he met his blade with his opponents’ haft and dipped his blade under the spears point. The spear counter rotated meeting his attempt to get inside his opponents’ guard. Thwarted he sharply beat the spear hoping to turn it aside. His blade met air as the spear disengaged and lunged past him. With his weapon off point he was open. The heavy war spear passed between his legs and then tripped his ankles on the return. Tired and overextended, a sharp tug was all it took to send him to the ground. He fell, exhausted, face to the dirt. All the energy left him as he drowned in the howls of laughter from the audience.

“Get up.”

Flat and toneless, Martin cursed the man. He wanted the ground to swallow him and the bastard as well.

“Get up.”

Martin heard the clatter of metal as he approached his prone form. Turning his face to the side he saw the Knight pick up his sword. Martin did not remember dropping it but evidently, he must have. As Sir Edwin drew closer Martin found unknown reserves of hate smoldering in his chest. He bided his moment.

“Get – “

Sluggish and uncoordinated, Martin willed himself to tackle the man to the ground. He lurched into a full body dive. His final hurrah was met by air as his target nimbly hopped to the side. Crashing to the ground he once again hit the dirt.

“Fuck.” He wheezed the sentiment through clenched teeth.

The sting of tears reached his eyes unbidden. He was exhausted in body and mind. As the last of his pride sought to abandon him, he felt a cold grasp at his shoulders. As he was not too gently hauled to his feet, he heard his opponent speak.

“You did well son. You learnt something by the final exchange. You showed grit at the very end.”

Martin stared into the featureless visor for the man behind the metal. He felt numb and utterly spent. Somehow despite the speaker’s tone the words were meaningful. He had his father and his peers praise his abilities. He had lived surrounded by compliments and affirmations of his worth.

“You’ve got the makings of a soldier in you.”

The delivery was as flat and toneless as he had been before. But it a genuine statement of fact, not the soft vapid vacuity of praise. It as if a dam of mirth suddenly burst from within, he could not halt the rising laughter. It felt good.

“Come, we still have some time. I will teach you the basics. I am no sword master, it not my weapon of choice, but I am proficient enough.”

Marcus had managed to scourge the kitchen staff into setting a table to his satisfaction. He particularly looked forward to the sardines. Despite the Blackstone Isles being inhabited by a seafaring people, they were utterly abominable in the preparation of seafood. Now that he thought about it, he was also looking forwards the prawns as well. With his gastronomic interests attended to, he walked back out to the courtyard. The crowd had largely dispersed by then and only a few remained. Most would have wandered into the town to enjoy what pleasure the locals offered. They were all wealthy men and silver had a way of facilitating most needs.

He found Sir Edwin going through the motions of the three guards with yesterday’s messenger. He was teaching him the most basic form of sword handling. Basic however did not mean ineffective. It was a heavily simplified variant La Riga, the law of lines, a school of fighting popular in the city states. A good choice, it was perhaps the most utilitarian out of the three great schools. That said a harness of plate, shield, dirty big mace, and an even dirtier temperament could turn anyone into effective fighter. Marcus gave a mental shrug and turned to see some new guests entering the courtyard.

“I say old chap, we seem to have guests at our door. How about you put those toys away and prepare for lunch eh?”

The practicing pair lowered their weapons and turned to look where Marcus was looking. At the portico leading to the inn stood the harbor official and his boy. Sir Edwin handed his sword to Martin before approaching the pair.

“Good day official. I trust you have bought the list of the goods I require. I believe my equerry has managed to scare up some food for the midday meal. Please join us, we have much to discuss.”

Reaching for a bow the official accepted the arrangement. From his experiences with nobility a request was a polite order. The party found themselves retiring to the same lounge from last night with an uneasy extra guest. The mayors’ son had been swept up much like the official and the boy had been last night. Indoors, Sir Edwin shed his armor. He took a seat at the table away from the window. Whilst the meal was being served, he and the official haggled over minutia and the prices of goods. The town was a part of the Kings estate, and the Knight sought to requisition his supplies rather than purchasing them privately. The latter would have proven exorbitantly expensive, but the former was turning out to be not as economical as he hoped.

Nicholas had enjoyed the evenings fare but balked at table set before him. Fish he could stomach but crustaceans and shellfish were something else. Another source of discomfort sat opposite to him. The mayor’s son was not somebody he shared a friendship with. They shared a relationship of mutual aloofness born from distaste. Forced into civility due to proximity, they politely pretended that the neither was present. For Martins part he found he had a ravenous appetite after the first few bites. Whatever social discomfort he may have felt was forgotten in the act of consumption. It was not a hunger as so much as a compulsion to gorge himself. What giddy strength had carried through the morning crumbled swiftly as he sat down. For the first time he felt the nourishing effects of food. Nicholas played with his plate as he waited for his master’s business to conclude. After witnessing Martin’s vigorous devouring of a langoustine, he lost his appetite entirely. Losing all patience with the situation he voiced frustration.

“What happened next? You promised to tell us, right?”

The unexpected petulant outburst silenced whatever business was occurring. Both adults turned to face him with curious expressions. A mixture of a wince and a grimace twisted his masters face whilst Sir Edwin looked mildly amused. Nicholas turned to look at the other faces to find a grinning Marcus and a bemused Martin. As the silent scrutiny continued, he felt like he had just made a terrible mistake. Flushing crimson he fumbled for an apology. Before he could get it out, he was beaten to it.

“So, I did. Very well. If you would excuse me good sir” he addressed the official, “I believe I have a promise to keep.”