The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter II

I turned my Master Swordsman over to the care of the Master of Cavalry, Kenui, and promptly forgot about him. It had been a hectic month, and it would be a hectic summer; I'd had, and would have, little time to think. Thus it was almost a week before I saw him again to speak to him. I had, of course, heard reports from Kenui, who had given the man the honor of a very high recommendation. Kenui was a sort of prima donna, and praise from him was scarce. As it was, he had nothing but good things to say of the man, who was already known in the troop as 'Mourner'.

I'd just come in from a very hot day spent eyeing new prospects and telling most of them to go back home. Poor lads. There's no glamour in soldiering even if you're in the cavalry, though some people tell you otherwise. I admit, a cavalry charge is magnificent to watch, but that's about it if they're up against massed squares of infantry. A good foot soldier can easily disable a cavalryman by killing the horse, and by the time the cavalryman has struggled free of stirrups and reins the foot soldier has had a chance to slip a knife into him and has probably done so.

But these boys weren't interested in hearing that. They wanted to join Anakreon's famous troop and see the world. They didn't know that the part of the world they'd see isn't really any more worth the seeing than the part they were leaving. And even the legendary Prince Anakreon of Thrason must still shovel horse manure and pick out dirty hooves.

Most of the boys went home. Three stayed, and two are still with us. One of them, a lad named Lendis, came close to saving the entire troop later in the summer.

** ** **

I had just turned the three recruits over to the tender care of Quinquius Metellus Aemelius, my Master of Ranks, an ex‑Victrian from Rome. I was hot and very, very thirsty.

We had camped close to a tavern - Tinstafl's liberally spotted with them - and I entered the place with the picture of a tankard of their best, coldest stout hovering before my mind's eye. I blinked to clear the sunlight from my vision before finding a table, but as luck would have it none were empty. I think they were holding a convention of rag‑pickers. I've never seen such a rag‑tag group in all my life, and there was no place to sit. I heard a soft voice behind me as I was about to elbow my way to the tap, and I turned to see who had spoken.

It was the Master Swordsman, sitting alone at a table, a tankard at his elbow and a pot of stout before him. Sweat from the tankard had pooled about its pewter feet, and it seemed delightfully cold.

Mourner smiled at me and motioned to me. "I didn't think you heard me," he said quietly. "Please sit down. There's room and plenty here." he eyed the throng and added drily, "Though I had some trouble persuading the others here that I desired none of their company. You look tired."

So did he. He had volunteered to help Quinquius with the training of the men, which was a chore, since most of our lads were veterans who thought they needed no training at all. He had also offered to assist the Quartermaster, Sored, with the supplies. That was unprecedented. Everyone hates a Quartermaster. I'd heard all this and I had been impressed.

A Master Swordsman is a little like a bard. He names his own fees and is universally respected and deferred to. The Swordsman's Guild is far‑reaching, with a network of communication that's the envy of every ruler. While they're organized like any other guild, with Apprentices, Journeymen and varying ranks of Masters, the leaders of the Guild, the Grand Masters, have as much influence on their various continents as any rulers. Members of the Guild are bound by a strict code of behavior: to act justly, to always answer a plea for assistance, to promote the truth and protect the weak, at whatever cost to self.