The Agben School: A Fantasy Tale of Heroes Princes and an Apprentice's Magic Potion (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 2) Read online

  The last of the Warships neared, heading for a berth on the far side of the Trafalcon.

  “Never seen one of those outside of Gold Harbor,” the Captain added under his breath. “Ugly thing, ain’t she?”

  As the sun fell below the island’s west ridge, Drail set torch to timber. Their campfire blazed to life.

  The Trafalcon had been in harbor three days before the Warships arrived. And while everyone in the Hand of Victory had berths in cabins of reasonable comfort, they all chose to sleep here on the hill. Even little Marra, after the first night, had found one of the colorful island sleep-slings and attached it to a tree.

  The sling dangled from a sturdy branch, the bright cloth tied to either end of a pole. Marra said it was very comfortable, that the yielding cloth cradled you. But there was a trick to climbing in that eluded Drail.

  Besides, he preferred his back pressed to earth. Something about feeling solid land beneath you gave comfort. A ship pitching with waves, even in the relative calm of the harbor, got very old.

  Tryst licked goose fat from his fingers. “Tonight, I think Passing the Attack.”

  He’d been teaching them battle techniques, which had turned out to be very useful for gamesmen. Somehow the balance, efficient movement, and discipline improved one’s comet form.

  Tryst now faced off with Manten.

  “The key is to consider the direction of the attack.” Feet planted square to his teammate, his hands poised between them. “Whether the opponent has a weapon, such as a knife or stick, or just his hands and feet, he will direct a force at you. Men have a tendency to try to meet force with force.

  “Instead, slip that energy past you.”

  Manten blinked – as confused as Drail felt.

  Tryst saw their faces, and frowned. And then pulled Marra to her feet.

  Marra had watched the drills carefully, yet she never participated as Drail expected. He’d thought she wanted to learn to protect herself. Perhaps the size of the men intimidated her, or maybe she just felt more secure these days. Whatever her reasoning she never tried the moves.

  “Watch,” Tryst said now.

  He strode toward Marra threateningly, hands out to grab her. She held her ground, which made Drail smile, even as Tryst shoved her backwards.

  “He can defeat a girl,” Olver said. The others chuckled.

  Tryst whisked Marra up off her feet, swinging her back to her original spot. He whispered in her ear as he set her down again.

  Her eyes grew round.

  Again his palms came up; again he purposefully strode toward her. Marra waited till his fingers just touched her shoulders, and suddenly pivoted, slipping to the side as her hands swept his past her. She’d sidestepped his attack.

  “Marra cannot hope to out-muscle me. Instead of meeting force to force, she simply slides out of the way, allowing my energy to pass by rather than trying to stop it. If she does this fast, and at the proper moment, I’ll be beyond her before I see her strategy.”

  Olver scoffed, but Drail was on his feet. “Try me.”

  And soon they all worked it, over and over. Faster and faster, until no one could lay a hand on another without resorting to more sophisticated technique.

  Marra, Drail realized, watched intently. She never spoke, never asked for another turn. But where before she’d merely observed their drills, she now studied carefully. Very carefully indeed.

  Early the next morning, Marra gathered herbs.

  After living on the ship for so long, she’d been slow to return to performing the task. But once she’d rolled out of her sling bed and slipped away from camp, she found the task soothing somehow.

  She enjoyed the solitude of the early morning, as the wild colors of dawn roasted the sky. For the few hours before breakfast, the world was hers.

  Marra explored the wooded circle – a valley brimming with greenery, set between the island hills. The trees exploded with leaves, so many that their branches dipped low from the weight. Grasses and wild bush sprang up everywhere, some so deeply green that surely they couldn’t survive anywhere but this lush, watery isle. Exotic blossoms, huge and vibrant, covered everything in breathtaking colors of yellow, blue, and bright red. No wonder the desert seemed monotone to outsiders, she realized.

  Now if only she knew what properties these plants contained.

  Long ago Mistress Britta had started a talk about new ingredients. A method for classifying herbs by their taste, which could hint at what they did. But that talk was never finished.

  Regardless, she gathered all the healthy plants.

  On her way back she heard a branch snap. Marra froze.

  A second noise came from the same direction.

  Creeping silently through the foliage, she peered past a tree dripping with ivy – and saw Tryst.

  He was practicing with the sword he’d won from the Trafalcon’s Captain in a foolish card game. Waving the blade through the air as he moved in a sort of rapier-dance. Slow, then fast, then slow.

  She had watched Tryst perform dances like that – forms, he called them – without weapons in his hand. Now the slender blade seemed part of him, an extension of his arm, moving with an intricate rhythm. Gliding across the grassy carpet in a clearing in the trees, with the early island mist clinging to his feet, Tryst seemed more a vision than a man.

  It was hard to slip away, but Marra felt wrong spying on him and withdrew through the ivy.

  “Marra.”

  She froze, rolling her eyes at herself. And then stuck her head back through the green vines.

  With the sword tip resting in the grass; Tryst beckoned her. She sighed and emerged into the green clearing.

  “Have you come to practice?” he grinned. “I’d intended to work the drills with you today.”

  In response she touched the herb sash tied at her waist. Drail and the others would wave her away at this point, but Tryst merely cocked an eyebrow.

  “It’s best to pick herbs early in the morning,” she told him. “Before the sun heats everything.”

  He held his hand out. She untied the sash, laying it carefully across his palm. He used the same care in setting it on the grass. “Now that you’re here, you can practice Passing the Attack.”

  She frowned up at him, suspecting a joke. But his face seemed sincere.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I thought you wanted to learn to protect yourself.”

  Now she knew he must be joking. “You taught me things already. How to make a fist.”

  He gestured her to proceed him, obviously expecting her to practice.

  “Can a girl really protect herself?” she sighed. “From anyone who truly intends to harm her?”

  Tryst blinked in surprise – whether surprise at the question itself or that Marra had asked it, she could only guess. But he pondered his answer. “Yes. Perhaps not infallibly. Maybe not against every foe. But she can study and practice techniques. Every skill learned, every ability developed, improves her chances. Adds an arrow to the quiver.”

  “I can’t fight men,” Marra scoffed. “I can’t floor a drunk at a bar, or stop a Skullan from grabbing me.”

  “If you have a bit of anatomy knowledge, and a little skill, you can slip away. To flee, Marra. Not stand and exchange blows.”

  She suddenly remembered a Skullan long ago, who snatched her up off the street. She’d flailed wildly, and her foot struck him below his waist. To her surprise he’d dropped her, and she’d escaped.

  Tryst waited. She moved a little away from him, shifting her weight to balance evenly on her feet as he’d taught the others to do. And she nodded.

  The lesson began.

  Tryst had not really taught before.

  He’d been taught – by some of the finest teachers on all the Great Continent. And while he had instructed Mauric, one of the prince companions, on a few occasions, it had always been at Jason’s insistence and under his watchful eye. Jason, the Defense Master, believed that true mastery began when one t
aught the art.

  Drail had learned much from Tryst, but then Drail intended to learn. The others had picked up a few things, but seemingly more from Drail’s example than from anything he himself did.

  Yet here was Marra, so tiny and fragile, gazing up at him with a readiness. And she understood nothing, he slowly realized. Apparently there were many things males grasped from growing up – how to make a fist, what vulnerable spots to strike. She knew none of these things.

  And she had faith that he could teach her. That he would teach her. She had trust.

  They worked Passing the Attack over and over, until Marra slipped past him once without his being able to stop her. As he’d let her win several times at that point, she didn’t realize the difference. And he couldn’t tell her without admitting she hadn’t succeeded earlier.

  “That was well done,” he said. She nodded once, barely acknowledging the praise, and set to do it again. He laughed and sat, stretching his legs out on the grass.

  After a moment, she joined him.

  “Are there other things to learn?” she asked, tying her sash around her waist.

  He nodded. “Many. But this is enough for now. You must practice.”

  She looked at him, and he saw the thoughts in her eyes. The doubt quickly veiled, doubt of how she could manage to practice. She’d never ask any of them to help her, he realized.

  “Find your training in everyday life, Marra. As people approach you on the street, slip past them at the last instant. Watch their movements – be able to predict them.

  “When you see Drail and the Hand drill, pretend you’re drilling with them. If Drail attacks Manten, pretend it’s you. Feel yourself there – see your reactions in your head. In a tavern, outside in a crowd, alone in the woods. Conjure up the situation, and let yourself react. See yourself slip past every time.”

  “Practice – in my mind?”

  He nodded. “It’s almost as good as physical practice.”

  She digested this, her expression so serious. Smothering a grin at her reaction, he stretched. A shoulder muscle twinged in protest, and he rubbed it automatically. “I must have pulled that in a drill last night.”

  Marra dug into her cloak pocket and withdrew two cloth items. “Illsmith,” she said, as if he’d know what that was. She lay a packet in the grass between them, and then weighed the second one in her palm.

  “And what do I do with Illsmith?”

  Hastily she untied the string, spreading the paper of herbs before him.

  “A pinch in your hand,” she told him, and plucked a tiny vial from her pouch.

  Eyeing her with a rueful grin, he gingerly took two leaves, and lay them in his palm.

  She poured a few drops of oil on top. “Rub vigorously, until it feels hot. Then apply.”

  He was very tempted to ask her to rub his shoulder – but teasing her at this point might make her wary of future lessons. And if there was one thing he could do to repay her for waking him that day in the desert – for probably saving his life – it was this.

  Months back, on the Wavering Continent, Tryst had awoke from a drug-induced sleep. Far from home, and surrounded by Drail and the Hand of Victory. Marra, this little half-trained apprentice of potions and elixirs, had discovered the combination to wake him. Where he’d be if she hadn’t – if Drail hadn’t plucked him up from a backroom floor – he could only guess.

  Now, as he massaged green mush into his shoulder, Marra unwrapped the second package. The contents gleamed in the morning sunlight -- a small, intricately bound book.

  A book that, it dawned on him, was a fit gift for a prince.

  “Herb lore?” he asked, watching her face.

  Her fingers turned it over. He saw that the pages were edged in gold – with a tiny lock set in them. She tugged, but the book did not open.

  Not a book at all, he realized. A clever box, apparently locked. For an instant he wondered what intrigue she was involved in – and then saw, from her widened eyes, that she was more baffled than he.

  “Where did you find that?”

  Her finger brushed the tiny lock, and withdrew as if burned. Marra then offered it to him.

  “The boy in the herb shop gave it to me. He insisted.”

  Tryst found it heavier than it looked. And painted with gold. It had to be gold, as gold was one of the forbidden items. It was not allowed to fake gold nor silver in any way.

  The top was expertly etched with a glowing image of a dark horse poised atop a cliff. Individual strands composed the mane, some lighter than others, and the stallion’s eyes blazed with emotion. A raw sort of power.

  This was no simple gift.

  “Do you have the key?”

  She shook her head, and shivered. He tried pressing the lock – but it refused to yield.

  A messenger box. In the Palace, such boxes were used to deliver letters or small items to nobles far away. The boxes themselves were impervious to tampering. If the box was delivered whole, the receiver could be certain the contents within had not been disclosed.

  He studied Marra’s face – but she was genuinely startled.

  “This,” Tryst told her, “is a very expensive box. Few could afford such a thing.”

  “Those of Agben could.”

  At her words he noticed a tiny mark on the back. It was indeed the mark of Agben.

  “The Herb Shop?” he asked. She calmly nodded.

  But when she looked up, he saw the fear in her eyes.

  “The boy probably thinks you’re Agben. It’s nothing to worry about.” Unless Agben preferred to keep their communications quiet, of course. But Tryst wouldn’t mention that.

  “You can simply deliver it to the School when we get to Missea. It should make a welcome introduction.”

  She met his gaze then, and he saw she wasn’t fooled. She knew very well Agben might not welcome an unknown girl having stumbled upon a messenger box.

  Truth was, the King’s own boxes were on a par with this – some of them not as cunningly crafted. Whoever waited on this message was very wealthy, or very powerful.

  Tryst rewrapped the cloth, and placed it in her hand. “You can always sneak it back to the boy, tell him he made a mistake. Just don’t let anyone see you do it.”

  He stood, and flexed his shoulder, surprised to find it already easing. With an acknowledging grin, he reached a hand to help her up. “Shall we see if breakfast is ready?”

  She hesitated, as always, before touching him. Then her hand grasped his, and he pulled her to her feet.

  Dignity, the thought flashed through his mind. She had a careful dignity, probably hard won and definitely precious to her. He knew the bare bones of her life, but nothing more. Marra always answered direct questions, but she never elaborated.

  As she moved up the hill ahead of him, and he watched the curves beneath her skirt, he realized where his thoughts were going and stopped them. Dalliance with a prince was supposed to confer an honor. But then she didn’t know who he was.

  And, he admitted with a wry grin, he strongly suspected it wouldn’t make any difference if she did.

  Marra slipped the messenger box in her pocket when she saw the camp activity.

  It was still early, and she hadn’t expected everyone to be awake. But Olver was rolling up bedrolls and Manten shoving cooking pots into a bag as Drail untied her sling bed from the tree.

  He greeted them with relief.

  “The Trafalcon leaves as soon as we get there. Sooner, if we’re not fast enough.”

  Tryst came up behind her. “Did something happen?”

  Drail nodded. “There’s talk of a tally today. A Trumen tally.”

  “Tally?” Marra didn’t understand. “As in count?”

  “That’s the guess,” Drail rolled the sling cloth around the pole, and stuffed the end in the cooking bag. “The Captain doesn’t choose to wait around to find out.”

  Olver and Manten lifted bags to their shoulders and trotted off. She and Tryst hurriedly crammed
their own items away, and followed Drail to the docks.

  The next time Marra would remember the messenger box they would already be out at sea.

  It was past the breakfast hour as the Hand of Victory marched along the floating docks, and Drail’s stomach protested the delay. The Trafalcon, further down the quay, appeared ready to sail. Her crew shimmied up masts, hauling ropes and shouting instructions amidst occasional angry oaths.

  The Warships themselves seemed ominously quiet. Docked on either side of the Trafalcon, they felt penned in, restricted. What if they wouldn’t allow them to leave?

  As he strode past the steel-tipped bow of the first Warship, Drail felt sheer awe. The thing loomed over him, more than four times his height. It was said that they had false hulls – which the hull you saw wasn’t one at all. Stars, they were large enough he could believe it. Drail couldn’t see the deck, but the sounds assured him that however early it was, men worked there.

  The Trafalcon Captain hustled them aboard. They’d no sooner set foot to deck than the gangplank was pulled, moorings freed and the first sail raised.

  “Best go swift-like,” the Captain said.

  They slowly slipped past the Warship, taking longer than Drail thought possible. As they drew abreast of the stern, a Skullan sailor all in red peered down over the rail.

  The Skullan locked eyes with Drail. Watching.

  Slowly the Trafalcon widened the gap, pulling farther away. The Skullan in red seemed to follow their path most carefully.

  They passed the end of the wharf, and then eased by two more Warships anchored farther out. The crew worked feverishly to raise sails, hauling the lines until the sheets found proper angle and billowed with breeze. Even as the full winds of the sea thrust them on their way, he still watched.

  The Warships rocked gently in the currents, making no effort to pursue.

  Drail started breathing again.

  2.

  MAURIC DREAMT of a bewitching brunette, coyly beckoning.

  He woke to a single candle and an open window. And a figure in the chair – far too big to be his brunette. He had to shake his head and knuckle his eyes before he could see.