Image by Gemini
Catwright calmed himself considerably before the meeting ended. While Seleger and Beldere negotiated for a lighter watch during the tournament, Cat’s mind wandered to what he needed to accomplish in the next few days. The tournament was now a secondary concern compared to the immediate threat to his life and freedom. The city leadership seemed to believe no one would dare repeat an attempt on him after what happened to the Obsidian Tears, but Cat was not so optimistic.
It was late by the time the four companions climbed the stairs to their chambers. There was one more task to accomplish together before they retired; they met in Seleger’s quarters, which were the largest by far.
“Everyone ready?” Cat inquired, after Beldere verified no one else was in the apartment or scrying. The other three nodded solemnly as they backed into the corners of the great room. With a simple act of will, Catwright emptied the contents of his amulet’s storage space onto the floor. There was a cacophony of sound as armor, weapons, and other valuables cascaded onto the stones. Fortunately, the rooms were quite soundproof. Beldere sighed heavily, while Seleger and Chatwick grinned like children receiving Winterfest gifts.
The room was filled with weapons, armor, coins, and mundane travel gear. Cat started to realize just how difficult it would be to sort through it all. The pile of loot was almost waist-deep. “Anything hostile?” Cat asked, looking at Beldere.
“No, not that I can tell. I will ask for protection just in case.” Beldere bowed his head and murmured to his deity. Cat felt his skin thicken and his mind accelerate, his reflexes sharpening as the enhancement took hold.
The next three hours were spent sorting and counting. The boys found two large chests inside storage rings filled with coins and gems; there were also over a dozen items with significant enchantments. “We need an arcane specialist,” Seleger said, swinging an axe that Beldere indicated had a magical aura. The priest could only identify an item’s general nature and relative strength, not its specific abilities.
“Do you know one?” Chatwick asked, still energetic even as morning approached.
“No, not really.” Seleger yawned. “I know of a few, but not well enough to ask a favor like this. Identifying all this properly could be expensive. We have close to thirty thousand gold worth of gear here, but the wrong mage will overcharge us.”
“Can’t we just play with them until we figure it out?” Chatwick almost whined.
“It’s not that simple,” Seleger replied. “It can take immense resources and experimentation to find triggering words or mechanisms. Many items have hidden uses that only someone specifically versed in the field could fathom. Older items, or those created by another culture, could have completely different methods of activation.” He held up a lacquered piece of wood that Beldere said radiated “ethereal conflict.”
“This wand could do anything from shooting magic bolts to raising a force shield, or even have multiple effects. The trigger is likely some obscure word in a dead language. It could also be keyed to a specific user, meaning we could never use it without an enchanter to change the bond.” Chatwick was happy to take the older boy’s word for it, but Seleger kept going. This time, he held up a glowing blue vial. “If this were a standard Mecran military supply, this would enhance your speed. But this was taken from a mercenary company that has traveled everywhere. There are hundreds of alchemists using different recipes. The effects could last for ten seconds or ten minutes—or it could just be a fancy laxative.”
Cat stopped listening as Seleger began to explain to Chatwick that a laxative was not a sleeping potion. They needed to be up in a few hours for the tournament. He needed to talk to Gemma and perhaps hire her company; she could find information and people for him. He, personally, lacked people skills.
“It makes you poop?” Chatwick guffawed.
“…Yes.”
“And people will pay for that? Carry it around with them?”
“…Well…”
“I think it’s time we get some sleep,” Cat interrupted. “Seleger and I don’t need as much, but you have a long day ahead, Chat.”
Seleger looked thoughtful. “Now that we’re rich, maybe we can spring for some more enhancements for Chatwick.”
Cat shrugged. “Sounds good to me.” He nodded toward Beldere. “In the meantime, ask Bel for a refresh after breakfast. It should help.” The priest nodded in agreement.
The crowd for Cat’s morning workout was becoming ridiculous; at least two hundred people were straining for a look. He might have to find a new area for his routine or skip it altogether. When he finished, he tried to brush off the questions as he headed for the gate, but Lord Kagin’s grandson was insistent. He was a tall, lean boy, perhaps a year older than Catwright, and the others made way for him.
“We must arrange a time to spar!” Cat was fairly sure the boy’s name was Wendyl, but he had only heard it in passing. The noble wasn’t exactly rude, but he wouldn’t let the matter go until they confirmed a time and place.
“Are you in the tournament?” Cat asked.
“Well, of course.”
“Then I’ll see you there.” Cat walked off, leaving the young lord spluttering.
The competition started early. Competitors were already warming up for the first matches by the time Catwright, Seleger, and Chatwick arrived. Beldere was already there, being one of the few tournament-experienced healers in the city. The young priest was insistent that he be the one overseeing any matches involving Cat. Far from being annoyed, Cat was relieved that someone intimately aware of his limitations would be watching over him.
The junior sword contest was essentially a game of tag: the first to score five strikes won the round. The strikes did not need to cause damage, which greatly favored aether and aquavae fighting styles. Since anyone under twenty with basic skills could join, there was a huge range of ability. Cat mainly stayed with aether forms, dancing around his opponents until they made mistakes. He finished most matches in less than a minute and took very few hits.
Chatwick made it to the third round, which surprised and delighted him. However, he was eliminated quickly by a slim blonde girl with a saber. She disarmed him immediately and took five points before Chatwick could retrieve his weapon.
“That was pig-shit,” Chatwick said, disgusted. “She didn’t play fair.”
“Battle is seldom fair,” Catwright intoned.
“I think I’m a little bit in love,” Seleger sighed.
Seleger was eliminated in round four by a dual-saber-wielding young man who moved like the wind: Wendyl Kagin. Catwright knew they would face each other in the final bout. I guess I won’t try aether form against that one, Cat thought. It certainly didn’t work out for Seleger.
Catwright had a prodigious audience for his fourth-round match against the girl who had bested Chatwick. He wasn’t sure if the crowd was there for him or her, but it didn’t matter.
“I’m Brigit Dunancer,” she said coyly.
“Catwright,” he responded, with a barely perceptible nod. His experience with women his own age was limited. Brigit’s flirtatious look reminded him of the tactics Gemma used to distract him in their early matches at Ironwood Fort.
Brigit smiled brightly as the fight started. Within seconds, she overextended; Cat sliced the hand that held her saber. Blood sprayed, and the blade fell to the stones with a clatter, along with several of her fingers. He poked her four more times in rapid succession as she clutched her ruined hand to her chest. There was booing from the sidelines, then a hushed silence as he loomed over her.
Only now, after it was over, did he notice that she was pretty. She hunched down to retrieve her sword with her good hand, trying not to cry. Do not apologize, he told himself. She was an opponent. The priest will fix her hand. If she had watched him fight, she would have known her lunge wouldn’t work. He struggled with the rigid ideas that had been drilled into him: She is a woman; she will manipulate you with tears. But as she looked up, her blue eyes straining not to overflow, he realized she wasn’t manipulating him—she was in pain and humiliated. He tried to soften his expression but didn’t know what to say. “Brigit,” he said simply, inclining his head before turning away.
“Every time I think you’ve gone and become a little soft-hearted,” Seleger said wistfully, “you go and prove me foolish.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me, Cat,” Chatwick added. “You could have just beaten her the normal way.”
“I didn’t do it for you. She left herself open.”
“If that helps you slumber, big fellow,” Seleger grinned. “I think I might apologize to her on your behalf.” As expected, Seleger followed through. Brigit’s hand was already healed; Beldere had seen to it. Within two minutes, Seleger and the girl were talking amiably.
The final youth match took place an hour later. Wendyl strode into the arena, confident but not cocky. He was a lean, hard boy of seventeen, with shoulder length wavy brown hair, wielding sabers that were the work of master smiths. His movements spoke of intensive training in the air forms. “Now that you are done maiming little girls, are you ready for a real challenge?” He taunted Cat with an aristocratic sneer. It was a practiced move meant to get under his skin, but Cat saw through it. The boy was scared. Cat simply shrugged and advanced.
Wendyl danced around him, his blades a whirlwind. Cat countered with a sweeping, fire-oriented defense, hoping to knock a weapon out of the young noble’s grip, but the boy was too wise for that. Cat decided to go off-script; he lunged left in what looked like an earth-powered charge. Wendyl reacted with a predictable counter, so Cat stopped, took a half-step inside the boy’s guard, and slammed his pommel into the side of Wendyl’s head.
Wendyl collapsed in a clattering heap, unconscious, his throat nearly pierced by one of his own sabers. Catwright gave him four more shallow wounds for good measure and walked away to let the priests work.
Cat scanned the crowd, noting the dismay from a group of young female onlookers. He spotted Gemma sitting with Seleger, Chatwick, and Brigit.
Gemma grinned as he approached. “Cat, you’ve truly become the instructor now. Miss Dunancer was just telling us how much she enjoyed your lessons.” Cat glanced at Brigit, who glared at him coldly. Where had he heard that surname before? Seleger and Chatwick were chatting with a group of boys who were apparently fans of Brigit. They went silent as he approached.
“No need to be afraid!” Seleger waved his hands dramatically. “I will protect you!”
Cat ignored Brigit and filtered out Seleger’s antics. “Gemma,” Cat met the woman’s eyes, “would you walk with me?”
“I would be delighted!” she beamed. Cat swore he saw gold coins in her eyes.
“Beldere talked to you?” Cat guessed once they had escaped the japes of Seleger’s cadre.
“He did. I’m surprised you’re letting him read your thoughts. I guess slaughtering mercenaries brings you closer.”
Cat sighed. He would never be comfortable with her barbs, but he wasn’t taking the bait today. “I need to hire your company for information gathering.”
“That is what we do.” Her face turned thoughtful. “I’m guessing you don’t want the local leadership to know, and Beldere won’t help because it involves putting you in more danger.”
“You are a credit to your craft,” Cat smirked.
“You are going after the Slavers’ Guild.” Her eyes widened slightly, though she seemed more excited than afraid.
“Yes, among other things. I don’t feel like sitting around while they take shots at me. I want to know where the money is coming from, who the major players are, and any relationship to Luarca the Unseen. I also need a reliable spell-crafter and a merchant willing to work directly with me.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“It’s a start. I might need specialized reinforcements later. I know how to handle a hostile force in an enemy city, but I have little idea how to do it in a friendly one. I could get into serious trouble with the Baron before I’m done.”
Gemma grinned. “Spikey has a wager that you’ll be confined to quarters before the tournament is over.”
“He what?” Cat spluttered. “How much are you in for?”
“I wouldn’t want to sway the odds, but I know a place you can lay low if needed.”
Cat considered it. He didn’t have any real rank here, and the Mecran military was poor at gathering intelligence without druids. “I’ll keep that in mind. For now, the castle is fine, but I’d like a more private place to train.”
“I’ll look into that. We’ll start with one hundred gold for now.”
Cat pulled a sturdy leather drawstring pouch from his amulet. He concentrated for a moment as Gemma’s eyes brightened at the clinking sound. He handed over the secured bundle.
“Not even going to negotiate?” Gemma smirked. “You’re going to get taken advantage of.”
“I wouldn’t know how. Perhaps you can find me a tutor in the mysteries of money.” He shrugged. For now, the information was priceless.
“I’ll find you tomorrow after the adult matches,” Gemma said, her grin looking predatory.
The adult matches the next day were longer and more technical. By the fourth round, most competitors were fatigued, but Cat was used to training sixteen hours a day. He found the first few matches to be not much more difficult than the youth rounds because his opponents were slow and predictable.
His fourth-round opponent was Lord Cachemas Echimedes. He was fast, skilled, and patient. Cat was actually sweating by the time he scored the fifth point; Cachemas had nicked him twice.
After the match, the lord approached him. The man was handsome—late thirties, with a strong jaw and grey eyes. “How old are you, boy?”
“A season past sixteen, my lord,” Cat said.
“A mutual acquaintance informed me of your need for a mage and a merchant.”
“Yes.” Cat was surprised Gemma had worked so quickly.
“I have a son, a year older than you. He can perform both roles. He is studious, but I think he relies too heavily on magecraft. I want him to learn swordwork. He has agreed that your instruction will be the price of his services.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” Cat said suspiciously.
“My family is nobility by virtue of wealth.” Lord Echimedes explained that they were merchants with interests in most major markets. “My instincts indicate you may be a lucrative asset. Having someone close to you could be profitable. I hoped that if that person were my son, it would allay suspicions that I’m working with your enemies.”
Cat was intrigued. “You want me to let your son spy on us as payment?” Cat chuckled. “It’s not the worst proposal I’ve had this week.”
“I did some research,” Echimedes continued. “I know of your father and grandfather. I have met your mother, and I’m aware that even those close to you don’t know who she is. I’m aware of the bounties for your capture. It seems like a lot of resources to allocate toward an unknown swordsman.”
“You are remarkably well-informed. I’m willing to meet your son.” This merchant had met his mother? What else does he know?
“Please accept this.” He handed Catwright a nondescript gold band. “This ring will allow us to find and communicate with you.”
Cat handed it to the approaching Beldere for inspection. “It is as he says,” the priest confirmed. “There is also a perception enchantment on it; you won’t be allowed to wear it for your next fight.”
Should I be worried about the enchantment? Cat asked mentally.
I don’t believe so, Beldere replied. It’s most likely meant to help you hear the person on the other end with less difficulty.
“We are staying at the castle,” Cat told the Lord. “Perhaps we could arrange a meal. We’d like to meet your son before we formally agree.”
“It would be an honor.”
The final bout was against a man called Tiberius, one of Lord Kagin’s personal guards. He was an impressive man, six-and-a-half feet tall and heavily muscled. After a few failed feints, Cat realized that in a straight-up fight, Tiberius would likely kill him.
The fight wore on, and Cat realized he wasn’t going to tire the man out. He had to get dirty. Using his agility, Cat moved inside and began landing body blows. Tiberious was shocked when Cat blocked one-handed and landed solid punches with his off-hand. The punches didn’t score points, but they did damage.
Eventually, Tiberius caught on and delivered a kick to Cat’s gut that sent him spinning. Cat blocked an overhand chop just in time while recovering. As Tiberious pressed the offensive, he stepped an inch too far forward. Cat hammered the man’s left knee with a devastating side-kick. A snapping sound echoed through the arena.
A groan rose from the crowd. Cat felt the bite of a blade in his left shoulder, but he snapped two quick thrusts into the guard’s ribs as he disengaged. It was over. Tiberius had no maneuverability left.
“Would you like to yield?” Cat asked, thinking that few people would like to be slowly taken apart and humiliated while they awkwardly defended on one leg.
“I did not think you would hit so hard,” the man replied, smiling through the pain. “I appreciate the opportunity to end this without losing more dignity.” Tiberius dropped his sword and surrendered. Cat gave him a sword salute.
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