Chapter Nine: Trickery and Servitude
Imalroc rose with the sun. He pushed aside the layer of saddle blankets and ignored the blast of chilled morning air. Morning after morning, season after season, he had forced himself from the meager warmth and safety of his bed. Most days he was grim as the morning light itself, but today was different. He stood up and folded the saddlebags into a pile at the foot of the mattress. With one hand, he touched the thin edge of the piece of paper he had tucked into the lining of his shirt. It was still there, slightly bent, and warm from its hiding place.
Master Toriem had given him the little sheet of brown paper the night before, after he and Lady Toriem had both signed their names and oaths beneath the scribbled words that promised Imalroc his freedom in return for their escape from Kirinoll. He knew that it didn't really mean much, it was just a scrap of paper after all, but it still made him giddy every time he touched it.
He paced the cellar, rubbed his palms together against the cold, and waited for the scuffing of boots on the cobblestones outside the door. When it finally came, he wheeled toward the entrance and watched the daylight spill in, framing the lean form of the handler.
Master Toriem paused in the doorway, his green eyes locked with Imalroc's. The muscles in Imalroc's calves tensed on instinct and he spread his feet, only half conscious of the defensive adjustment. The handler mirrored Imalroc's stiff tension. Each of his footsteps landed with just a little too much precision. He carried the worthless sword that he had given Imalroc at Iffroa.
Master Toriem stopped a few stride lengths out of his reach, and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to get rid of shiver. "So...ready to train?"
"I want to make a few things clear to you first," Imalroc said. The words rushed out of him, too quick and too aggressive to pass for a slave speaking to a master. Any other handler, and he'd be peeling himself off the cellar floor right now.
A dangerous calm settled over Master Toriem's face, and Imalroc had a sudden, vivid flash of the handler's hand smashing into his cheekbone and sending him sprawling backwards. He curled lower, prepared to defend himself.
"Well? What do you want to say?" Master Toriem prompted, and Imalroc licked his dry lips. The words were heavy on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say them, but it took more nerve than he could admit to needing.
"Do you know anything about handling a battleboxer?" Imalroc asked. It was about time they got this out in the open. He'd been damn sure the handler was just waiting to spring a ferocious beating on him ever since he arrived on the estate grounds, but a tendril of hope had grown somewhere in the back of his mind. Maybe his young master just didn't know what the fuck to do with him. The possibility was almost too wonderful to accept.
Master Toriem crossed his arms. "No, I suppose I don't."
Imalroc drew himself up to his full height and leveled his gaze with his so-called handler. "Then don't try to handle me. I might behave in front of people, but I'm not putting on an act when there's no audience."
"Fine."
"If you try to break me...if you lie and cheat and try to turn me into a slave...then I will kill you," Imalroc said quietly.
He could feel his own threat ringing against his ears in the silence that followed. The Duke of Wester would have beheaded him for speaking that truth to his face.
Master Toriem did not back away or break Imalroc's gaze. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he answered finally.
"I want to know your plans for any potential fights."
"You'll have to talk to Etiana. We don't know where we're going to fight you anyway, with your record as it stands. She was planning on trying the smaller boxes on the East Outer Ring."
"Don't bother," Imalroc said. "They won't take me. Even the smallest boxes on the East Outer are considered elite. I'm going to have to fight my way back into them. But I'm not going into any battlebox without a proper blade."
Master Toriem's hand tightened around the glossy scabbard of the sword in his hand. He glared at Imalroc. "What's wrong with this one?"
"Look." Imalroc made an impatient move forward, his hand outstretched.
Master Toriem tensed and moved the blade behind his back. The little fucker was scared of him. Probably with good reason, given the death threat he'd just made. Imalroc grinned wolfishly at him and felt his lips cracking as they peeled back from his teeth. "Give me the sword and I'll show you. I'm not going to slice you to bits with it, if that's what you're worried about."
When Master Toriem finally passed the sword to him, Imalroc pulled the blade free and let the scabbard fall to the ground. He held the sword up to his eye level.
"The main problem is the tang. Whoever made this used a partial tang just to attach the blade to the grip. It leaves the grip light. Which makes the blade much heavier than the grip and throws the balance of the whole sword off. And it means that it's useless against any great force. You sent me up against Hanover, and this fucking thing almost broke off at the handle every time I had to block one of his strokes," he said.
"This sword came from a master smith! You must not be handling it correctly," Master Toriem snapped.
"Your so-called master smith made this piece of shit to hang on a wall. And it's about to break. I had to brace the blade with my fucking hand through that whole fight at Iffroa. Go stand over there, and I'll show you what would've happened if I'd really tried to use it." Imalroc waved toward the wall.
"Excuse me?" The handler bristled.
"Go. Stand. There," Imalroc repeated. He had to bite back a laugh of sheer amazement when the handler obeyed him and stalked over to stand next to where Imalroc's mattress lay. This was very enjoyable. He walked to the opposite wall, where a low-legged wooden stool sat in the corner.
"Right," Imalroc said. "Watch. Simple chopping strike, slanted in toward the ribs." He swung the blade down into one of the stool's legs. It chipped into the wood and then bounced back. Imalroc could feel the blade wobbling in his hands, loosened in the grip. Weak fucking tang. He lifted the blade high and brought it whistling down on the seat of the stool as he spoke.
"Downward chop. Lots of force. It's going to—"
Imalroc ducked just in time. A brittle screech, and the blade snapped free of the handle and ricocheted back past Imalroc's ear.
"There you go," Imalroc said cheerfully, spinning around to face the handler.
Master Toriem's face was pale, his mouth half-way open. "You..." The handler sounded like he was being strangled. "You just broke a very expensive sword," he managed at last.
Imalroc shrugged. "It was shit anyways. I need a new one."
"We could have at least sold it to somebody else! Gods...I told you we don't have onyx to throw around like that!"
"Ah...maybe you can melt this bit down or something." Imalroc looked down at the ruined grip and shrugged again.
Master Toriem stomped past him and back toward the cellar door. It shuddered on its hinges as he wrenched it open. On the threshold, he stopped and looked back at Imalroc. "Well?" he demanded.
"Well, what?" Imalroc responded, still reveling in his apparently permissible belligerence toward a handler.
"We have to go get a new sword, and I know fuck all about swords. You'll have to come with me."
"You want me to come? In the cage?"
"No, not in the cage. You said you'd behave when there's an audience, didn't you?"
"Yes," Imalroc hissed, his heart starting to pump as though he had just been sprinting. It had been at least five cycles since any of his masters had taken him outside unchained. Only Master Xavian had ever dared to walk with Imalroc at his back. He dropped the grip from his shaking fingers and practically flew across the room.
Master Toriem took a step backward when Imalroc bounded up the steps and hurtled to a stop inches from his face. "Fucking gods—" the handler bit out. Imalroc rocked back on his heels belatedly.
"Eternals. Don't pull that shit out there." Master Toriem waved a hand in the direction of the street. "You'll have to pretend you've finally been broken. And if you kill me in the middle of a Kirinoll market, things won't go very well for you."
"You have no need to worry. I will only dream of murdering you, dear Master," Imalroc responded, letting out a sinister cackle. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Stupid thing to say. He wanted to go outside. Outside, unchained, a few sweet breaths of something like freedom.
"Wonderful," the handler muttered. He led the way around the sharp corners of the manor house, and out the small side gate that sat beside the main entrance. Imalroc imitated the broken battleboxers he had seen. He shrank his shoulders inward, folded his hands behind his back. He lowered his head and kept on Master Toriem's heels as though he were tethered to the handler by an invisible leash. Always two steps behind. Earthbound gods, how did those broken-in fuckers keep this up?
Master Toriem threaded his way through growing crowds as they neared the streets where the Market District spilled into the South Outer Ring. He did a passable job of ignoring the looks he was getting when people recognized the battleboxer trotting at his heels.
Imalroc kept his head down, but he couldn't quite keep himself from looking up and stealing greedy glimpses of the open-air market around them. Bright fruit and fresh vegetables spilled over the rims of the boxes that displayed them. He passed a barrel of millet, and memory stabbed through him as he remembered standing at the rim of similar barrels as a child, sliding his small hand into the endless depth of the grain box. On the heels of the unearthed memory came an impulse he could barely resist.
He could run.
Master Toriem was not prepared to chase him. There was no telling how long it might take for the handler to even realize that Imalroc had melted away from his shadow. But as soon as his eyes rose to examine the nearest winding alley, he spotted a group of gawking onlookers, hands lifted to point directly at him.
He would never make it out of Kirinoll, where so many knew his face and name. They'd painted a horrendous version of his likeness on the walls of the East Outer Ring. And the Red Guard would not bother to try to capture him alive. Imalroc hunched his shoulders again, ducking past the watchers. He brushed his hand gently against his chest, and felt the crinkle of the small paper still hidden in his shirt. This plan was his pathway to freedom, even if it required the last frayed threads of his patience.
The smell of pork crackling on a huge blackened fryer distracted him and set his mouth watering. He eyed the caramelized meat with a rumble in his belly, and almost walked into Master Toriem, who had stopped abruptly.
They stood outside a large white-oak door, the snowy planks of the wood crisscrossed by a masterfully designed knotwork of black iron. Master Toriem knocked at the door, which opened almost as soon as he had struck it. A neatly dressed servant bowed to them, and then gaped when he spotted Imalroc behind the handler.
He could have predicted the exchange that followed. Elaborate formalities, useless flattery, some dithering about the beauty of the day—what was it with people free to live as they pleased and choosing to discuss the godsforsaken weather, of all things?
But soon enough the handler got the unfortunate and entirely obvious news that the smith had no availability for half a season.
Master Toriem blew out a gust of frustration. "We need a sword sooner than that. Please pay respects to your master. We will go elsewhere."
"Certainly, milord." The servant remained bent over in yet another bow until Master Toriem turned away. Imalroc looked back to see the servant peeking out of the doorway, watching their progress.
He turned sped up to get right behind the handler. "We don't want a sword from there anyway. They won't give you a functional one, they'll just drain your pockets for something sparkly and useless."
"What do you suggest, then?" Master Toriem muttered, barely moving his lips.
"The Duke of Wester used a private smith for all the weaponry. But...before that my contract belonged to Master Hize. He got my swords from the military outfitters."
"You belonged to Melgreth Hize?"
"No," he snapped, "My contract belonged to him. I belonged to myself."
"Alright, I misspoke. Calm down," the handler sighed. He veered through a long line of people outside a stand selling hot spice-wine, and into a familiar, mud streaked alley.
"You know Hize?" Imalroc asked quietly, when they were far enough down the alley that the crowds had thinned out and there were few people near them.
"Yes. I've met him on hunts." Master Toriem replied.
"I hate him," Imalroc whispered, half to himself.
Master Toriem did not look back. "Me too," he said.
Imalroc forgot he was supposed to be looking at the ground and stared at the side of the handler's face that he could see. "Why?"
"He's an ass. He tried to get the huntmaster's position taken away from me because I was...ah...disrespectful to him."
"What'd you do?"
"Nothing! I just tried to give him a few archery tips. In front of Lady Mariack, whom he apparently was trying to court. He demanded to use my good bow after that, and Yagru made me give it to him. And he snapped the damn thing. Said it was an accident, but I'm sure it was on purpose." Imalroc could see a muscle pulsing in the handler's tightened jaw. "I was angry...so I...ah...I led the hunting party down a path that was laid with boar trap-pits. And unfortunately, Lord Hize fell into one."
A sputter of surprised laughter burst out of Imalroc's mouth before he forced it back down his throat. "You risked knocking a royal peer into a boar pit because of a broken bow?"
"Yes." The taut edge was back in Master Toriem's voice. "It was my father's bow." He sped up suddenly, and Imalroc lengthened his stride to keep up with him, still eyeing the handler.
They swerved down the alley in silence, until Master Toriem glanced back at him, his even tone recovered. "What'd he do to you?"
"None of your fucking business," Imalroc replied. Such a glory not to curb his tongue. "The place on the right is the armory he used to come to."
Master Toriem slowed in front of a dark wooden building that seemed near collapse. An awning jutted out into the alley, covered by a greasy cloth that dripped with last-night's rain. The handler stared into the sooty darkness of the open doorway.
"Hello-o?" he called. Imalroc drifted up to stand at his shoulder.
"Well, well," A voice rich as honeyed wine spilled from the darkness, letting out a husky chuckle. "This is a first."
The man who tottered out of the doorway looked exactly the way he had when Imalroc had last seen him. Baratien the Swordsmith was ancient and unchanging. He leaned on a wooden crutch blackened with scorch marks. Grease and ash sank into every deep line of his face, graying the wisps of long white hair that fell to the tops of his bony shoulders.
"A first for what?" Master Toriem asked suspiciously.
"The first time I've ever seen a handler dare to stand with his back to Imalroc," purred Baratien.
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