Fencing Academy Pt. 01

There was a moment pregnant with shock, then lady nob's wordless indignation boiled over.

"You insolent rat! How dare you!" said the nob, growing red, "Do you know who I am? I'm Marquess Victoria Knightling!"

Lyza curtsied. "Me lady! I am so sorry. Here, let me fix that..." Lyza summoned another wad of mucus and hit her right on the tit. The ball dripped slowly down the woman's white gown. "See? Now yer dress matches yer booties."

Knightling went through stages of disbelief, shock, and finally rage all in just a few moments. She lifted her hands as though the wad of spit would crawl up her breasts and assault her, her face contorting in supreme disgust. "YOU... BITCH!" she cried out, "YUUUCK!!"

The lady's champion, the one with the attractive hips, shouldered forward between her and Victoria, her expression stony with a hint of murder.

"You face Margaret Fey," she declared in a confident, serious voice, hand resting threateningly on her pommel, "Stealing a sword does not make you a swordswoman, and does not give leave to soil a lady's garments. I'd cut you down but you'd tarnish my steel."

Lyza walked up to Margaret, so close she could smell Margaret's fragrant breath. She lifted her nose at her. "You face Lyza Dunwall, and I'll show you who's worthy. As a matter of fact it happens to be my sword, and I'm as good with it as you are with yours."

Margaret sneered. "Do you stake your life on it?"

"Oh, without hesitation."

Margaret raised her chin and declared: "I challenge you to a duel to the death."

Before Lyza even thought about it, her pride said, "Accepted."

Margaret's face betrayed no fear. "I'll see you two weeks hence, on the Field of Honor."

"One week," glowered Lyza.

Margaret sniffed. "It makes no difference to me when you die," she said, "I thought you might want the time to say goodbye to your urchin family."

"I already have," said Lyza grimly.

Margaret took her lady by the arm. "Come, Lady Vicky, don't let this ruffian concern you. You'll have her head soon enough."

Knightling buried herself in Margaret's shoulder as they walked down the street. When they were well out of sight, Liam emerged, his whole face quivering with anger.

"What in the Light's thousand names, Lyza! You were supposed to get a duel to first blood!"

Lyza turned sharply to Liam. "I got the duel you asked for. One duel's as good as any, right?"

Liam shook his head and spoke breathlessly: "Margaret Fey is no joke! It's one thing to get first blood on a swordswoman like Fey, it's another to kill her! Fey is twelve years older than you with that much more experience, and she's... she's... she's killed before! People much more talented than you! She'll... slice you to bits!"

In truth, the acceptance of the duel had been a reflex, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had to do it this way. If she wasn't capable of killing in a duel, how would she ever get vengeance for her father?

"Don't worry about me, Liam. I'll win," said Lyza.

Liam shook his head. "It's not just you dying, Lyza. I'm worried about what will happen to you when you survive."

There are two virginities in Rotham...

Lyza gave Liam a sweet smile. "I can't stay innocent forever. I have to do this. I have to learn to kill."

###

It had been months since Lyza had last looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair had become a muddy brown, matted by salt and soil, her freckles buried by grime, the lines in her face exaggerated by the dirt that had ingrained itself in her skin. Around her neck she was so thin she could see her own bones, and how sunken and baggy her eyes looked. She looked a homeless orphan.

I am a homeless orphan. The thought made her smile bitterly.

But she had never once looked this bad. She often bathed in Arbalea's Whitewater. Poor the city may have been, sunken to mossy ruins hinting at ancient glories, but the waters were clean. Rotham's waters were death itself. Even the rats shunned it, and those that didn't, floated atop the murk.

The woman behind her finally put a brush to her hair.

"Oh my!" she squealed in her Solissian accent, "Your roots are such a brilliant orange color! You will be so pretty when I am finished! You will see!"

Lyza was not a normal girl, but even she wanted to be pretty. Even if it meant having a middle-aged woman pull her hair out with a comb. The Solissian made envious noises as she fought with it. Those from the Solissian islands considered bold hair beautiful, so they dyed their own like mad: from black and blonde to odder colors such as purples, greens, blues and reds. This Solissian had orange hair, a shade more ostentatious than Lyza's.

Beauty was pain, she'd heard, and Lyza finally knew it was true, but after a half-hour Lyza's hair was no longer matted and it fell to her shoulders. It felt good and less itchy, even as coarse as it was. Next, Lyza was stripped and made to bathe. She was so grimy the dirt molted from her and stained the waters black. When she lifted her hands from the water, she marveled at how pink her flesh was. The Solissian lady was stunned when she arose.

"Oh my! You are a beautiful girl under there! I thought that was soil on your face, but now they have bloomed into freckles! And look at your hair, it is like fire! But it will look better, you will see!"

The Solissian woman reworked her hair with ointments and frothy potions. Lyza was dubious, but when she was turned to the mirror she gasped: she looked on a different person. Her hair had gained a wondrous luster, her lips were plump and red again, skin ruddy with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She had a nose like a little button, with two large, green eyes and narrow face. Her orange hair fell onto her shoulders.

"That's me!" she cried in disbelief, touching her own face.

The woman nodded from behind. "I told you, you would see!"

She watched her fingers push into her plump cheek, making sure it was her own face she was looking at. When she grinned, dimples formed. Lyza squealed in delight.

The Solissian woman took a clump of her hair and let it fall like water down her neck. She suddenly looked sad. "It is a shame a girl as pretty as you will be in such a beastly contest in three days. Dueling is a waste of your beauty, a thing for men. You should work here instead. Madam Picot would treat you well, and give you only to her most gentle customers."

In other circumstances, Lyza might have taken offense. But it was like she was a new person in a new skin. "No thanks," she said, "that's not the life for me. But if I change my mind I'd come here first. Hey, can you whiten my teeth?"

For the next five minutes the woman scrubbed her teeth aggressively with a tiny brush. When Lyza spat, it was so full of yellow gunk she wondered if the Solissian had washed her teeth away. But when she looked back at the mirror her mouth glinted with shiny white pearls.

"I never knew I was so pretty," said Lyza, bewildered.

The Solissian smiled benevolently. "Every woman is pretty to at least one man's eyes. But you, especially so. You'll need a sword to fend off suitors. But before you are a woman, you'll need a dress..."

She crossed the room to a closet and opened it up, revealing a collection of frilly dresses arranged like a rainbow. But when she turned around, Lyza shook her head.

"I prefer men's clothes, sorry," said Lyza, standing up, "Something comfortable. Something I can fight in."

The Solissian clucked her tongue. "A shame. But a woman can still look a woman even dressed as a man. You will see."

Lyza's itchy, soiled rags went into the dustbin. A loose, silky shirt was buttoned over her chest, and over that an ocher vest which clung well to her waist. For her pants, she wore stitched horse leather of a maroon color ending in a pair of comfortable, floppy boots. She finished the ensemble with a cavalier's cap, black and felt with a wide brim laden with ostrich feathers.

The Solissian woman was sobbing.

"Please don't go and die!" she choked, "You are so beautiful! Your beauty would move the world to tears!"

Beauty can't avenge my family, she thought.

"Thank you, me lady," said Lyza sincerely, tipping her new hat, "if I die, I'll make sure they bury me as I am."

The Solissian unleashed a torrent of sobs even as she left the room. But Lyza left in a saunter... she was finally feeling like herself again. The brothel's halls were a deep red, filled with the sound of drunken laughter with the undercurrent of urgent moans, even early as it was in the evening. A fat naked drunk man chased a whore through the corridor, giggling like a child. When she reached the landing, she looked down the banister into the entry hall, where Liam was wagging chin with Madam Picot. Liam briefly looked up at her, but no recognition flashed across his face.

She walked down the stairs slowly, heart pounding for the moment for Liam to recognize her. But it was Madam Picot who noticed her first, a faint smile spreading across her lined face. Liam turned around too, looked befuddled at Lyza, and then realization hit him like lightning bolt, he whispered, "Bull's balls..."

She grinned and took off her hat. She even spun around on her new boots, so the two of them could see her from every angle.

Madam Picot nodded knowingly. "I told you, Liam, I can always tell a beauty, even when she's hidden under a layer of dirt."

Liam was still struggling for words, but even if he had something to say his mouth had gone completely slack. His stubbly chin hung open.

Madam Picot added, "...But that is quite dramatic, quite dramatic indeed."

The Madam was not bad looking herself, Lyza noted. True, she wore all black, being a widow and all, but she had a friendly, warm face and a calm smile, even with her thin lines. More than once Lyza's eyes wandered to her bustle, curious to what was under all those frills.

Lyza took off her hat and put it under her armpit. "All I needs now is me own sword. But I don't think I'll find one here, if you'll pardon me saying, Madam."

Picot gave another slanted smile. "You'd be surprised." She turned to Liam. "Half the city is talking about the fight. They say that Margaret Fey will be butchering an urchin on the Field of Honor for the amusement of Victoria Knightling."

Liam finally said something, but his eyes were still fixed on Lyza, "They'll be surprised when a true swordswoman shows up."

The Madam returned her gaze to Lyza as well. "I've seen the odds the bookmakers have against you. There are many zeroes."

"That's the whole point, innit?" grinned Lyza, "Let them think I'm a simple urchin. Put a whole lotta money on me, then when I win, we'll take the bookies for everythin'. They'll hafta send their daughters to come work here, ha ha!"

"We'll see about that," sniffed Liam, "the bookies can be quite vindictive when things don't go in their favor."

The Madam added, "Betting on fights is illegal, too, and betting on your own even more so. If you're found out you might find yourself at the bottom of the Blackwater."

Lyza shivered. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, heh."

The Madam's gray eyes cast an unreadable gaze. "If you win this fight, I hope you'll consider working for me."

Lyza shook her head emphatically. "No! I'm not an ungrateful sort but—"

"I didn't mean as a whore," corrected the Madam, "Didn't Liam tell you what he does for me?"

Liam frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

Does Liam bugger the Madam? wondered Lyza for a moment.

"He sells sacks...?" ventured Lyza.

Liam said nothing, kept his eyes glued at the wall.

Madam Picot continued. "I'll let him tell you who he is, when he's ready. The point is, I am always looking for people I can trust. Women who know how to fight are rare. I could use you. I pay well."

"...Not to mention killing Margaret Fey would break her in well to the rigors of the job," added Liam, in a low voice.

Madam Picot gave a curt nod. "A little blood is good for the hands, I always say."

"I'm not tryin' to prove anything to you," she said sharply, "When I beat 'er, it's gonna be because I wanted to, not as some job application."

"Think on it," said the Madam with a gentle smile.

"Aye, I will."

The sun was sinking when they left the brothel. The sea glittered gold and orange, and for the first time Lyza saw beauty in Rotham. Her heart caught in her throat. But it isn't Rotham that's pretty, she thought, it's the sunset, aye.

It reminded her of the sunsets over Arbalea's harbor. The crumbling city faced the sea west, so even they were prettier there. But it wasn't just that, everything was nicer, fresher, more welcoming. The glittery Whitewater wound through these big old abandoned castles pockmarked by age, with moss and flowers growing from every crack and crevice. It was amongst these rocks where she grew up, crawling and creeping and exploring, skinning her knees as she shimmied up the ruins. It was at a time like this the kindly monks would come out, to give the orphans like her fresh bread and regale them with heroic stories of the Saints of Light who'd pushed back Darkness so that the first plants could grow and the first towns could be built. The tales stirred their dreams, and were woken the next morning to the chant and toll of bells. It was in hope of rousing the Saints one day, who'd come in the End of Days to burn Darkness and Sin from the world.

They said Rotham was Arbalea's dark twin. Old and deep was the two cities' rivalry, as once Arbalea held Rotham in thrall. It came to bloodshed many centuries ago, and now the king in Arbalea answers to the Grand Dukes of Rotham. In a few days, she'd baptize her new home by killing someone, or else be killed. And not for honor, but for gold. How the Saints of Light would weep beneath their shining halos if they knew.

Liam's words snapped her out of her trance. "What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinkin' what sort o' sword I'm gonna get when I get my money," she lied.

"A cheap one," answered Liam, "whatever we win from your victory will probably just cover our tuition. The Sunderland School is for nobles and the industrialists."

"Aye," she sniffed, "I just wish this fight was now. I want to get it over with."

###

The next few days passed slowly. Lyza practiced with Liam in the day, where it became clear that Liam had little to teach her, since Lyza could disarm Liam with just her hands and body. Liam actually started to become embarrassed by the extent of her skill over him, but still he persisted trying. Lyza thought it sweet.

At night, only unhealthy quantities of barley wine and ale put Lyza to sleep, uncomfortable and dreamless as it was. Her heart pounded, the flickering lights beneath her closed eyes became the clash of steel on steel.

On the day of the fight, Lyza slept until noon. She was awoken by a splash of fresh water.

She swore groggily, looked outside at fresh daylight, looked at Liam, and swore again.

"Why didn't you wake me early, like I said?" she moaned, "We were gonna practice more, weren't we?"

"You needed the sleep, not the practice," said Liam. He tossed Lyza's freshly laundered clothes onto the bed. "We're going to have breakfast, and then you have your fight." He said the last word like he didn't want to.

I also need more moments alive, as many as I can have, she thought as she pushed the sheets off.

Liam was a gentleman. He turned his back as Lyza slipped into her clothes. She put them on slowly, savoring the feeling of fabric on her skin, doing each button one at a time. She donned her hat last. She loved the ostrich feathers that plumed out from it, the rich black felt, the way it was folded roguishly to one side. Would the Saints let her keep it when she went into heaven? Or will I be damned to Darkness for what I do today?

When she was done he threw her a pair of black velvet gloves, embroidered with silvery thread by the wrist. "It'll help with the grip," he explained, "Stop blisters."

Lyza slipped them on. She flexed her fingers, marveling at how the velvet shimmered. "Aye. Thanks."

Lyza and Liam broke fast on water and bread. They couldn't think of what to say to one another. The dour look didn't fit Liam. In his best of days the boy was a bit scruffy, but the circles under lids were deep, the eyes that usually brimmed with dreaminess were dull and downcast today. Even so, he still looks handsome. He was broad-shouldered, with a hale color to his skin. Sometimes his smile would leave her a little short of breath like she'd been squeezed. His shirt was always baggy around the neck, which was just fine for Lyza because she could always get a good peek at his smooth chest, accented by tufts of hair.

Goodbye, Liam Waters, son of a famous sack merchant, she smiled to herself.

"Don't eat too much," he said sullenly, "a full stomach will slow you down."

"Thanks, Liam," she said.

When they were done they walked out to the intersection. One direction went to the Field of Honor. The other went to the gambling dens.

Liam sighed. "You know the deal. I'll be in the gambling hall, placing a bet on you. I'll wait for news of y—"

Lyza kissed him. For real this time, and for more than just a lingering moment. When they thought they'd separate they'd rejoin again. It was only when they began to attract stares when they left each other's lips, and when they did they were both breathless.

"I didn' want to die without having done that," she explained.

They were nose to nose, just looking at each other, unsure of whether to continue or not. "You're not going to die, Lyza. And this isn't the last time."

Their lips met again, and when they separated they made the soft, wet sound lips do. He gave her his sword, and they had nothing left to say with each other, although Lyza was left with a burning sensation on her heart and mouth. She didn't know if that would make her fight harder, or if it would distract and kill her.

The Field of Honor was no field but a hill a little outside Rotham. Dueling was not supposed to be a spectacle, but still hundreds of people sat on the rooftops the city wall, feet dangling and eyes popping curiously. Victoria Knightling was in an outdoor red dress, while Margaret Fey sat on a wood folding chair, putting an oilcloth to her rapier. The rest of her entourage were milling about, a priest, a doctor, an old man, a Ducal observer. They all looked at her without recognition.

"I'm sorry," said Margaret, still focused on cleaning her sword, "spectators aren't allowed on the field."

Lyza took a deep breath to still her pounding heart. "I'm yer opponent," she declared.

Margaret's eyes flashed upwards. Victoria Knightling gasped in such shock she stumbled into the arms of a stout old man, perhaps her father or husband. Lyza smiled. It was exactly the reaction she hoped for.

Margaret stood up and walked right to Lyza's face, he gaze shifting from her face to her clothes. Then she gave a cool smile. "You are the same girl," she said, "though I didn't realize that under all that dirt you were quite so young."

She motioned for a servant with a beak-like nose to approach. He cleared his throat, opened a piece of parchment, and spoke, "In the name Victoria Knightling, Marquess of Whitehall Chapel, we offer our terms of withdrawal. The offending party, Lyza Dunwall, will serve without recompense Victoria Knightling's household staff, until the wages that would have been paid, at a fair rate, exceed the value of Madam Knightling's vandalized dress and footwear. Damage has been estimated to be four pounds, or four hundred shillings. The estimated length of service is two years. Should you accept these terms, Margaret Fey will withdraw her challenge."