Alberich then went through the most exhausting weapons session he’d had since he’d graduated from cadet training. It began with sword and shield, progressing through every other practice weapon stored in the salle and their corresponding styles. Then, as he waited to see what else the old man wanted him to do, the Herald directed Jadus to lock the doors.

Alberich was sweating like a horse at this point, a bit tired, but by no means exhausted, and he gave the Weaponsmaster a startled glance.

“Live steel next,” the old Herald said shortly, in answer to the unspoken question. “I don’t want some idiot child wandering in here with live steel out and two real fighters having at each other.”

“Ah.” Alberich was perfectly satisfied with that answer; the Weaponsmaster was right. If mere untutored children had access to the salle, and he assumed they must (since having a Weaponsmaster implied that all of the young Trainees got some sort of weapons training), there was always the chance that one would blunder into the place at the worst possible time. Even in a bout rather than a real fight, he knew his concentration was focused, and he wouldn’t necessarily notice anything but his opponent until it was too late. He followed Kimel to the cabinets on the wall and took out real armor and real weapons.

Working with live steel always gave him an extra—the pun was inevitable—edge. His awareness went up a degree, and everything seemed just that much clearer and sharper. Even his reflexes seemed to improve. He suited up, took the rapier in his hand, and faced his opponent with energy renewed.

He assumed that he was expected to pull his blows when necessary, and given the way that the bouts had gone so far, he knew it was going to be necessary. Kimel was good; very, very good in fact. Alberich was better. And Kimel was tiring faster. He wasn’t going to be able to ward off everything that Alberich could throw at him.

And he didn’t. Alberich had chosen the rapier for that reason; the lightest of the “real” swords, it was the easiest to “pull” when a blow actually fell instead of being countered.

The Weaponsmaster called a halt to the bouting when Kimel was clearly on his last legs. “That enough practice for you, my lad?” he asked, a certain ironic amusement in his voice.

The young man pulled off his helm, showing that his dark hair had gone black with his sweat. “Enough, Weaponsmaster,” he admitted. “No matter what else you do, please make sure this fellow has a candlemark or so free every couple of days so I have someone to bout with from now on. I’m getting soft, and by the Havens, it shows.” He actually smiled briefly at Alberich.