“Yes, ma’am.” Brant’s pugnaciousness was suddenly transformed into bobbing agreement.
“And while you’re `hearing’ all this vital gossip, I might point out to you that no wise man tells all he knows. And that he who carries tales has little else in his head. Do you understand me, Brant?”
“I think so, ma’am.”
“You think so? Then I shall be plainer. Stop being a nosy little gossip and attend to your chores. Be diligent and willing, and perhaps folk will start gossiping that you are my ‘pet.’ I could see that you are kept too busy for gossip.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You, boy.” Brant was already hurrying up the path as she rounded on me. “Follow me.”
The old woman didn’t wait to see if I obeyed or not. She simply set out at a businesslike walk across the open practice fields that had me trotting to keep up. The packed earth of the field was baked hard and the sun beat down on my shoulders. Almost instantly, I was sweating. But the woman appeared to find no discomfort in her rapid pace.
She was dressed all in gray: a long dark gray overtunic, lighter gray leggings, and over all a gray apron of leather that came nearly to her knees. A gardener of some sort, I surmised, though I wondered at the soft gray boots she wore.
“I’ve been sent for lessons … with Hod,” I managed to pant out.
She nodded curtly. We reached the shade of the armory and my eyes widened gratefully after the glare of the open courts.
“I’m to be taught arms and weaponry,” I told her, just in case she had mistaken my original words.
She nodded again and pushed open a door in the bamlike structure that was the outer armory. Here, I knew, the practice weapons were kept. The good iron and steel were up in the keep itself. Within the armory was a gentle halflight, and a slight coolness, along with a smell of wood and sweat and fresh strewn reeds. She did not hesitate, and I followed her to a rack that supported a supply of peeled poles.
“Choose one,” she told me, the first words she’d spoken since directing me to follow her.
“Hadn’t I better wait for Hod?” I asked timidly.
“I am Hod,” she replied impatiently. “Now pick yourself a stave, boy. I want a bit of time alone with you, before the others come. To see what you’re made of and what you know.”
It did not take her long to establish that I knew next to nothing and was easily daunted. After but a few knocks and parries with her own brown rod, she easily caught mine a clip that sent it spinning from my stung hands.
“Hm,” she said, not harshly nor kindly. The same sort of noise a gardener might make over a seed potato that had a bit of blight on it. I quested out toward her and found the same sort of quietness I’d encountered in the mare. She had none of Burrich’s guardedness toward me. I think it was the first time I realized that some people, like some animals, were totally unaware of my reaching out toward them. I might have quested farther into her mind, except that I was so relieved at not finding any hostility that I feared to stir any. So I stood small and still before her inspection.
“Boy, what are you called?” she demanded suddenly.
Again. “Fitz.”
She frowned at my soft words. I drew myself up straighter and spoke louder. “Fitz is what Burrich calls me.”
She flinched slightly. “He would. Calls a bitch a bitch, and a bastard a bastard, does Burrich. Well … I suppose I see his reasons. Fitz you are, and Fitz you’ll be called by me as well. Now. I shall show you why the pole you selected was too long for you, and too thick. And then you shall select another.”
And she did, and I did, and ‘ she took me slowly through an exercise that seemed infinitely complex then, but by the end of the, week was no more difficult than braiding my horse’s mane. We finished just as the rest of her students came trooping in. There were four of them, all within a year or two of my age, but all more experienced than I. It made for an awkwardness, as there were now an odd number of students, and no one particularly wanted the new one as a sparring partner.