‘You didn’t,’ said Bane. ‘Octorus told me they beat a drum when you fought, and bet on how many beats it would be before your man died.’
Rage shook his head. ‘I used to go to the other circuses and sit in the crowd. I watched future opponents, then I went home and wrote down what I had observed.’
‘Have you seen Vorkas before?’ Bane had asked.
‘No – but I know how he will fight.’
‘How?’
‘He will seek to extend the bout, wearing me down – a nick here, a cut there. But he won’t let it last too long. He won’t want people to think he had to struggle against an old man, but he will milk the moment.’
‘You don’t sound too concerned.’
‘I am concerned – but about you, boy. Have you not understood yet why, when we practise, not one of your lunges ever gets through?’
Bane smiled. ‘I thought it was because you were too fast and too skilful for me.’
‘It is your left hand that gives you away. The fingers flick open just before you lunge.’
‘I will work on that.’
‘Best to be aware of it, but to let it happen naturally. Falco will begin to read it. Then – at some point in the bout – clench your left fist, hold it closed, then attack. That one moment of misdirection could win it for you.’
Day after day they had worked, and Bane had improved rapidly.
Now Rage stood before him yet again – but this time he was holding the wooden sword in his left hand. ‘Attack me,’ said the older man. Bane had – or so he believed – begun to read Rage’s moves. Moving in suddenly he lunged at Rage’s chest. Instead of parrying the blade Rage swayed to his left, and his wooden sword smacked against Bane’s right ear. He tumbled forward, righted himself then swung back to face Rage.
‘There is no point in adopting a fighting pose, Bane,’ said Rage softly. ‘You are dead. Left-handers are pure poison. They have a great advantage in that most people they fight are right-handed, so they get used to such combat. Whereas their opponents are forced to rethink all their attacking moves.’
‘How do I fight him?’ asked Bane, rubbing his ear.
‘Generally you would attack a left-hander to his right, circling away from his sword arm. But I do not know this man’s style. Attack me again.’
For another hour the two men practised. Several times Bane managed to get behind Rage’s defence, and once touched the wooden blade to Rage’s throat. ‘That was good,’ said Rage, ‘but do not get too cocky. I am not a left-hander. Let us take a break, and then we’ll work on a little strategy I’ve used twice against lefters.’
Inside the farmhouse Rage lit a fire, and the two men ate a light meal of toasted bread and cold beef, washed down with water.
‘Are you worried about tomorrow?’ asked Bane.
‘No. You?’
‘No.’
Rage smiled, which was a rare sight. ‘Then we are a pair of fools. Have you placed a wager?’ Bane shook his head. ‘Then you should. You’ve been given good odds. Four to one.’
‘Odds?’
‘Do the Rigante not gamble?’
‘Aye, we gamble.’
‘But not for coin?’
‘No. Not in my settlement.’
‘I see,’ said Rage. ‘Well, here we gamble incessantly. The odds merely reflect your perceived chances of success. Four to one means that if you wager one gold coin on yourself, and you win, you’ll get four back, plus your original stake. In other words you’ll start with one gold coin, and end up with five.’
‘What are your odds?’ asked Bane.
‘Ten to one.’
‘Which means that you are considered to have a one in ten chance of surviving?’
‘Yes. Vorkas is young and strong.’
‘He is also arrogant – and I didn’t like him,’ said Bane.
‘I was arrogant once – so I am a little more forgiving. Now let us get back to work.’
They trained for another hour, then the snow began to fall once more. Bane was tired, but he was grateful to the older warrior for the time spent. As they were finishing their exercises two riders came down the hill. Telors and Polon dismounted, led their horses into the stable, then strolled out to where Bane and Rage waited.