“You will have to excuse me for today,” he said. “I am somewhat—” He paused. “Somewhat—disinclined to go on.” Regis had the impression that he had intended to plead illness. “If you want to continue, I can find someone to practice with you.”
“As you wish, Captain.”
“Enough, then.” He pulled off his mask and went back into the dressing room. Regis followed slowly. Dyan was breathing hard, his face dripping with sweat. He took up a towel and plunged his head into it. Regis, unbuckling his padding, turned away. Like most young people, he felt embarrassed at witnessing the weakness of an elder. Under the thick surcoat his own shirt was dripping wet; he pulled it off and went to his locker for the spare one he had learned to keep there.
Dyan put aside the towel and came up behind him. He stood looking at Regis’ naked upper body, darkened with new and healing bruises, and finally said, “You should have told me. I had no idea I’d been so heavy-handed.” But he was smiling. He reached out and ran both his hands, firmly and thoroughly, over Regis* ribs. Regis flinched from the touch and laughed nervously. Dyan shrugged, laughing in return. “No bones broken,” he said, running his fingers along the lowest ribs, “so no harm done.”
Regis hurriedly drew on his clean shirt and tunic, thinking that Dyan knew precisely to the inch every time he hit an old bruise—or made a fresh one!
Dyan sat on the bench, lacing up his boots. He threw his fencing-slippers into his locker. “I want to talk to you,” he said, “and you’re not on duty for another hour. Walk down to the tavern with me. You must be thirsty too.”
“Thank you.” Regis picked up his cloak and they went down the hill to the inn near the military stables, not the big one where the common soldiers went to drink, but the small wineshop where the officers and cadets spent their leisure time. At this hour the place was not crowded. Dyan slid into an empty booth. “We can go into the back room if you’d rather.”
“No, this will do very well.”
“You’re wise,” said Dyan impersonally. “The other cadets would resent it if you kept away from their common haunts and amusements. What will you drink?” “Cider, sir.”
“Nothing stronger? Please yourself.” Dyan called the waiter and gave his order, commanding wine for himself. He said, “I think that’s why so many cadets take to heavy drinking: the beer they serve in the mess is so near undrinkable they take to wine instead! Perhaps we should improve the beer they’re given as a way of keeping them soberl”
He sounded so droll that Regis could not help laughing. At that moment half a dozen cadets came in, started to sit at the next table, then, seeing the two Comyn seated there and laughing together, went back and crowded at a smaller table near the door. Dyan had his back turned to them. Several of them were Regis’ barracks-mates; he nodded politely to them, but they pretended not to see.
“Well, tomorrow your first cadet season will be over,” Dyan said. “Have you decided to come back for a second?”
“I’d expected to, Captain.”
Dyan nodded. “If you survive the first year, everything else is easy. It’s that first year which separates the soldiers from the spoiled children. I spoke to the arms-master and suggested he try you as one of his aides next year. Do you think you can teach the brats some of the things I’ve been trying to pound into you?”
“I can try, sir.”
“Just don’t be too gentle with them. A few bruises at the right time can save their lives later on.” He grinned suddenly. “I seem to have done better by you than I thought, kinsman, judging by the look of your ribs!”
The grin was infectious. Regis laughed and said, “Well, you haven’t spared the bruises. No doubt I’ll be properly grateful for them, some day.”
Dyan shrugged. “At least you haven’t complained,” he said. “I admire that in someone your age.” He held Regis’ eyes for a split second longer than Regis felt comfortable, then took a long drink from his mug. “I would have been proud of such behavior from my own son.”