“I’m sorry, Rider, but—but Dean Crosley is in the House of Mending.”
“What?” Karigan stepped backward. “Is he all right?”
“He lives,” the apprentice said, “but I don’t know the particulars. He interrupted a burglary and was beaten. His heart is not strong either.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” she said. Unlike his predecessor, Dean Crosley was a practical and fair-minded administrator. “I suppose the assistant dean has his hands full then.”
The apprentice nodded. “Master Howard is helping to sort out the mess with the archivists and trying to figure out what was stolen, if anything.”
“The burglary occurred in the archives?” Karigan asked in disbelief.
“Yes, Rider. We think it very odd. There are precious documents down there to be sure, but none of those are missing, or even disturbed.”
“Strange,” she murmured. Then she faced Fergal. “Looks like we’ll be doing some waiting.”
Fergal nodded, and Karigan could not tell whether or not he was pleased by this development.
“You could leave your message with one of the masters or trustees,” the apprentice suggested.
“Thank you, but my message is for the Golden Guardian or the dean alone. I am hesitant to leave it even with Master Howard.”
“I’m afraid I can be of no service then. May I at least lead you to the Guesting House?”
“No, thank you. I am familiar with campus.”
As they retreated across the rotunda, Fergal asked, “What are we going to do now? Just wait around until the Guardian shows up?”
“I’m afraid so. That, or until the dean is well enough to receive the message. You might as well enjoy it—there’s much of interest going on here.”
Karigan gave Fergal a tour of the campus so he might become familiar with its layout. She pointed out the library, various academic buildings, and the dining hall. When the campus bell rang they got caught in the middle of a colorful swarm as buildings emptied and students hurried to their next class. Karigan remembered herself burdened with books, rushing and dodging to reach her next class before the bell rang again for lessons to begin. In her early days, she had often been late or had not attended at all.
Almost as quickly as the courtyard filled, it emptied, punctuated by another ring of the bell. Fergal looked stymied, as if some magical spell had been cast to make the students vanish. Karigan smiled and led him across campus to the athletics field, hoping to find a certain master at work there.
When they arrived at the arms practice area beside the field house, they found Arms Master Rendle instructing first-year students in basic defensive moves with wooden swords. Karigan and Fergal watched over the fence as the arms master and his apprentice walked among the students, assisting them in finding the correct stances and technique. Some were intent on just swatting one another and smacking knuckles, their voices shrill. All through it, the arms master remained calm, never raising his voice. It struck Karigan as such a complete contrast to Drent’s “teaching style,” that she felt jealous of the students getting to work with Rendle. Drent, she thought, being the monster he was, would eat these youngsters as an appetizer before breakfast.
Rendle looked up just then, and smiled when he spied them.
“Now class, I’m going to show you what real swordplay looks like.” He waved Karigan and Fergal over.
They stepped through the fence rails and the students hushed, regarding the Riders with curiosity.
“These are Green Riders,” he told them. “Messengers of King Zachary.”
The youngsters gazed at them with even more interest. Riders were a rare sight, especially off main roads and deep in the countryside. A Sacoridian could live an entire lifetime without ever seeing a Rider, or even knowing they existed. Hands darted up and so many questions poured out that Rendle and Karigan could barely keep up with them.
“Why do you wear green?”
“Do you know the king?”
“How old are you?”
“Are those swords real?”
To the last, Karigan answered by sliding her saber from the sheath just enough to give them a hint of the steel that remained hidden. The children clustered around her to touch pommel and hilt.
“That’s nothing,” one loud boy said. “My father has a jeweled sword used in the Clan Wars. I get to touch it anytime I want.”
“Shut up, Garen,” the other students said.
When an argument threatened to arise, Rendle raised his hands and commanded, “Enough.” Silence fell immediately. “I am sure that the sword of Garen’s father is a fine and storied weapon. But these are weapons, and their purpose is not glory or decoration, but use in combat. I have no doubt that this Rider saber has seen a good deal of service.”
Garen was red faced and looked displeased.
“Have you killed lotsa people?” a girl asked Karigan.
“Um…”
Rendle sighed. “That is not an appropriate question for our guest, Nance.”
“Sorry, Master Rendle.”
He nodded. “Now, if Rider G’ladheon is willing, we shall demonstrate some true swordplay at a level that, if you practice hard enough, you may one day attain. This all right with you?” he asked Karigan.
Karigan felt she could hardly decline after that buildup, but she didn’t mind anyway. She passed the message satchel and her swordbelt into Fergal’s keeping and picked through a pile of wooden practice swords till she found one that suited her. She and Rendle then moved to a worn ring on the practice field where bouts were conducted. She swept the blade through the air to get the feel of it and loosen her muscles. The apprentice moved the students a safe distance from the ring. If either Rendle or Karigan stepped outside of it, the bout was lost.