Bastion

knew and trusted, and he was in for a rude shock when he discovered that Lydia was probably as good as he was. Still, Lydia would often be hampered by robes of state and other impediments, not to mention being surrounded by half a dozen potential hostages in the form of her ladies-in-waiting. She’d need all the help she could get from her bodyguards in the event of an emergency.
    When both Mags and Helden were soaked with sweat, the Weaponsmaster called a halt to the class. He’d come by a few times to suggest something but otherwise had been content to let Mags do the teaching, which had tickled Mags no end.
    “Are you and Amily scheduled for anything?” he asked Mags, as the rest of the class went off to clean up.
    Mags shook his head. “Caelen ain’t put me in any classes,” he replied. “And I guess Nikolas ain’t got any more questioning for me.” He glanced over at Amily, who was just coming over, pulling a helmet off her sweat-damp hair. “You got anything?”
    “Anything to do this morning? Not really. Nor the afternoon, either,” she replied, with a curious look at both of them.
    “Good.” The Weaponsmaster smiled thinly. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” His gaze unfocused for a moment as he spoke to his Companion, and when his attention returned to them, he smiled again. “It’s all arranged. Until Nikolas and Caelen decide what is to be done with you two, you are my new assistants.”
    Mags gaped at him. “All day, sir?” he stammered, although it was not out of dread for the work. If anything, it was with a certain measure of relief. He wasn’t going to be able to think of anything while he was schooling others in weapons work.
    “I see no reason why not,” the Weaponsmaster said, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps not Amily for the whole day. Not because she is a female, but we do not wish to place too much stress on her leg while she is still technically healing. But you? Yes.”
    Mags felt himself smiling. “That sounds good to me, sir!” he said with real enthusiasm. Then he looked over at Amily. “Sound good to you?”
    She rubbed the lobe of her ear thoughtfully. “I’ve never done . . . physical things . . . for days at a time before. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all to me.” She considered a moment more, then smiled. “Actually, sir, I wouldn’t mind more practice parrying while sitting. That would make me a perfectly adequate set of pells for the youngsters. More than adequate, since I can correct them as well as deflect them.”
    “Good. There’s a pump and a sink in the changing room. Clean yourselves up a little. The next class will be archery and other distance weapons.” Now the Weaponsmaster’s smile turned sly. “Amily is going to give you some unexpected competition, Mags.”
    It ain’t unexpected if I was expecting it, he thought, but he didn’t say anything, just followed Amily to the changing room.
    After all, if the Weaponsmaster wanted him to be surprised, well he could simulate that. Who was he to deprive the Herald of a little pleasure?
    He blinked as he realized he didn’t actually know the Weaponsmaster’s name. No one ever referred to the man except by his title. Well, that’s embarrassing. . . .
    He sensed a chuckle from Dallen. :Not as embarrassing as the Weaponsmaster’s real name. Marion.:
    He was in the act of plunging himself head and shoulders into the filled sink of cold water and came up spluttering and coughing. :Marion? Are you joking?:
    :Can you blame him for preferring his title?: Dallen replied.
    :Not the tiniest.: No wonder the Weaponsmaster was as good as he was. With a name like that, the poor kiddie must have had to fight practically from the cradle. :What kind of sadist gives a boy a name like Marion?:
    :Never asked. Don’t intend to. Suggest you don’t, either.:
    Amily was giving him a peculiar look. “Water’s colder than I thought,” he said, and began toweling off. There were piles of old uniforms just one step up from the rag-bag in here, and he rinsed his tunic out in the sink when Amily had finished washing and hung it up to dry, taking another that was approximately his size and was either a gray so faded as to be almost white, or a white so dingy it was almost gray. It wouldn’t matter what color it was when he was done with the next class, because it would probably be soaked through with sweat again.
    “I should do what you did,” he said, nodding to her. She had changed out of