Martin’s blue, red, and green uniform stood out in stark contrast. Not as fine as the novice’s clothing, but he’d passed approval for leaving the garrison.
“Good day, Father.”
“Good day, Martin.”
“What can I do for you?” Let the priest speak his own heart. Maybe he’d see Martin’s demands as proper payment for whatever he wanted.
“Walk with me.”
Martin fell into step beside Dmitri, meandering around the side of the temple, stopping before an open portico.
Ah, so that’s where Cere hurried off to.
Two by two, the novices paired off, facing each other in a spirited, quick-footed dance while an instructor patted out the rhythm with his hands. Twice, Cere stumbled, regaining his footing before the instructor noticed.
Martin stood in silence beside Father Dmitri until the instructor barked an order, sending the dancers scampering. Martin could almost hear their collective sighs of relief.
Dmitri nodded toward the now-empty dancefloor. “Did you know the dance moves they practice were once used in battle?”
Martin laughed, imagining the novices, dressed in gaudy, exotic bird colors, trying to fight. “Their tenets are against violence, are they not?” He shrugged. “Well, except for killing mages.”
“Yes, but peace is fleeting, and sometimes a fight is required. Plus, they have no idea where the moves came from. Here…” Dmitri gestured with a gloved hand toward his chest. “Perform that last dance, imagining a dagger in your hand.”
Martin snorted. The priest hadn’t steered him wrong yet, however. He assumed the stance of the first move.
“Dagger,” Dmitri reminded, pulling a glinting blade from his cloak.
Martin’s eyes widened. While he’d used a sword to decapitate demons and concealed daggers on his person for protection, he’d never brandished one on the street in daylight. He took the hilt, eyeing the blade. Such a tiny thing. He glanced up at his unlikely mentor.
If the guards on duty passed by now, they’d undoubtedly have questions. What was the penalty for attacking a member of the clergy? Especially since Martin’s bulk dwarfed the priest’s, though Dmitri towered over him.
“Just because something is small doesn’t mean it’s not useful.”
Martin resumed his stance. Replaying the dance cadence in his head, he went through the movements. Overhand, underhand… He clearly pictured what would have happened to his arm if Cere had managed force when his wrist met his dancing partner’s.
Eyes wide, Martin increased his pace. Instead of air, he visualized a man’s head, neatly kicking an imaginary chin, then whirled to slide a dagger between ribs had Dmitri not spun out of the way.
“Again.” This time, Dmitri assumed a defensive stance.
Martin countered, recalling movements early in the set. Once more, his body fell into a rhythm, muscles flexing as he spun, very nearly connecting.
Dmitri danced away. “Again.”
Time after time, Dmitri altered his stance, driving Martin to improvise and combine moves in new ways.
Finally, Dmitri stepped back, bowing his head. “Well done for your first lesson.”
Martin huffed for breath, resting his hands on his knees. He’d never exerted this much energy on a dance before.
Though his face remained hidden, a smile came across in Dmitri’s words. “You catch on quickly.”
Martin offered the knife.
Dmitri’s hood swiveled back and forth. “Keep it. You never know when you might have need.”
Need? Martin never faced much threat unless hunting, when a rigid length of steel gave protection, and his own, less fine daggers offered a threat to cutpurses in the night. He’d long ago learned to discourage thieves with a mere growl—or a fist if they proved persistent.
Illusions of scorpions when necessary.
