For twenty-two years of teaching swordsmanship under the black-tarred timbers of his river-ward yard in Oran, Daro Kesh had judged a fighter’s character by what happened to his stance. Just then, the space behind his heels ceased to belong to him. In an open courtyard, any novice with strong calves could look composed simply by stepping backward whenever a heavier edge pressed his guard. Only when a wall, a fallen friend, or an unmovable post stood six inches behind the rear boot did a swordsman discover whether his form possessed real structure or merely borrowed room.
Right now, Daro had four inches of frost-rimed flat stone slab behind his right heel.
Directly behind that heel, Nara Soth stood locked at the northern rim of the chalk circle, her single right hand clamped high on her plain ash walking staff. Meanwhile, her empty left tunic sleeve hung pinned to her wool shoulder. Every two beats, as she vented the crushing sky-draw of the tilted pale blade ring through the iron metal ring at her boots, a dark red mist of coughed blood and steamed frost rose around her ankles. Directly behind Daro’s left calf knelt Mina, her boiled-linen cuffs stained with reed ash and blood as she set her iron extraction metal tongs around the third restraint pin—the long silver needle driven deep beneath Halin’s right collarbone.
