City of Masks Read Free Page B

your breathing. That’s right, one breath at a time. Pick up your poles and get your wind back.”
    The Black Sashes stood in an unsteady line and looked at him, apprehensive but ready. That was the look of a Bane, Garet thought. The people in this Hall did not have the ability to fight demons because they were born heroes, but because they had learned to live with some kind of fear. At the centre of each was a wound. Garet’s was caused by an abusive father and brothers, as well as the prospect of a wasted life on a backwater farm. Each of these children also suffered some kind of dread and, like him, had learned to fight against it—or at least live in spite of it. So, if they did not seem ready to charge forth with their staffs, neither did they seem likely to flee.
    No, we are not shining heroes, but scarred children training for an endless war.
    “We’ll do walking exercises first,” Garet told them. He demonstrated the crossover step, eyes fixed on the far wall and pole held out in a guard position. He moved among them, making gentle corrections and praising those who improved.
    “Now back to the bags,” he told them, to general groans. “Come now, you won’t mind the practice when you’ve got a Shrieker in front of you. Then it will be your weapon against its claws, and the winner gets to live! Quick now, in position.”
    He again demonstrated the proper form, hips rotating and upper body snapping into the strike. He set them to it slowly, only allowing speed when the form was correct. He walked down the line and saw a girl wedged in behind the sand bags, head down and arms crossed over her chest.
    She must have been hiding there the entire time. At first he was irritated at such deception, but pushed it away with a deep breath and approached her. The Banehall could be a frightening place for newcomers.
    “Hello there. I didn’t see you before. Come out now and show me how you hit the bag. Come on, you’re a Bane, aren’t you? Here, take this pole. It’s about your size.”
    He handed her one of the smaller staffs, and she took it only after a long hesitation.
    “Grip it with both hands,” he said, tugging on the sleeve of her left arm, which had slipped behind her when she took the pole. He tugged again, and the arm came out. The end of the sleeve was empty, the cuff tucked in over the wrist.
    The girl stood still as stone, though the pole trembled in her single hand. Somebody tugged his own sleeve, and he looked down to see a small boy staring up at him.
    “She can’t be a Bane, can she, if she only has one hand?” he asked.
    Garet considered his answer before speaking. What he said would be heard by this boy, his fellows, and especially the girl. She stood waiting, her hair swept forward. Garet had yet to see her face.
    “Well, Corfin, isn’t it? Do you know a Master called Tarix? She needs a big iron brace just to walk around, and she’s the best Bane in this Hall. And the Master who brought me here had only one good arm. That was Master Mandarack, who became Hallmaster and was famous in the city.”
    “Could he fight demons with one arm?” Corfin asked, doubtful.
    Garet smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’d known him for only a few days when I saw him kill a great big Basher Demon with that sharpened shield he used, the one hanging up in the dining hall. You know he was the one who killed the Caller Demon, don’t you?”
    The boy paled. He and several others half-raised a hand to the sides of their heads before self-consciously lowering them again. Ordinary people in Shirath would touch a finger to their ears to flick away the word “demon” upon hearing it, lest their luck turn and they meet one. New Banes were taught to think this foolish, but it took much repetition to set it firmly in their minds.
    Garet slapped him on the back.
    “You see? One arm is no trouble! Now, what’s your friend’s name?”
    Corfin frowned. “My friend? Her name’s Allifur. She’s from the