Private Tales The Boys and The Girls

[Suleiman Jemeital]

THE WAR COLLEGE LIBRARY​

How did it all go so wrong?

Suleiman lay with his back bent on the edge of a table that had toppled over onto its side during the scuffle, half standing and half in the halted process of falling over to the ground. He lay there dazed, staring up at the ceiling, but not quite out yet. His friends, Turgut and Dogan, were both reeling on the ground, and two of his enemies, Goldu and Byrrin, lay splayed out nearby. Harad Gildal, the chief instigator of this all, and the young noble student who was something of a rival, if not a nemesis, to Suleiman, leaned on the library counter, barely holding himself up with both his arms upon the counter's surface, panting and recovering but, like Suleiman, not quite out of it yet. Worst of all, poor Melek! Melek Ishikal had gotten mixed up in all this, and she had taken a wayward blow, and she, too, lay on the ground, her hands pressed to her head in a feeble attempt to nurse her injury.

Now they were all a mess. Seven Quaestors, future Praetors, Gild's finest, Regel's chosen even, all caught in this squabble which had started from something so damn petty. But it had come to this regardless.

Harad pushed himself back up onto his feet.

And then a small ray of evening light, coming through the westward window of the library, came to warm Suleiman's face. It was invigorating. And, if nothing else, a sign. That's right.

Suleiman righted himself, stood tall again on his own two feet as well. This had to end one way or another, right? They were all going to be punished for this, no matter what, so best to win this thing and teach Harad a lesson.

"You look like you want to taste the floor with your buddies," said Suleiman to Harad.

And then he closed in and threw a punch.

 

[Melek Ishikal]

THREE WEEKS EARLIER
THE WAR COLLEGE
TRAINING GROUNDS​

These were the parts of Quaestor training that Melek did not like.

She and her class stood now in the dirt that comprised the College's Training Grounds, and several Praetor and Noble Instructors went among them. Oh, but it was a nice day to be outside, for clear blue spanned unbroken from east to west and made a sea of the sky, the midday sun generously wreathed them all in warmth, and the breeze, gentle and knowing, came only when needed.

Yet today it would be more training in their martial pursuits, and these days Melek had come to dread as things unpleasant. She minded not pure physical training—that which focused on strength and endurance—even if she lagged significantly behind in strength compared to her peers. Endurance she could do! She had, after all, taken after her mother, a courier, and did not always have the luxury of a horse for some deliveries; and adding to this, she grew up on her father's farm, and though she did not do the sort of work that the farmboys of Bayat did, nevertheless she worked quite a lot from sunup till sundown.

But training with weapons, the true pursuit of war, did little to capture Melek's heart. She certainly lacked ability, oh yes, she would admit this to any who asked, but nearly everyone in the War College lacked ability—they were here to learn, after all. But the other Quaestors, the noble students, they wanted to learn, and they had natural ability. Melek did not care so much for it. Yes, she liked training in her gift, her Praetor power that Regel had bestowed upon her; and yes, she liked all of her studies, and even though she was not the best in her academics, her heart was in it, and she had a passion to learn all those subjects which the College taught.

What kept her going in martial training, even though she lacked the heart for it, was the fact that she had inherited her father's yatagan. Somehow his weapon had survived the sacking of Bayat, and the soldier who found it speculated that Altan, mortally wounded, had perhaps thrown it, or hid it, in the hope that the Ommites would not find it. But the weapon had come now into Melek's hands, and she felt she might...dishonor, or disappoint, or somehow do her father's memory an ill, if she did not at least try to learn how to wield it, especially now that it was her calling in life as a soon-to-be Praetor.

Her father's weapon rested beside her bed in her dormitory. As with all training days, she would wield a wooden yatagan instead.

Today, the Quaestors would spar. The Instructors walked among them, and paired them up. The spar would last for a time, and then they would change partners. Three rounds went by, when Instructor Pontus called out:

"Melek. Suleiman. You two for this round."

 

[Suleiman Jemeital]

Suleiman had worked up a little sweat. His friend, Turgut, had given him a hell of a run in that last round. Damn. But what did he expect? Turgut was a powerhouse, and he stood a whole head taller than Suleiman himself. Maybe he ought to have went for a jog instead of a run, so to speak. Save some of his energy for the rest of the rounds. How long was an hour? How long could one single hour possibly be? Damn, it felt like this hour was going to go by slow.

Now, exhaustion aside, Suleiman tended to have a relationship alternating between love and hate for martial training. A double-edged sword, as they say. He liked having the skill, of course, and he held a meager pride for the meager skill which he had come to acquire thus far in the College; just wait until he got better! But getting the skill was a pain in his backside, putting in the work and, as was the inevitable fate for novices in the art, taking the licks. If there was a way to just fall asleep, have a dream about being a master axeman, and then wake up with all that skill, Suleiman would take it.

Well, maybe not. It sounded like a deal with a Fae or a Daejin. And that sounded like heresy. But it would be easy.

This was all just part of being in the War College then, working toward his Holy Accolade, being a Praetor, and all of that stuff. Which, again, being a Praetor would be nice, but as with this martial training, getting to that point was rough. Did Regel really have to choose him? Suleiman knew quite a few of the Insanlar, even fellow sons and daughters of the Beyars, who would love to be here and who would excel at this, no sweat. Suleiman liked his life before he discovered his power, before he found out the neat little trick of his would change the whole trajectory of his life. He thought about just being an Aedile fairly often, especially at the beginning of his enrollment. There was no shame in it. Alright, well, there was a little shame in it, but it wasn't like being a criminal or anything. Despite these thoughts, and the resident yearning for his old, comfortable life, Suleiman pressed on.

Might as well take this all one step at a time, eh? Regelishah, he'd get through it. Regel picked him to be here, after all.

Presently, Instructor Pontus called out his name, and set up his next opponent. Melek Ishikal. The small rural girl, right?

On his way over to the ring she was in, he passed by Harad Gildal going the opposite way. Harad lightly thumped Suleiman's shoulder with a fist, as though they were long-time friends (they weren't), and said, "Melek, huh. Pontus is giving you an easy one."

Harad was already past him before Suleiman could give any reply. But he watched him go for a second, and Suleiman's face pulled tight into a slight expression of distaste. Some people just couldn't help but to tear others down, it seemed.

Nevertheless, Suleiman stepped into the ring with Melek, his wooden fighting axe resting on his shoulder.

"Hey, Melek," he said.

 

[Melek Ishikal]

A brief moment, then, as their fellow Quaestors shifted around to the various rings to match up with their new sparring partners. The Instructors, as well, intentionally delayed the start of the next round, going here and there to check on and advise this Quaestor or that Quaestor, but moreover to give all of them a chance for a short respite.

"Hello, Suleiman," she said. And then she paused for a moment and thought, recalling past details, and asked, "Do you like to be called Sulei?"

He seemed caught by surprise. "What?"

"It is merely that I have heard Turgut and Dogan calling you that before. Would you rather I call you Sulei, as they do?"

"Oh. Uh." He grinned and looked down and laughed a little and shrugged and looked back up. "Sure. Guess I ought to ask myself then: do you like going by Mel or anything?"

"Mel?" she said, her tone as though she had been asked a question by an Instructor and, though she dutifully gave it thought, struggled to come up with an answer. "I do not think anyone has called me Mel before."

"Really? How'd you manage that?"

"Um." And now her shyness reigned supreme, and her shoulders huddled in close and protectively.

Suleiman with another bit of gentle laughter brushed it off. "Ah that was just a joke, Melek. I'm just, well, just surprised is all. But I also call Turgut 'Tur' and Dogan 'Gan' and like to lean into easy names for everybody else. It annoys my father. He's one of those you need to call everyone older than you 'gazi' kind of folk. Gan's older than me by, what, three months, and I think he'd stuff my teeth down my throat if I kept calling him Gan-gazi."

"I...like to call my elders 'gazi'," said Melek—truthfully, but probably with poor timing.

"Remember to duck if Gan throws a punch at you," Suleiman said in playful manner.

But Melek clutched her wooden yatagan and her eyes were wide and altogether she looked very small and timid, as she took Suleiman exactly at his word.

 

[Suleiman Jemeital]

Oh no. She took that literally.

"Relax, Melek, relax," Suleiman said, unable to help a guilty laugh or two. "Gan's a good guy. He wouldn't do that. Not to you, at least."

And at this assurance she did become less stiff and fragile-looking. "Dogan does seem nice, from what I have heard of him."

"You haven't ever just talked to him?"

"Oh. No. I have not." She glanced down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and a bashful smile overcame her. "I confess I am not very good at making friends."

This, somehow, made a lot of sense. Other than a polite "excuse me" or a simple question asked about this or that, today marked the longest conversation Suleiman had with her. All he really knew about her was that she was from the country, and that "quiet" and "shy" made the perfect team by which to describe her. Not one for words, that was for sure; which, Suleiman supposed, made today rather odd. Maybe she took a chance on him. Decided to risk (she'd probably see it as a risk, he thought) being a little more outgoing. Well, by Regel, he was honored. Turgut kept saying that Sulei was the diplomat of their friend group. Suppose he owed the big man a sikke.

"Ah, you'll be fine. We were all trying to get to know each other in that first year. And it's easier if you're from Gild itself. Where'd you say you were from, again?"

She looked pleased that he asked, and, hey, look at that, her smile came back. "Bayat," she said.

Then the Instructors blew the whistle, and signaling for the Quaestors to begin the next round of sparring.

"Remember: keep your guard up," said Suleiman, offering a piece of advice. Because, despite Harad putting it harshly, he had a grain in truth nestled in those disparaging words of his. Melek did not look confident at all in herself, nor in the wooden weapon she held. Probably...it would be best for her if Suleiman held back some.