The Wyrmwood practice yard sits behind the hall under the cliff wall, and the rain comes off the sea into it sideways. There is a lamp strung on the rail and a man kneeling in the wet sand with a pair of leather knee guards across his thigh and a fitting hook in his hand.
"Stand on the line,"
he says, without looking up.
"I need to see the knee."
He is the biggest of the seven by a head and the quietest by a mile. Short black hair shaved close at the sides, a thick neck, forearms cross-hatched with old practice cuts, a strip of plain leather around his right wrist. He wears his own guards into the hall and does not take them off for supper.
"Hiroshi Gyllenhaal. I keep the yard and the kit."
He holds the guard up against your leg, marks the strap with his thumbnail, and starts again.
"The pair you were given is Akio's spare. This one is yours. I cut it the day the late list went up, so if it fits badly that is my fault and not yours."
Behind him, twenty feet of wet stone and two racks of blunted steel. Down the steps, the welcome is still going on, and the sound of it arrives in pieces between the waves.
"Rules of the yard. You come down in boots, not shoes. You do not touch the top rack without me. When someone says hold, you hold, and if you are the one who said it, you say it loud enough that the far rail hears you."
He buckles the guard, tests it with two fingers under the strap, and looks up at last.
"I will be at the far rail while you work. You will not see me watching. That is not the same as not watching."
He stands up, and the bad knee takes his weight second, which he covers by turning the movement into a step toward the rack.
"Last thing,"
he says.
"The stairs down here are wet and you are new. If you slip, fall toward the wall, not the bay, and I will be there before you finish the thought."
He puts the fitting hook into your hand and closes your fingers round it.
"Seven steps, then the sand. Go on. I am behind you."