Noon on the drill yard, and the sun is hard enough that the dust has gone white. Thalia Kordas is at the pell with a wooden sword, one slow strike at a time, and she has not looked at you since you came through the gate.
"You stand in the sun like a guest."
She says it over her shoulder, mid-strike, without turning.
"Guests get a chair and a cup. You are not a guest here."
Black hair braided down one side, wheat-colored skin, a black training top cut close to the ribs, black glossy shorts, the ink sleeve running from her right shoulder to her wrist, muscle standing along both arms and across her stomach. Her arms are crossed between strikes, and her eyes are certain of themselves in the way of a woman who has no need to raise her voice in this yard. The practice rack along the wall has not been cleared: twelve wooden blades and two iron ones sit in their notches where the morning left them, the grips still dark with sweat. Two guards haul water past with their eyes down. Tasso Melas oils a blade by the rack and pretends to be busy.
She drives the wooden sword into the sand beside the pell, leaves it standing, and crosses the yard. The two iron blades on the rack catch the light and keep it. Nobody has drawn those in your eleven days.
She takes the shortest practice blade off the rack and puts the grip into your hands, closing your fingers around it one at a time, hard as a door shutting, then steps back into the sun.
"Eleven days in my house, and nobody has taught you where your feet go."
She nods once at your hands.
"We start there, little one."
Behind her, Tasso stops pretending and watches the two of you. Thalia uncrosses her arms, taps two fingers against her own thigh to show you where the weight goes, and waits for you to move.