Grey Sister. Mark Lawrence
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In the next moment the two women closed to fight, Safira sweeping her leg to topple Kettle. Both employed the strain of blade-fist favoured by Sisters of Discretion, their combat fluid. Where Sister Tallow concentrated on blocking and on blows aimed to inflict as much damage in as short a time as possible the grey-fist centred on evasion and on unbalancing the opponent, often seeming more of a dance. The two moved in a flowing contest of position and stability, flurries of blows finding nothing but air. It might be a dance, and a beautiful one at that, but Nona knew the form held scores of moves for disabling or killing a less skilled opponent in a quiet and efficient manner, any of which could be used in a heartbeat if either woman gained sufficient advantage.
A quick clash, hands finding purchase, a rapid adjustment of feet, grips broken. Kettle and Safira spun apart, both unbalanced. A moment later they closed again, punches ducked, kicks evaded with the minimum twist necessary, Kettle a blur of swirling habit. Without warning Kettle managed to seize Safira’s trailing plait and, yanking her head back, drove an elbow into her face.
Safira stepped back, panting, wiping the blood from her nose. ‘As much as I love to play with you, Mai, I don’t have time for this.’ She opened her hand to reveal a small leather tube, pitch-sealed. ‘Grey mustard. Not really the ideal condiment for social gatherings. Perhaps I should just go?’
Kettle stepped back from the door, eyes hard.
Throw yourself on her! You could cut her hand off before she—
No. Nona didn’t know much about grey mustard but she knew it was a poison that Sister Apple didn’t let any novice work with until they reached Holy Class, and then only if they were marked for the Grey.
Safira opened the door and turned in the doorway, finding Nona again. ‘Tell Zole what I said. Sherzal is bound for greatness and there is a place for both of you at her side.’
A moment later she was gone.
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