Memory by K. J. Parker Page B

ever had it. Now that’s sad.’
    Lying. Of course. But—
    â€˜Explain,’ Poldarn said.
    â€˜All right, then,’ Aciava replied, spitting something out. ‘Here’s a little story for you. Back in fourth grade – I think; not totally sure. Anyhow, it was our first lesson in full-contact sparring. Wooden swords, no worries. Anyhow, Father Tutor calls for a volunteer. All the volunteer’s got to do is knock the sword out of Father Tutor’s hand, and he’ll be let off the ten-mile cross-country run scheduled for that evening. Now you never could abide running, you’d rather stand and fight a herd of stampeding cattle. So up you go; you both stand on the mat, bow and draw, Father Tutor swats the wooden sword out of your hand and cracks you across the cheekbone, hard enough to draw blood. You take a step back, ask – well, demand’s more like it, you demand to be given another shot at it. So you try again, same result, only he bloodies your other cheek. Never mind, he says, you’ve shown character and there was no way you’d ever have been able to win, you’re let off the run. But no, you say, give me another chance. Father Tutor grins, and this time, instead of bashing you, he kicks your knee out from under you before you’ve even reached for the hilt. You go down on your bum, everybody laughs like mad, Father Tutor says, right, back to your place. But you won’t go. You’re hopping mad, and you demand another try. No, says Father Tutor, now sit down. But you won’t sit down. You shout; one more try, just one. Now, instead of punishing you, like we all thought he would, for not showing respect and doing as you’re told, Father Tutor nods and says, all right, but if you fail this time, you run fifteen miles, carrying a sack of stones. Fine, you say, and you both stand on the mat; but before he can go for his sword, you drop down on one knee, grab the edge of the mat and give it an almighty tug. Polished floor, of course; you pull the mat out from under him and Father Tutor goes down flat on his back. He’s up again like a flash, into position, hand on sash ready for the draw, but you look him in the eye and just stand there. Draw, he says. No, you say, and you fold your arms and grin. I said draw, he says; but you shake your head again and say, No, I won’t; precepts of religion – like you’ve scored a point or something. And he scowls at you and says, What do you mean, precepts of religion? And that’s when you grab an inkwell off the lectern and throw it in his face. He’s not expecting that; and while he’s staggering back with ink in his eyes, you reach forward, cool as ice, pull the wooden sword out of his sash and throw it across the room. Never heard such silence in all my life. We were sure he was going to kill you, or at least kick your arse clean over to Torcea; but all he does is stand there, dripping ink, and finally he says, Yes, I see what you mean, well done. And then he lets you off the run, class dismissed, and we’re all out in the fresh air half an hour early.’
    Poldarn waited to see if there was any more, but apparently not. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh.’ Aciava looked disappointed. ‘Precepts of religion,’ he said. ‘The best fight is not to fight. And you didn’t – fight him, I mean. Beating you wasn’t enough for him, he wanted a proper drawing match, to prove his point. He wanted to fight. You didn’t. All you wanted to do was win. Your best fight was not to fight at all. So you won.’
    Poldarn thought about that for a little while. It sounded too romantic to be true; it sounded like something you’d be taught in school, as an example. ‘That doesn’t sound like me,’ he said.
    â€˜Of course not.’ Aciava stood up. ‘You’d never do anything like that now – proves my point. You’ve