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crowded, often unwashed bodies. There was also the smell of rum and tobacco
smoke.
Bogardus drew his sword. He was very cool now, and had I ever doubted his
ability, I could not do so at this moment, for he held himself with an
absolute certainty, sure that he could make his kill.
He discarded his coat, and I did likewise. I drew my own blade with less
confidence. The only fighting I had done with a sword had been in these past
few days, and little enough that was. My father had been said to have been a
swordsman of uncommon skill and the others, also. I had good teachers, but
were they really that good?
What possible standard of comparison could I have? Grimly the thought came
to mind. In the next few minutes I would know.
He saluted me. "Now, Sackett, you die!"
He lunged swiftly, and I parried his blade. I think it surprised him, for
he may have planned to end it all with that first thrust.
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He was more cautious then, discovering that I knew a little, at least. He
began to fence, working toward me, pushing me back, deliberately testing me,
and I had the good sense to be clumsy, or was it actually that I was awkward?
What skill I had I must hold in keeping, and I must fend off his attacks while
watching for my chance, nor must I appear to be defending myself with skill.
He was strong. I could feel it in his blade, and he had the delicate touch
of the master. He lunged again, and a quick skip back was all that saved me.
As it was, the point of his blade ripped my shirt. I heard a gasp from some
onlooker, and someone else said, in the almost total silence, "Good, isn't
he?"
Aye, he was good. I discovered that quickly enough and was hard put to
defend myself, having no need to feign awkwardness with the speed and skill of
his attack. Had it not been for the few fights of the past days, I might have
failed, but often it takes little time to recall old skills, and I had fenced
hour upon hour with my teachers.
The art of the sword had developed greatly in the past few years, but as in
all such things, it had come to be highly stylized. The weapon was controlled
largely with the fingers; the cuts were made with the first few inches of the
blade. The endeavor was to make light, slicing cuts and not to overpower with
great slashing cuts. He was swift, sure, and very strong. My own efforts were
largely to stave off his attack, and somehow I managed it.
Sweat began to bead on my brow, but as I warmed, I felt the old skills
returning. He was better than Jeremy Ring, I thought, perhaps as good as
Jublain, but not, I believed, as good as my father had been. Sakim? Ah, Sakim
was another sort of man, and his style of fencing was much different.
My style was not orthodox, and I could see that disturbed him while it gave
him added confidence, for to him it meant only that I did not know what I was
doing or knew it not well enough.
The room was hot, the air close. He pressed me hard, striving to work me
into a corner, which would impair my movements, for my speed afoot had
surprised him. He thrust; I parried and slid my blade along his. He leaped
back just in time, or I might have knicked his wrist. He shot me a sudden
sharp glance and made a cut to my cheek that I parried with difficulty. He
kicked a small bench toward my feet, and as I sprang out of the way, he
lunged, his sword point tearing my shirt at the waist.
We fought savagely then, all pretense thrown aside; it was thrust, parry,
head and flank cuts, and he drew first blood with a sudden thrust to the head
that opened a thin red cut on my cheek. An instant later, and his point found
my ribs, just an inch below the heart but wide of it. He grinned wolfishly.
"Soon!" he exclaimed. "Soon you shall be dead!"
He pressed hard, and I fell back, working desperately to ward off his
continual attacks. He dropped his blade a little, an invitation I declined to
accept, but instantly he moved in with a dazzling series of movements that had
the spectators cheering. A thrust followed by cuts to the arm, right cheek,
head, and chest. How I parried them I will never know, but as he drew back,
momentarily overextended, I thrust suddenly and sharply for his throat. The
thrust was high and a hair wide of the mark. It ripped the ruffle at his
collar but merely scratched his neck.
He was dangerous, too dangerous. I was in serious trouble and knew it. The
man was good, very good. He made a riposte to the head following a parry of my
thrust. He was intent now, ready for the kill. Each fencer tends to favor
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certain moves, those that are easy for him, to the exclusion of others, and a
skillful man with a blade will soon determine which of these his opponent is
apt to use. Knowing this, I had deliberately been responding to certain moves
of his with the accepted counter. Yet to continue to do so would be to let
myself be killed, and the trap, if trap it was, could be used but once. His
responses were quick and easy, and at any moment now, having learned what he
believed I would do to each move of his, he must be ready.
So far I had been lucky. My face was streaming with perspiration. Twice he
glanced at my eyes. Was he trying to find fear there? Believe me, there was
enough of that, for the man was good, and it had been long since I had fenced
enough to matter.
Around us men crowded, gold gleaming from their ears. One huge bearded man
had a heavy gold necklace that must have come from looted Inca treasure. They
watched, intent, and I was conscious of them only as a backdrop to what
happened here. The gleaming blades, the movement in and out, the circling, the
darting steel, as in some weird ballet of death where I was at once the
participant and the observer. The tricks I knew seemed to find no place here,
for the man left no chance. For all his strength, he moved lightly, easily,
and with confidence. My arm would grow weary; my strength would go.
He was smiling now, his eyes bright with purpose. He feinted a head cut and
then thrust at my ribs. My parry was quick, but I was too far from him for a
good thrust at the body, so with a flick of the wrist I cut him along the
inner sword arm with the back of the blade.
It sliced, and deep. I saw him wince, saw him start to step back, and
attacked instantly. His parry was slow.
There was blood on his sleeve now. Somebody gasped and pointed. There was a
splash of blood on the floor. I feinted for the head; he tried to parry, and I
thrust hard for the ribs. He stepped back quickly, and I moved in.
He was a swordsman. Even now, his arm badly cut, he fought beautifully. Yet
there was death in his face. I could see it, and he knew it. I feinted, held
my thrust, then, on the instant, followed through. His parry was started too
soon; my point slipped past it, and his recovery was slow. The blade slid ever
so neatly along his ribs, through the hide and between the bones, and withdrew
almost as if there had been nothing but a shadow there.
Bogardus missed a step, his whole side now stained with blood, red blood in
a widening blotch on the side of his shirt.
My point lowered a little. "I have no wish to kill you."
"I am dead. Finish what you have begun."
"Have done. You have chosen a poor profession. If you live, choose
another."
"I took money to kill you."
"Keep the money. You tried."
Taking up my coat with my left hand, I turned my back on him and went into
the crowd, and with my naked blade still in my hand it opened before me.
When I was on the street again, I looked carefully about. This was no time
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