“Early philosophers, circa 500 AV, had at one point credited this quote to the First Prophet.” Padre Donello turned from the slate board to the class who sat at their tiered tables. Most wore somewhat blank expressions, which were quickly covered up. “More recent discoveries, such as a cache of scrolls recovered during the second crusade, point to Tobias himself.” He began strolling in a seemingly aimless manner up the creaky stairs to the back row. “Tobias was given to idle musings, many of which he recorded in the First Vigil. This is thought to be one of them. His frequent change of subject with no notice makes it difficult at times to determine who is speaking, and thus we must occasionally consult other sources for such information.” Muffled giggling could be heard as Padre Donello loomed behind a particular chair near the door. “You will all no doubt be relieved to know that none of this affects any of you in a material way at this time, since the focus of this class is on the language itself,” He produced an immense book from the folds of his voluminous robes and raised it into the air. “Rather than on the historical, religious or philosophical significance of the texts,” he finished calmly before bringing the book down on the table in front of him with a tremendous crash.
Lucas Diego Aldana jumped at least a foot out of his chair and reached for a non-existent sword. As he became aware of the laughter of the other students he blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and reddened slightly, doing his best to lean casually back in his chair as though nothing were wrong. He picked up the paper in front of him and began to examine it fiercely, more to hide the doodles than through any illusion that he was fooling anyone.
Padre Donello continued his saunter across the back of the room “I leave that to your other professors, provided they can keep you awake long enough. Now,” he looked out the window toward the large clock in the tower, “as it is almost time for the dinner hour, I will allow you to go back to your meager little lives outside of these four walls.” A collective murmur of relief sounded from the class, accompanied by a shuffling of books and feet. “Provided…” The Padre raised his hand and a brief pause ensued, “Provided that you complete translation of verses nine through twenty-six of the Book of Tomas by class time Monday.” A general groan followed and the students began filing out.
Sitting down at the large table in front of the room and picking up a quill, Padre Donello glanced absently toward the back of the room. “Señor Aldana, a moment please?”
Lucas paused hesitantly and pointed to himself, unsure if he’d heard the Padre right and hoping he hadn’t. The last thing he needed today was another lecture. Donello nodded and motioned him forward as the last member of the class exited with a knowing chuckle. Lucas made his way slowly toward the somewhat imposing oak table.
“Si, Padre?”
Donello, having freshly dipped his quill in the inkwell, paused for a moment to examine the young son of the King’s advisor. At seventeen, Lucas was a good-looking boy. Well on his way to manhood, seemingly filled with a passion, fire and supple grace which no doubt served him quite well on the dance floor and the dueling courtyard. Unfortunately, these same qualities made him a remarkably poor scholar.
“Your grades are slipping, Señor Aldana.” Lucas fought a desire to roll his eyes. As if he didn’t know that already. “I’m sure you realize that falling asleep in class does nothing to improve the situation.” Also something that he was thoroughly familiar with.
Lucas opened his mouth to speak, but Padre Donello raised his hand. He adjusted his thick glasses and finished the note he’d started, then began to wave it to dry the ink and continued, “I won’t bore you further by giving you a long-winded lecture. I hear you get enough of those from Señor Garcia, and I’d hate to force you to take another impromptu nap. I am, however, going to give you an additional assignment to cover what you may have missed while you were dreaming about the girl whose image you were rendering so crudely on that sheet of paper. I am also going to take a chance on assigning you another tutor. This one I believe may have some chance at being able to keep you focused.
Folding the paper into thirds, Padre Donello handed it to Lucas. “Please give this to your new tutor when she contacts you. It contains the appropriate assignments for this weekend, to be turned in on Monday.”
She? Lucas raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk, but said nothing. This might be fun, after all.
Padre Donello waved the boy away dismissively. “Good day, Señor Aldana. Please try to learn something this weekend, I would prefer it if your performance in my class did not decline further.”
Lucas gave a perfunctory bow, then turned on his heel and strode out of the classroom into the early afternoon sunshine. So, Padre Donello had found a woman he believed would keep him in line, eh? Must be either hideously ugly or a nun. Or both. He sat down under a willow tree he was fond of, glanced at the note - which was of course written in Théan - and tried to decipher it. The assignment itself was easy enough to read, though it would most likely take most of a day to complete – just a long list of Book of the Prophets passages to translate. You’d think he’d at least pick something less tedious for after-school work. The rest was a bit more difficult. Thank you for something help something… difficult to work with… there will be something something grade…
“Hello, Lucas. How was your Théan class today?”
Lucas glanced up at the sound, and nodded absently. Constanza Aldana y Orduño, his cousin, was wearing one of the somewhat bland, dowdy dresses that he’d tried repeatedly to convince her to give up. She wasn’t bad looking precisely, but she didn’t dress well and it was obvious neither her looks nor her fashion sense had come from the Aldana side of the family.
“Good morning, Constanza. Théan was as dull as it usually is. I believe Padre Donello could make quite a bit of money hiring himself out to insomniacs. That droning voice of his… perhaps if I drank a pot of tea before class every day it would help, but he doesn’t allow restroom breaks.”
Constanza smiled. “Or perhaps if you were to develop an interest in the Théan language it would help more. Believe it or not, it could actually come in handy some day.”
Lucas gestured irritably, “Handy for what? Searching stacks of moldy books in some decrepit library, trying to figure out what the Third Prophet had for breakfast the day he discovered El Fuego Sagrado? Please. I’d sooner tear out my own eyes than spend the rest of my life locked in a vault with bookworms who only know what the sun is because they read about it in a scroll written during the second age of the Numan Empire.” Constanza gave that look that meant she was about to say something unkind, and he hastily added, “No offense.”
Constanza smiled again in a false, sugary way and said “Well, cousin, perhaps you will appreciate those bookworms more when they save you from a failing grade in Théan despite your own feeble protests.”
Lucas frowned slightly, then gave a sour look at the paper in his hand. Carefully he folded it back up and with a helpless gesture proffered it in Constanza’s general direction. He sighed. “I believe this is yours?”
Somewhat smugly, Constanza took the paper and began looking it over. “Wow. You must have really managed to get on his bad side. What’d you do, fall asleep in class again?”
Scowling, Lucas said indignantly, “Of course not. Padre Donello hasn’t liked me since I first set foot in his classroom. I swear, celibacy must have permanently removed any personality or sense of humor he may have ever had.” He stood up and began brushing off the seat of his pants.
Constanza nodded, “Yes, I’m sure it had nothing whatsoever to do with his assistant whose heart you broke…”
“She wasn’t really my type. She’ll get over it.”
“… The two tutors who quit in disgust over your lack of punctuality and attentiveness…”
“Hey, I was only late a couple of times. And can I help it if the subject matter is dry as dust?”
“… The third tutor, who still bears the scar of your duel…”
“He insulted me! What else was I supposed to do?”
Constanza raised an eyebrow, “I was under the impression that you had tried to court his fiancée.”
Lucas nodded “Yes, and when I gave her an alternative to her arranged-marriage bespectacled ham-eating prison warden, he insulted me. You’re saying I was supposed to just let that go?”
“It would have been the magnanimous thing to do, yes.”
Lucas shook his head “You wouldn’t understand, being neither a man nor a swordsman. There are some things… that… can’t…” He trailed off to silence, his head turning to follow a figure that sashayed by in red and white skirts.
Constanza waved a hand in front of his eyes, “Lucas?”
“Hmm?”
She sighed in resignation. “Never mind. Just meet me at the door to the main library tomorrow morning at 9, okay? You’ll need a fair amount of time to get this assignment done and if you actually think I’m going to do it for you, you’re dumber than you look.”
Lucas nodded absently and picked up his books. “Fine. If you will excuse me, I need to verify something.” Then, before she could answer, he jogged off down the path toward the receding figure.
“He’d better be there,” she murmured irritably. Lucas had a habit of conveniently forgetting appointments he wasn’t interested in keeping. Somehow, she doubted he’d ever forgotten a rendezvous with a member of the fairer sex. One who wasn’t his more bookish cousin, anyway.
Speaking of the fairer sex, she thought…
Accompanied by the usual stares from the male passers-by, a dark-haired vision of femininity bustled up to Constanza breathlessly. “Hi. Am I late? My anatomy class was late getting out.”
Constanza smiled. Melisandre was always late. The reason changed on a continuous basis, but the result was always the same. “Nope, right on time.”
Shifting the large handbag containing jumbled notes, texts and medical tools from one hand to the other, Melisandre asked curiously, “Who were you talking to? He was cute.”
Constanza rolled her eyes, “No, he wasn’t. That was just Lucas. He’s in more trouble in his Théan class, and once again I get to help him bail himself out. At least I get class credit for it this time.”
“That was Lucas?” Meli’s eyes wandered down the path to where Lucas was apparently trying to illustrate some dueling technique to the girl in red and white. She glanced over at Constanza playfully. “You were supposed to introduce us, you know. You’ve been remiss. Maybe I should take matters into my own hands?”
Constanza shook her head quickly, “Good grief, no, don’t do that. There’s a cotillion coming up in a month, I’ll try my hand at a formal introduction then.” Taking her arm, she tried to steer Meli gently toward the girls’ dining hall. “Come on, let’s go eat before the house mother decides we don’t need dinner today.”
“Okay, but don’t take too long. There are other ways to meet men besides cotillions, you know.”
Nodding, Constanza said, “And I’m sure you plan to teach me each and every one of them.”
“I keep trying, but you’re such a terrible student!”
Giggling quietly, the two hurried off toward the girls’ dormitories and the afternoon’s dinner.
* * *
The clock tower off the main campus square quietly toned the 11 o’clock hour. Campus curfew was three hours past, and one hour ago lights had been extinguished at the insistence of the dormitory monitors. Windows and shutters were still open as the late spring night was pleasantly warm, and the sounds of snoring could be heard from the rooms of some of the more vigorous sleepers.
Richard O’Bannon had always had trouble getting to sleep, ever since that night when he was twelve. He’d been taken by his father, his only living relative, aboard the HMS Majestic on its way out to meet the invading armada of the Castillans. It had been a last minute arrangement; since reports had indicated that the Castillan fleet was driven apart by a freak storm, it was thought that the danger would be relatively slight. He hadn’t counted on running into the Castillan flagship. The Majestic and the Santa Cruz mutually destroyed one another, and a week later Richard was being raised in a foreign country by don Andrès de Aldana himself. A rich, handsome noble’s charity case. Whoopee.
Bad enough that the entire country seemed to look down on him as some sort of performing barbarian, he also had to live with an egotistical dandy who’d been just handed everything he’d ever owned. Lucas seemed to think that virtually every woman on the campus was his for the asking. It didn’t help Richard’s mood in the slightest that he seemed to be right.
Lying on his bed in the dark, Richard listened to the crickets buzzing outside the window. He’d insisted on the bed near the window, at least he’d managed to get that. That and the fact that Lucas’ father had enough pull to get them a room for two, rather than one of the four-person rooms or the large common room, were some of the few perks to this whole situation.
A rustle of bed sheets and a light thump of booted feet on the wooden floor elicited a quiet sigh. Here we go again, he thought irritably. With stealth worthy of a small ox, a dark shadow tiptoed from his bed to the vanity they shared. Richard listened silently to a quick comb job and smoothing of clothing. He could almost hear the self-satisfied smile. Then a “Hmm…” and the addition of a quarter-cape completed the ritual, and the shape thumped its way to the window. Richard knew that the room had been chosen carefully for its location, a window overlooking a relatively flat overhang with a sturdy birch tree mere yards away. Second floor, so not as susceptible to surprise bed checks since its occupants had no easy access to the outside, yet with a minimum of work freedom could still be had. The man truly had the mind of a courtier.
“Good evening, Ricardo.” Richard winced at the hated name. Why did everyone in this damnable country insist on translating his name to their language? “I won’t be long.” A pause, then a smile that could be seen in the dim moonlight. “On second thought, I may be some time. Cover for me, if the monitor decides to be more industrious than usual?”
Richard grumbled, “You’re on your own, amigo.”
Another smile. “Of course. The request was but a courtesy. Sleep well.”
Richard rolled irritably over, putting his back to the window. Like he ever slept well.
* * *
The city guard of San Cristobal diverted a fair number of patrols through the University, but they were easy enough to avoid. They were only there in case of actual trouble, and enforcing school curfew just wasn’t something they particularly cared about. Walking through the shadows between and behind buildings, Lucas made his way to the other side of campus where the non-priestly instructors kept their homes. It took only a few moments to locate the correct set of apartments, though finding the correct window took about 15 minutes. He wanted to be sure, he could just imagine busting in to find old man Lopez in a nightshirt. Brr.
The ladder he’d borrowed from the maintenance shed was right where he’d left it. Leaning it carefully against the building, he climbed as silently as possible to the second-story window, third from the left, with the dim glow of a candle in it. He reached the top and caught a light scent of violets. This was definitely the right room.
Lucas knocked quietly on the window frame. “Camilla?”
He heard padding feet from within the room, and a dark shape silhouetted against the candlelight. The window slid quietly open. “Lucas?”
Smiling with somewhat more confidence than he felt, Lucas answered, “I certainly hope so. If not, then you have a very bold burglar.”
Camilla smiled, “Bold perhaps, but hardly a burglar. I always thought burglars were supposed to be quiet.”
“Only the ones who don’t want to be caught. I’m afraid I’ve wished for little else of late.” He winced inwardly. Damn those stupid romance novels his mother read… That had looked so much better in print.
She giggled, and leaned far enough forward to see a bit out the window. Lucas could smell her perfume, the pleasant fragrance briefly obscuring his thoughts. “That looks like quite a climb. You know, I’m not in the habit of accepting gentleman callers who arrive at my window in the middle of the night.”
“Nor am I in the habit of risking physical and social safety for the company of a young woman, yet here I find myself. I can only hope that my efforts are not in vain, since even were I to retain my standing in polite society I wouldn’t much care to go on, knowing my heart would be forever denied its fondest desire.” Lucas tried combining a puppydog look with his most optimistic of grins, and was rewarded by a distinct softening of Camilla’s gaze and a telling tilt of her head. Whew, he was in. She’d had him worried for a minute.
Camilla slid the window farther open. “Well, you’d best come in before someone sees you out there and ruins both our reputations.” Lucas nodded in agreement and began clambering up and over the sill. “But what if someone sees the ladder?”
Lucas, having finally entered the room, steadied himself. He raised a finger. “Wait,” he said quietly. “Watch this.” He leaned back out the window and began pulling the ladder up after him. Once it was partially in, he released two metal catches. The top part of the ladder collapsed, folding against the next section. He continued the process with two more sets of catches, until the whole contraption was no more than three feet long. He set it on its side in a corner.
“There,” he said triumphantly. “Instant respectability.”
Camilla giggled again. “Shh,” she said, finger to her lips. “My father is working late in his study. He keeps the shutters closed and it’s two doors down, so we’re reasonably safe, but if he actually caught you here…”
Lucas nodded. “Right,” he whispered. “Quiet it is.”
“Let’s sit for a moment and talk, shall we,” Camilla said. She padded to the bed in her bare feet, sitting near the headboard. She patted the woven spread invitingly and Lucas joined her, sitting somewhat closer than would normally be proper. She reached over and took his hand. “Your father is Don Andrès de Aldana, isn’t he? Advisor to the King? It must be nice to have such a prominent family.”
This was a topic with which Lucas was intimately familiar. It was usually the first thing to come up when talking to a woman whose station was less than lofty, and he’d become skilled at playing up the connection without seeming conceited. Tonight, however, he sensed that Camilla’s interest was a bit more honest than that of most of the women he encountered. During their walks through campus and their lunch in the park, she had seemed more interested in him than his family, a refreshing change from the usual false smiles and calculating eyes. Not that he minded using his family’s social position for a bit of harmless personal enjoyment, but having to pretend and keep his guard up constantly was a bit wearying. He decided to relax this once and see what happened.
“It has its moments I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, there aren’t many who would complain about having the money and the land. And there’s something to be said for formal parties in full dress. But the pressure gets a little much from time to time. It’s hard to tell who’s real, and who’s not. I’ve become reasonably skilled at telling the difference, but there are people in San Cristobal and Vaticine City who could convince a nun to become a harlot and have them believe with all their heart that they’d done it for King and Church. Sometimes it seems that there are daggers around every corner, hidden behind polite smiles and pretty faces. So between those days, and the times I’ve had to fight off women who just want to be related to the great Don Andrès Béjarano de Aldana - or who want to be close to the King - I’ve had my doubts now and again.”
“Oh.” Camilla gazed at her hands, looking crestfallen. “I’m sorry, you must think me terribly shallow.” She turned to look at him. “I really wasn’t thinking that at all, I didn’t mean -“
Lucas reached over, putting a finger to her lips, and she stopped. “Shh,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t. If I’d thought you were one of those people, I wouldn’t be here.” That was a lie, but it sounded good. Camilla looked relieved and grateful for the trust – all the better. “Anyway,” he continued, “I haven’t yet been formally presented to the King, though I’ve seen him several times. Father has made arrangements for my formal presentation at court this summer, after which I’m supposed to be mixing class studies here with courtly training in Vaticine City.”
“Supposed to be?”
Lucas shrugged, “Assuming I’m not thrown out for bad marks in Théan, or Natural Philosophy, or Vodacce Literature… You get the idea. My scores haven’t been exactly amazing lately.”
Camilla nodded sympathetically. “I do well enough, but I haven’t really got the sort of marks my father wants to see. Since he’s on the faculty, my performance reflects on him. You’ve probably had the same sort of experience.”
“Exactly. My parents have always been supportive, but I get that all the time from my instructors.” Lucas scowled imitatively and deepened his voice, “Your scores are below what is expected for the son of such an accomplished diplomat! How do you expect to succeed in court if you can’t speak Vendel with at least some fluency? If you don’t start studying, young man, you will be a severe disappointment to – “ A sharp thump from downstairs stopped him in mid-sentence.
Startled, they both stared at Camilla’s door for a moment. More from the window than anything, they heard faint cursing, then another thump and a loud crash from downstairs. Gruff, angry voices drifted through the door, then another crash. The thud of footsteps vibrated the floor slightly.
“What was that?” Camilla, wide-eyed, touched her hand to her mouth. A door opened down the hall and someone began walking toward them, then down the stairs.
Lucas was on his feet and to the door almost immediately, his hand on his sword. He put his hand to the knob as Camilla called, “Lucas, wait!” He turned around.
Camilla reached over and grabbed a long scarf from atop a chest of drawers. She wrapped it quickly around his mouth and chin, then over the top of his head leaving his eyes the only visible part of his face. Whipping a hairpin from her coiffure, she secured the scarf behind his head with a jab and bent it to keep it secure. “There,” she said, “To keep us both honorable. Now go!”
Lucas grinned behind his makeshift mask. Nodding, he opened her bedroom door. From downstairs he heard someone with an odd accent snarl, “Where is it, old man?” and a tremulous, muffled reply. There was nobody in the hallway, but booted feet were ascending the stairs. Someone heavy, from the sound of it.
He stepped into the hall, then leaned back as he closed the door. “Hide,” he told Camilla quietly. To his relief she didn’t argue, just got up and headed for the wardrobe. Hopefully he could hold whomever it was off until the city guard could get there.
Rounding the corner just before reaching the balustrade that overlooked a cozy sitting room, he almost ran straight into a large, unkempt man who was making his way up the stairs. Bearded and paunchy, with a strange-looking floppy hat, the man seemed a bit startled to see him. He paused, unsure what to make of the sudden appearance of an armed man with a scarf around his face.
Lucas nodded to the man. “Good evening, Señor. I’d ask you to make yourself at home, but I see you already have.”
Confusion and anger battled on the bandit’s shaggy face for a moment before anger won out. He brought his large broadsword over and down in a brutal arc. Lucas stepped to the side, and the sword impacted the hall floor with a loud thunk. As the brute was wrenching his sword out of the floorboards, Lucas moved forward and with a blurred flourish of his own sword, tip cut a gash across the bridge of the man’s nose. Instinctively the bandit took a defensive step backwards.
Lucas grinned under his mask at the man’s expression as realization dawned. The bandit toppled backward down the stairs with a frustrated roar, thuds and curses reverberating through the house until he came to an abrupt stop on the landing below.
Nimbly and swiftly moving down the stairs, Lucas stopped on the stairs just above the landing where the other man lay cradling his right arm. Snarling in some barbaric language, the larger man reached out with his left hand in an attempt to grab Lucas’ leg.
“I’d have that looked at,” said Lucas lightly, then whacked the injured arm as hard as possible with the flat of his blade. An anguished howl rang out and Lucas leapt lightly over the landing and down the two remaining steps into the sitting room.
The door to the room stood open. Footsteps came tromping down the hallway outside toward him. At a sudden thought he put a hand to his throat and unclasped his quarter-cloak, whipping it around one arm in what he hoped was a convincing imitation of a Torres stance.
Two more brutes ran in and stopped to assess the situation. While not mirror images of the first thug, they were at least cut from the same cloth - tall, pudgy, bearded men with clothes that would make a street urchin wince. One had dirty red hair and the other dark brown, but otherwise they could have been brothers. Their beady eyes lit on Lucas, then Red pointed at him and nudged the other, saying something in that same muddy, harsh language. They both chuckled. Brown raised his voice a bit and said something that sounded unkind to the guy at the bottom of the stairs, who just scowled back and began gingerly trying to sit up.
Damn, Lucas thought irritably, a perfectly good ruse wasted. These idiots wouldn’t know a Torres stance from a Flamenco pose. Straightening back into his more traditional Aldana posture while keeping the quarter-cape in his left hand, he looked them up and down. “As your mothers were no doubt sheep, I would expect the horrid woolen outfits even given the current temperature. However, since sheep have better manners regardless of their country and tend to remain outdoors where they belong, I can only assume that your fathers must have been mongrel dogs. Or perhaps diseased rodents of some variety, yes?”
That did it. They apparently understood Castillan well enough, even if they didn’t speak it. With a snarl, Red came around the table in the middle of the room – he went left, Brown went right. Lucas went through the middle.
Throwing the quarter-cape at Brown, it hit the man in the face with a whump. Brown veered off-course, the intended sword blow swinging short of its mark. At the same time he clambered over the low table and deftly parried Red’s swipe, carrying the larger man’s sword up and over with a circular sweep of his own blade. All three men ended up opposite the sides they started on. Lucas tucked his now-empty left hand properly behind his back. He heard the familiar tune start up in his head, choosing a fast-paced, upbeat tempo appropriate to fighting two people at once. He could afford a few more choruses than normal though, as his opponents weren’t skilled swordsman.
Red spun around to face him just after Lucas made his own turn. Brown yanked the cloak off his face and threw it as hard as he could in Lucas’ direction. It missed widely. Red came back around the table, approaching with his sword held defensively until he could get close enough to swing. Lucas danced back two steps to give the man room, then deliberately allowed him to get close enough for an attack. Predictably, Red drew his weapon back and then lunged. Lucas caught the larger sword’s edge with the flat of his own blade, and directed it just far enough to the left and down so that it missed his left leg. Once the attack was negated, he leaned forward with a quick jab to the brute’s right shoulder. Red grunted in pain and desperately staggered backward, pulling his sword back and up. He flailed wildly to parry a second attack, but Lucas was occupied elsewhere.
Brown had angled around the room toward the fireplace in a flanking attempt. Lucas spun toward him and moved toward the wall, clearing his rectangular fighting area. A brief glance toward Red confirmed that the man was just now recovering enough to try another attack, so this had to be brief. Brown started toward him, and Lucas sped up his tune into a rapid chorus. Advance, jab, jab, parry, and with a flourish he was especially proud of, Brown’s belt parted. Brown grabbed for his waistline with his left hand, sloppily lowering his guard.
Lucas grinned under his makeshift mask. This wasn’t as much fun as being upstairs with Camilla, but it came in a close second. He was about to take Brown out of the fight when Red charged in from his left.
A broadsword whistled through the air toward his head. Lucas ducked just in time, then turned to face Red and glided to the left barely avoiding the follow-up thrust. He mentally redrew his rectangle again, brought the tempo down a little, and improvised a three-beat stanza. Lucas slashed rapidly at Red’s face and chest. Red backpedaled predictably and brought his sword up in a high parry, then on the beginning of another chorus Lucas drove his sword tip through the man’s foot. Red shrieked in pain, and paused just long enough for Lucas to bring his weapon up and cut a nasty gash across his stomach. Lucas’ sword connected with Red’s left arm in a cut that hit bone and slid forward, making a six-inch hole in his lower left chest. Red fell with a groan.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas saw Brown’s bulk advancing. He whipped his weapon around and managed to catch the incoming blow on his sword bell. The impact caused his arm to go numb, but he managed to reset his stance while deflecting four more rapid-fire attacks. Brown seemed intent on overwhelming him with his greater strength and larger weapon, but once Lucas regained his footing and his beat he started redirecting the attacks with greater proficiency. He began backing across the room in a wide clockwise circle, slowly losing ground to the furious assault.
“Señor,” he parried one blow into the table, “You should really learn,” one strike blocked, a second dodged with a backward leap, “to pay better attention, “ backing to his right as one attack hit the bookcase and another was maneuvered over his head, “to the rules of hospitality.” A strike was aimed at his neck. Lucas ducked under the attack this time rather than parrying. Leaning all the way forward with one hand on the floor, he lunged upward and skewered the unfortunate brute completely through the midsection. There was a startled pause before Lucas pulled his sword free and stood up. Brown dropped wordlessly into a heap on the floor.
“You see? It’s all fun and games until somebody runs home crying.” There was movement near the stairs and Lucas turned, raising his sword. Broken Arm had managed to get up but it looked like his ankle was sprained – he was trying to hobble toward the door using the wall for support. No threat there. With his off hand, Lucas straightened the makeshift mask, which was starting to droop over his right eye. He moved out of the corner he’d been backed into.
Gesturing to the man he said politely, “Señor, as you are obviously distraught from your evening’s activities, it would be remiss of me not to offer you a chair.” Raising his sword, he pointed it at an upholstered chair with a straight wooden back. “As you don’t seem to be bleeding too heavily, you may take that one. Please.”
Broken Arm glowered angrily at Lucas. “Piss off,” he grumbled in heavily-accented Castillan. He was, however, bright enough to limp painfully to the chair and slump into it.
“Ah, so you do speak. I was beginning to wonder.” Lucas walked to where his quarter-cloak lay crumpled on the floor. He picked it up and began edging carefully toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment…” he leaned out just far enough to check the darkened corridor beyond. It was empty. “I have to go check on our other guests.”
Crashing and crunching noises were coming from a room down the hall to the left, the direction opposite the front door. The noise was a blessing, perhaps whoever it was hadn’t heard the fight with all the commotion going on. He glanced warningly back to the sullen man on the chair, then eased into the hallway. Keeping to the carpeted central area of the hall he moved cautiously toward the noise, hoping to get a better look at who and what he’d be facing. As he did, a man backed into view.
This man was obviously of an entirely different class from the three he’d just faced. Dressed in a striking blue silk blouse trimmed in silver cord, he’d supplemented it with a loose vest of chambray in a deep purple. Accentuated by the fabric’s characteristic white threads on the purple warp, the effect was striking. Lucas saw a small gold Prophet’s Cross on a chain around the stranger’s neck and caught the hint of an insignia in intricate red embroidery on his left chest. Expensive pants in a heavier silk matched the color of the vest, again with silver piping down the sides and a hint of embroidery surrounding the piping. Tall leather boots came up to his knees, with built-in kneecap guards. A broad-brimmed hat in the same blue as the shirt completed the ensemble, topped with two white feathers. Lucas caught himself admiring the man’s outfit and forgetting for a moment what he was doing there - he’d have to get a vest like that. And those boots must have cost a fortune, they would definitely go well with a few of his outfits. Very rakish.
The man himself was fairly plain looking with light brown hair, a small goatee and no accompanying mustache. He looked thoughtful in the flickering light of the lamps and fireplace that dimly lit the room. Lucas straightened and was about to get his attention when he turned his head in Lucas’ direction.
He didn’t react at first. Lucas bowed formally, and a wry smile creased the man’s face. “Well, what do we have here?” His voice was smooth and cultured, a faint accent detectable among the general din of the room apparently being searched. Between his fashion sense and the accent, Lucas guessed he was most likely from Vodacce.
“What we have here, Señor, is someone who doesn’t appreciate the thought of you or your men destroying this fine house.” Lucas’ sword was still in his hand and ready, but he didn’t assume his stance just yet. As he spoke the Vodacce turned fully and began walking slowly toward the hall. Lucas saw the insignia on his vest more clearly now. It was a family crest, that of the Caligari family he thought. Just beneath it was a platinum Swordsman’s Guild pin. A master’s pin.
“Oh?” said Caligari amusedly. “And what is your interest in the matter? Señor Lopez only has one child that I’m aware of, and you certainly don’t look like a ‘Camilla’.” He looked more closely in mock inspection of the scarf around Lucas’ head. He added, “Whatever it is you do look like. You must be very ugly to consider such clashing fabric to be an improvement.”
Lucas ignored the taunt for the moment. “Señor Caligari, I will give you one chance to leave peacefully and take your goons with you. If you choose the hard way, well, I’m afraid the results won’t be pretty.” The noise behind the Vodacce had stopped now, and he saw three more brutes of the same caliber as those in the sitting room flank the man from behind. Caligari held up a hand and said something to them in their language. They chuckled and started drifting back to their work. Lucas readied the cloak in his left hand and once again attempted to take up his Torres stance. Torres was mostly a defensive style, and not as dangerous as some. He had no illusions that the man would back down, but if he could lure him into a false sense of security he might have an edge. For a moment, at least.
“I was about to offer you much the same bargain.” Caligari drew his sword with his left hand, and pulled a main gauche out of his right boot. He assumed a somewhat careless Ambrogia stance. “But if you insist. I could use a little enjoyment from this evening. Beating old men is so tedious.”
Lucas sneered at him, the effect completely lost since his mask hid everything but his eyes. “I’d think old men would be a challenge to someone using a style invented by a prostitute.”
Caligari sighed and shook his head with a pained expression.
“Señor, coming as they do from a man wearing a woman’s scarf
around his head, your words do nothing but belay your
incompetence. I see by your pin,” he gestured with his main
gauche toward Lucas’ own copper Swordsman’s Guild pin, “that you are an
apprentice. But if you are a Torres swordsman, then I am the
Hierophant. Your feet are held all wrong, your left arm should be
at least two feet lower, your sword is in the wrong grip and you are
leaning much too far forward. Never mind the fact that Torres
isn’t a school recognized by the Guild at all. Now are we going
to duel, or are you going to stand there and pose all night?”
