“That’s parrying in prime,” he said, holding the position with his point an inch or two away from Orcrist’s chest. “It’s a bit awkward, but if you use it at the right moment it’s unanswerable.”
“The boy’s making fun of us,” growled Rutledge. “Maybe not,” said Orcrist. “Let’s try a few thrusts, Frank. Gently.”
For the first minute Frank let Orcrist do all the work, and simply parried every thrust without even stepping back. Orcrist’s thrusts became faster and stronger, but Frank was able to hold him off effortlessly. He can’t really be trying, Frank thought. These attacks are fairly quick, but there’s almost no strategy. “Shall I begin replying?” asked Frank.
“Any time you like,” panted Orcrist.
Frank parried the next attack and feinted in quarte, then riposted in sixte to Orcrist’s chest, poking him lightly with the point. He then tapped Orcrist’s elbow twice in a row, and then did a faultless bind-eight culminating in a full-extension lunge. He held the position for a moment; his rear leg straight out behind him, lead leg bent in a ninety-degree angle, weapon arm straight and his sword point pressing a button on Orcrist’s coat. Then he relaxed back into the on guard posture. It felt good to get back into the disciplines of fencing—it reminded him of the old days with Tom in the Strand Fencing Academy.
“There is ... no end to your talents, Frank,” Orcrist panted. “Where did you study? Who taught you all this?”
“Jacob Strand, in a fencing school about twenty miles north and ten miles west.”
“Hmm.” Orcrist sat down and finished his beer. “Do you remember the words of our old friend Aurelius, Frank?”
“Yes, I do. ‘The universe is change.’ Might he have added ‘and talented lads are soon promoted out of the kitchen’?”
“Consider it added,” said Orcrist.
BOOK TWO: The Swordsman
Chapter 1
Frank delivered a final poke to the man-shaped rubber pad that was nailed to the wall—got him right in the throat!—and put down his sword. He unbuttoned his fencing jacket and sat down in a nearby canvas chair. Now where the hell is old Rutledge? Frank glanced at the clock on the wall. He’s ten minutes late.
Frank stood up, crossed to the open window, and leaned on the sill. He watched the littered tide of the Leethee flow past, its blackness highlighted by dancing glints of light cast by the lamps that hung from the tunnel roof. The river was wide through here, and he sometimes saw festive barges and solitary canoes wend their way up or downstream.
The Rovzar Fencing School had been open for almost six weeks. The location was good (Orcrist had helped him find a good river-view building to rent in a respectable neighborhood), and he already had enough students to pay the rent and keep him busy.
Without exception, his students were ranking members of the Subterranean Companions; Orcrist pointed out that there was no reason to teach fencing secrets to strangers.
A chittering screech sounded in the adjoining room, and Frank turned around with a smile as Rutledge entered, carrying his pet monkey on his shoulder.
“Down, Bones!” Rutledge commanded. Bones, a wild-eyed spider monkey, leaped from the lord’s shoulder onto a chair and began gnawing the fabric.
“Damn all monkeys,” growled Rutledge. He shrugged off his velvet coat and took a fencing jacket out of a closet. “You must have washed these, Rovzar! This one seems to have shrunk.”
“It’s possible,” Frank said. It’s not the jacket’s fault, he thought. It’s beer and pork pie that have tightened the fit. “Have you been practicing your on guard?”
“Yes, yes. It’s invincible.” Rutledge flipped a wire-mesh fencing mask over his face and selected one of the practice épées hanging on a wall rack. He flexed the blade a few times and then crouched, the blade held forward and ready. “How’s that?” he asked.
Frank put on a mask and picked up his own épée.
“Not bad,” he said, critically examining Rutledge’s posture. “Let’s see if you can maintain it.”
He saluted, and they began to bout, starting slow and relaxed. Each point hovered around the other man’s bell guard, never getting a clear shot at a wrist or forearm. After a minute, Frank began to let his elbows show beneath, apparently unguarded. He saw Rutledge tense with preparation, and then the lord’s blade flashed out at Frank’s elbow. Just as he saw him extend, though, Frank went up on his toes and straightened his sword arm, catching Rutledge in the biceps with the sword’s covered tip. Rutledge’s sword wavered in empty air.
“That’s a favorite trick of mine,” Frank explained. “Lure him below with your elbow and then go in over the top when he goes for it. You’ve got to be quick, though, or you’ll have a hole in your arm and an opponent who thinks you’re an idiot.”
“Give me a gun anytime,” Rutledge said. “When I was a boy we had guns, you know. Kill a man from across a courtyard! None of this damned personal contact.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “but a gun doesn’t take much skill. Any stable boy could kill you with a gun. But how many people can kill you with a sword?”
“Not many! Especially now that I’m taking your lessons. Your damnably expensive lessons.” Frank shrugged. “How do I compare with your other students, Rovzar? I know Orcrist and a few others are studying your methods. Has Tolley come in?”
“No, Lord Christensen doesn’t think he needs any help. He told Orcrist that the day he goes to a painter for fencing lessons will be the day he sends Costa his two virgin daughters. Not real soon, in other words. Anyhow, speaking honestly, I’d say you’re my most rapidly improving student.”
“No kidding?” replied Rutledge in a pleased tone of voice. “In that case have another try at teaching me that eye shot.”
The next half hour was spent in showing the elderly lord a particularly vicious bind in sixte that, properly executed, landed one’s point forcefully in the opponent’s eye. Rutledge was beginning to catch on, and after Frank had three times taken a blow to his mask he called a recess.
“I pity any sewer vagabonds who try to rob you,” Frank said. He opened a cabinet and took a bottle of cheap vino blanco out of an ice bucket. “Will you join me in some wine, my lord?”
“Good God, yes. Swordplay is dry work.” Rutledge took a glass of wine and gulped half of it right off. Bones climbed up to his belt buckle and made gross smacking sounds, so Rutledge handed the monkey the glass, and the hairy creature drank the rest of it with relish.
“Can monkeys get drunk?” asked Rutledge.
“I suppose so. Want me to give him a glass?”
“Why don’t you.”
Frank poured a third, slightly bigger glass, and handed it to Bones. The monkey took it to a corner to drink, and Frank poured another glass to replace Rutledge’s slobbery one.
“There is a nice feint you can use if your man bends his arm as he retreats,” said Frank, crossing to the windowsill and sitting down on it. “Done right, it puts your point into his kneecap. I’ll have to show it to you next. ”
“Why do so few of your moves hit the body, Rovzar?” asked Rutledge. “Seems to me you’re just wasting time hitting your opponent in the arm and the knee.”
“If your opponent knows anything about swords, you generally can’t get to the body,” Frank told him. “Before your point hits his stomach or chest, his point is buried in your forearm. A full-extension lunge is a beautiful thing to do when you’re practicing in a fencing school, but I’d certainly never do one in an alley against an opponent with an untipped weapon.”