She knelt down to unzip her fencing bag and free a pair of sabers. Now she slid his own sword into the bag and zipped it up. She came back to him again, carrying one cavalry saber and swinging the other, slicing the air in front of her as though she were cutting a path to get at him. She handed one sword to him, and he recognized the family heirloom.
“Charles loaned you these sabers?”
“No, I stole them.”
He touched the cutting edge of the blade and then the point. “You’ve been busy with a whetstone, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Razor edges and needle-sharp points.”
“It’s an interesting choice of weapons, Mallory, but too dangerous for sport. We’ll use my fencing sabers. My pair is rigged to score electronically.” Now he noted the round bulge in her fencing bag. So she had at least brought a mask and perhaps a glove, but apparently no jacket. “I have a body wire, all the electronic gear. You’ll find a spare jacket and everything else you need in the locker room.” He pointed to a door at the back of the gymnasium. “You can change clothes-”
“Thanks,” she said, hefting the antique saber, testing the weight of it. “But I’m already dressed.”
“Mallory, that silk jersey is too flimsy. Even with the blunted swords, you need the proper costume for protection. I won’t fence with you until you’re suited up.”
“I won’t need any protection. And we will use the cavalry sabers.” She pointed her sword to the mask on the floor. “Pick that up and put it on. I want to get this over with.”
He shook his head, incredulous. What was she playing at?
She dipped her sword into the helmet that lay by his feet, and raised it up to the level of his hand. He took it off her sword, but only cradled it in his free arm. “I won’t fight you with these sabers. It’s too dangerous.”
“Yes you will.” She backed up two paces and assumed the en garde position.
He smiled. This promised to be a marvelous evening. “No, Mallory. Even with the cutting edge and the point, you’re still at a great disadvantage.”
“You also have a cutting edge and a point. I wouldn’t like anyone to say I didn’t give you a sporting chance. Put on the mask, Quinn. You’ll need it.”
“You can’t be serious. I don’t think you really understand the damage-”
“Oh, I know all about damage.” She jabbed the sword close to his face and pulled back.
He never flinched, and he wondered if that didn’t disappoint her. “I won’t fight you while you’re defenseless.”
“I may be the least defenseless person you ever met.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t?” She slashed the air in front of his face. “This is a free kill for me, if that’s the way I want to play it. You’re the one with protective gear-not me. The bet is well known. I can get away with this. Put on the damn mask and put up your sword, or I’ll do you right now.”
“I won’t cut you.”
“Oh, I know that-I’m counting on it.” She lashed out with her sword, this time with the unmistakable intention of cutting him.
He quickly stepped back out of the reach of her blade. He put on the mask and raised his sword to en garde position. She followed him with a burst of short, unnerving jumps and lunges, her sword arm extended and the point within an inch of his chest, driving him back, slicing the air with her blade. He retreated with long steps to keep the distance between them. Where the line of the strip was marked on the floor, he held his ground and met her sword with parries, neatly killing the action of her swings in a long phrase of sharp reports, steel clashing on steel.
“You’re very selective about sportsmanship, Quinn.” She lowered her sword and stepped back to the line at the edge of the narrow playing field. “Koozeman didn’t have a sporting chance, did he?”
“Neither did Aubry.”
It was eerie to meet an opponent who lacked the cover of a mask. Within the cage of steel mesh, his own mask of a face was an accident of birth, an illusion, a counterfeit. Her naked automaton face was the genuine article.
She advanced on him in long steps. “And what about Sabra?‘’ Her sword was aiming a slice to his head. ”Now that’s what I call real damage.“
He parried, raising his sword to block the swing of hers. Oh, bloody hell. Without the offensive strike he was only treading water. She had all the reckless energy of youth, not even heeding his own sharp point.
“I’ve seen your sister, Quinn. I’ve talked to her. You’re a real piece of work, you bastard.”
Anywhere he touched her with the sword, he would draw blood. He could not come to grips with the idea of maiming her. It was ludicrous. This could not be happening. It was a fight to restrain the reflex instinct of the strike. “I tried to help my sister.”
“Yeah, right.” She made a thrust to his mask, and she did it with enough power to foil his parry, and to spread the metal mesh and send the point an inch inside the mask.
Her blade pulled free of the mesh and left him stunned. By this time, he should have been long accustomed to attack and well beyond shock. It was late to be learning the difference between games and life.
She walked away from him. His old lessons of humility deepened. She thought nothing of turning her back on him.
She spun around to face him, hovering on the strip, and hovering in time-waiting.
“I put Sabra in the best hospitals money could buy. She kept running away from them.”
Mallory rushed him, and he warded off her blade with a defensive fly of steel. She came at him again, and he parried this attack too, metal crashing again and again. “You put your sister in the same asylum with Oren Watt.” She was backing him to the wall. “You think that was a good idea?”
“No, Orwelhouse was her own idea.” He glided to the right.
She followed, advancing on him, relentless, thrusting toward his center. “So the institutional route didn’t work.” She made a slice to his head, and he blocked her swing. “And then you decided to help your sister in another way.”
He stepped back to parry another slice to his head.
She followed him with her eyes, her body and her sword, all parts of the same relentless machine. “You’ve been feeding Sabra information you got from me.” Her sword rose to the level of her hips. It hung in the air. He froze, waiting to see which way the blade would fall.
“You used me to feed her obsession.” Mallory’s sword angled in a half circle to strike his side. He met her blade with his, and parried ten times before one of her strikes broke through his guard. She cut the thick material at the throat of his mask. The padding spilled out in clumps. He warded off her next attack with a beat of his blade, and she stepped back.
“Poor crazy Sabra. Revenge is all she’s living for, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know what it was like, Mallory. You had to be there, to see what I saw.”
“I’ve been there.” She lunged and cut to his head, bringing her steel down on his blade again and again, as he held his sword high to fend off the rain of blows.
“Oh, God, the places I’ve been.” Her next slice was lower, and he parried to the right. She lowered her own saber and threw it from one hand to the other. It was an unnerving play he’d never seen before. And now the sword flew back to her right hand to cut his undefended side. He heard the material rip along the midsection of his jacket.
Sweat ran into his eyes, but she was dry, cool, so single-minded in her cutting and stabbing. Her reaction time was twenty-five years younger, and her speed was astonishing. She was a slicing machine-she never tired. He listened to his own ragged breath inside the mask.