“No?” Austra said softly. “Then how is it you learn magic, and I beat rugs?”
For that, Anne didn’t have a comfortable answer.
The blade darted toward Cazio, faster than he had imagined it could, cutting his cheek slightly. The pain brought everything into sharp focus, and with a shout he stamped, sidestepped, then ducked quickly back in the direction he had come from, and committed himself to a shallow fleché.
It proved an unwise commitment. Z’Acatto parried in prismo, deflecting Cazio’s attack and stepping in close, his free hand clenching in the cloth of Cazio’s tunic. In a continuation of the parry, the swordsmaster lifted the hilt of the weapon above his head, so the blade slanted down to rest its bright sharp tongue in Cazio’s navel.
“What in Lord Fufio’s name is wrong with you?” the old man barked in his face. “Where is your brain? You can’t fence with just your hands and feet!”
Z’Acatto’s breath was rancid with the wine of the night before. Cazio wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Let go of me,” Cazio demanded.
“Is that what you’ll say to your next opponent when he has you in this position, or worse?”
“I would never allow that to happen in a real fight,” Cazio asserted.
“Every time you pick up that sword it’s a real fight,” z’Acatto roared. He let go and stalked off. “You’re hopeless! I give up!”
“You’ve been saying that for ten years,” Cazio reminded him.
“And it’s been true the entire time. You’re hopeless as a dessrator.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never been beaten, except by you.”
Z’Acatto whirled to face him, eyes bulging. “Now you’re going to tell me you know more about being a dessrator than I do?” He held his sword level to the ground, pointed at Cazio. “On your guard,” he snarled.
“Z’Acatto—” Cazio began, but the older man launched himself forward, and Cazio was forced to bring his blade up. He gave ground, parried, and launched a riposte with a step-lunge, but his master caught the blade in a bind and pressed, then released in a lightning-fast disengage.
Cazio backpedaled and parried again, riposting desperately. Almost contemptuously, z’Acatto danced nimbly aside and counterattacked. Cazio avoided the deadly thrust only by hurling himself backwards, tripping as he did so, but not quite falling. Z’Acatto followed, a look in his eyes Cazio had never seen before, one that sent a sudden chill of panic down his spine.
No. I will not fear, Cazio thought, setting himself.
For a moment the two men circled each other warily, weaving into and out of striking distance. Cazio struck first, this time, a feint that turned into a draw cut aimed at his master’s arm. Z’Acatto dropped his hand away from danger, then stabbed toward Cazio’s throat. With sudden understanding Cazio realized that during his feint the older swordsman had drawn his back foot up and was lunging in much deeper than Cazio ever imagined he could.
He turned, so the point took him in his left shoulder. It sank in and hit bone, and with a cry he extended his sword arm. Z’Acatto yanked his weapon out with a twist, and in an instant the two men were touching each other on the chest with the tips of their blades.
“Shall we perform the parry of two widows?” z’Acatto growled.
“Neither of us is married,” Cazio gasped, feeling blood soak his shirt. They continued to stand that way, and for a long terrible moment, Cazio thought he would have to thrust. He could almost feel the older man’s steel in his own heart.
But z’Accato finally dropped his blade.
“Bah,” he snarled, as it rang on the stone floor. In relief, Cazio sank into a chair, clutching his shoulder.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” he said, as soon as he had caught his breath.
“I thought so, too,” z’Acatto said, his eyes still flashing with anger. Then, softer, he murmured, “Boy, you’re a fine swordsman. You’re just not a dessrator. You don’t have what it takes, in here.” He tapped his chest over the heart.
“Then teach me.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t.” He lowered his head. “Let’s bind up that wound. I need a drink. So do you.”
A short time later, they sat beneath the verandah in the courtyard, one bottle of wine already gone and another half-empty. It was almost enough for Cazio to ignore the pain in his shoulder. Around them, Orchaevia’s servants were stringing up lanterns, banners, and chains of dried flowers.
Orchaevia herself bustled up, wearing a lime-green gown embroidered with golden roses.
“Well, you two are a sight,” the countess remarked. “How do you like that year? I never considered it one of the best from the region.”
“No,” z’Acatto grumbled. “That would be the vintage from the year the baron Irpinichio became meddisso of the Seven Cities.”
“Quite right,” the countess said. “And perhaps one day your tour of my various cellars obvious and obscure will lead you to it. Though I don’t think that likely.” She turned to Cazio. “You, on the other hand, I might be able to help.”
“Countess?”
“The young ladies from the coven will be here tomorrow night.”
“What’s this?” z’Acatto said. “The last thing the boy needs is to go solid over a band of nuns. He’s already distracted enough.”
“Yes, and what do you think has him so distracted?” Orchaevia asked.
“Ridiculous,” Cazio said, waving her words away as he might a fly.
“That’s it!” z’Acatto exploded. “I remember now. It’s just like when you were chasing after that little da Brettii girl. The same stupid expression. No wonder you can’t even hold your sword.”
“There is no girl,” Cazio insisted. This was too much. He was really starting to feel put upon.
“Of course not,” Orchaevia said. “And if there were, you wouldn’t see her at my party, for the mestra of the coven forbids her charges to see men. I’ve had to hire serving girls from Trevina and send my regular servants on holiday. But … it is possible that one of the young darlings might find herself alone, in the lavender garden, if I knew what she looked like.”
Cazio nodded and drank more wine. His head was starting to swim, and he relented. “There is no girl,” he said, “but as long as you’re going to throw one my way, make her one with pale skin and red hair. A northern girl. I’ve always fancied one of those.”
Orchaevia’s smile broadened until Cazio thought it would split her head. “I shall see what can be done,” she said.
Z’Acatto finished the bottle of wine in a single long draught. “No good will come of this,” he predicted with a sigh.
4
An Encounter
“Lady Fastia?” Neil gasped, in utter astonishment. She stood there in the moonlight, her long hair flowing unbound to her waist, shimmering like silk.
“I …” Fastia looked confused, then suddenly gaped and put her hand to her mouth. “Sir Neil, you’re quite unclothed.”
Realizing she was right, he grabbed a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around himself. He felt stupid for taking so long to react; what if Fastia had been an assassin, come to kill the queen?
What had she come for?
“Have you taken a wrong turn, lady? May I show you to your room?”
“No.” Fastia looked down at the floor. He noticed then that she wore a dressing gown of silk brocade over a flimsy shift of cotton. “No,” she said, “I came because … I … Elyoner gave me the key. And she— Sir Neil, I must be going mad.”
Neil knew what she meant. His heart was pounding a war-beat. Fastia’s face was perfect in the near dark, all jewels and precious ivory, a mystery of shadow that needed touching, needed more than touching. He felt a profound ache in his chest and an even more profound rush of blood throughout his body.