He had a huge mustache that covered the lower part of his face down past his chin. “What, for real?”
“Close to real. I’d rather you didn’t actually kill me. Come on, show me.”
He shrugged, stepped forward, and raised his sword. He shook it menacingly, then swung down at my head. I had no trouble dodging it.
He took a deep breath, tried a side slash that was no better. Our blades clanged together, and his bounced aside to stick point-first in one of the empty crates.
The watchers laughed.
He turned red beneath his tan, and when he blew out a sharp breath, his mustache billowed like a curtain. He wrenched his weapon free, stood with his shoulders hunched in defeat, then said, “Can I yell?”
“What?” I said.
“Yell. Shout. Do you mind?”
“No.”
With a bloodcurdling shriek that startled everyone on deck, Hansing sprang at me. I didn’t exactly parry his blow so much as turn it slightly off course at the last moment, and his backhand slash could’ve disemboweled me if I’d been a hair slower dodging it.
But he was so sure that this last blow would end the fight that he left himself wide open. I slapped him across the neck with the flat of my own blade, then kicked him in the knee. He sprawled back into two of the other would-be students, and when they pushed him back to his feet, he came up swinging. But I put the tip of my sword against the center of his chest and said, “Whoa, remember, this is just practice.”
For an instant the rage remained; then it faded. He nodded and sheathed his sword. I kept mine out. No one was laughing.
“I thought I had you,” he said, shaking his head.
“The only mistake you made was assuming that,” I said. “In most cases you’d be right, but the minute you get someone with a cool head and fast reflexes, you’ve left yourself wide open. How many of you have killed a man with the first blow when he saw you coming?”
One raised his hand, then added sheepishly, “He still managed to stab me, though.”
“Exactly. You have to disconnect your emotions from your brain. It’s okay to scream or yell or do anything to try to startle the other guy. But it’s got to be an act, and you’ve got to be above it watching.”
They looked grudgingly impressed. Or rather, most of them did. I said, “Now, who wants to try me next?” I pointed my sword at Suhonen. No sense putting off the inevitable any longer. “You?”
The big man stepped away from the group and drew his huge, curved cutlass. His bare muscular body gleamed like a well-polished wooden idol. Only the sound of the ship creaking broke the silence.
I had little experience with cutlasses, either wielding or avoiding, but a sword was a sword and a man was a man. If I couldn’t take him, I had no business in this job. Or so I told myself as he towered over me.
“It’s practice, Suhonen,” Clift warned from the stern.
“I won’t hurt him much,” Suhonen said. He smiled as if taking me down wouldn’t make him muss his hair. When he flexed, the skeletons around his neck seemed to dance.
I didn’t even raise my sword. I just waited. It was one of my best talents. I could outwait a rock until it turned to gravel.
Suhonen couldn’t. He suddenly slashed at me, which was the only real way to use a cutlass. He did it all with his arm, which was bad because it was weak and left him off balance. I knocked the stroke aside, impressed with the casual strength behind it, and put everything I had into a blow that would’ve decapitated him had we been fighting for real. As it was, my sword flat rang his bell and he dropped at my feet, his blade skittering across the deck until it knocked over a bucket of soapy water. He didn’t go all the way out, but it was a near thing.
I belatedly felt the sheer force of the blow I’d blocked in my arm, shoulder, and back. Fuck me-if he’d been really trying, I’d have been in trouble.
“He had reach and size on me,” I said to the others, “but he-”
Suhonen, dizzy and pissed off, tried to tackle me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I tossed my sword to Jane, who’d appeared at the front of the crowd; then I stepped aside and snatched Suhonen’s wrist as he stumbled across the spot I’d just occupied. I bent it back hard and he fell to his knees, his superior size and strength useless. “Ow, stop, I give!” he cried.
I wasn’t quite ready to believe him. “He’s younger, bigger, and stronger, yet he hasn’t laid a hand on me,” I said, and wrenched his arm so that he cried out again. “That’s because he’s angry and embarrassed, and I’m not emotionally involved in this. Now I’m going to let him go, and if he tries anything else, I’ll put him down just as easily.”
That was the kind of thing I had to say. Truthfully, I had no idea if I could catch him off guard again.
I released him and he jumped to his feet, eyes blazing, cradling his wrist against his chest. I stood with my hands at my sides and kept my gaze locked on his. I saw the rage fade, replaced by uncertainty, fear, then respect. He rubbed his temple where my sword had smacked him. At last he said, “This is stupid. I know how to fight. I’m outta here.”
He stomped down into the hold. The other five watched him go, then looked back at me.
I glanced over at Jane, who just smiled and shook her head. Clift watched as if he’d seen it all before. And Dorsal the cabin boy perched atop a barrel, knees drawn up to his chin and his little brow furrowed in concentration.
Jane tossed my sword back to me. I caught it, twirled it end over end, and said, “Next?”
Chapter Eleven
Sundown again found me on the forecastle staring out at the water. I noticed many of the crew, when not actually working, did the same. There was something about the ocean’s vastness, and that unbroken horizon always out of reach, that encouraged introspection at both sunrise and sunset. Still, I tried very hard to keep my mind pointed forward, and not back; I was in no hurry to revisit my past. But after a while, it grew harder and harder to avoid. I sure hoped we found some real pirates soon.
Avencrole, the ship’s cook, came up from the hold with a basket of assorted chicken heads, feathers, and feet. He was the palest person on board because he hardly ever emerged during the full light of day. He went to the rail and dumped his refuse, saying, “Good-bye, Leon. Farewell, Mr. Allen Sr. Give my regards to the sharks, Harry.” He rattled off a dozen other names and good-byes before all the pieces were gone.
I had to ask. “You name the chickens?”
“Of course I do,” he said cheerfully as he shook the last of the feathers from the basket. “Name them after every enemy I have. That way it’s a tremendous joy chopping off their squawking little heads.”
“I hope you’re careful not to name them after any current shipmates. They might take it the wrong way.”
“Everyone on this ship is a darlin’. Well, except for a couple of the new men, who haven’t learned their sea manners yet. There’s one lad who keeps bothering me for lemons to bleach his hair, of all things. As if we should all get scurvy just to preserve his vanity. A few more weeks should get rid of that particular defect of personality.” Whistling, he carried the basket belowdecks.
That left me alone with my thoughts again. Thankfully Jane joined me at the rail, handed me a tankard and poured me some rum. We touched rims and she said, “That was some show you put on today. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Fight?”
“No, teach.”
“I was a mercenary for a long time. Someone had to train the new recruits.”
“I thought you didn’t become a mercenary until you’d already had training.”
“Not always. Sometimes you have to pack the ranks with whoever you can find.”
“A rrow fodder?”
“Hopefully not. Hence the training.” I raised my tankard in salute, hoping it would end that thread of conversation. Just to be certain, I asked, “So what’s it like being back at sea?”