The Privilege of the Sword (14 page)

T
REMONTAINE
H
OUSE WAS QUIET THE NEXT MORNING
, not because it was uninhabited, but because its occupants were mostly asleep. Everything wet or edible had already been cleared away; everything valuable had been cleaned.

Only one large, high-ceilinged room had its curtains pulled back to let in the long cheerful ribbons of morning sunlight. Outside the tall windows, a garden beckoned. But the muscular black-bearded man stood with his back to it. Occasionally he would spin around as if to challenge the view, stamping one foot on the floor to make the decorated ceiling ring, then turn again towards the door. Once he sprang from a crouch and leapt almost the length of the room. He hummed disapproval into his mustache. He inspected the rack of glittering swords, first overall, then blade by blade, looking for rust spots or fingerprints. As he found none, he permitted himself a smile.

Because he heard the door open, and saw who it was reflected in a blade, he did not turn around to look at the girl dressed in sober blue-grey linen. When she had shut the door behind her, then he turned, and let her see the smile.

“Clean blades,” he said. “Very good.”

“Thank you.”

“Well? You are a statue? Pick up sword!”

The girl fixed on his face the steady gaze that he had taught her. “I will not fight today.”

“How, not fight? You will not fight? Maybe we will play at dice, then, ah? Or learn the dance?
Booger,
you will not fight!”

She did not smile. “No. I will not be going on with these lessons.”

“What lessons, then?” He thrust a finger in her face like a dagger. “You have some other lessons? Your mad father think you are too good now for Venturus, that you will learn more better from some street-puke swordsboy indeed? Ha!”

“Ha,” she repeated tonelessly. “Do you know, Master, you sound like a jealous lover?”

“Do you know…”
he mimicked. He took a step back, with a little bow. “But who have we here? Is it not some fine-aired lady, indeed? This lady I do not know, though she wear the britches.”

“I will be sure that you are properly paid,” she went on. “I am certain that there is money here for that. And your other students will no doubt be glad of your time.”

“But this is grave.” He stopped his posturing and met her gaze with one of his own. “This is no girlish humor, I think.”

She dropped her eyes. “No. It is not.”

“Why you no wish fight?”

She turned away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Ha. Girlish humor after all. You are in love?”

She spun in quick riposte. “Certainly not! Love? I shall never be in love, if people always think it makes you stupid! No, I’ll tell you what it is—” And it was her turn to lean in to him, her face closer to his than a swordsman would normally allow—“I’ve seen them. Real ones. Last night, at the party here. Two swordsmen. A duel. It was disgusting.”

“Blood. A mess. Now you are afraid—”

“I am
not
afraid. I see twice as much blood every month. It was the duel—I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

“I am not paid to understand you humors.” He’d pulled a blade from the rack and began circling her with it. “You not afraid, ha?”

“No, I’m not. But I will
not
be made a show of.”

“A show, ha?” He jabbed at her with the padded tip, feinted and jabbed again. “Just a show?”

“That’s all any of it is, a show for people to laugh at. It was a
game
to them, that’s all, just some stupid game! They place
bets
—stop that.”

“Bets?” He was forcing her back a pace, two paces, now that she had begun to take notice of his blade.

“Bets on the outcome—two perfectly good—Ouch!” Her back was to the rack; he’d jabbed her in the shoulder. “Perfectly good swordsmen, nothing wrong with them, but they were doing it for—”

“Money? You think men should not fight for money, little girl?” He backed off, making midgelike circles with the tip of his blade. “Men without nice dukes should beg they money in streets, before fight they for pay?”

“He’s not paying
me,
” she said tightly. “I don’t know what
your
fee is, but he’s not paying me. I’m supposed to do it for free, to make a show of myself to amuse—to amuse—” The swordmaster feinted high, low, elaborate little spirals of disengage and riposte up and down his target, annoying as summer flies. “I said, stop that.”

“What for? No peoples looking here. Just us, little boy duchess.”

The sword was in her hand, and she attacked. Venturus fell back before her. She tried to kill him, despite the blunted tips, and he fought with a grin splitting his beard. She went for the eyes, the throat, but he was quick in his defense. Around and around the room they went, and he let her tire herself out with every trick she knew. He waited until she began to slow, and then Venturus stepped in with one perfect thrust.

She flung her blade into the corner. It rattled and clanged.

“Not too sad a fight,” said Master Venturus. “Now we will stop for awhile. Good day, Lady Katherine.”

And she was alone, sweating, in the practice room with the wet rabbits on the door.

I
WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE NEXT MORNING IN THE COLD
grey light. The fire had not yet warmed the room any. Betty was bustling about, folding clothes and putting them in a trunk. “Come,” said Betty, “hurry up, dear. My lord says you’re to travel. The carriage waits.”

There was no point in arguing with her. If he said travel, travel I must. I let her button me into my chilly traveling clothes topped with long boots, hat, heavy cloak. A mist was on the river.

Into the carriage with bread, a hot flask and blankets. Betty waving to me; a cluck of the coachman, a creaking of gates and Tremontaine House was behind me. The city passed away like a series of pictures; then, for the first time in many weeks, I was in the open country. The sun was coming up, a golden haze of warmth. Wrapped in the blankets, I dozed, woke to a stop for the horses, stretched my legs and sat the rest of the afternoon, watching as unfamiliar countrysides of fields of golden wheat gave way to streams and cows and orchards. When the shadows started to stretch across the road, they stopped the coach to consult with me.

“Shall we push on to Highcombe tonight, my lady? It will be dark. But there’s a nice little inn not far along, if you’d rather stop for the night.”

It was all one to me. But I knew when I was being suggested to. We stopped at the nice little inn, and I got a good dinner and a reasonable bed. I did not ask the coachman or the groom what Highcombe was, could not think of a way to do it that would not betray the fact that I had no idea what was going on. Until they had named our destination, I had dared to think that perhaps I was going home—a failure, maybe, but going home, still. A trunk of my belongings was lashed up behind us; wherever I was being sent, it was not for a brief visit.

The next morning we rose again early, and by the time the sun shone watery above in a cloudy midmorning, the carriage was rolling through the gates of a lodge and down a graveled alley lined with tall trees. I caught glimpses of a great stone house, three times the size of my old one. But instead of rounding the drive to its front steps, we suddenly went off the path and began bumping over the grass to the other side of the house. We pulled up before a little cottage tacked onto the wall, with its own wooden door painted a cozy blue.

I stood in the damp grass and smelt earth and apples crossing with hay and horses. It wasn’t quite the smell of home, but it wasn’t city, either. Stretching away from the blue door across from the lawn (now beribboned with the silver marks of our carriage wheels) was an apple orchard in one direction and fields in another. A stream cut through them both. The fields were silvery with long, wet grass; it had rained here in the night, and clouds still lingered. Coming across the fields I saw a man with a staff, his head uncovered.

“There he is,” said the coachman, and hailed him: “Master!”

Fine drops of mist ornamented the man’s dark hair. He raised his head and leapt the stream, and came to us.

The footman spoke. “The duke’s greetings, Master. He presents his niece, the Lady Katherine. She will be studying with you, he says. And we’ve brought you some things from the city.”

“Thank you,” said the man. “You can put them inside.”

The blue door was not locked. I stood looking at my new tutor and wondered what I would be studying. He had the earth-caked hands of a gardener, well-shaped fingers squared off at the tips. His face was unshaven but not yet bearded. He did not seem to mind my staring, though his own gaze was less direct. I felt he was looking past me.

“Are you Janine’s daughter?” he asked.

“You know my mother!”

“No. But Alec’s spoken of her.”

“Who’s Alec?”

The man smiled. “The duke.”

Another name. “You’re his friend? Is this Highcombe?”

“Yes, it’s his house. One of them. I live here.”

The men had finished their deliveries. Even my trunk was stowed inside. “Will that be all, sir? Will you need anything else?”

“Thank you. Nothing else, if you’ve brought everything I asked for.”

“All in the chest, according to my list. The spoons are wrapped in the linen. We can wait if you like, but our orders are to return to town as soon as convenient.”

“That’s all right, then. Thank you; good-bye.”

I did not feel melancholy or afraid as the Tremontaine carriage pulled away, leaving me in a strange place with a strange man. Indeed, I could hardly wait for them to go, so I could find out what would happen next.

chapter
I

W
HAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS THAT HE ATTACKED
me. His staff swung up and I ducked, my hands over my head.

The staff hovered in midair, brushing the edge of my cloak.

“You haven’t been studying long,” he said.

“Not very,” I agreed, adding, “You aren’t supposed to do that. You didn’t call for my guard, or issue a challenge, or anything!”

“Sword against staff is tricky,” he observed. “But you didn’t even reach for your blade.”

“I’m not wearing one.”

“Even then. You aren’t in the habit, and that’s dangerous. Go put one on right now, and then we can get you fed and rested.”

None of my baggage was long enough to contain a sword. I followed him through the blue door, into the little cottage.

“Climb that narrow flight of stairs,” my host said. “At the top, in the corner of the room, left of the window, you’ll find a chest with blades wrapped in oilcloth.”

I had to open the shutters before I could see anything. It was a very plain bedroom. The chest was plain as well, but what was inside it made my breath catch. From the protective cloth I unwrapped long gleaming blades of extraordinary beauty, with hilts both plain and intricate. I’d never seen anything like them. Everything about them was sharp, including the tips. One, with a dragon’s head on the pommel, looked just like the sort of thing Fabian would carry, or someone in
Lives of the Heroic Swordsmen
.