A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift Page A

screwing up his eyes too hard.
    Lagarde bowed to the audience who stamped and clapped lustily. One of his youths stepped forward to introduce him, in a thick French accent, and relieved him of his cloak, before handing him a
rapier. Lagarde leapt into a low stance and twirled and brandished the blade in a show of speed and bravado.
    The crowd laughed and jeered, but he ignored them as he and one of his students began a match designed to show off his skill. Zachary sighed and shook his head. Lagarde fought well enough, but
then so would he, if his student conceded every point and left himself wide open for his thrust.
    ‘Hey, will you look at that!’ Zachary protested, outraged. ‘He let him win!’ He turned to Gin. ‘It’s just a bloody dumb-show. Men like that make me mad. I
could do better than that with one hand tied behind my back.’
    ‘Calm down,’ Gin said. ‘What did you expect? A fight to the death? It’s entertainment. He’s got to please the crowd, and he’s a living to make, like all of
us.’
    In front, a man jumped forth from the crowd and spat on the ground. Lagarde, though a little breathless, accepted the challenge and Zachary and Gin pressed nearer to see what would come of
it.
    They fought noisily with rapier and dagger, neither with much skill as far as Zachary could see and, with a lucky strike, Lagarde thrust the point of the dagger through the challenger’s
shoulder. A cheer went up. Zachary groaned.
    ‘The Frenchman prevails!’ shouted someone.
    ‘Not bad,’ Gin said.
    ‘Fake!’ Zachary shouted. He could not help but remember the movement of that white-haired foreigner in the tavern near St Paul’s, his swooping sword, and the strange Spanish
technique he said was called
La Verdadera Destreza
. The words were embedded in his memory; he had repeated them so often lest he forget the name. It meant The Skill, and that foreigner
would have whipped this bandylegged Frenchman and not even broken sweat. It made him angry that men such as Lagarde should take money from gullible folks for lessons.
    ‘Who’s next?’ called one of the young men.
    Zachary propelled himself forward.
    Gin Shotterill’s hand reached out to stop him but Zachary dodged it, and jumped into the open space. He paced round Lagarde, taking advantage of the breathing room, his rapier fixed steady
between them. Now he could see the Frenchman’s eyes, and they were narrow and determined. But Zachary riposted with his most penetrating stare, and Lagarde quavered. His eyes still on
Zachary, he threw away his rapier and dagger and a youth ran up and handed him a long sword.
    ‘Two-hand sword, is it, you want try?’ Lagarde said.
    ‘If you wish,’ Zachary called back, coolly.
    Lagarde was trying to catch him short, but Zachary called his bluff and he, too, threw off his arms.
    Gin Shotterill appeared from the front row and gathered up Zachary’s tackle. ‘Be careful,’ he called.
    Zachary glared back at him. ‘Someone hand me a long-sword!’ he shouted.
    A long-sword bobbed and danced over the heads of the crowd. Zachary grabbed hold of it to find it much weightier than his own at home, and badly balanced; the edge toothed as if it had been used
for hacking wood. He hoped he could wield it. He wanted to make this charlatan eat the dust.
    He brought the sword up over his shoulder, and swung it around his head a few times. His arm muscles burned. The crowd gasped in excitement, for he was short, and the sword was a monster of a
thing.
    He and Lagarde circled each other. The Frenchman made the first pass and Zachary leapt nimbly out of reach. Whilst Lagarde recovered Zachary swung the blade overhead and let the momentum slice
it towards his opponent’s poll. With a grunt he hauled it back up at the last moment so the tip just touched Lagarde’s head with a little tap.
    Lagarde staggered backwards looking up, and placed his hand to his hair in puzzlement. The crowd laughed. Zachary turned to them and