stand . . .
This was all wrong. I tensed, aware of the clamor around me, jostled by drinkers and yet, somehow, completely isolated, then gave a small bow without taking my eyes from theirs. “I thank you for your time, gentlemen, but I’ve had second thoughts.”
The Middle Man looked taken aback and his lips cracked in a smile, revealing more graveyard teeth. This was what a minnow saw—seconds before it was devoured by a shark.
“Second thoughts, eh?” he said with a sidelong look left and right at his two bigger companions. “How do you mean? Like you’ve decided you don’t want to go to London no more? Or is it that me and my friends don’t look sufficiently seafaring for your liking?”
“Something like that,” I said, and pretended not to notice the man on his left push back his chair as though ready to leave his seat, and the man on the other flank lean forward almost imperceptibly.
“You’re suspicious of us, is that it?”
“Might be,” I agreed, with jutted chin. I folded my arms across my chest and used it as an opportunity to bring my right hand closer to the hilt of my sword.
“And why might that be?” he asked.
“Well, you haven’t asked me how much I can afford, for a start.”
Now his lips cracked in a smile. “Oh, you’ll be earning your berth to London.”
I pretended not to understand what he meant. “Well, that’s quite all right, and I thank you for your time, but I shall take care of my own passage.”
Now he laughed openly. “Taking care of your passage was what we had in mind.”
Again I let it wash over me. “I shall take my leave, messieurs,” I said, bowing slightly, making to turn and push my way back through the throng.
“No, you won’t,” said the Middle Man, and with a wave of his hand he set his two dogs upon me.
They stood, hands on their swords at their waists. I stepped back and to the side, drawing my own sword and brandishing it at the first, a movement that stopped them both in their tracks.
“Ooh,” said one, and the two of them began to laugh. That rattled me. For a second I had no idea how to react as the Middle Man reached into his clothes and produced a curved dagger, and the second man wiped the smile off his face and came forward.
I tried to ward him off with the sword but I wasn’t assertive enough and there were too many people around. What should have been a confident warning slash across the face was ineffective.
“You’re to use it for practice.”
But I hadn’t. In almost ten years of schooling I’d barely practiced my sword fighting at all, and though I had on occasion, when the dormitory around me was quiet, taken the presentation box from its hiding place, opened it to inspect the steel anew, running my fingers over the inscription on the blade, I had rarely taken it to a private place in order to work on my drills. Just enough to prevent my skills calcifying completely, not enough to prevent them rusting.
And either that or my inexperience, or more likely a combination of the two, meant that I was woefully unprepared to take on these three men. And when it came it wasn’t some dazzling swordplay that sent me sprawling to the wet and stinking sawdust-strewn boards of the tavern, but a two-handed push from the first of the thugs to reach me. He’d seen what I hadn’t. Behind me lay the same drunken man who had recoiled off me earlier, and as I skated back a step and my ankles met him I lost my balance, fell and in the next instant was lying on top of him.
“Monsieur,” I said, hoping that somehow my desperation would penetrate the veil of alcohol, but his eyes were glassy and his face wet with drink. In the next second I was screaming with pain as the heel of a boot landed on the back of my hand, grinding the flesh and making me let go of the sword. Another foot kicked my beloved sword away, and I rolled and tried to get to my feet but hands grabbed me and pulled me up. My desperate eyes went from the crowds who
This was all wrong. I tensed, aware of the clamor around me, jostled by drinkers and yet, somehow, completely isolated, then gave a small bow without taking my eyes from theirs. “I thank you for your time, gentlemen, but I’ve had second thoughts.”
The Middle Man looked taken aback and his lips cracked in a smile, revealing more graveyard teeth. This was what a minnow saw—seconds before it was devoured by a shark.
“Second thoughts, eh?” he said with a sidelong look left and right at his two bigger companions. “How do you mean? Like you’ve decided you don’t want to go to London no more? Or is it that me and my friends don’t look sufficiently seafaring for your liking?”
“Something like that,” I said, and pretended not to notice the man on his left push back his chair as though ready to leave his seat, and the man on the other flank lean forward almost imperceptibly.
“You’re suspicious of us, is that it?”
“Might be,” I agreed, with jutted chin. I folded my arms across my chest and used it as an opportunity to bring my right hand closer to the hilt of my sword.
“And why might that be?” he asked.
“Well, you haven’t asked me how much I can afford, for a start.”
Now his lips cracked in a smile. “Oh, you’ll be earning your berth to London.”
I pretended not to understand what he meant. “Well, that’s quite all right, and I thank you for your time, but I shall take care of my own passage.”
Now he laughed openly. “Taking care of your passage was what we had in mind.”
Again I let it wash over me. “I shall take my leave, messieurs,” I said, bowing slightly, making to turn and push my way back through the throng.
“No, you won’t,” said the Middle Man, and with a wave of his hand he set his two dogs upon me.
They stood, hands on their swords at their waists. I stepped back and to the side, drawing my own sword and brandishing it at the first, a movement that stopped them both in their tracks.
“Ooh,” said one, and the two of them began to laugh. That rattled me. For a second I had no idea how to react as the Middle Man reached into his clothes and produced a curved dagger, and the second man wiped the smile off his face and came forward.
I tried to ward him off with the sword but I wasn’t assertive enough and there were too many people around. What should have been a confident warning slash across the face was ineffective.
“You’re to use it for practice.”
But I hadn’t. In almost ten years of schooling I’d barely practiced my sword fighting at all, and though I had on occasion, when the dormitory around me was quiet, taken the presentation box from its hiding place, opened it to inspect the steel anew, running my fingers over the inscription on the blade, I had rarely taken it to a private place in order to work on my drills. Just enough to prevent my skills calcifying completely, not enough to prevent them rusting.
And either that or my inexperience, or more likely a combination of the two, meant that I was woefully unprepared to take on these three men. And when it came it wasn’t some dazzling swordplay that sent me sprawling to the wet and stinking sawdust-strewn boards of the tavern, but a two-handed push from the first of the thugs to reach me. He’d seen what I hadn’t. Behind me lay the same drunken man who had recoiled off me earlier, and as I skated back a step and my ankles met him I lost my balance, fell and in the next instant was lying on top of him.
“Monsieur,” I said, hoping that somehow my desperation would penetrate the veil of alcohol, but his eyes were glassy and his face wet with drink. In the next second I was screaming with pain as the heel of a boot landed on the back of my hand, grinding the flesh and making me let go of the sword. Another foot kicked my beloved sword away, and I rolled and tried to get to my feet but hands grabbed me and pulled me up. My desperate eyes went from the crowds who
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