the centre stake: black silk for Isabel. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago.” Was he the protégé—or she the prize?
“Time.”
Time of reckoning.
He walked to scratch and took his stance.
A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.
Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.
A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.
Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.
Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.
Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.
Down!
With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.
“Drink this. Takes the pain away.”
Brandy and water, by the taste.
“Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”
Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.
“Time.”
Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!
Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.
Here was a chance for real advantage, not to be squandered. Coolly Jago set to work, measuring the punches and delivering them crisply. Judd bowed, arms locked across his face. Seeing no way past his attacker, he clearly decided on a strategic closure of the round. Far from convincingly he tottered forward and fell at Jago’s feet.
“Prettier work,” said D’Estin, as he sponged Jago’s face. “Don’t finish him too early, though. You fight to instructions. Understand?”
Jago understood. Even in a backyard scuffle between two unknowns the ritual of the prize ring had to be observed. You didn’t finish a fight in three rounds.
So for the next five he fought to the book, controlling the bout as he pleased, treating the crowd to first blood in the sixth with a fine blow to Judd’s swollen lip. In the seventh he allowed Judd to throw him down from a neck hold. There was no difficulty now in believing in the reality of the fight; the spike wounds in his foot had greatly helped his concentration.
“You can give ’em a show of your quality in the next two, Jago, and finish it in the tenth, as we arranged,” D’Estin said between rounds. “How are your knuckles?”
“Damned painful,” Jago told him, looking at them as detached objects resting on his thighs.
“Grip some oakum, then.” He pushed several strands of loose rope fibre into the damp palms. “It’s quite within the rules, don’t worry. It’ll cushion your punching.”
As Jago rose from Vibart’s knee, he thought for a second that he recognized a face at an open window of the Fox. He had not been much aware of the crowd before; they supported Judd almost to a man, and he had ignored them. That face, though, was somehow familiar, and it watched him intently.
He gave his attention to Judd. The local man’s strategy now was the desperate tactics of attacking the neck. Early in his
“Time.”
Time of reckoning.
He walked to scratch and took his stance.
A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.
Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.
A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.
Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.
Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.
Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.
Down!
With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.
“Drink this. Takes the pain away.”
Brandy and water, by the taste.
“Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”
Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.
“Time.”
Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!
Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.
Here was a chance for real advantage, not to be squandered. Coolly Jago set to work, measuring the punches and delivering them crisply. Judd bowed, arms locked across his face. Seeing no way past his attacker, he clearly decided on a strategic closure of the round. Far from convincingly he tottered forward and fell at Jago’s feet.
“Prettier work,” said D’Estin, as he sponged Jago’s face. “Don’t finish him too early, though. You fight to instructions. Understand?”
Jago understood. Even in a backyard scuffle between two unknowns the ritual of the prize ring had to be observed. You didn’t finish a fight in three rounds.
So for the next five he fought to the book, controlling the bout as he pleased, treating the crowd to first blood in the sixth with a fine blow to Judd’s swollen lip. In the seventh he allowed Judd to throw him down from a neck hold. There was no difficulty now in believing in the reality of the fight; the spike wounds in his foot had greatly helped his concentration.
“You can give ’em a show of your quality in the next two, Jago, and finish it in the tenth, as we arranged,” D’Estin said between rounds. “How are your knuckles?”
“Damned painful,” Jago told him, looking at them as detached objects resting on his thighs.
“Grip some oakum, then.” He pushed several strands of loose rope fibre into the damp palms. “It’s quite within the rules, don’t worry. It’ll cushion your punching.”
As Jago rose from Vibart’s knee, he thought for a second that he recognized a face at an open window of the Fox. He had not been much aware of the crowd before; they supported Judd almost to a man, and he had ignored them. That face, though, was somehow familiar, and it watched him intently.
He gave his attention to Judd. The local man’s strategy now was the desperate tactics of attacking the neck. Early in his
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