from the defunct www.amasour.com
Main Gauche
Sweat streamed down his forehead and irritably Dagger wiped it away on his already damp and grimy sleeve. He gave the
sword he was working on another look, then went back to pounding.
Another hard hour of labor later and he set the blade aside, then took care of his tools. Striding to the bucket in the corner of
the smithy, he took several deep swallows and then dumped the rest of the water over his head.
It was hot. Summer at its peak and being stuck inside the smithy was not his preferred method of dealing with the heat.
Untying his hair, he raked it back into some semblance of order and retied the thong. Thick and black, it only added to his
misery. He really should cut it, and accept his lot, but gentlemen wore their hair long…
Sighing, determined not to ruin his day further by dwelling on the stupid facts of his sorry life, Dagger looked over the work
waiting for him and pondered what to do next.
He didn't want to do any of it, not really, but he would. Maybe some of the tools next, so he could finish his day working on
the swords. Nodding, decided, he headed back into the work area of the shop-
Only to be stopped by a cacophony of shouting and cheering, the sharp tolling of the bells in the village square. A duel
already? It was only midmorning. Rolling his eyes, suspecting he knew exactly who he would see in the dueling circle,
Dagger snatched up a cleaning cloth and scrubbed at his hands and face as best he could as he walked down the street to
the village square.
Sure enough.
Epee stood in the far right corner, the morning sunlight bringing out the threads of red in brown hair. Opposite him was Lord
Sharp. Dagger rolled his eyes again. Honestly, these two never seemed to tire of trying to kill each other.
He narrowed his eyes as they fought, shaking his head slightly at Epee's slipping defense - but Lord Sharp was too hasty,
as always. Their fights were becoming predictable. He would have to tell Epee so.
The bruise just below his left eye throbbed, a reminder of the last time he'd voiced such an opinion within range of his
stepfather's hearing, and Dagger made a mental note to tell Epee about his slipping defense before they returned to the
house.
Yesterday Lord Sharp had won. Today, Epee took it. Dagger clapped for his stepbrother, smiling faintly when Epee finally
noticed him. Before he could motion Epee forward, to speak about his defense, his stepbrother was called away by another.
Oh, it was his stranger - Tan, he'd always called himself. Dagger knew nothing about him, save he was a noble and knew
how to use the sword slung so casually at his left hip. Very fine hips, those, on a very fine body. Light brown hair, just long
enough to barely be fashionable. Handsome features; if not for the smile he'd be rather stern looking. Simple, elegant
clothes.
He conversed avidly with Epee, who clapped the man on his shoulder and motioned. Dagger blinked. Epee knew the man?
Surely not…but they conversed lightly, easily. He watched, frowning now, as Epee motioned to the board where notices and
all were hung. The frown deepened as Tan tore away a notice Dagger didn't recognize, though he'd looked at the board just
this morning. Epee snatched it back, holding it laughingly out of reach, and Dagger could see he was taunting Tan. Where
they friends? How had he never known Tan and Epee knew each other?
But why should he have known, Dagger acknowledged bitterly. He hardly moved in the same circles. He grimaced at
himself and looked back at the two men - and realized they were walking toward him. Dagger suddenly felt every last bit of
grime plastered to his body with sweat. His clothes were damp beneath the hot weight of his work apron; he looked nothing
like Epee in his careless prettiness or Tan's simple elegance.
Well, of course he didn't. Dagger scowled at himself. He wasn't them, of course he didn't look like them. He'd been reduced
to peasant status since his mother's death, when her will had left every last thing to her husband 'in good faith he would take
excellent care of his stepson.'
He loved his mother, but she'd always been an idiot.
"Dagger," Epee greeted. "I could see from the look on your face that I was doing something wrong." He motioned before
Dagger could speak. "Reprimand me later. I believe for now you have a customer."
Sketching a bow, Dagger quietly recited all the niceties and accepted the sword the stranger held out. "Greetings, my lord. I
see you've been putting it quite thoroughly to use. When would you be wanting it back?"
"The sooner the better, of course," the stranger said with an easy smile. "However, there is no special rush."
Dagger nodded. "I can probably have it finished by tomorrow afternoon."
"Excellent. Thank you. It is always worth it to come out here to have my sword tended."
Dagger looked at his stepbrother, who had looked as though he were struggling not to laugh the entire conversation.
Suppressing an urge to roll his eyes again, Dagger ignored his stepbrother and returned his attention to Tan, drinking in the
sight of his hopeless crush to have new images with which to torture himself.
"Thank you," Tan said. "It's truly most appreciated. This should cover it, I think." He pressed a small bag of coins into
Dagger's free hand, then clapped Epee on the shoulder and bid him farewell before turning and vanishing into the crowd.
Epee burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" Dagger asked.
"You-how long has he been bringing his sword to you, Dagger?"
Dagger shrugged. "At least as long as I've been working the smithy, I guess." Like he'd admit he knew exactly, to the day,
how long Tan had been coming. Epee obviously had enough to be amused about.
Epee slowly got his laughter under control. "Never mind. Take a look at this."
Frowning, thoroughly vexed with his confounding stepbrother, Dagger nevertheless accepted the notice he held out. His
eyes widened as he read it. "A tournament? Really?" His breath caught as he read the prize. Oh, he wished… Dagger
shoved the frivolous thought aside. He was a peasant. Entering the tournament was impossible; dwelling on the idea for
even a moment was stupid. "Are you planning on entering?"
"Of course I am," Epee said dismissively. "Why were you glaring at me after the duel?"
"Because your defense is abhorrent," Dagger retorted. "You're getting lazy and sloppy; it's little wonder to me that Sharp
took you so easily yesterday."
Epee grinned; it was more a baring of teeth. "I'm sure he'd like to take me, the bastard, but father will give his estate over to
you before that happens."
"You're an idiot," Dagger replied. "Go provoke Sabre; fighting him will force you to improve your defense. I have to get back
to work."
"As you command. Father went to speak with his solicitor today, so if I were you I'd sleep in the smithy. Ta ta, little brother."
Waving absently, Epee turned and began to walk back home.
Heaving a sigh, Dagger made his way back to the smithy.
"Was beginning to think you ran away, lad." The man who spoke was as rough and weathered as the smithy itself, as
messy as Dagger. He was just past fifty but didn't act like it; Dagger had seen him throw around more than one man like a
sack of feathers when tavern brawls got out of hand.
Dagger snorted. "Where would I go?" He carried Tan's sword to the front counter and logged the new job in the ledger. "I
went to see a duel. Epee and Sharp again, naturally. They should just kill each other and get it over with."
"Something like that," Hammer said, joining him at the counter. Though he could still toss men like they were nothing, the
same didn't go for horses. Helping a farmer shoe his horse the other day, Hammer had taken a nasty blow to his arm when
a child managed to spook the horse in question.
Which meant all the work fell to Dagger - not that he really minded, in the end. Anything was better than going home. "Do
you mind if I sleep here tonight, Hammer?"
"Rapier on a tirade again?" Hammer asked, tone idle rather than pitying or sympathetic, something Dagger deeply
appreciated.
Dagger shrugged. "Epee's suggestion."
"You should just leave for good, lad," Hammer said. "Certainly you're welcome here, always. Hell, you run the shop more
than me these days, even before that nag tried to finish me off."
"I know," Dagger said quietly. He should. He probably could. His stepfather and Sabre wouldn't miss him. Epee always knew
where to find him. But - it was his house damn it. He wasn't going to let the bastard drive him entirely out of it.
Hammer eyed the sword on the counter. "Encountered Tan, did you?"
Dagger nodded. "Yes. After the duel. He gave me the sword and asked us to touch it up." He grimaced, recalling how
friendly Epee had been with Tan. Just once, he wished he could be that easy and familiar. But wishes were a waste of time,
and Tan was completely out of reach.
"You could stop mooning and do something about it, lad," Hammer said, looking at him in exasperation and amusement.
"Oh, yes. That would go over well. Look at me, Hammer. That any noble would take my interest seriously is laughable." He
stomped away to put Tan's sword with the others.
Hammer shook his head. "You don't know until you try, lad. But suit yourself. Get on with your work so you can have this
ready when he comes to retrieve it."
"Yes, Master," Dagger said, and threw himself into his work, determined to drive out all other thoughts.
It was well past dark when Hammer finally called a halt. Dagger groaned, every last bit of him tired and sore. Without a word
he cleaned his tools and put them away, then tidied the shop and closed it up.
He strode into the back yard and worked the pump, muscles protesting, until he'd filled a bucket. Dumping it over his head,
he promptly filled another and repeated the process until he had rinsed away the worst of the grime.
Not too far away he could hear the sounds of revelry as people played in the tavern or stumbled their way home. Talking,
laughing…
It shouldn't hurt anymore, not with his mother nearly five years in the grave, but it did. Until he was fourteen he'd been part of
that world. Now he wasn't really part of anything. His old friends didn't miss him, only Epee was kind to him, and keeping his
hair long didn't mean he was in any way a gentleman.
So many times he'd spoken of his plans with his mother - to study, to travel, to duel every master who would honor him with
a match. It was the swordsmanship he missed the most, the only thing that tied him to his father. But peasants weren't
permitted to carry swords, and were heavily punished should they be caught doing so.
He missed it, so very much. Repairing swords in no way replaced using them. But…he missed the companionship too.
Before his parents had died, he'd had all manner of lessons, trips to other villages, dueling practice…
Now he did not even have the energy to drag himself to the tavern after work ceased. It wasn't as though he'd have anyone
to drink with anyway. He always seemed stuck between two worlds.
Sighing at himself, Dagger trudged across the yard to Hammer's house.
"Come and eat, lad," Hammer said. "You work yourself to death; I tried to slow you down half a dozen times."
Dagger shrugged and sat down heavily, yawning as he reached for his plate. He paused as a piece of paper caught his
eyes - the royal notice announcing the tournament. "What are you doing with this?" he asked, giving Hammer a suspicious
look.
"You could enter it," Hammer said calmly. "The winner can request any prize within the King's power to give."
Dagger nodded, mind straying helplessly to what he could ask for. He could get his home back, everything his stepfather
had taken from him, then kick Rapier and Sabre out. Then he'd have money enough to resume his schooling - everything.
"Aye. Everyone is saying the King wants to show his son off to the kingdom, let everyone see the crown prince, get him
more familiar and comfortable with his people." Hammer grinned. "I'm sure he's also hoping the prince will come out the
winner, but we'll see. You probably stand a fair chance at the prize yourself, lad."
Dagger grimaced. "Hardly. It's not as though I practice anymore."
"Well, that's not true," Hammer said, old gray eyes intent. "I know very well you practice in the yard every morning."
"Oh," Dagger said guiltily.
Hammer tapped the decree. "Enter the tournament, I say. You're good enough, I've seen you. If you lose, no harm. If you win
- well, don't forget old Hammer, eh?"
"You're my family, Hammer," Dagger said. "I'd never forget you." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's not like I'd win. Even Epee could
probably defeat me these days."
"Worth trying, at least."
Dagger frowned, thinking. "I have neither the clothing nor the blades." He didn't have the manners or the looks, either, but
there was nothing he could do about those. "What I have now would mark me a peasant straight away. That aside, I'd have
to find a way to do it right beneath my stepfather's nose…"
Hammer smiled. "I think we can solve those problems easily enough. The important part is you wanting to do it - do you?"
"It's not a good idea," Dagger forced himself to say. Because it wasn't - even assuming he won, once it was revealed he
was a peasant they could quite easily simply refuse to acknowledge his win. Hell, they could arrest him if they really felt so
inclined.
But to actually duel again…it was so very tempting.
"I don't doubt Tan will be there," Hammer said idly, as if stating something mildly interesting or amusing. "The way he uses
his sword, I am sure he'd be there."
Dagger swore and shot him a nasty glare. "That is cheating. My entering this tournament is a bad idea. We're not even
certain I could manage it, and the idea I could win is nigh on laughable."
"But you'd get to fight, would very likely get to fight Tan at some point, and if by some chance you should win - well, there
you have it."
Groaning, Dagger gave up. "Fine. I'll do it. If I can find the proper clothing, and of course I need a sword."
Hammer's smile turned into a grin. "I've got just the thing." He stood up and ambled over to a chest tucked into a corner of
the room. Hammer's smithy was actually quite large - the smithy itself took up the entire front, then there was a small yard
with a small house at the opposite end. It wasn't a lot, just one large room and two slightly smaller, but they were warm and
comfortable.
Throwing the chest open, he came back carrying a long bundle in his good arm and set it down in front of Dagger.
Dagger unwound the long length of fabric and cast it aside, eyes only for the blades. "Hammer…where…" The sword was a
fencing saber, the hilt wound with gold filigree shaped like ivy. The elaborate cage guard continued the ivy theme. Beautiful -
breath taking even. Better still - beside the sword was a matching dagger. Perfect. Too perfect. "Where did you get these?"
Hammer smiled and said only, "I made them. So I guess now all we need is to find you some proper clothing."
"Hmm," Dagger murmured thoughtfully. If he asked, Epee would probably be willing to help. But he didn't want to drag
anyone into this that he didn't have to, in case something went wrong. "Oh. I know. My mother kept all of my father's clothes.
She stored them in the attic; I doubt Rapier knows or cares that any of it is there. It's all old of course, but…" He stood up,
carefully setting the blades aside. "If I go now, he'll be buried in his study; Epee and Sabre are likely still out." He moved
quickly to get dressed, barely noticing Hammer's amused chuckles.
*~*~*
"You look displeased, Highness."
Katan turned from his balcony to look at the speaker. Lance was the Master Swordsman of the castle; it was his duty to
train the royal house and a select handful of others. Ten years separated them, but they had long ago progressed from
master and student to friends. "Of course I'm displeased. Aren't I always when my damned father manipulates me?"
Lance chuckled. "Come, Katan. You know you will enjoy the tournament."
"Yes," Katan replied acidly. "Days spent fighting people who should not be here, who would not risk losing favor by defeating
me, or will be looking for bragging rights by saying they defeated me. I sincerely doubt that anyone is here solely for the sake
of the tournament itself."
"Well that is overly harsh, Katan," Lance reprimanded lightly. "The prize your father is dangling, everyone who can so much
as hold a sword will be trying his luck. I'm sure, however, that more than a few gentlemen here want only to test their mettle.
The rest will be quickly weeded out, I assure you."
Katan shrugged, refusing to give up feeling irritable. He'd been quite content to keep to himself, thank you. He would not
soon forgive his father for this spectacle - this debacle. Smartass kings did not deserve to be indulged with good grace.
Lance chuckled. "Look on the positive side, Highness - he did not throw a ball as he originally threatened."
"This is not what I had in mind," Katan replied. "I don't see what was wrong with my idea of simply taking a grand tour of the
kingdom. That would have made more sense than this."
"But you are taking a tour of the kingdom," Lance said, frowning. "After the tournament."
Katan swore. "I'm going to kill him."
"That will only make you king that much sooner."
Swearing again, Katan braced his arms on the balcony ledge and glowered down at the people milling about far below.
Hundreds were pouring into the palace to sign up for the tournament. He wondered how many of them would be worth
fighting. Far too many times he'd faced opponents who did not know how to fight a prince - that is, they did not treat him like
they would everyone else. Which wasn't fair; rank shouldn't matter in a duel. Only the swords and the skill of the duelists
mattered.
Ah, well. Perhaps the ones after bragging rights would prove entertaining.
One of those in the crowd caught his attention, and he motioned. "Look here, Lance. Can I go about like that fellow? I would
gain some prize fights indeed."
Lance snorted, shaking his head at the man Katan indicated, who was dressed head to foot in black - and wearing a half-
mask. "How amusing," he said. "I wonder if it's merely for effect, or if he truly has something to hide."
"It will affect his vision," Katan said thoughtfully. "He is either too stupid to know it, too unskilled for it to matter, or skilled
enough he believes it an insignificant handicap." Excitement thrummed in his chest, despite his efforts to remain detached -
and annoyed with his father. "I do hope it is the latter."
"Indeed, Highness," Lance said with a smirk. "Ah, I see Lords Epee and Sharp. They will be worth fighting, even if you can
beat them both."
Katan snorted. "If they do not kill each other first."
Lance chuckled and nodded in agreement.
"I suppose we should be joining the throngs," Katan said with a sigh. He raked a hand through his hair, grimacing at the
length. Fashion and his mother dictated he keep it long, however, and so he put up with it. Smoothing down his dark blue
velvet jacket, ensuring all his clothing lay properly and neatly, he finally conceded to the inevitable.
He left the balcony and strode through his bedroom, out into the halls, slowly making his way to the Royal Yard where the
tournament was to take place. Taking his place at his father's right, he pointedly did not exchange pleasantries. Instead he
skimmed his eyes over the crowd, nodding briefly to those few he felt like acknowledging - Epee, Sharp, a couple of others.
Moving on, he continued to glance over the crowd, making idle guesses as to who would put up a worthy fight, and which
would bore or annoy him. He stopped as his eyes landed on a figure at the very edge of the crowd - the masked man he'd
glimpsed before. Who was staring back at him, until he realized he himself was now being watched and hastily dropped his
gaze.
Well, now. Katan wasn't unused to being stared at, but it wasn't usually with such a focus.
He was truly curious now as to the man's reasons for wearing the mask. Whoever he was, he cut a fine figure. His clothes
were a trifle old-fashioned, but it only added to his mystery. Not quite as tall as himself, he thought, but it was hard to tell at a
distance. Black hair, neatly tied back. No ornamentation, not even lace at his cuffs or throat - a throat that was unfashionably
visible, a hint of skin not generally seen in the day to day. So the masked swordsman was uncaring or bold.
Katan dropped his gaze to examine the sword slung at the man's hip. No - he could spy two blades. The longer saber, and a
companion dagger. That was even more old-fashioned than the clothing.
How intriguing.
Reluctantly he let his attention fall away from the masked man as he recognized from the shift in tone that his father's
speech was concluding. Taking his cue, Katan went smoothly through his own welcomes, expressing pleasure at the
tournament, on and on until he could at last conclude his own speech.
Finally the crowd began to disperse, off to enjoy the banquet being thrown tonight to open the tournament. Tomorrow the
dueling would begin.
He rejoined Lance as the Yard emptied, everyone trickling back inside to the ballroom.
"Did you get a look at your masked man?" Lance asked, walking with hands clasped behind his back. The smirk on his face
said he knew very well Katan had taken note. "He looks rather interesting; I've not seen anyone use a main gauche in at
least a decade."
Katan nodded. "I can't think such an old-fashioned style would hold up well against more modern." He touched fingers lightly
to his own sword. It was a beautiful blade, long and curving. It had been touched up perfectly; others might mock and
reprimand him for going into the village, but Hammer and his apprentice did fine work.
They slipped quietly into the ballroom, Katan detesting making a scene. He wanted to be a duelist, nothing more. Across the
room he could practically feel his father glaring, almost hear his mother's tolerant sigh.
Snagging a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant, he took a sip and glanced over the crowded room. His glance
fell upon the familiar form of Epee…and he realized suddenly that Epee was talking to the masked man. Sipping his wine,
Katan fought his way through the crowd, making all the necessary polite murmurs and nods, eventually breaking through to
his goal.
"Epee, you did come."
Epee grinned and rose from where he'd been bent slightly toward the masked man, hand sliding from his shoulder.
"Highness. Of course I came. I would not miss such entertainment. I believe my brother is skulking about somewhere, do
look out for him. He is still quite sour about the trouncing he took last month."
Katan rolled his eyes. "I do not know why; he nearly had me. Fighting him always forces me to improve my defense."
"Yes, quite," Epee said with a laugh. "Have you met our mysterious masked opponent?"
"No, and I confess I came hoping for an introduction."
Epee slid an arm around the stranger's shoulders, tugging him forward. "Alas, he gives no name. I've been trying to coax it
from him for the past several minutes. I have decided we should call him Main Gauche. Fitting, no?" Still grinning, he made a
show of introducing 'Main Gauche' properly to the prince and Lance.
Main Gauche pointedly removed Epee's arm from his shoulder and sketched a bow. "Highness," he said politely, voice low
and smooth, cultured and rather appealing. Behind the mask, he could not help but notice, the masked man's eyes were a
fine, pale green. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance."
Katan waved the words away. "I assure you, another hour and you'll not consider it one bit an honor. Your choice of weapon
is curious, stranger. How come you to fight in so long retired a style?"
"I was raised quite strictly, Highness," Main Gauche replied. "My way was my father's way, and his father before him.
Eccentric, I am certain, but it is the way I know best."
"I look forward to testing your mettle," Katan replied, and extended his hand to shake Main Gauche's. His grip was warm,
firm, and Katan was startled to feel so many calluses. No ordinary gentleman, this one. He was more and more intrigued.
Only with great reluctance did he finally allow Lance to drag him away to tend to the others in attendance. It would not be
taken favorably if he was so rude as to ignore all the guests.
Katan thought it was perfectly ridiculous. They were all here to duel, was it really necessary to waste the evening on
festivities? People would be tempted to eat and drink to excess, thereby ruining any chance they might have otherwise had
in the dueling circle.
He stayed only as long as he must, slipping out of the ballroom a quarter to the midnight hour, walking the silent halls lost in
thought.
The scuff of boots on marble brought his head up, and he turned toward the source of the sound, just barely catching a
glimpse of a figure standing on the balcony which overlooked the eastern gardens. He started to move on, uninterested,
when he caught the faintest gleam of not one but two hilts - only one person this evening had carried two blades.
Katan turned toward the balcony. "Tired of the revelry already, Main Gauche?"
A startled gasp was offered in reply, and Main Gauche spun hastily around.
It was too dark to see clearly, but he could see just enough to realize the man had removed his mask. Katan suddenly
wished there was more light - the moon was little more than a sliver, and the hallway lights were too far away here. "If I
might be impertinent," he asked as Main Gauche hastily put his mask back in place, "why do you trouble yourself with such
an odd affectation?"
"A necessary evil, Highness," Main Gauche replied quietly. "I do not prefer it; I simply have no choice."
Katan smiled. "I should think it would be more fun to go unnoticed. I, alas, am ever recognized."
Main Gauche made a strange, choking sound, but said only, "Sometimes recognition can be a bad thing, and not merely for
the person recognized. You carry a beautiful blade, Highness."
Quirking a brow at the unsubtle change in subject, wanting to press on the matter of recognition, Katan nevertheless let it
pass. "Thank you. As a boy I was utterly enamored of the sword used by an eastern visitor, and refused to use any other
style of sword. I am most curious to see how I stand up against your blades."
"Unfortunately, I have not been able to duel properly for the past few years. I doubt I will bear up against your Highness' well-
known skill. However, I fully intend to put forth my best." Katan could just see a hint of a grin the dark. "I bid you good night,
Highness, and expect you will do well on the morrow."
"The same to you, Main Gauche." Katan struggled to think of something to make the man linger, not wanting him to go.
Something about the man simply fascinated, and it wasn't just the mask. It was the dagger after which he was called, the
odd clothes, those rough calluses, the pretty green eyes…
Katan grinned to himself. Perhaps this tournament was not so great a waste of time after all.
Whistling softly, he left the balcony and returned to his own rooms, suddenly eager for the morning.
*~*~*
"Good morning, Main Gauche."
Dagger glared. "Shut up, Epee."
Epee snickered and threw his arm across Dagger's shoulders, dragging him along to the table set with refreshments.
"Let me go or I will remove that arm permanently."
Still snickering, Epee relented. "You're much more aggressive with that mask on. I rather approve. I do hope you fight Sabre
before his temper loses him a match. A pity father no longer duels, oh I would feast upon the image of that defeat for the rest
of my life!"
"I still don't see how you knew," Dagger groused.
Epee popped a bit of pastry into his mouth, taking his plate and Dagger over to an empty table. "I see you nearly every day,
and unlike my father and brother I do regard you with some affection - brotherly, of course." He winked. "I would be a poor
big brother indeed if I did not recognize you." He grinned and leaned forward, nearly knocking over his tea. "I say, are you
going to kick us out of the house? Warn me ahead of time, so I can be ready to watch as father and Sabre are removed
forcibly. Do remove them forcibly, please."
Dagger rolled his eyes. "You're absurd."
"So I oft am told," Epee replied lightly.
The bells of the palace church began to toll, ringing the tenth hour, and almost as one those crowded on the lawn rose from
their tables, settled their swords, and moved to the Yard.
From a dais at the far side, the King stood and began to speak.
Dagger didn't hear a single word. His attention was solely for the man standing on the King's right. Tan. Who was Prince
Katan.
When he had discovered Tan's identity last night, Dagger had nearly started laughing hysterically. The prince. The crown
prince had been visiting Hammer's smithy for years and he'd never realized it. No wonder Epee had been laughing at him
the other day.
Stupid. He'd come to see if he might encounter and duel Tan; he had foolishly allowed himself to linger on one or two
daydreams about what he might try if he actually won the tournament and gained true freedom.
Ha! Approaching a lord was one thing. The crown prince? He was dangerously close to that hysterical laughter again. Of all
the people with whom he could become smitten, he had to pick the most unattainable one of all.
Around him the crowd began to shuffle and murmur excitedly, and Dagger forced himself to pay attention.
Just over five hundred duelists would be participating, and the tournament would extend over a period of five days. The first
few days were the busiest, as the massive numbers were cut down. Dagger listened as the king recited it all - two hundred
and fifty six duels would take place today. A massive number, but the duels would likely go with fair speed as the weakest of
the lot were quickly weeded out. Tomorrow there would be one hundred twenty eight. The next day the remaining sixty four
would be trimmed down to sixteen, and on the fourth day that number would be cut down to only two. The very last day was
reserved for the final duel and the revelries afterward.
Dagger took a deep breath as he joined the lines to get his number. He pinned the small card stating his number to the lapel
of his jacket and moved to the Yard proper. The duels today would run the entire day; it would be exhausting. Finding a good
spot to stand near the dueling circle to which he'd been assigned, he began to watch whomever he could, determined to
make note of every possible opponent.
Until Tan - Katan - appeared. Damn it, must the man look so good? He'd always been cheerful, but in the dueling circles he
seemed to shine. Beautiful, more than Dagger could stand. Early morning sunlight brought out the gold in his light brown
hair, and he already knew that soft gold would match the prince's eyes.
He could not take his eyes off the match, breath catching to finally see the skill which necessitated Katan taking his sword to
Hammer for maintenance. And this was only a taste, for Katan won the duel after only a moment.
When the prince vanished into the crowd, Dagger turned away with a sigh and forced his mind back to the matter at hand. It
was some time before his own number was called, and by the time it was he felt close to bursting with impatience and
anxiety and second thoughts.
It was with immense relief he took his place in the dueling circle. His heart felt near to beating out of his chest. He was here.
He was really doing this. Dueling. Fighting someone real, not merely his own shadow.
His opponent used a rapier, already drawn and ready to be lifted in a moment. Dagger didn't draw his, even when the first
chime rang. Nor did he pull them when the second chime rang, starting the duel.
He stood still as his opponent hesitated, seeing the man's confusion - it turned into amused contempt, and the man charged
him.
Dagger dodged neatly to the side as the man lunged, drawing both blade and dagger, bringing up the latter to block the
man's side slash, neatly slipping under his lowered guard to press the tip of his saber to the man's throat.
The victory was called and he promptly withdrew and sheathed both his blades.
His defeated opponent stood in shock. Dagger nodded politely and turned away, ready for food now that he had one victory -
albeit pathetically easy to obtain - to his name. He stopped short to see Katan standing practically right behind him.
"Highness."
"Beautifully done," Katan said, smiling. "Neat and elegant. So quickly done, I scarcely saw you draw."
Dagger hoped he wasn't blushing. The prince had been watching him? Why hadn't he noticed? "Ah-thank you, Highness."
"Walk with me," Katan said brightly. The words weren't an order exactly, but he hadn't phrased it as a question either.
As though he'd say no even if it was an option. Dagger obediently fell into step alongside him, feeling thoroughly bemused.
"Your own match was as finely won, Highness. Alas, the real fun will not start for a couple more days."
Katan smiled. "Yes, I much look forward to three days hence, when the real challenges will start. You say you fight as your
father and his father fought. So is it family tradition to fight with the main gauche? I have never witnessed its use, except
once or twice as a child. It is also disappointing that your match ended so quickly; I would have liked to see it put more
stringently to use."
The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was going to say them. "I suspect your Highness will force me to
great exertions."
Something flashed in the prince's eyes, something Dagger didn't dare recognize. "Indeed," he replied. "I hope when we meet
in the ring, Main Gauche, it is because all other opponents have been exhausted."
"That would be most pleasing, Highness," Dagger said, heart in his throat. He'd thought only to duel his mysterious Tan.
Learning Tan was Prince Katan, he'd given up hoping for anything more. He had never once considered that he would
converse with the prince, be purposely sought out for conversation…or that their conversation would take on such a heated
tone.
For there was no mistaking the heat, though he was struggling to ignore it because he didn't doubt for a moment that even
this prince who was proving to be more and more appealing would not be pleased at being duped by an insignificant
blacksmith.
Katan started to say something more, but abruptly glowered at a group of men walking toward them. "This way," he said,
and grabbed Dagger's wrist, ducking down a smaller hallway and after a moment into a room that proved to be a dayroom,
decorated simply in brown, blue, and cream. "Friends of my father," he explained. "All former duelists themselves; I don't
feel like listening to their advice and stories all night." He grinned and settled into one of the deep chairs in the far corner. "I
would much rather hear your stories."
"I have no stories," Dagger said quietly, slowly taking the other seat.
"I sincerely doubt that," Katan replied, motioning him to stay seated as the prince stood and crossed the room to a small bar
Dagger had not noticed before. "A man in a mask obviously has a story to tell, or there would be no need for secrecy."
The glass he pressed into Dagger's hands was of whiskey. Dagger thought suddenly and painfully of his father. He had not
thought of the man in years; he'd died only a few years before his mother. Dagger had continued his sword lessons as best
he could under the instruction of the tutors his father had trusted, but those lessons had vanished immediately with his
mother's death.
He shoved the errant thoughts aside, focusing on the prince - something far too easy to do. "Perhaps the secrecy is so that I
do not have to worry that there will be a story to tell in my future."
"A pity. You never did tell me if the main gauche was a family tradition."
Dagger smiled. "That is because you are prying, Highness. My identity is my own, to give or not."
"Fair enough," Katan said, returning the smile. "But that does not mean I shall stop trying. No man of your skill should have
any need to hide."
"My skill has not been tested, Highness," Dagger pointed out.
Katan shrugged. "That single move spoke of skill aplenty. I have seen something similar attempted before - Lance is the
only man I know to manage it. Even I do not draw that effortlessly, and I know my skill is not inconsiderable."
"I look forward to testing it, Highness," Dagger said.
"I look forward to being tested, and testing in my turn," Katan replied, and there was no mistaking the additional connotation
to his words.
Dagger was torn between too many emotions, but misery was fast winning out. Entering the tournament had been a stupid
idea after all. He had truly never expected to get so close to Tan, never mind have his interest returned. It made everything
so much worse, because what would Katan do when he discovered the mysterious Main Gauche was only the blacksmith's
apprentice?
He tossed back the last of his whiskey, struggling to figure out what to say.
"So what do you hope to claim as prize should you win?" Katan asked, breaking the silence. "Not that I intend to let you win,
but if you stood any chance?"
Dagger shrugged. "I had not thought upon it, Highness. Truly my only real desire was for the duels themselves. Rarely am I
called upon to use the full of my skill." Rarely. Ha. Never. He shouldn't be here.
Katan quirked one brown in amused disbelief. "My father offers anything within his power to give, and you can think of
nothing?"
Against his will, Dagger reached up to lightly touch fingers to his mask. "Perhaps that I need no longer wear this, but to ask
that I would have to remove it, and that I cannot do. No, Highness. What I want is beyond the king's power to give."
"What, pray tell, is beyond a king's power to give? Precious little, I should think."
"A heart, Highness," Dagger said quietly, standing up, no longer able to tolerate the situation. He seemed so close to what
he wanted, but he was so far away it was laughable. "I must be off, to rest for tomorrow. I would hate to lose to exhaustion
before the real fun has begun."
Katan nodded, letting him go.
Dagger all but fled to his room, locking the door once he was safely inside, tearing away his mask before sinking to the floor
and burying his face in his hands. At the small of his back, the main gauche bit painfully into his skin where it was pressed
between him and the door.
Swearing, he stood up and removed his blades, then strode to the small table and chairs by his room's single window. He
set the saber on the table, holding fast to the main gauche, staring at it in despair. Really he should just leave; call the entire
charade off and go back to being a blacksmith.
Except he just couldn't. He was too firmly caught by Katan's smile, by the way he'd fought, by a desire to learn as much as
he possibly could before the tournament ended.
Sighing, he examined the main gauche in his hands, slowly easing his tight grip. Truly the blades were beautiful work. He'd
never seen their like, and wondered how Hammer had come by them. The ivy theme was skillfully wrought, and already his
fingers knew the path of tracing every curve and dip in the elaborate cage guard of the saber, each leaf on the hilt when his
hand curled around the main gauche.
Returning the blades and never seeing them again when this was over would likely break his heart almost as much as never
seeing Katan again. He set the main gauche down with a sigh and wandered to his window, watching the people milling
about below.
He could not help the small spark of jealousy at the way they could all move so freely, without a single care in the world.
That wasn't fair, he knew - everyone had problems. Sometimes, though, he seemed painfully alone with his.
Of course, if he'd just accept his lot and settle down to being a blacksmith, there would be no problem at all.
But he could still feel his father's fingers wrapped around his wrist, the way he'd helped Dagger get it just right, had drilled
him over and over 'to make your body remember the moves always'. The words, of course, had been beyond a mere boy's
comprehension, but Dagger had appreciated the rigorous training later.
He remembered his mother, how happy she'd been walking with the two of them. The memories were hazy, for he'd only
been nine or ten when his father had died, but the sentiments remained, the feelings.
And so long as they remained, he could not simply settle into the life of blacksmith. He wanted to be a duelist, to make his
father and mother proud. Because it made him happy.
Turning away from the window, he crossed the room and scooped up his mask, dropping it on the table with his swords.
Moving to the bell pull, he rang for a bath and then stripped out of his clothes. He'd worked for hours in the day before the
tournament to get them ready, fitting his father's old clothes to his own frame, making them as modern as he could. Still
they screamed old-fashioned, as faded as his style of fighting. To his mind, though, they still smelled like whiskey and steel,
a trace of his mother's perfume.
All in his head, of course, but he smelled the old memories all the same. Carefully setting the clothes aside, he shrugged
into an old velvet dressing gown and sat down with a book while he waited for his bath.
When the servants finally arrived, however, he had not turned so much as a single page.
*~*~*
Katan had long ago conceded he was quite taken with Main Gauche. He burned to have a real name to put to the man, but
then again the man's skill with his namesake was more than mere words could describe.
Day four was nearly concluded; only two matches remained.
His heart sped up despite his efforts to remain cool, detached, as he watched the ring.
Sabre took the right corner, scowling at everyone and nothing in his usual way. Unlike his brother Epee, pretty and
charming, Sabre was every inch their father's son - stern, moody, and given to fits of temper when the world simply proved
to be too aggravating.
He switched his attention to Main Gauche, who cut quite a fine figure indeed.
It had been much to his pleasure to learn that Main Gauche came just to his shoulder, would fit perfectly against him. He
wished he felt as comfortable as Epee in simply violating the man's space, slinging an arm about those fine shoulders,
dragging him along, teasing and provoking. Epee always made such things look so simple.
He'd thought that perhaps Epee knew the man, but Epee had denied it - which meant he either didn't know, or was
protecting his identity. Disappointing, either way. Katan greatly feared that after the tournament was over, his mysterious
duelist would disappear forever.
Hell, the man had so overtaken his thoughts he'd accidentally started speaking to his father again. Lance was not letting him
live it down.
Sabre was moving nearly as the second chime still rang, wasting no time in taking a hard aggressive, moving with
remarkable speed.
Not remarkable enough, for Main Gauche kept up, but it was a testament to Sabre's skill that he could keep pace with the
two blades and kept Main Gauche on the defensive.
Katan loved to watch him move; no one else in the tournament drew his eye half so much. Every chance he had to watch
Main Gauche, he had taken. He knew his own skill; even if he hadn't known it, that he was one of the final four in the
tournament said enough. Main Gauche, however…the man fought with a passion he'd never seen matched. It only made
him want to try harder, push himself further than he ever had. He wanted to match that passion.
If he was completely honest, and he had no reason not to be, he wanted that passion for himself. He wanted to see if the
sparks he saw in those pale green eyes when they conversed could be coaxed into full flames, into something as fierce as
what Main Gauche displayed in the dueling ring.
He wasn't honesty sure which he wanted more by this point - to face his masked duelist in the ring, or take him to bed.
Luckily he was a spoiled prince who fully intended to have both.
All he had to do to get the former was defeat Epee, which he would do after Main Gauche defeated Sabre.
"My brother is lasting longer than I had thought he would," Epee murmured quietly from beside him. "I guess his temper
gives him an edge."
Katan nodded, never taking his eyes from the fluid way Main Gauche danced around the dueling circle, meeting easily
Sabre's every forceful attack. He made every movement seem liquid, effortless. "I think he still will loose the match," he
finally said.
"Oh, invariably," Epee said. "Sabre is good, but Main Gauche is far better."
Even as he spoke, the ringing sound of metal striking with excessive force against metal rang out, cutting through the low
buzz of conversation surrounding the fierce duel. Swords clanged to the stone surface of the dueling area - and Sabre stood
in stony silence with the main gauche pressed to the throat.
Chimes rang out, closing the match. Sabre walked stiffly from the ring.
Epee snickered as his brother passed. "Well done, brother dear. I particularly liked when you lost your sword."
"Shut up," Sabre snarled.
"Such affection between the two of you," Katan said dryly.
Epee shrugged. "I got all the looks, charm, intelligence…he got the temper and the snottiness."
"Also the modesty," Katan said with a laugh. "Shall we?"
"Yes, please," Epee said, meeting the laugh with a smile. He drew his sword as they entered the ring, raising it in salute, and
they touched blades lightly before retreating to their respective corners.
From the corner of his eye he could see Main Gauche watching him, and it thrilled him rather more than he thought it should.
He already knew he could beat Epee, though it was never a disappointing match - Epee fought for love, except when he
fought Lord Sharp, against whom he had an undisclosed vendetta.
The second chime rang out and Katan threw himself into the fight. He and Epee knew one another's moves and tricks, and
he could not help but laugh as they fell into their familiar rhythm.
Epee threw off one of his thrusts, snickering as they circled one another. "Trying harder than usual, Katan? Showing off for a
certain dagger?"
"Shut up," Katan said, grinning. He feinted sharply to the left, catching a down swing, their blades singing as they slid apart
and he dropped to cut low, then brought his sword back around in an upward thrust.
It was blocked, but only barely.
"That was a new one," Epee said, still smiling away. "I think I'm nearly finished, eh?" He laughed and went right, then
abruptly cut left.
Katan dodged it by a hair, bringing his sword up to block another swing, knocking Epee slightly off balance, enough to break
his defense and thrust his blade to just touch the point to Epee's chest.
Epee threw his head back and laughed, sheathing his sword as the chimes rang out. "Well done, Highness, well done
indeed."
"Thank you," Katan said, shaking his hand.
"Have fun with your masked duelist," Epee said, and with a parting wave strode from the dueling ring.
Katan willed his heart to slow down, unsurprised when it ignored him in favor of speeding up as Main Gauche stepped into
the ring. Tomorrow he would get to duel this man. Perhaps tomorrow night he would finally be able to strip away the mask
and take his duelist to bed. He hated the mystery; it was a wide gulf between them. What could Main Gauche possibly have
to hide, and what did he want badly enough to take such obvious risk by entering the tournament?
He would have his answers tomorrow night, he vowed it.
Vaguely he heard his father speaking, but his attention was only for his masked duelist. He held his sword up in salute,
smiling as Main Gauche returned it, then brought his sword down sharply and sheathed it. Crossing the ring, he extended
his hand and clasped Main Gauche's, letting go slowly, caressing the rough hand as he withdrew. "I am looking forward to
tomorrow."
"Yes," Main Gauche replied, but the happiness Katan would have expected wasn't there - not entirely. Some dismal note
marred it.
He frowned, stung. "Does something trouble you?"
"Only that I do not think I will ever come to my senses," Main Gauche said with a sad laugh.
Katan shook his head and stepped closer. "Whatever is the matter? I can very likely fix it, you know, and gladly would I. Have
I not been clear in my interest? You must know…"
"Yes, Highness," Main Gauche said. "It is only the mask you know."
"I would change that."
"Trust me, Highness, you would not." Main Gauche smiled. "I look forward to our duel tomorrow. No matter the outcome, I
will treasure it all my life. Good night, Highness. I will see you on the morrow."
Katan let him go, feeling somehow that he had lost a duel though they had not fought one. He looked up as Lance joined
him. "That man is confounding me."
"He is confounding all the palace, Highness," Lance replied with an amused smile. "No one knows who he is, or they will not
admit to it. Theories abound, but I can find no grain of truth to any of them. His style alone would, you think, be enough to
mark him. Yet I can find no rumors of anyone who fights so. His blades are equally remarkable; as well crafted as your own.
Yet of them I can find no trace, either. Main Gauche is well and truly a mystery. Perhaps on the morrow he will at last solve it
for us."
"I don't think so," Katan said with an aggravated sigh, finally stalking irritably from the dueling ring, ignoring everyone who
clamored for his attention - including his father. "My impression was that he sorely regrets joining, though I know not why.
Tomorrow he will be either the best or second best duelist in the kingdom, yet that seems not enough to make him happy."
Katan fought off the bitter thought that apparently he wasn't enough to make Main Gauche happy either.
Lance walked beside him, mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. "I was wondering, Highness - is it possible your mystery
duelist is, shall we say, not quite of noble status?"
"A peasant?" Katan asked. He immediately dismissed the notion. "Preposterous. No peasant would have the time
necessary to develop such skill. The way he fights, he must have had instruction since boyhood and continues it still."
"Very likely, but it was a thought. It would go a long way toward explaining why we have never heard of him, and why he is so
desperate to keep his identity a secret."
Katan conceded the point - peasants were not permitted to duel, and it would put his father in a difficult position should he
have to reward someone who never should have been in the tournament to begin with. Still…the clothes, the manner of
speech, the skill. "I think if he were a peasant, we would have made note of it already."
Lance shrugged. "As I said, it was only a thought. Whatever he is, I hope he can be convinced to linger here after the
tournament is ended. Such skill could be put to great use…"
"Oh?" Katan asked. "What are you pondering?"
"Let us see how tomorrow goes, before I elaborate," Lance replied. "I do not like to act before I know the lay of things." He
clapped Katan on the shoulder. "Find your room, rest and relax. Make certain you get a good night's sleep, Highness. I
sense you will very much need it on the morrow. Main Gauche is the challenge you have always wanted."
Katan smiled. Always wanted, yes. Main Gauche was exactly what he'd always wanted. All he had to do was convince Main
Gauche of that and not let him escape.
*~*~*
Dagger dressed slowly, putting off the inevitable.
It should have been so simple. Duel, eventually lose, and then go back to his life.
Except somehow it had proven to be anything but simple. He was more enthralled with Katan than ever before, wanted so
badly to accept the offer in the prince's eyes… Never had he actually expected to make it this far.
Now he didn't know what to do. What would happen if he won the duel? He stood a good chance at taking the victory. So
close, he realized how stupid it was to think he could demand any sort of prize.
He was a peasant. He should never have been permitted to enter. Katan would never tolerate it - he wouldn't be permitted to
tolerate it. What had he been thinking, to let Hammer talk him into this?
Stupid Epee wasn't helping at all. He was going to run his stepbrother through when this was all over.
Heavy-hearted, Dagger finally pulled on his boots and tied back his hair. Striding to the table, he strapped on his belt and slid
his swords into place. He quickly turned and fled his room before he gave in to his urge to stay locked within it.
Outside, he strode across the field to the Yard. A quiet fell as he approached, the crowd parting to admit him, more than a
few clapping him on the shoulder and calling out words of luck and admiration.
Dagger only felt more depressed than ever. It felt so very much like he belonged, like he was a part of it all, when really he
was nothing but an interloper.
Depressed or not, he could not stop the excitement that thrummed through him as he reached the dueling circle and saw
Katan waiting for him, speaking idly with the Master Swordsman and his father. He was as beautiful and welcome a sight as
always, even as Dagger felt an ache in his chest that the man would never be his.
"Highness," he greeted, dredging up a smile because no matter what he could not help but smile at this man.
"Main Gauche," Katan greeted, nodding to his father and Lance before joining him in the ring. "I'm sure my father would
prefer to give a long speech before we bring this to an end, but I think I should like to skip that part." He drew his sword and
offered a salute. "Shall we?"
"We shall," Dagger replied, drawing his own sword to return the salute.
The king rolled his eyes, but conceded defeat, motioning to Lance who would judge the final duel himself.
Dagger realized he was holding his breath as the first chime sounded. He brought his saber up in a starting position, but did
not draw his main gauche. Katan would not find this an easy duel to win, not a bit.
He parried easily, dancing away, forcing Katan to either press the offensive or retreat himself. Katan opted for the offensive,
but the way his brow furrowed said he was puzzled that the trademark main gauche remained sheathed.
Grinning, Dagger let him stay confused, fighting in present style, keeping always to the defensive though he could have
stolen the offensive several times. Distantly he could hear the crowd murmuring its confusion, and he was sure many were
offended he would appear to switch styles at the very last - dishonorable.
Maybe they should study more sword techniques than merely their own.
Katan, he could see, was not so easily fooled. Other than the lack of additional guard the main gauche gave him, his style
had not changed - and he still wore his main gauche, which meant he intended to use it. Otherwise it was unnecessary
weight.
He kept at it, always keeping Katan slightly confused by refusing to draw his main gauche, until he knew the precise
moment Katan gave up waiting for it. As the prince came at him, Dagger blocked the blow with his sword, throwing it off
briefly, spinning away sharply as the prince recovered and bringing his main gauche abruptly into play, catching Katan's
blade low with it, jarring the prince badly - but he didn't drop his sword.
Impressive.
Dagger grinned and gave him no chance to recover, brandishing both blades now and firmly keeping hold of the offensive.
He saw Katan briefly return the grin, before his expression turned to one of fierce concentration.
After that, he knew only the duel and a deep longing that it would never end.
But he was too well-trained not to take a victory if he could, and when the moment came he took it unthinkingly. He pressed
the offensive harder than ever, driving Katan back - then let his defense slip ever so slightly.
Katan, of course, didn't fall for that, but when he recovered it the prince lunged forward, determined to take advantage of the
recovery - Dagger took the hit, hand flaring with pain as the main gauche was roughly jerked from it.
The move, however, cost Katan, who could not bring his sword up in time to counter Dagger's.
Silence fell as everyone realized the match was over, and that the mysterious Main Gauche had won.
Katan smiled. "Well done."
"It was a near thing, Highness," Dagger replied. "You should have been disarmed when I first drew the main gauche."
"I nearly was," Katan replied. He slowly sheathed his sword, gold eyes intense as they watched Dagger. "So what do you
claim as prize, then, Master Duelist?"
Dagger frowned. The thrill of the duel was rapidly fading beneath the chill of reality. "Nothing," he said.
"There must be something," Katan said, matching his frown.
"Nothing I can have, Highness," Dagger replied. He hesitated, wanting so badly…oh, why not? It was not as though he would
ever get another chance, and no one would find him to make him suffer the consequences.
Katan opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance, as Dagger reached out and yanked him forward, leaning up to
cover the prince's mouth with his own. A startled gasp was fed into his mouth and Dagger used it to his advantage, taking
possession of Katan's mouth, plundering it thoroughly, committing the heat and flavor of it to memory.
He realized belatedly that it was a dumb thing to do. Now he knew what it was like to kiss the man he couldn't have.
Knowing and not having was going to be hell.
With a rough sound he tore away and bolted, throwing himself toward and past the king's dais, running with all his might for
the garden and the gates beyond it. He could hear people chasing after him but only ran harder, not stopping until he was
safely beyond the palace gates and into the forest beyond.
Shaking, shuddering, chest aching from more than his exhausting sprint, Dagger forced himself to at least keep walking.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had he been thinking?
He stopped abruptly, as another realization struck him. His main gauche - he'd left it behind.
One misery on top of another. Heart heavy, Dagger resumed walking, chased by the glaring absence of the main gauche at
his back and the traces of the prince he could still taste on his lips.
*~*~*
Katan made his way through the village without enthusiasm. Normally he loved these visits, but after several aggravating
days of fruitless hunting, he wanted nothing but to curl up in his room and feel sorry for himself.
Why had Main Gauche fled? He almost wished the bastard had not kissed him first, except it had been as passionate as
Katan had known Main Gauche would be. So obviously Katan was not alone in his interest…why then had he chosen to
flee?
Bloody hell, he was the crown prince; there were precious few problems he could not overcome - through sheer spoiled
obnoxiousness if all else failed.
Glumly he trudged his way through the empty square and up the small hill to Hammer's smithy. It was early still, for he
hadn't been in the mood for dealing with more people than was strictly necessary.
The smithy was busy and noisy when he entered, Hammer and his apprentice working diligently away while most of the
village still slept.
Hammer caught sight of him and abruptly stopped, breaking into a welcoming smile. "Well, good morning, my lord. How
does the day find you?"
"Too early to tell," Katan replied. "My sword has been worked hard the past few days, I thought I would bring it just for a brief
once over." And because as much as he wanted to sulk about his room, he was sick unto death of waiting for good news
that never came. He would do some hunting himself.
"Dagger, lad. You're nearly done. Work on Lord Tan's sword."
Katan handed his sword over, smiling in thanks. Always so shy seeming, Dagger, but pleasant, likely handsome beneath
the grime and sweat that came with the exhausting work required of blacksmiths. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, my lord," Dagger said quietly, taking the sword and moving to the counter where he logged the new job in the
ledger.
"Hammer, if you're not busy," he continued. "There was something I wanted to ask you, though I'm sure you've already been
asked…"
Hammer grunted and came toward him. "Would this be about your main gauche, Highness?"
Katan sighed. "I see I am no longer fooling anyone."
"It would be difficult, Highness," Hammer said dryly, "if even a small portion of the rumors I am hearing are true. What is your
question, then?"
From beneath his jacket Katan pulled the main gauche his duelist had left behind in his haste to flee. "Do you recognize this
at all?" He pressed it into Hammer's hands, misery and confusion crashing over him anew. "Please. Anything."
"Oddly enough, Highness, you're the first one to think to ask me. I guess the rest of your palace thinks me too low a rung to
bother with. And yes, I do know it. It must be more than ten decades now since that order came through…" He shook his
head, smiling ruefully. "I really am getting old, aren't I? Anyway, just over ten years ago a young man came in here with a
request - he had a talented, wonderful son who showed every sign of becoming a brilliant swordsman and wanted worthy
blades for him to someday use, though the boy at the time was not yet ten. So the young man commissioned a sword and
main gauche, both of the highest quality. It was one of the few jobs I loved; that young man looked so happy and proud." He
smiled sadly.
Dread tangled with excitement in Katan. "What happened?"
"Alas, he never returned to claim the blades he'd commissioned. I learned later that he'd died in a riding accident."
A resounding crash brought Katan's head snapping up, and he saw that Dagger had accidentally knocked over several
tools.
"Sorry," Dagger muttered. "Should have been watching what I was doing, not listening to stories." He fumbled to fix the
mess, muttering soft curses.
Katan turned back to Hammer. "Then who did finally claim the blades?"
"I wish I could say, Highness," Hammer replied, vexed and annoyed. "Alas, my hands are tied by a promise."
Despair crashed through Katan. "Hammer - please. I cannot - you must- I will give you anything."
Hammer sighed. "Highness, I would like nothing more than to solve your riddle for you, but I cannot and will not break my
word."
"Of course not," Katan said, forcing the words out. Damn it, he was so very close… "Can you not give me any hint at all,
Hammer?"
"He's an idiot," Hammer said tartly. "When you find him administer a sound beating."
Katan's lips twitched. "I intend to, believe me." His levity faded. "If I can ever find him, anyway. I don't think he wants to be
found; perhaps I'm simply not-"
"Dagger!" The shout was filled with rage so deep Katan was startled into silence, and he could only stare dumbfounded as
Sabre - of all people - stormed into the smithy. "You," he snarled, eyes only for the young man in the back of the shop. "You
obnoxious, impertinent little rat."
"Sabre," Dagger said coldly, a tone of voice Katan had never head from the shy, congenial apprentice. "What do you want? I
haven't been to the house in weeks, what could I possibly have done to-" He was cut off as Sabre punched him, tumbling to
the floor from surprise and pain.
Hammer roared in outrage. "Sabre, get your hands off-"
"I will do as I please to my stepbrother," Sabre replied coldly. He turned back to Dagger. "Did Epee help you? I could see
how he would find it amusing to do so. He tried to deny it, of course, but I think after his broken nose heals he will sing a
different tune."
Dagger grunted. "What are you talking about?" He struggled to stand up.
Katan started to put an end to it, but Sabre's next words stopped him short.
"Ivy," Sabre said. "That's what bothered me during the tournament. I knew I'd seen that stupid ivy design before. I've been
racking my brain to figure it out - and lo, I finally recalled it this morning. That stupid portrait of your parents shoved into one
of the spare bedrooms. Your father is wearing his rapier and what is the design laid into the hilt? Ivy, though it was silver
rather than gold."
"What?" Katan asked, eyes widening, flying to Dagger.
Sabre kicked him. "Impertinent little worm. You're lucky father is locked away in his meetings or you would already be well
on your way to another thrashing. How dare you!"
Dagger said nothing.
"Enough," Katan said coldly. "Lord Sabre, remove yourself immediately or I will see you dragged away and put in stocks."
Sabre's head jerked up, and for the first time he seemed to realize who else was in the room. He blanched to see Katan -
but almost immediately recovered himself. "Highness, surely you can see-"
"That you are dangerously close to winding up in those stocks," Katan interrupted. "Get out."
Though he clearly wanted to do nothing of the sort, Sabre stiffly obeyed.
Katan barely noticed when Hammer vanished as well, his eyes only for Dagger. He stalked across the smithy as Dagger
stood up.
Slowly Dagger lifted his head to meet Katan's gaze.
His jaw dropped. Those eyes. Pale green and intense. How…how had he never seen?
Because he'd never looked, Katan realized in annoyance. So many times he'd come here, but never had he paid close
attention to Hammer, even less to his quiet apprentice. Stupid. What a fine crown prince he was proving to be.
Dagger looked away, making some rough, indistinct noise, and started to move.
Katan caught his arm and held him firmly in place. "Why didn't you just tell me, Dagger?"
"Tell you?" Dagger laughed bitterly. "Tell the crown prince that the duelist he wanted was nothing but a lowly blacksmith who
never should have been dueling in the first place?"
"You duel like one born to it," Katan said, confused. "Sabre called you stepbrother…which would explain why Epee knows
you so well, and why he was so friendly to you at the tournament."
Dagger grimaced. "He wasn't supposed to know, but that's Epee…"
Katan smiled briefly. Slowly he released his grip on Dagger's arm, relaxing slightly when he did not try to run again. His hand
moved on its own to Dagger's cheek, thumb caressing it lightly.
With a strangled sound Dagger jerked away from the touch. "Don't," he said tightly.
"Why not?" Katan asked. "Unless I have been misled all these years, that kiss said you very much wanted me too."
Dagger flicked a brief glance up, then looked away again. "When my mother died, she left everything to my stepfather - who
refuses to claim me. I'm nothing but a peasant, a humble blacksmith. Whatever I was meant to be, I am no longer. Hardly fit
for a prince, no matter what I might wish."
"You're the Master Duelist," Katan replied. "Lance was fully prepared to take you on as his apprentice."
"W-what?" Dagger asked, head jerking up, eyes wide. "But he's-"
"The Master Swordsman." Katan repeated his caress of Dagger's cheek, cursing himself for never seeing what now
seemed so painfully obvious. This entire time, his Main Gauche was right in front of his face. Damn it.
Moving in close, he cupped Dagger's face in his hands and bent to give him a deep kiss, holding him tighter still when
Dagger struggled - then the struggles abruptly ceased, and Dagger all but melted in his grasp. He broke the kiss with great
reluctance, but there were things yet to be said. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've been blind."
"I was counting on that," Dagger said, but there was no missing the sadness underlying his calm tone. "I'm just-"
Katan cut him off with another kiss, shifting to bury one hand in Dagger's hair, sliding his other arm around the narrow waist
and yes his Main Gauche fit as perfectly against him as he'd predicted. "Why did you run?" he asked, pulling away only just
far enough to manage the words.
"You're going to be king someday," Dagger replied. "Kings don't take lowly peasants as lovers."
"This one does," Katan replied firmly. "Anyway, you're going to be Master Swordsman someday." He frowned when Dagger
made no reply, merely looked away, expression glum. "You're not even willing to try? I thought you felt something for me,
too. Certainly you kiss like you do."
Dagger smiled faintly, sadly. "I always have; every time you came in here it was all I could do to string two words together.
Imagine my shock when the cheerful lord I'd hoped to encounter at the tournament turned out to be the crown prince
himself."
Katan was struck dumb. Dagger had been watching him so long? He shook his head, feeling like the greatest of fools. "I'm
sorry." He loosed the hand still buried in Dagger's hair to gently tug Dagger back into looking at him. "I've been looking
everywhere for you; I'm ashamed and utterly contrite I did not see you right in front of me. But I'm not leaving without you,
unless you tell me right now that you have no interest in me whatsoever and would prefer I never trouble you again."
That earned him a glare, and Dagger opened his mouth to speak - then snapped it closed. "You're the crown prince…"
"You are the Master Swordsman's apprentice, and anyway it serves my father right for thinking himself so witty by hosting
the tournament to begin with."
Dagger smiled - a small smile, rather weak compared to those he'd displayed during the tournament, but a smile all the
same. "As you wish, then, Highness."
"Katan. My name is Katan."
The eyes that met his were still wide with disbelief, but he could see now they were filled with hope too. "Katan." Dagger did
barely more than whisper the name, but it was more than enough.
"Main Gauche. Dagger." Katan laughed with the thrill of victory and leaned in to take another kiss.
1000 Victories
The thrill of victory flooded his veins, hot and fierce, curling in his belly like a good brandy or a fine toss in the sheets.
Epee smirked at Sharp, meeting the furious gaze unflinching. "That is victory to me, today, my dearest Lord. You put on a
fine show, as always, and provide some modicum of challenge."
Oh, he did like far too much to see Sharp's eyes flash with anger. The very color of the chocolate he drank every morning
for breakfast. Dark eyes and pale hair, a beautiful contrast. Too bad there was such a temper behind it.
Then again, that temper only ever seemed to flare when Epee entered his line of vision. It hadn't always been thus, but it had
been such for so long, Epee had all but forgotten a time when Sharp did not wish to run him through.
Seven years ago, that had been. Ever since Mace had accused him of cheating, and Sharp had believed it - even when his
name had been cleared, Sharp had never really trusted him again.
Which was exactly what Mace had wanted, in the end, the scum.
He lifted his sword in a salute, dismissing the stale thoughts. A hundred times he'd gone over them, but in not more than a
month the unpleasant memories would vanish forever.
Usually, he liked to linger and gloat just enough to make Sharp snarl. Today, however, he was too excited to do anything but
sheath his sword and depart.
Abandoning the dueling square, Epee made his way through the crowded streets of the city, headed for the little warehouse
at the edge of the city he had rented. Without his father's knowing, because if his father knew he was engaging in anything
so vulgar as trade, he would disown Epee on the spot.
Normally he would not care, but…so close, he was so very close, and he could not, would not, jeopardize the victory of a
lifetime by permitting his father to discover how he spent his free time.
Moving through the still relatively empty warehouse, he pushed open the rickety door in the back and sat down at his desk -
not the best, certainly nothing like the thing of beauty in his room back home, but it belonged to him, not his father, and that
made it precious.
Opening a bottle of ink and drawing a quill, he pulled out the small book tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. It was small,
only slightly larger than the palm of his hand, made of leather worn butter-soft by years of use.
Inside, nearly every page was neatly lined with numbers - one through one thousand. Beside nearly every number was a
date.
Only 999 and 1000 were blank.
Dipping his quill, he carefully wrote out the current date beside the number 999.
One more. Epee could scarcely draw breath. Only one more duel and Sharp would be his.
Well, he hoped. But surely…
He shoved the book away to let the ink dry, and stood to prowl restlessly through the warehouse.
It was still largely empty, only having been acquired in the past month. One day, though…one day it would be filled to
overflowing with all manner of merchandise. Spices and wines, antique blades and bolts of fabric…
The idea of it was almost as wonderful as the idea of finally being able to call Sharp his own.
One more. His heart seemed to beat the words over and over again in his chest, driving them up into his head until it
seemed near to burst with it.
You are too picky, Sharp! That is the third woman you have made cry this week! I think even the men walk away with wet
eyes.
Well, you may complain, but twenty years from now you will be bemoaning the lovers with whom you are saddled. I will await
a perfect companion, and be the happier at the end for it.
Oh? Then do tell us, Lord Sharp, what is your idea of a perfect companion?
Someone who is not weak.
Ha! You would never tolerate anyone who might best you with that blade you wear like it is part of your flesh.
On the contrary, someone who can beat me would be quite intriguing.
Fie on that! I beat you yesterday.
A lucky break. I do not mean once or twice, or upon occasion. I mean someone who can really beat me. Yes, that sounds
like someone I would keep.
What the devil does 'really beat' mean? Be clear, Sharp!
Not you, how is that for clear? Not good enough? Hmm…well, how about someone who can beat me one thousand times?
You are demanding, and picky, and ask the impossible. Steward, more wine!
They'd all been drunk at the time - outrageously drunk, and more than a few pieces of club furniture had met its end that
night. He recalled that only because everything about that night was etched into his mind as deeply as his own name.
Not that he had been part of it; they probably had not even noticed he was there. He was always there, tucked into his corner
to study the night away - where he could watch the table nearest the windows, the table of which Sharp and his friends, all
of them two years Epee's senior, made regular use.
Where he could watch Sharp, with whom he'd been so infatuated after meeting him briefly shortly after his arrival at school.
Sharp who had never noticed him, had not even remembered their being introduced.
Not until the first time Epee beat him at swords, a mere two days after that damned conversation.
That had been victory number one, and nine years later he was one victory away from meeting Sharp's challenge. One
more victory, one more blank to be filled in his book, and he would be perfect for Sharp.
Nine years was a lot of time to realize and admit he was stupid, that as drunk as he was Sharp probably did not even recall
that long ago conversation. But somewhere along the way, infatuation had turned into obsession, and obsession had grown
and matured and blossomed into love.
He froze as the main door creaked open, but relaxed when he recognized the figure in the doorway. "Well, well, the grand
and glorious Master Swordsman's apprentice, come to visit his humble stepbrother."
"Epee, there are many words to describe you," Dagger retorted, "and humble is not one of them. I was coming to visit
Hammer and heard you got into yet another duel with Sharp. One of these days, the two of you are going to kill each other."
Summoning a smile was easy; jests and laughs and levity were always easy to summon. He threw an arm around Dagger's
shoulders and steered him back out of the warehouse. "Nonsense, Main Gauche. Lord Sharp is madly in love with me and
simply does not know any other way to express it. One of these days, he will come to his senses and be even more
embarrassing to look upon than you when you gaze with star-struck eyes upon his Highness."
"I do not," Dagger hissed. "Stop calling me that."
"What? Your name?" Epee asked blandly, and this time the grin was genuine.
Dagger all but stamped his foot. "You have everyone calling me that now! It's not my name!"
"Main Gauche!" The cries came from across the street, a flock of girls giggling and smiling and waving as they passed by.
Others took notice, adding their own cries and greetings.
Epee snickered, and dragged his brother along. "Your cheeks are red, my dear Main Gauche. Aren't you used to your new
fame?"
"Shut up," Dagger said. "Just shut up. I have blackmail against you now, so do what I say."
"Well, if you're going to be that way," Epee said with an exaggerated sniff - it was true, except that Dagger would never really
consider such a thing. Without Dagger, he never would have been able to acquire the warehouse without his father finding
out.
Not that he'd act too grateful; that would not be acting as people expected.
Dagger rolled his eyes and shrugged off the arm still draped across his shoulders. "Would you like to come eat lunch with
Hammer and I?"
"That sounds splendid. Let me nip back to retrieve a few things I left in the warehouse."
"Meet us at the Blue Fish, then," Dagger replied, and with a wave vanished into an alleyway to avoid the crowded streets.
Epee returned quickly to the warehouse, striding to the back to retrieve his book. His fingers brushed feather-light across the
fresh entry, heart speeding up again even as he tried to remind himself it would likely not go the way he had hoped and
dreamed and imagined over the past nine years. How could it?
Yet he could no more give up that hope than he could breathing. He had worked too hard to give up so lightly. Until Sharp
looked at him and refused his suit, he would persevere. "One more," he said softly, and damned if he would not make it the
greatest duel, the greatest victory, in his long years of dueling.
Back outside, he quickly retraced part of the route he and Dagger had taken before. Having no need to avoid the crowds, he
eschewed the side streets and alleys and kept the main streets. He whistled as he walked, enjoying the throng, the hustle
and bustle of ordinary life, so different from the reserved, stately streets where his father's townhouse resided.
To think someday soon it would be his own wares and merchandise being sold in these shops and markets. Most - if not
everyone - would call him stupid or foolish or eccentric, and likely far worse besides, but he could not help himself. Noble life
was stifling.
He was not so naïve as to think the poor peasant life idyllic, but there was much to be said for carving his own path. Look at
how well it had worked for Dagger to do what he wanted; Epee could only admire. If he tried, he did not doubt he could be
quite successful a merchant.
By pure habit he slowed down as he passed by the dueling square, looking to see who might be occupying it now he and
Sharp had finished - and nearly fell flat on his face as his step faltered.
No.
No, no, please dear god above no.
Not Mace. Not stupid, obnoxious, evil, ugly Mace.
Epee swallowed around the lump of dismay in his throat and kept walking, forcing himself to smile and whistle and act as
though he did not care - did not notice, in fact.
Mace.
Sharp's oldest, dearest friend.
The stupid bastard who had accused Epee of cheating seven years ago. Who had poisoned Sharp against him, and so very
nearly ruined everything.
Damn it. How had he not known Mace was back? He'd been overseas for six and a half years; why could he not stay gone
just a month or two more? Why had he returned now? Epee wanted to scream in frustration and agony.
He paused near the turnoff to the small street where he would be meeting Dagger and Hammer, keeping to the crowds and
shadows as he turned to look once more toward the dueling square.
Epee knew he was attractive. His hair was light brown with the faintest hints of red, just past his shoulders and healthy, with
just a hint of wave. His eyes were hazel, nothing special, but he'd been complimented on their clarity before. Much of his
time was spent in fencing, the rest of it in walking back and forth across the city as he secretly pursued his merchant prince
dream. He was tall and lithe and fit. None of his one night lovers had ever complained about him.
For all that, he could not even begin to compete with bloody Mace.
Tall and broad and strong, with the sort of golden features about which sonnets were composed, and women sighed and
giggled. In school, he'd never spent a night alone, and Epee doubted that had changed since they had finished school. Being
abroad had given his skin a deep gold tone, and he wore clothes that were fine enough for royalty.
Sharp came just to his shoulder, and stood as close to Mace as only friends would, smiling in a way that he never had at
Epee.
No, he could not even begin to compete with Mace. His only real moment of good fortune had been Mace's announcement
that he was going abroad for several years.
Epee turned away, appetite vanished as he realized his plans might well and truly come to naught now. Mace had never
liked him, for reasons Epee had never been able to deduce. Now that he was back, and after learning of all the duels he had
fought with Sharp…if he did not know of them already…
It did not bear thinking upon.
Feeling utterly wretched, Epee stopped once more, pulling in deep breaths and letting them out slowly. Bit by bit, he
managed to dredge up his smiles, his jests, his carefree manner.
Then, and only then, did he finally enter the tavern and look for Dagger, who beckoned him eagerly and ordered a fresh
round of drinks.
*~*~*
"Bastard."
Sharp looked up at the softly muttered word, irritably pushing back a stray bit of hair. Honestly, he wished fashion would turn
to short hair. Or that defying the fashion was worth the headache it would incur. "What?"
"I just saw that bastard Epee," Mace said, a hint of snarl in his voice.
"I would hardly speak so harshly of him," Sharp said, a faint frown furrowing his brow. "Epee is an excellent swordsman;
perhaps only three men in the kingdom are better."
Mace's scowl did not abate, or even ease. "You and who else?"
"Not me," Sharp corrected. "I'm fairly certain he's won more of our duels than I; if anything, I draw almost even. I refer to his
Highness Prince Katan, the Master Swordsman, and his apprentice - the prince's new lover. I was just telling you all this last
night."
All that gained him was an irritable shrug.
Sharp rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Mace. You have been nothing but contentious and grouchy since arriving last night. If you
are that ill of temper, go back to bed until you can be at least moderately civilized. I missed you sorely, dear friend, but not
your foul moods."
Mace looked at him, surprise mingling now with the ire. "You've become a bit more forthright than was your want."
"I was never shy," Sharp said with a shrug. "However, I have lost patience as I gain years."
That, and if he were honest, his near-constant duels with Epee had somehow instilled in him a bit of Epee's…whatever it
was about the confounding man that allowed him to say as he pleased, do as pleased, just walk up and sling an arm about
a stranger as easily as he might a friend. Boldness, perhaps, though that did not seem quite the right word.
"You should have seen us duel earlier," Sharp continued. "He is in finer form than ever."
Mace only returned to scowling. "You should not be admiring your opponent, Sharp - that is why you lose so often."
Sharp shrugged. "The duels accomplish what they must; they are not a matter of life and death. Honestly, I am tired of
discussing this. Let us go get something to eat before I lose my temper."
Giving an irritated shrug of his own, Mace obediently turned and led the way from the dueling square, back towards the more
respectable districts of the city.
"Where did you see Epee?" he asked.
"That way," Mace said, motioning vaguely.
Sharp bit back a sharp retort. Honestly, perhaps he needed to retire to the country for a bit.
He had been looking forward to Mace's return a great deal, but since his arrival Mace had been all but completely intolerable.
He wished Mace would just rest a few days, reorient himself, but other than a few measly hours abed the night before, Mace
had been up and about and wanting to do countless things.
All of it peppered with criticisms and snide remarks and general dissatisfaction.
Had his oldest friend always been this negative?
Sharp did not think so, and he was too tired and aggravated himself to linger upon it.
He turned his thoughts elsewhere, wondering what Epee had been doing lingering about the square. Wasn't he due to
attend some exhibition? Sharp was certain he'd heard Sabre blathering about it the other day.
Well, it was hardly his affair. Still, if there was something else going on, that would explain why Epee had seemed so
distracted during their bought. Not that he'd been paying much attention himself; he could not even recall the excuse for the
duel this time.
The turn of his thoughts while they'd dueled only reinforced Sharp's idea that perhaps he needed a nice quiet spell at his
country estate. Maybe he would take along something sweet and accommodating to ease the need that was obviously
distorting his frame of mind. It had been too long since he'd had any company but his own.
"So how many duels have you fought? With Epee I mean?"
Mace's abrupt question snapped Sharp from his thoughts, and it took a moment for the whole of it to register. "I have no
idea. Why does it matter?"
"Just curious," Mace said.
Sharp pondered the question. "Too many to count, really," he said at last. "I don't really keep track." It would be like trying to
count snowflakes, he'd imagine.
"Is he still prone to cheating?" Mace asked.
"It was established he didn't cheat," Sharp said quietly.
Mace shook his head. "No, it was established no one could prove it one way or the other."
Sharp nodded, but did not reply. The past was the past, and since that awful duel Epee had never given even the slightest
speck of a hint that he might be cheating. He hated thinking upon it, because even now it did not seem like something Epee
would do - yet he could give no reason he thought such a thing.
Hell, until their first duel, he hadn't even really known who Epee was. Sabre's brother, which really was a terrible burden for
anyone to bear. His vaguest recollection had been of someone quiet and given to books - but the man who had challenged
him that day nine years ago had been bursting with fire. Nothing quiet about him at all.
Since that day, he'd been a marvelous, if infuriating and aggravating, challenge - until the day he'd cheated. Or, at least,
possibly cheated.
Following that duel, Sharp wasn't certain what kept him angry and fighting. Disappointment, maybe. Epee was a splendid
challenge, but every duel he had to wonder if all was as it should be. Each question kept him waiting for the next duel,
waiting to know for certain the man called Epee.
Well, he obviously was not going to figure it out today. Especially with Mace about, when all Mace seemed capable of doing
now was snipe and grouse about Epee and their duels and everything else under the sun.
The country, he decided. Once Mace was settled a bit, he was packing his things and running off to his country estate.
Hmm, or maybe the hunting lodge. That was even further away from civilization.
A hand settled lightly on his hip, drawing him from this thoughts, and Sharp stopped walking to turn and look at Mace.
"I'm sorry," mace said. "I guess I'm still tense from all the travelling, exactly as you have been trying to tell me all day. What
say I take care of lunch, and then we go back to your house for the day. I'm tired, and you look as though I've quite stressed
you out. Another day or so and my house should be fit for habitation once more, and I can stop imposing upon you."
"You're never an imposition," Sharp said, smiling. "It's good to have you home again, Mace."
Mace turned the smile, and they resumed walking, headed for their favorite club.
A doorman reached to open the door for them, but just as he did so a figure came hurtling out of the club, crashing into
Sharp with a resounding oath.
"Lord Sabre," Sharp greeted stiffly. He may not know what to think of Epee, but he had no doubt as to his feelings about
Sabre - the man was a bastard through and through, no different than the father. Just one more reason he did not know
quite what to think about Epee.
"Sharp," Sabre said with a grunt. "Have you seen Epee about anywhere?"
"He passed by the dueling square several minutes ago, I did not see him myself…"
Mace spoke up just behind him. "He was headed toward tavern row."
Sabre's face darkened into a fearsome scowl that only hinted at the temper stirring just beneath the surface; a temper that
cost Sabre as many duels as it won. "I see," he said tersely, and without further word stalked off into the street.
It would seem Epee had been expected somewhere. Sharp grimaced in sympathy - no one deserved to be the focus of
Sabre's ire, especially as in this case an irate Sabre probably meant an angry Rapier.
"Guess you're not the only one who'd like to run Epee through," Mace said, and Sharp almost thought he sounded pleased
by the idea.
He found it irritating. "I don't want to see Epee run through," he snapped. He just wanted Epee to make sense, or something.
"Let's just eat and go home." Stifling a sigh, he led the way into the club.
Two hours later, his mood was vastly improved by good food and relatively pleasant conversation - and the fact they were
finally home. Stripping off his coat and gloves and hat, he handed it all to his butler and immediately strode through the
house to the conservatory at the far east end.
Behind him came sounds of poorly muffled impatience and condescending amusement. Sharp ignored them, long used to it
from pretty much everyone. "You are more than welcome to go somewhere else," he said with exaggerated cheer. "It's a
large house." Striding to the back of the conservatory, of which three walls were all glass, he stopped at the eastern-most
wall and took in the three large, gold cages hanging from specially made stands.
Inside each cage were roughly a dozen tiny birds. They ranged in color from palest cream to delicate gold to a soft, blush
red.
Mace snorted. "One would think you'd outgrow such a silly thing. Songbirds are for women, Sharp, and you have as little to
do with women as any wise man."
Sharp shrugged. "I like them."
Ignoring anything else Mace might say, he opened the door of the nearest cage and stuck his hand in, crooning quietly to the
birds inside, beaming when two immediately flew to his hand, cuddling together in his palm, fitting perfectly.
He shook them off after a couple of minutes, and closed the cage once more. Most of this lot was only recently acquired; he
was glad they seemed to be settling in just fine.
Double checking that food and water were in proper supply for each cage, he finally left the birds to enjoy the remaining
sunshine and left the conservatory.
If he was lucky, Mace would wander off shortly and spend the rest of the day fast asleep. Then perhaps he could relax in the
conservatory, read a book and enjoy his birds in peace for a bit. "I am going to freshen up," he said abruptly, not giving Mace
a chance to reply, but cutting sharply right to climb up the main stairs.
On the second floor, he turned down the hallway to the west end, at the very end of which were the double doors leading to
the master suite. Safely within his chambers, he shucked his sword and belt, then stripped down to merely his shirt and
breeches. Washing away the dirt and sweat of the day, feeling much refreshed, he looked toward the bed and decided that
a nap did, in fact, sound like a splendid idea.
*~*~*
Epee walked the dark, empty streets, almost hoping to be attacked by a footpad simply so he'd have good reason to run
someone through to soothe his foul temper.
So he'd bloody forgotten. What was the fuss all about? Like he really needed to watch yet another duel. His esteemed father
and brother had just been hoping to repair their tarnished image since Dagger's rise. Oh, the people did love the tale of a
cruel stepfather throwing out his stepson, who lived as a peasant until going in disguise to win the Tournament and the heart
of the prince.
He smiled faintly at the memory, but thinking of duels only made him think of Sharp, and his anxiety in that quarter did not
improve his mood at all.
Gingerly touching his throbbing cheek, where a father short on patience - and really, when was father's patience ever in
abundance? - had backhanded him quite nicely. The housekeeper had sworn her herbal cream would have it well by
morning, but so far the nasty smelling concoction was doing nothing more than making Epee a bit dizzy.
If his father found out he'd left the house after his dressing down, no herbal remedy in existence would fix the discipline
Rapier would administer.
Epee could not bring himself to care.
Having no where else to go, he slowly meandered his way to his warehouse.
In the weak light of a single gaslight, it looked homely and almost pathetic - but he owned it, and that made it finer than even
the most splendid manor.
Currently he was using a small room in the back for his office; there was an office proper at the back and up a short flight of
stairs, but he could not move furniture up there on his own. He would have to begin hiring workers and assistants soon, but
that upstairs office might very well have to become his private apartment.
He was keeping his activities secret, but at some point the truth would come out. Best to be prepared. Would Sharp have
anything to do with him if he was a commoner? Well, he would not really have a choice, when Epee won the thousandth
duel.
Far in the distance, he could hear the tolling of the church bells, marking the midnight hour.
Sighing, Epee pulled out his keys and let himself into the warehouse, closing and locking it again behind him. In his office, he
lit a single lamp and then pulled out the flask of brandy he kept in the desk.
It worked much, much better than the foul herbal remedy. Not that he would wipe it off, that would hurt the housekeeper's
feelings - but it really did smell vile.
He was just taking a third - fourth? - sip when a sound made him jump, and choke on the brandy.
Oh, that hurt.
Stumbling to his feet, eyes watering, coughing, he drew his sword and left the office.
The main warehouse, however, appeared empty. Frowning, he explored it thoroughly anyway. But even outside, he could
find no sign of a trespasser. Odd, he knew he'd heard a sound. Perhaps it was only the herbal remedy he'd heard.
Rolling his eyes, Epee sheathed his sword and returned to his brandy.
An hour or so later, shortly after the bells had run one, he conceded that he should probably return home before he pressed
his luck and was missed. Knowing his luck, Sabre would still be up and take great relish in ratting him out over breakfast.
Making his way slowly from the warehouse, he double checked all was securely locked.
He was tempted to walk as slowly as possible, but an hour of calm and quiet forced him to see the downside of contending
with a footpad - proficiency with a sword did not mean he would stand up well against a fist or knife.
Passing an alleyway, he indeed heard ominous sounds, and quickened his pace. He was one duel away, damned if he
would be found dead in the morning, all for a few measly pence.
If it had been a footpad, he chose not to pursue Epee.
Though it was not relief he felt upon reaching his father's house, he was at least grateful his bed was close.
As wretched as this day had turned, tomorrow had to be positive.
If the day got any worse, Epee decided, he was going to be a total girl and break down into tears.
Sabre had, indeed, known he was absent and ratted him out over breakfast. That had forced Epee into doing a number of
tedious errands for his father that Sabre, the bastard, should have done. Then he'd snuck off to see his warehouse and
arrange to have it cleaned only to find that someone - boys, probably, out doing what only boys found amusing - had
shattered all the windows and nearly broken in the front door.
Not an expense he had planned for in his limited funds. That would set him back by at least a month.
His new green silk coat had caught a nail why he'd surveyed the damage, and was utterly beyond repair.
He'd seen Mace and Sharp having a grand time of breakfast at the club, putting him off his own, and it was now well past
noon and he'd not had so much as a bite of food the entire day.
The ship he had hoped to purchase was no longer for sale, the current owner having abruptly changed his mind. Thanks to
the broken windows, he could not afford the other ships available at present.
What else, he wondered morosely, could possibly go wrong?
Now he would have to trek all the way back across town to change his coat, and hope father was not around to set him to
still more errands.
Turning a corner onto the main street that cut the city roughly in half north to south, he jumped back just in time to avoid a
carriage going full tilt - right through a puddle of mud, which splashed up to smatter his clothes from chest on down.
Epee balled his hands into fists and took several deep, calming breaths, fighting an urge just to throw up his hands, sit down
in the street, and wail.
He really hoped he did not see Sharp further today. That would be the final insult on top of far too many injuries today. Truly,
what had he done so wrong to earn this level of retribution? If there was a god in need of appeasement, he would do
whatever was required.
Sighing heavily, he continued his trudge home, finally reaching it without further incident, slipping around to sneak in through
the kitchen.
He had just reached the back stairs when footsteps sounded behind him.
"Lord Epee, your father said you were to see him the very moment you returned home." Though he said nothing further, the
slight hesitation to his voice told Epee all he needed to know. For some reason as yet unknown, his father was angry with
him.
What had he done? All his assigned errands had been accomplished, and on schedule - barely, but done all the same - and
he not been engaged in a duel and so had not been able to lose one.
"I don't suppose I could change first?" Epee said, sighing when the butler only gave him a look that said in no uncertain
terms should he delay for even the sake of appearance.
Bracing himself as best he could, Epee gave up on the stairs and headed for the main part of the house, quickly striding to
his father's study and giving a perfunctory knock.
Called inside, he stood before his father's desk and waited.
"Sabre brought me interesting news today," Rapier said, eyes cold as he regarded his son, arms folded across his broad
chest. "I've decided he must be sorely confused, but want to hear it from you directly."
"He's sorely confused," Epee said promptly. Being flippant was never a wise recourse, but if he was already in trouble, what
harm?
Rapier's expression only went from cold to frozen. "What is this nonsense about you purchasing warehouses and ships and
consorting familiarly with merchants and other commoners?"
Epee felt the words like blows to his gut. Sabre had told him? How in the bloody hell had Sabre learned of his warehouse?
To hell with that, how had Sabre known about the ship and the merchants? Sabre was a bloody idiot; he would never have
found out such a thing on his own. Why would he think to look?
He started to speak, but Rapier beat him to it. "I can see from your face that it's true. Why are you attempting to embarrass
me this way? What game are you playing?"
"Its not a game," Epee replied, "and you embarrass yourself quite well, no need for me to do it. I bought the warehouse. I'm
working on acquiring ships."
Rapier narrowed his eyes. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I thought I'd try my hand at business," Epee said quietly, meeting his father's eyes. "I think I'd do rather well. I will not be able
to duel forever, and nothing else holds my interest. My efforts would do quite well for the family fortunes."
Rapier sneered, all but shaking with anger. "I don't need someone else earning money, especially not as a bloody
commoner. You will dispose of that warehouse and cease this nonsense at once, Epee. I will not tolerate having a son who
acts in such vulgar fashion."
Epee met his gaze, glaring back as good as he got. "I'm not selling it. I've chosen my course, and you'll not turn me from it."
"Then you can get out," Rapier said. "Go join that fool blacksmith."
"The one the crown prince loves? Gladly. I'll pack my things and never trouble you again."
Rapier shook his head. "Get out. Nothing in this house belongs to you; it was all purchased by me. Get out or I will order the
footmen to toss you out."
"Father, surely-"
"Out," Rapier said. "I will not tolerate such ingratitude. I raise you, give you a home, fencing lessons, money to spend as you
like, and you betray me by turning commoner? I have only one son, and you are not he. Get out."
Epee left, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
He had known it would come some day…but not today, and he'd always thought to take away some of his possessions.
Contrary to what his damned father believed, many of those things Epee had purchased with his own money.
Now he had nothing, save the meager funds he had squirreled away. Much less than he would have had otherwise be, given
the damage to the warehouse.
What, he wondered, would go wrong next?
The answer came soon enough, as he was walking down the street.
He felt eyes on him, the same foreboding sensation that always came upon him right before his father appeared to
administer brutal discipline. Looking around, his eyes fell upon Mace.
Epee slowed down, taken aback by the open hostility in that gaze. He stopped completely as Mace excused himself from
the companions at his café table, and crossed the street to stand before him.
Sudden realization struck him, though he could not make sense of how or why. "You told Sabre."
Mace nodded.
"Why?" Epee asked, staring at Mace, uncomprehending.
"Because the only one allowed to look at Sharp that way is me," Mace said, voice quiet but cold. "One would think that after
all this time, you'd be past the lovesick puppy behavior. I did not return just to put up with you all over again."
Epee felt the words like a slap to the face.
What? Why? Those and a thousand questions more burned though his mind.
"I'm not nearly as civilized about these things as I was seven years ago," Mace continued, voice still so calm and quiet and
steady, but though he had never seen before what he saw now in Mace's eyes, he knew what it was - hate. "Stay away from
Sharp." He looked Epee slowly up and down, a mocking smirk slowly shaping his mouth. "Not that I think you could turn the
eye of a desperate beggar at the moment."
Epee balled his hands into fists to still their trembling, refusing to feel ashamed, because it was hardly his fault that he had
been battered with mud or that the nail had torn his coat. Even his brother had a few articles of clothing which had met their
end on bad days.
"Last I checked, Sharp was an adult," Epee said. "I do not think he would appreciate your interfering like this; he can make
his own decisions. When he wants nothing more to do with me, he will say so."
Mace let out a sharp bark of laughter. "What would you know about how Sharp feels or thinks? You do not. I am the one
sleeping in his," Mace paused for the briefest of moment, "house, at present, and that aside I have known him far longer and
far more intimately than you."
He was lying, Epee knew it. Whatever Mace and Sharp might be, they were not lovers. He had seen Sharp with lovers
before, as brief as those liaisons had been - he would know if Mace was in Sharp's bed.
Wouldn't he?
Surely so.
It made him sick to his stomach to think that perhaps he had missed so vital an aspect of Sharp for so long. As though he
were not already a laughingstock, if only in his own head.
Then something else Mace had said suddenly struck him. As civilized as I was sever years ago
"Seven years-that's why you accused me of tipping my blade in poison."
Mace shrugged. "You were fine so long as you stayed in your little corner reading and mooning quietly, well out of the way.
The moment you started dueling - that was going too far. I thought an accusation of cheating and three months of
suspension would scare you off it. I guess you are simply too stupid."
"Bastard!" Epee bellowed, temper snapping, drawing sword before he even thought about it, the tip not quite touching
Mace's chest.
"Enough!" Sharp's voice rang out, and only then did Epee notice the stark silence which had fallen all around them. "What is
the meaning of this?" he demanded, stepping between Mace and Epee, forcing Epee take a step back and lower his sword.
Epee did not sheath it. "I will not tolerate slurs upon my characters. I have done nothing to earn such disrespect. Not from
him, not from anyone." He pointed at Mace. "If you want to call my honor into question, Lord Mace, then I demand the matter
be settled in the dueling square." He hated the thought of fighting Sharp's friend, but damn it, he did not deserve this. If Mace
wanted Sharp as well, he could at least fight honorably.
Mace smiled nastily. "No."
"What?" Epee demanded, anger and humiliation growing as spectators exploded into whispers, that Mace would be so rude,
so mocking.
Well, two could play at that game. If Mace was going to imply he and his honor did not merit being defended, then he-
"I will face you, on his behalf," Sharp said, level but heard loud and clear.
"What!" Mace and Epee demanded together, then glared hatefully at each other.
Sharp stepped away to better look at both of them, and Epee felt awful for the conflicting emotions on his face - defending a
friend against a man who…if not a friend, then Epee thought he had at least earned 'highly respected opponent'.
This was not a position in which Sharp should have been put, and he could see that even Mace had not anticipated this.
Maybe he didn't know his friend as well as he liked. Ordinarily, Epee would have smiled in smug amusement. Right now, the
thought only left a bitter aftertaste.
"I detest that two people of whom I think so highly would behave this way," Sharp said. He looked at Epee. "You imply Mace
would besmirch your name, though I can see no reason he would do so - he does not even really know you."
No, Mace didn't, but he did know the one thing neither of them could say - that they were both in love with Sharp, and that
was all the reason Mace required to do Epee any and all manner of harm.
Sharp turned to Mace. "You and your temper are helping nothing. The very least you could have done was accept the
challenge. If you insist on behaving like a child, then I will behave as men ought. Epee, I will face you in the dueling square."
Without saying another word, he turned and stalked off into the crowd.
Mace shot Epee a hateful look, then turned and bolted after his friend, hand immediately falling to rest on Sharp's shoulder -
but Sharp shrugged it off, jerked away, and Epee took what satisfaction he could from that small gesture.
He wondered where Dagger was, and wished he were nearby. It would be nice, now that his day was ruined beyond all
repair, to see one friendly face. One person who would care he was unhappy.
Sighing, ignoring the looks and the whispers, he sheathed his sword and slowly dragged himself to the dueling circle.
When he arrived, he very nearly called the whole thing off.
This was not how this final, most important duel was supposed to be. Despite their rivalry, the insults and barbs they
tossed, their had always been an air of respect and competition between them. Never friendship, quite, but something that
might have become that - or more - if circumstances ever changed.
On this, the 1000th duel, he had planned to change those circumstances.
Instead, Sharp looked unhappy and angry, Mace was suddenly looking smug and satisfied again, and Epee wished simply to
go hide away somewhere and forget this entire awful day - but that only reminded him that he had no where to go, save his
ruined warehouse. By now, Sabre would have ensured he was no longer welcome at any of his clubs.
Swallowing, he stepped into the circle, wondering what to say.
"What began all this?" Sharp asked quietly.
"Your friend once again has accused me of cheating," Epee said.
Mace snorted. "Why should I not? You were nothing in school for years, then suddenly you begin to seek out duels and win
them? Against men who had already dueled for years and years? Sharp was acclaimed one of the very best, until you
suddenly appeared and he began abruptly to lose. And let us face it - your family is not one known for it's honesty or
integrity, or even honor. I'm certain your stepbrother would agree."
"I am no cheater!" Epee bellowed angrily. "Always I have fought honestly. You accuse me of these things, but have no proof.
I was cleared once, and if you insist upon it now I will be cleared again."
"Prove it, then," Mace said, overriding Sharp's attempt to speak, drowning him out. "Fight with a different sword, rather than
your own. Prove that you do not need your sword to win."
Epee felt like he was going to be sick. This was humiliating and demeaning and wholly unworthy of the duel in which he was
shortly to be engaged. He looked desperately at Sharp, but rather than cutting Mace down, Sharp merely looked at him in
misery and doubt.
Damn it.
He deserved much in life, but he did not deserve that.
"I have never cheated," Epee said again, devastated - heartbroken. He deserved plenty that Sharp might say, but after nearly
a decade of dueling he did not deserve still to have his integrity doubted.
So be it. Two could play this cruel game. "If it will make you happy, my dear Lord Sharp, then certainly I will fight with the
handicap of using another's blade."
Sharp flinched at the insult, that he would not, could not, duel unless his opponent was at a disadvantage. He did not reply,
however, merely stepped forward into his position. When Mace made to speak, Sharp cut him off with a rough sound and a
furious look.
He turned back to Epee. "Whose sword will you use?"
"Mine."
Epee turned his head sharply to see Dagger pushing through the crowd to join them in the square. Dagger tossed his
sword, and Epee caught it easily.
"Main Gauche," Epee greeted, faintly amused despite the circumstances that hearing that name made Dagger grimace.
"What are you doing here?"
"I ran into Sabre," Dagger said with a shrug, being purposefully casual. "I was on my way to find you."
Epee nodded. "I see." Dagger knew he'd been disowned, and probably had seen the state of his poor warehouse. "Thank
you for the sword."
"I know you're an honorable man," Dagger said. "When Rapier and Sabre would have nothing to do with me, you came to
visit a humble blacksmith nearly every day. In a mass of people who should have known me, only you recognized the
masked Main Gauche."
Dagger turned away, not waiting for a reply, and motioned for the crowd to silence. "I am witnessing this match. Any
protests?"
Normally, their matches did not attract spectators, minus a handful of those bored enough to watch the Lords Epee and
Sharp go at it yet again. Today, however…
It was also irregular for a relative of either party to witness such a serious match.
No one, however, was going to dare question Main Gauche. Those who did not love him, feared crossing him.
Feeling numb, Epee set Dagger's sword aside long enough to strip out of his muddy coat.
His leather book tumbled out, and he was surprised it had taken this long for it to fall from its little pocket. He rubbed his
thumb over it, sadness and heartache striking him anew. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
Retying his hair to make certain it stayed out of his way, Epee finally took up his position in the dueling square, and raised
his borrowed sword in salute.
Dagger called the start of the duel a second later, and Epee did not waste time on the defensive.
He barely took note of his own movement, giving in the pain and rage accumulated over the course of what had to be the
worst day of his life. Sharp said nothing, neither did Epee. The odd silence, rife with anger and unhappiness and distrust,
only riled him further.
They had fought so long and hard over the years, their moves were no mystery to one another. Their had been dozens of
reasons for their duels - supposed insults, tournaments large and small, boredom, one or the other seeking to vent…
Genuine negativity had never really colored them; the only he'd ever fought whom he hated were his father and Sabre.
Fighting Sharp now, when he hated everyone and everything and simply could not take anymore, gave Epee an almost
vicious edge.
When Dagger called the victory, and the point of his sword just barely pressed against Sharp's throat, Epee could not
remember how he had done it. He was breathing heavily, sweat stung his eyes, and he could see that Sharp had been
worked just as hard.
He dropped the sword as though it burned.
There was no satisfaction in the victory, no thrill - no triumphant joy. Sharp regarded him with closed expression, too many
emotions in his eyes for Epee to sort them out.
1000 victories, he thought miserably, looking into Sharp's eyes, willing him to read Epee's thoughts, to see. You're supposed
to love me now.
"You were fighting Sharp, Epee, not Sabre," Dagger said, voice obviously striving for levity.
Pure habit drove Epee to reply, to make some jest or flippant remark, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out.
He realized he couldn't do it anymore. Not now. Not now when there was finally no hope left. It was painfully obvious Mace
had won.
His supply of smiles and laughter and jokes had finally run dry.
Ignoring everyone, even Dagger, Epee turned and walked away.
*~*~*
Sharp bit back an impulse to beg Epee not to go, to stay so that they could fix whatever had gone so horribly wrong today.
He didn't beg, though, because he didn't have the right. What he'd done - let Mace do - was despicable. He only wished he'd
admitted that to himself a little bit sooner.
At some point he would apologize and begin to make reparations. For now…
"What in the bloody hell is your problem?" He bellowed, rounding on Mace, finally letting go of the strict hold he'd kept on his
temper. "What did Epee ever do to you that you persist in accusing him of cheating? The two of you have exchanged maybe
a dozen words over the course of a decade. What is your problem with him, Mace?"
Mace glared right back. "I'm allowed to dislike whomever I want, Sharp."
"He is as dear to me as you," Sharp hissed, and realized the words were true, though until then he had never even thought
them. "We have dueled together with swords and words for nearly a decade. He is the only one to have crossed blades with
me so often, and more than a few of those duels were finding solace and understanding when it could be found no where
else!" He raked a hand through his hair, and wondered when the devil he'd lost the ribbon for it.
"Dear to you?" Mace demanded. "Like hell-"
"It's none of your business!" Sharp bellowed. "This entire duel never should have happened, and I allowed you to let me hurt
someone I had no real desire to hurt. I want to know, right now, what started this entire mess. You will tell me or you will fight
me, and then you will tell me while you are bleeding."
The sound of a blade sliding from it sheath drew their attention, and Sharp stared in shock as Main Gauche moved toward
them, stooping briefly to retrieve his abandoned sword.
Sword in one hand, his famous main gauche in the other, Main Gauche moved to stand near Mace and raised his blades in
challenge. "I'm afraid, Lord Sharp, that if you want to fight Lord Mace then you shall have to stand in line."
Mace laughed, angry and amused and contemptuous. "Why do you want to fight me?"
"For purposely bringing all manner of harm down upon my brother," Main Gauche replied. "Just this morning you told Sabre
things which he reported to Lord Rapier, who in turn kicked Epee out. Then you question Epee's honor, and humiliate him
before his peers, and erect this chasm between Epee and Sharp."
"What?" Sharp demanded, looking between them both in complete confusion. "Mace, what in the bloody blazes is he talking
about?"
"He was going to be a peasant!" Mace said, the words seeming to explode. "That nasty, upstart little scholar playing at
duelist was going to cease being a noble to play at being a merchant! I saw him walking about last night, to that stupid little
warehouse, and wondered why he would go there. Figuring it out wasn't hard. A damned commoner, hardly fit to hold a
blade or keep company with real men."
The ringing sound of steal against stone was the only warning, and Sharp barely saw Main Gauche move, only saw the fall
out - Mace standing with a look of shock and pain upon his face, with a broken, bloodied nose.
"You're not worth a duel," Main Gauche said coldly. "Do not insult my brother again, or you will see what power a damned
commoner can have."
Sharp looked at Mace, feeling as though he were looking at a stranger. "Why?"
"That bastard does not deserve to be anywhere near you," Mace said, the words sounding funny as he spoke with the
broken nose and profusion of blood.
"You…" Sharp shook his head. "I thought I knew you. Clearly I do not."
"You don't know half the things you think, Sharp. It's your most endearing and most frustrating quality."
Sharp could only shake his head again. "I'm sorry."
Mace said nothing.
"I think it would be best if you returned to your own home before the day is out," Sharp said quietly, forcing himself to meet
Mace's eyes. "You should have spoken to me, not gone to such horrible lengths as this."
A sudden, horrible thought struck Sharp, as he went over the course of the duel and all that had started it. "You lied about his
cheating all those years ago too, didn't you?"
Mace once again said nothing, but the silence was damning.
"I cannot believe…why, damn it?"
"He should never have started dueling," Mace replied, old anger returning. "You are too good for him."
Sharp turned away, done with the conversation, done with Mace, done with everything.
Except Epee, who had deserved none of what he had endured.
"Where is Epee?" he asked quietly.
Main Gauche looked up from where he had begun to gather up the belongings Epee had left behind. "Why should I tell you?"
"I must begin to repair what I have done sometime," Sharp replied. "Best to begin sooner than later."
"Indeed," Main Gauche replied. He picked up Epee's discarded coat.
A book tumbled to the ground, and Sharp bent reflexively to retrieve it. The lines of neat writing caught his eye, and he
lingered over it even as he knew the contents were none of his business.
But in the next moment it was snatched from his hands. He turned angrily around, attempting to take it back from Mace.
"That bastard," Mace muttered. "He really did think-"
"You are dangerously close to being arrested," Main Gauche said coldly, the tip of his sword against Mace's throat. "Give it
back to me at once. Epee's things are none of your concern."
Mace sneered and handed it back. "Take it. All it proves is that your stepbrother really is a bloody idiot. A thousand duels, did
he really think? Ha!"
"A thousand duels?" Sharp asked, brow furrowing in confusion. "May I?"
Main Gauche hesitated, and sheathed his sword, then flipped the book open himself. After a moment, he shook his head,
and slowly handed it over. "It makes no sense to me, just a long list of dates, numbered one to a thousand."
Sharp accepted the book with an absent thanks, thumbing through the pages of meticulous writing. He felt the wretch,
nosing through Epee's things, but something about the book had upset Mace, though he tried to play it off.
As they had both said, it was a list of dates. Epee had a neat, elegant hand that continuously improved over the years he'd
maintained the little book.
The last entry caught his eye, because he knew for a fact it was the duel he and Epee had fought only yesterday.
Come to that…the previous three were also dates of their duels…
In fact…
He checked and double checked, racking his brain to remember.
There was no mistake.
"These are all duels we fought," he said at last. "Epee and I - and all he won. If we include today's match, then he's won a
thousand duels against me. Why would he keep…"
Sharp froze as something came to him. Surely not. That had been almost ten years ago. They'd all been drunk. Epee had
not even been there, had he? He would have been two years behind in classes…
"1000 victories," Mace said, breaking into his thoughts. "1000 victories to prove worthiness to be the Lord Sharp's perfect
companion." His voice was full of bitter defeat.
"We were drunk," Sharp said, whispering the words to himself. "Do not tell me…" He looked down again at the book, every
carefully noted victory, minus the thousandth recently won. He looked up at Main Gauche. "Where is he? Please, for the love
of god, where is Epee?"
Main Gauche frowned at him, but nodded, granting permission. "A small warehouse near the ports, on the east side. The
address is 1024 Merry Row."
Sharp turned, and ran.
When he finally found the warehouse, he realized belatedly that if it was locked, there was little chance Epee would grant
him entry. It proved a fruitless worry, however.
He wondered what had happened, for the little warehouse was a wreck - the windows running along the top, to let in light,
were all smashed in. The door too was barely standing on its hinges. Sharp had a sneaking, depressing suspicion he knew
who was responsible for the damage - and he would make Mace pay for it, or else.
The door creaked a bit, making Sharp hesitate, but his heart was drumming too rapidly in his chest for him to back out of
this now. Inside, the warehouse proved empty minus a few dust-covered odds and ends. There was no sign of Epee.
A light, however, shone from the door all the way at the back. An office perhaps?
Forcing his feet to move, Sharp strode on, and gently pushed open the second door. Then he hesitated.
Epee spoke without turning around, bent over a desk and what looked like a glass of brandy. "Go away, Dagger. I know you
mean well, but right now I'm not in the bloody mood."
He'd never heard Epee so miserable. On some level, he'd thought it impossible for Epee to do anything but smile and laugh.
Sharp tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
"Dagger, I'm really not-" Epee had stood and turned as he spoke, and stopped abruptly as he realized he wasn't speaking to
Dagger. He stared a moment. "What are you doing here?"
Sharp swallowed, forced his voice to work. "I came to apologize," he said, the words coming out rough. He cleared his
throat and tried again. "I came to apologize…it is not nearly enough, for all the wrongs I have done you this day, Lord Epee,
but I must begin somewhere."
Epee shrugged, and looked away.
In looking at Epee, he had always seen the fighter, the brother of Sabre and son of Rapier. He'd seen a duelist, a challenge,
a…whatever it was he and Epee had always been.
Looking now, really looking at Epee as a man, he felt a deep, painful regret.
What would it have been like, he wondered, to know Epee intimately? To finally understand how Epee thought, and why he
acted as he did? What would it have been like to spend time together just in simple things like hunting or fishing, or even the
dreaded shopping trips? What would it have been like to see Epee over the breakfast table every morning? Did he smile in
the mornings? Was he grouchy? What would it have been like to take Epee to bed every night, to hear his own name from
Epee's lips in climax?
Why had he not wondered all these things sooner? Epee had been there all along, and Sharp had stupidly missed his
chance, and the knowledge of that loss was devastating.
He wondered if there was anything he could say or do to earn a second chance.
If he were honest, he would concede there was not - he did not deserve it. He could not forgive himself, why should he hope
for it from Epee?
"How many duels have we fought over the years?" he asked.
"One thousand, nine hundred and twelve, counting today," Epee said, and Sharp could see he'd spoken without thinking,
and immediately regretted the words.
Sharp almost smiled, awed and charmed that Epee had kept track of so many duels. "So if I won the next eighty eight, and
brought myself to a thousand victories, would that earn me some small measure of forgiveness for all the wrongs I have
unfairly inflicted upon you?"
Epee's head jerked up, expression a mixture of surprise and disbelief and wariness - but also hope, unless Sharp was
seeing only what he wanted.
He didn't care. That hope was all he had, and he would cling to it, use it to bolster his own meager, foolish hope.
"Is that all you want, my lord?" Epee asked. "Some small measure of forgiveness?"
Sharp smiled sadly. "No, but I am hardly worthy of even that. To date, in regards to you my Lord Epee, I have been nothing
but stupidly oblivious or unjustly cruel or unreasonably callous."
Epee smiled faintly, and Sharp felt a small breath of relief. The look of defeat which had been on his face when Epee left the
dueling square had hit him hard, because someone like Epee should never be forced to wear that expression. He had half-
feared the smiles were gone forever, and all because of Mace and him.
If he could smile even that little bit, then his smiles were lost to Sharp, but not lost entirely.
"I am tired of dueling, Lord Sharp," Epee said. "I cannot bear the thought of almost a hundred more of them."
Sharp bowed his head in acknowledgment of the cut, devastated but accepting it as only what he deserved.
"But if you want to keep calling yourself names for a bit," Epee continued, "I would not protest that."
Sharp looked up, surprised - more surprised to realize that Epee was making a playful jest.
He gave a faint smile of his own, and forced more words out, though it was difficult enough simply remembering to breathe.
"What would you like me call myself?" He asked. "Fool? Bastard? Idiot? Cad? Buffon? Moron? Nitwit? Jackass?" With each
word he dared to step forward, compelled by the hope and the pain mingled in Epee's eyes, until Epee was against the far
wall and his own hands braced on either side of Epee's head. "Bastard?"
"You said that one all ready," Epee said quietly, eyes locked with his.
"Then I'll call myself a fool again," Sharp said, "and be a foolish bastard thrice over."
Epee lifted his head the slightest bit, tilting it just so in an invitation old as time.
Sharp took it, before Epee could realize it was a mistake, and covered Epee's mouth with his own. If one kiss was all he
ever got, then it would be a kiss he would remember until the day he died.
Why had he been so blind for so long? Why did anyone put up with him? Sharp groaned and moved one hand from the wall
to sink it into Epee's hair, kissing him hard and deep, resenting the need for air that eventually forced them apart.
"Epee…" he said when he finally trusted his voice again. "Why did you never say?"
"I was going to," Epee said quietly. "Years ago. Then Mace accused me of cheating, and you changed after that…" He
shrugged. "So I decided I would wait." He frowned. "You looked in my book."
Sharp winced. "Not on purpose. Mace snatched it away and looked his fill, and then Main Gauche and I succumbed to the
curiosity his words stirred." He slowly released the hold he still had on Epee's hair, stroking along the back of his neck in a
gentle caress before finally letting go entirely. "There is much for which I must apologize, and it will take me the rest of my
life to make amends, but I swear to you I would make them. The words are feeble, I know it, but I am sorry, Epee."
Epee nodded, and closed his eyes. "I never cheated."
"I know," Sharp said, wanting to say more, but knowing there was no point.
Slowly Epee opened his eyes again. Never quite the same color twice, Epee's eyes. Depending on his surrounding, Epee's
eyes could appear to be most any color. Here, in the poor lit room, they seemed only dark. Nothing like his hair, which held
bits of fire brought to life by the lamp on the desk.
Sharp wanted badly to kiss him again, but did not dare.
"How did you know to find me here?" Epee asked suddenly, looking miserable again.
"Main Gauche told me," Sharp said. "After he punched Mace for seeing to it your father disowned you."
Epee laughed briefly over Main Gauche punching Mace, but then hesitated, frowning.
"Have you considered going into the wine business?" Sharp asked, hoping and praying he was saying the right thing. "As
much as Lord Rapier adores wine, I think it would give him apoplexy should he be forced to endure not only a stepson who
is paramour to the crown prince, but a disowned son who is famous for his wines."
For a moment, all he got was a startled look - then Epee started laughing
Sharp fought an urge to kiss him, sternly reminding himself of all the reasons he did not have the right. "All this time," he said
softly, looking at Epee, unable not to look. "I cannot but despise myself."
Epee shrugged, looking torn between his own weary sadness and dry amusement. "You see now, though, my lord?"
"Yes," Sharp said firmly. "I most definitely see now. I remember a drunken night when I said I would only love someone who
beat me in a thousand duels. I cannot imagine why in the hell you thought I was worth that much work, Epee. Today alone
proves I am not."
"That is not your decision to make," Epee said. "Your only decision…is to choose whether or not to stand by what you
said…"
Sharp reached out and gripped Epee's shoulders, dragging him close. "I stand by it," he said quietly. "One thousand
victories, Epee, and gladly am I yours if you still would have me."
"I would," Epee replied, and closed the space between them to give the kiss Sharp had been trying not to take.
The Perfect Son
Sabre was drunk.
Given it was his birthday, and he was completely and utterly alone, not one single person having remembered or cared - he
rather thought he was entitled.
Since the entire debacle with Epee, followed closely on the heels of the debacle with Dagger, he had not really expected any
of his vanished, so-called friends to express their happiness he was alive and well.
He had, stupidly, thought his thrice-damned father would remember.
As it was his father for whom he'd given up every bloody thing else, the least the man could do was wish him a happy
birthday.
But, no.
The mighty and perfect and wonderful and estimable Lord Rapier had gone off to his club to have lunch with his friends, who
had not abandoned him, as had Sabre's friends.
He looked at his empty glass and wondered if he was too drunk, or not drunk enough.
Twenty nine years of age and what did he have to show for it?
Sitting alone in a seedy tavern three hours away from his home so his stupid father wouldn't find him and make his birthday
even more pathetic.
That about summed up his life.
What had he really expected?
First the fiasco with Dagger, and hadn't he tried to make father see reason-
Then Epee, which he'd botched from beginning to end.
Everything, so one man would be proud of him, tell him that making everyone else hate him would be worth it.
He called for more whiskey when he realized his was gone, tossing back half a glass as easily as water.
Someone sat down beside him, and Sabre scowled so the bastard would run off.
Except the bastard merely grinned at him. What the hell? Everyone ran from his glares; he'd perfected them. It was the only
way to find some peace and quiet when he wanted it. "What?" he snarled, hoping that would be enough to do it.
"You are a veritable rose amongst weeds, my fine drinker," the man said.
Sabre glared at the description, attributing the heat in his cheeks to the alcohol, not embarrassment. A rose? Was the man
an idiot? Obviously. "Take yourself away," he snapped. "Very far away."
"Oh, now that I cannot do," the stranger continued cheerfully, smiling as though Sabre had just gracefully accepted his
compliment. "I have just come from very far away, I intend from this point forth to stay very close."
"Well, do not stay close to me," Sabre replied. "The only company I seek is that of my whiskey."
"Yes, I see," the stranger murmured. "Do you have a name, rose?"
Sabre jerked at the word, and slammed his glass down. "Cease with that stupid epithet. My name is none of your business.
Go away or I will toss you out of here myself!"
"Temper, temper," the stranger said in that same murmuring tone. It might have been appealing, distracting, except that
Sabre wanted only to wallow in self pity tonight. He had no desire for anything that could prove as complicated as a simple
fuck tended to be. "More thorn than rose, perhaps, but still beautiful for all that."
That was it. He had to take being snubbed and ignored and neglected, he had to take being ostracized and hated. He had to
take wanting the approval and love of a father who was probably never going to give it - he did not have to tolerate being
mocked by an absolute stranger.
He was no rose. Most would call him the weed. His family was not full of ugly ducklings, but they were not swans either. He
was too broad and tall to be elegant, his hair was simple brown unless excessive exposure to sunlight brought out the red.
His eyes were hazel. If people remarked upon him, it was most certainly not to admire his passable looks.
Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he slammed the glass down again and stormed to his feet - catching himself just in
time, holding his other hand to his head until the room stopped spinning.
He had been smart enough to book a room ahead of time, thankfully.
Walking slowly, so as not to make his night worse by taking a humiliating stumble, he made his way to the front room and
the stairs there.
A hand stopped him as he reached the upstairs landing. "Get away," Sabre snapped. "What is the matter with you?"
"You looked sad," the stranger said abruptly.
Sabre blinked, working through the words three times, and deciding that no, they didn't make sense. "So?"
"So, no one should look that sad. I was trying to amuse you."
"I am not the type to be amused by anything," Sabre said, resenting the words came out resigned rather than haughty. This
was why he always got drunk alone and well away from everyone he knew - they all liked to say he was a belligerent drunk.
That would be easy. But, no. He had to be a maudlin drunk.
"Get out of my face," he said again when the stranger made no move to leave. "I would like to celebrate my birthday alone,
not with a lunatic stranger." Jerking away, holding fast to the railing that ran along the stair-side of the hallway, he willed the
stranger to go off and bother someone else.
No such luck. The bastard got ahead of him and stopped in front of Sabre's door, hands on his hips.
He was, Sabre thought drunkenly, rather pretty himself. Not like Sabre - calling him a rose was a bit like calling a wet cat
pleasant to be around. If he'd ever once displayed a chance he'd grow into a pretty man, his father would have taken care of
that with all due haste.
The stranger, though…a pity he was too drunk, or not drunk enough - he could never tell which way he suffered - to see how
far the stranger would go to soothe away the sadness he was supposedly so worried about.
Gold hair - Sabre had always been a sucker for gold hair precisely that shade - like honey in sunlight, reminding him of the
days when they still went to the country, and the housekeeper would feed him bread with butter and honey.
The eyes were the blue of the wildflowers growing in the little garden behind the house.
Perhaps all these stupid ramblings meant he was too drunk. Damn it. "Get out of my way, stranger."
"Lash," the man said. "My name is Lash." There was meaningful pause.
"My name is none of your concern," Sabre retorted.
"So it's your birthday, rose?" Lash asked. "Why no family to spend it with?"
"My father had a meeting at his club, my brothers are no longer speaking to me, and I have no friends," Sabre snarled. "So if
you don't mind, stranger, I would like to be left alone." Ugh, why had he just admitted all of that?
Well, at least he would never see the bastard again, once this wretched excuse of a day was over.
He'd expected more aggravation, more blather about sadness and roses, all of which would have given him a perfectly
reasonable excuse to pitch the man over the railing and watch him land awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.
Instead, he abruptly found himself with his arms full of Lash, and a hand in his hair, tugging his head back - and the annoying
idiot would be taller than him - and then he was being kissed, and even drunk and dizzy from being moved about so fast, he
could tell it was a hell of a kiss.
Honey, again, though likely that was still the whiskey talking.
"What in the hell?" he managed some indeterminate amount of time later, and when in the hell had he wound up pressed
against the railing?
Lash smirked. "Pretty and prickly, but definitely worth the trouble, I would think."
"If you make one more rose crack, I am going to-"
Sabre found himself being kissed again, and swore the next time he came out here to get drunk, he was going to make
doubly certain there were no aggravating, infuriating, golden haired beauties skulking about to ruin his sulk.
"Why do you keep doing that!" he demanded, pushing futilely to get Lash off him, growing all the angrier that he couldn't. He
was not used to being towered over and outmatched in strength.
It just made him all the angrier.
Lash only smirked and kissed him again. "Well, I did it the first time just to push. You're like a kitten, hissing and spitting and
clawing but not really angry."
A rose, and now a kitten?
Sabre was going to bloody kill the man. "Unhand me at once, sir."
"No, I don't think so." Lash kissed him, harder and deeper and longer than the previous three, making him dizzier than ever,
hot and heavy.
When he was finally released, he could not remember what he'd wanted to say.
"So what is your name?" Lash asked, easing up slightly, but not so much Sabre would be able to get away without a great
deal of fuss.
Sabre shook his head. Lash might find him amusing at the moment, but Sabre didn't doubt his name was well enough
known that Lash would probably remember a sudden appointment and take his leave. As vexing as Lash was, Sabre
realized even that was better than continuing to be alone. He really did hate that no one had sent so much as a note around
wishing him well on his birthday.
"Mysterious," Lash murmured, and Sabre really hated hearing that low, rumbling voice this quiet and close. He so did not
need to be controlled by the wrong part of his anatomy right now. "Well, never mind. I'll coax it from you before the night is
out. What would you like for your birthday, my pretty rose."
"For you to stop calling me that," Sabre said through his teeth. "I am not pretty; I do not appreciate being mocked."
Lash kissed him in that way that Sabre already realized was seriously bad for his focus. "No mockery, sweet."
"You are the most confounding-" Sabre resorted to desperate measures and brought his fists down on Lash's chest. "Why
are you doing this?"
"Because you looked sad, and pretty, and I'm afraid it's always been a deadly combination for me," Lash said.
Sabre blinked, because he realized suddenly that Lash meant what he said. He didn't know how he knew that…but he did.
Lash was not lying.
Not that it made this entire situation any less confusing. He frowned. "So you molest anyone who looks sad and pretty?"
"No," Lash said, his expression somewhere between a smirk and rueful amusement. "I'm afraid the thorns did that for me. I
like a man with a temper." His eyes gleamed. "So much energy that can be put to so much better use."
Sabre blinked at him, refusing to admit his hot cheeks were anything but anger and whiskey. No one had spoken to him like
this since-
Never.
He'd always been scary, mean, ill-tempered, just-like-Rapier Sabre.
Not pretty. Not a rose. Certainly not a damned kitten. Had anyone ever noticed when he was feeling down?
That also was a no.
In fact, this was all too… He swallowed against the sudden fit of disappointment, furious that he would let himself get so
entrenched in this moment of stupidity that he could feel disappointment that it was all some sick farce.
It was all too good to be true, and he was tired of playing games.
"Take your games elsewhere, sir, and tell whoever paid you to torment me that he can take himself to the devil, and if I ever
learn his identity then I shall see him on the dueling square and draw blood." Sabre shoved, taking Lash just enough by
surprise that he was able to slip free and stalk the remaining three steps to his room.
Instead he was grabbed, turned, and shoved back against the door, then kissed hard enough his lips were sore and bruised
when Lash finally pulled away. "I do not play such games," Lash said, voice hard, all trace of his amusement and
playfulness gone. "I was the victim of such, once. I would not do it to another. You have caught my eye, and caught it well. I
only seek to see how much I might get away with, this night."
Sabre looked at him, searching the pretty blue eyes, then gave a mental shrug.
He'd come here to drink and be stupid, to be anything but the despised and feared Lord Sabre. If this stranger wanted him -
a sad and pathetic, heavily drunk fool - then who was he to keep complaining? It was his birthday; wasn't he entitled to
something?
"Then come and find out," he said at last, and initiated the next kiss himself, pausing only to get his door open and drag the
infuriating but intriguing Lash inside.
*~*~*
He'd fully expected to wake to an empty room.
That was, after all, how it worked.
If someone had told him he would wake up to see Lash in nothing but breeches, humming cheerfully as he read the morning
rag and ate breakfast, Sabre would have sneered in contempt and told the speaker to bugger off.
He started to demand what in the hell Lash was still doing in his room, then decided it was not worth adding to his
headache, which he sensed was all his question would get him.
Instead, he simply fell back down on the bed and closed his eyes, more than content to doze a bit longer. What did he have
waiting for him, after all? A three hour journey back to the city, then his father to contend with for vanishing the better part of
two days.
"Not much of a morning person, are you?" Lash asked cheerfully. "Then again, maybe you're just not much of a whiskey
person."
"Oh, I'm a whiskey person," Sabre replied, surprised that he did so. He cracked one eye open to look at Lash, who was
looking at him as if he actually cared about what Sabre was saying. "Mornings and I had a falling out many years ago. We
avoid one another as much as polite society dictates we may."
Lash threw his head back and laughed, and Sabre could not tear his eyes away.
Morning sunlight streamed in through one dusty window, flecking against Lash's hair and skin, warming both, making them
almost glow. This was a far cry better than waking up alone, even if Lash likely would be departing any moment.
Finally dragging his eyes from delicious temptation, reminding himself that he was sober now, and sober people did not do
the stupid things that made perfect sense to drunk people, he settled the covers more comfortably and returned to his
dozing.
If he dallied around, found lunch here, and made the three hour trip home more like four hours, he would not get home until
father had gone off to his club for supper with his yacht club cronies. That would give him a couple of hours alone in the
house, to prepare and brace for the hell he would catch for his prolonged, unexplained absence.
He jerked as the covers were yanked away, turning just in time to be covered by Lash's body and treated to a kiss that was
just as devastating and distracting as the night before - but far more potent, now that he was sober and had more than a
fuzzy, dizzy moment to commit to memory.
"I guess you're not too hung over," Lash said as he drew back, licking his lips.
Sabre sneered. "I know how to drink."
"You know how to do a great deal," Lash said. "Would you like breakfast?"
"Ugh, no." Sabre hated eating breakfast. He did it only when his father required, which was entirely too frequently for Sabre's
tastes. "I don't suppose there's tea, however?"
Lash smiled. "There is, as it happens. I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a bit of everything. Going to drag yourself to
the table? Not that I'm in a hurry to see you leave the bed, you look so good in it."
Sabre stared at him, utterly confused. "Have I mentioned you make no sense?"
"Several times," Lash said, grinning. "I promise you're not the only one who finds me so; I am frequently called everything
from 'somewhat eccentric' to 'stark raving mad'. Come, before the tea cools."
Yawning, Sabre dragged himself to a sitting position and scratched at his jaw, wondering if he had the energy to seek out his
shaving kit. He could not remember a time when he had sat down to any table less than completely dressed and ready for
the day.
It was only one of Rapier's many rules.
What was the point? He had come here to forget his father, and the morning was already by far the strangest he'd ever had.
What was one more broken habit at this point? Finding his breeches took a moment, but then he was sliding into the chair
opposite Lash at the little table. He was disheveled, unkempt, and still at least one third asleep. His father would be spitting
nails to know his eldest son and heir was acting in such base fashion.
Sabre smirked as he took a sip of tea, and hoped his father felt a cold chill down his spine.
"I have a confession," Lash said, looking up at Sabre through his lashes, playful but with a slight hesitancy to it.
"Oh?" Sabre asked, keeping his tone uncaring, but disappointed that he had relaxed only for everything to now come
crashing down upon him.
Lash took a sip from his own cup; coffee, from the smell of it. Their stepmother had been fond of it, Sabre recalled. After she
died, Rapier refused to continue to tolerate its presence in his home.
"I spent much of the remaining night and some of this morning attempting to puzzle you out," Lash said slowly. "My
memories are poor, of course. I have not lived here since I was about ten, but I do remember much of what was drilled into
me. Please forgive me if I am wrong, but to judge from your sword, as well as your pretty face, I am guessing you are either
Lord Sabre or Lord Epee. Unless I am mistaken, Lord Epee is a trifle younger, so I am guessing you are Lord Sabre."
"You are very astute," Sabre said, setting his teacup down slowly only because he did not have the energy to throw it.
"Guilty, as charged."
Lash sipped at his own coffee again. "Well, you are much prettier than the Lord Rapier I vaguely remember, and even with
that temper, much more pleasant of disposition. Though, as I said, I was only ten. Plenty of people seemed mean and scary
to me at that time."
Sabre laughed bitterly and stood up. "I assure you, I am every bit as unpleasant as my father. Ask anyone. Why do you
think-" He cut himself off before he could sound pathetic, and started to retrieve the rest of his clothing.
What had he been thinking? He should get home before his father got mad enough to give him the sort of beating he'd not
had since coming home from school one summer with marks that were not quite as perfect as Rapier wanted.
He let out a bellow of surprise and outrage as his ankle was grabbed and yanked out from under him, sending him crashing
to the floor, nose first. Rubbing it, red with fury, he managed to get himself propped on one elbow, enough to turn around
and glare. "What in the bloody hell are you doing?"
"Stopping you," Lash said with a grin. "I can already see you have a bad habit of dealing with your problems by growling and
stomping off. Cute, but aggravating when one is trying to hold a conversation."
"Bugger off," Sabre snapped. "You know who I am, so I would prefer to take my leave before that starts to haunt me."
"Temper, temper, rose," Lash replied.
Sabre wanted to kill him. "Stop calling me that," he hissed. "What the devil is the matter with you?"
Lash grinned - bloody grinned. "Depends on who you ask. It's a long list. Now, are you going to keep up with this stomping
about in a snit or shall we finish breakfast and then decide what to do the rest of the day?"
What? The rest of the day?
"Of course, if you're going to keep sulking, I could just take you back to bed. That seems to mellow you out well enough."
"You are the most infuriating-" His words were cut off by a kiss, and really he should have seen that coming, but he wasn't
used to being attacked with affection - well, with kisses. They didn't necessarily have anything to do with affection; it was
stupid to think these kisses were different from any other in his life.
Of course, by the time Lash let up, he had forgotten what he wanted to shout about.
He scowled.
Lash snickered and finally stood up, holding out a hand to help Sabre to his feet, stealing another brief kiss before resuming
his seat at the table. "Now, my dear Sabre, I wanted to know if you would like to linger here with me for a few days."
Sabre's brow furrowed in confusion. "Here?"
"Here," Lash repeated, pouring more coffee. "As I said, I have lived abroad nearly all my life. My parents were travelers; the
moment I was old enough to go with them, they resumed those travels. A wildly exotic jungle illness took them about a year
ago."
"I'm sorry," Sabre murmured, meaning it. The pain on Lash's face was genuine enough, and he had always wondered what
it would be like to have parents like that. Parents who cared.
Lash nodded. "Thank you. Anyway, I have finally managed to return, to tend to those matters which could not be dealt with
abroad. That, and I feel I'm finally ready to settle in one place. But, there are still things about home I hope to avoid for a few
more days. I was thinking of lingering here a day or two, adjust to my new, permanent life, in my own way while I can. Would
you like to stay with me, see what trouble we might get into?" He waggled his eyebrows comically, but the leer on his face
said plainly enough what he hoped some of that 'trouble' might be.
His father would kill him, Sabre thought, if he went missing for three or four whole days.
No one else, however, would even notice. If they did notice, they would not care.
Despite the abject stupidity of it, he was enjoying Lash's company. The man knew he was Sabre, but didn't know enough to
hold that against him. Sabre would likely never encounter such again, so why not enjoy it while it lasted?
He took a sip of his tea, which had cooled, but he found he didn't care. Pouring more, he settled back in his chair and looked
at Lash. "So what are we doing first?"
Lash looked him slowly up and down, making Sabre's skin prickle. "Well, I was going to suggest we go for a ride…but I think
I have a different sort of ride in mind now."
Sabre choked on his tea, and set it down hastily, glaring. "You!"
"I think you're blushing, kitten," Lash replied, then dove away from the table as Sabre roared in outrage and lunged for him.
Eventually, they made it to the bed.
Several hours later, Sabre opted against riding a horse.
Lash's poorly-muffled snickers earned him a shove into a copse of bushes as they walked along a trail in the woods near
the tavern.
"You are incorrigible," he groused, but he was hard pressed to keep the amusement out of his voice that Lash seemed
bound and determined to draw out. "How the devil did you get to be so…"
"Eccentric?" Lash asked, still snickering. "My parents were the very definition of eccentric. It was inevitable I turned out the
same."
"Inevitable, eh?" Sabre said. He wished he could say the same. Once, he vaguely recalled, he had tried the defiance that
seemed to come so easily to Epee. It had gotten him a broken arm. He'd never tried it again. Turning out precisely like his
father hadn't been inevitable as much as key to staying alive. They weren't quite the same thing.
His thoughts scattered as he was abruptly pushed into a bush himself, and scowled as he barely caught himself on a
sapling to keep from tumbling completely over. "What the devil was that for?" he demanded.
"Do not look gloomy in my presence," Lash said with an offended sniff. "People will think you do not like my company."
Sabre rolled his eyes. "I should think it clear that while I find your company confounding and frustrating, I do not dislike it."
Lash beamed. "So you do admit you like me. Excellent. We make progress."
"Shut up," Sabre said with a groan, looking away in embarrassment that he had so easily fallen into that one. "You are hardly
giving me any choice, sir, but to learn to endure your quirky company."
"Well, it's patently obvious that with you, persistence is crucial. I bet that temper, cute as it can be, gets you in a lot of
trouble."
Sabre grimaced, and did not bother to voice the obvious reply. Of course it did; he'd had a nasty temper since his school
years. One strain on top of another, and only the beginning of realizing how much he'd have to give up to win the approval of
his father. To be the perfect son, the perfect heir…
"If you do not stop looking gloomy, I am going to shove you into the pond," Lash said. "What the devil has you so downcast
again?"
"Nothing," Sabre said. "Old problems, I should learn to accept them. So where is this home you are avoiding?"
"A few hours away," Lash said vaguely. "I confess I'm so used to living in huts and tents and such that I scarcely know what
to do with an entire house that belongs only to me." He shrugged. "At that, I apparently own three of them, along with a great
deal of other things. Barely, though. My father was a great scholar, but a poor businessman. I have been reworking the
finances as best I can, but…" He shrugged. "I, too, make a better scholar."
Sabre snorted. If Lash was only a scholar, he was a simpleton. He was not small, but Lash outsized him, and the strength
he'd so far displayed was not gained by pouring over books. His few comments about his travels suggested that Lash
worked as hard as he studied.
He shrugged. "If you are looking for places to invest your money, I can make plenty of recommendations. Do you need a
solicitor? A business consultant?"
"Oh, let's not ruin my last days of real freedom with boring business discussions," Lash said with a grin. "I will harangue you
plenty about that at a later date." He looped his arm loosely with Sabre's, forcing Sabre to increase his pace. "So do you
fence much?"
"No," Sabre said. No one ever wanted to fight him anymore, and he could not blame them. He fenced his own shadow, in his
own home - and always when his father was about, on the stupid, foolish hope…
He jerked as his arm was given a hard pinch.
"Stop looking gloomy," Lash said, making a face. "Fess it up. What has you so downcast?"
"My father," Sabre said irritably. "I do not feel like discussing it."
Lash sniffed. "Anyone who makes you look like a wet kitten cannot be worth thinking upon. So what do you do besides
fencing?"
"Nothing," Sabre said. "I tend to my finances, and take care of those problems my father bid me."
"Oh, pah!" Lash said, jostling him. "Everyone has guilty pleasures. Mine might be flowers." He batted his lashes. "I'm
particularly fond of roses."
Sabre glared at him. "Someone will be shoved into the pond in a moment, and it will not be me."
Lash sniggered. After a moment of silence, he gave Sabre a gentle nudge. "So. Guilty pleasure."
He hesitated, but what difference did it really make? Lash already had gotten more out of him than even his family or friends
had ever bothered to ask. If this was going to be used against him someday, did he not deserve it? "Theatre," he said,
shrugging to appear uncaring, looking anywhere but at Lash.
Something else which his father absolutely hated - theatre was frivolous, pointless, a way for trollops and tarts to tout their
wares. Sabre went as often as he possibly could on the excuse of indulging a friend, or meeting some social requirement -
any excuse he could come up with, that his father could not investigate and discover to be a lie.
Ever since being completely and utterly abandoned, he had run out of excuses. Particularly devastating, as his favorite play
had just gone up and unless a miracle occurred, he would not get to see it - and the casting was utterly perfect; he had been
ecstatic upon examining a program discarded by a club patron.
It, along with dozens upon dozens of others, was carefully stowed away in a chest in his room.
"Now you look lost in quite a pleasant, if maybe a little sad, thought." Lash squeezed his arm. "So you like plays? What is
your favorite? We used to read plays together when we traveled; I was always fondest of The Golden Tower."
Sabre shrugged. "Not his best work, though it's certainly acceptable. If you are going the route of Tomlinson, The Affair of
the Maze is a much better display of his skills with intermingling humor and tragedy. I prefer Steele, myself. His plays
contain far more wit. The Royal Playhouse is currently putting on a production of his play Upon the Shore. Miss Strike was
cast in the leading role, and she will perform it magnificently. If you get the chance, you should go see it."
"Well, I hardly know my way around a theatre," Lash said, smiling in a way that made Sabre want to smile back, even as it
made him a little sad, as well. It was the sort of smile exchanged between real lovers. Like the Prince and Dagger, or his
brother and Sharp. Other people. Not him. "You'll have to go with me." He winked. "Obviously you know your way around."
Sabre shrugged, looking away in embarrassment. "I don't really go anymore."
"Easily fixed," Lash said with his indefatigable good cheer. "Now, it is late enough I think we should meander our way back
and catch an early supper."
"If you like," Sabre said, still bemused that Lash was holding to his arm and treating him like he was not the most despicable
person in existence.
He liked it far too much, this daydream-like day. What would it be like to attend a play with Lash? To visit a mutual club and
debate all aspects of it until the clock chimed it was long past time to seek their bed?
Such a thing would never happen. Lash had not explicitly said so, but if he was as wealthy and noble as he implied - and
Sabre had no desire to pry, for he'd probably only learn something he did not want to hear - then he was moving to the city,
and would probably make quite the splash upon society.
In less than a day, he would no longer want anything to do with Sabre. Very likely he'd get along splendidly with Epee; they
both had that mad ability to smile and laugh no matter what the circumstance.
The idea of being snubbed by yet another friend - and one who had so briefly been a lover - was a deep, twisting ache in his
chest, but there was no help for it. He had been a bastard for as long as he could remember; at some point he was bound to
reap what he had sown.
Once more, Lash yanked him from his thoughts. Not with a push or pinch this time, but with another of those horribly
distracting kisses.
"Early supper," Lash said again. "So we can spend the rest of the night doing other things."
"I don't see how," Sabre groused, resisting an urge to smile. "You wore me out in that corner this morning."
Lash motioned impatiently. "You're still walking."
"You!" Sabre sputtered, and took off after him when Lash bolted.
*~*~*
He looked toward the table upon waking, summoning up a bleary smile - but there was no one there. Frowning, not awake
enough to think of the obvious reason Lash was not at his usual place, Sabre rolled over to see if he was still in bed.
No.
Maybe he'd gone to get breakfast, or whatnot.
Sitting up, he immediately realized that it was much simpler than that.
Lash was gone.
Not a single trace of him remained.
Feeling sick and stupid, Sabre nevertheless looked for some note - anything that said Lash was not gone forever.
He did not see one.
Sabre sat in bed for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling nothing.
He stirred only when someone appeared to ask if he would be leaving soon, or would he be staying on another day?
Snarling for a bath and tea, he threw back the covers and began to pack his things.
Fool. That's all he was, and all the more for not trusting his instincts. That someone might have-
Banishing all thoughts of Lash from his mind, he focused instead on seeing his father again. That required all his energy, for
if he did not play his cards correctly, he would be lucky if he was able to walk away from the interview without assistance.
By the time he actually made it home, the hour was much later than he had intended.
Despite all his mental preparations, the strategies and words he had planned out, he simply could not bear to face his father
right now. He'd been gone the better part of four days - Rapier would all but kill him.
Taking the coward's route, he headed for his favorite club. His reception there was stale at best, but everyone from the staff
to his fellow members were too intimidated to do anything but ignore him.
Fine by him.
A steward brought his usual to him, a fine whiskey that usually helped to soothe whatever was troubling him, even if he
could not get drunk off it.
Today, however, it only made raw wounds hurt all the more. Would whiskey always remind him of Lash, now? Was even
this one small, simple pleasure now ruined for him?
He tightened his hold on the glass, reminding himself for the thousandth time that it was what he deserved. Everyone he
knew, and more besides, would tell him precisely that. If he had thought he'd found some magical exception in Lash, well
that was his own stupid bloody fault.
Sabre tossed the whiskey back and called for another.
A cold voice negated the order, and Sabre felt his stomach knot. He slowly dragged his eyes up as Rapier sat down across
from him. "Father."
"You have certainly been vastly annoying these past four days. Do you mind telling me why you took off without seeing fit to
inform me?"
Sabre stared at his empty glass. "Do you know what day it was, four days ago?"
Rapier frowned at him. "Thursday," he said dismissively. "We are not discussing what days you were gone, we were
discussing why you were gone. It is humiliating in the extreme when I assure people my son will be certain places at certain
times, only for me to be unable to find him. Not even a note. You did not have my permission to leave."
"I'm a grown man," Sabre replied, tamping down on his anger, because the minute he showed it his father would start in
with the violence and he did not want to be struck in his own damned club. "If I want to take off for a few days, I am entitled. I
am sorry I neglected to leave you a note. I was more than a little out of sorts, four days ago."
"That is no excuse," Rapier said, slamming a hand down. "You have humiliated me these past four days. I endured enough
of that from those damnable nuisances. I will not tolerate this behavior from you, Sabre. I expect better, much better. Do not
start to prove a disappointment to me now."
Sabre bristled. "Disappointment?"
"Yes," Rapier said, eyes sparking a warning at Sabre's change in tone. "You have been quite disappointing these past four
days, and this on top of the fact that you barely move in society anymore, as I demand. Of late, you have been a great
disappointment."
He could not take it anymore. I'm proud of you. How hard was it to speak those four short words? He'd lost almost thirty
years of his life attempting to earn them. And why? What did it matter?
Nothing mattered anymore. Even Lash had not wanted him past a few days' amusement, had not even thought him worth a
goodbye.
It didn't matter what he did, nothing was ever right. His father was never going to be pleased.
Sabre did what he'd wanted to do all his life. He lost his temper with his father. Snatching up his empty whiskey glass, he
threw it toward Rapier, who barely dodged in time. Rapier rose to his feet, bellowing in anger.
"A disappointment?" Sabre demanded, not bothering to watch how loud his voice got. He snatched a full glass of brandy
from the tray of a steward who did not get out of the way fast enough. "I have done nothing," he snarled, tossing the brandy
glass, enjoying the sound of it shattering, "but obey your every wish and command. I support you, I stand by you! I've hated
those you told me to hate, I've hurt those you told me to hurt. I mistreated my stepbrother at your command, and alienated
myself from my own little brother because you asked it of me. I've lost every friend, I've given up every pleasure, all to make
you happy."
He shoved hard when Rapier attempted to approach him, refusing to be interrupted in the too-long bottled tirade. "I've done
everything you ever asked of me. I did it without flaw, without fail. Still I am not good enough. A disappointment, am I? So be
it!"
With angry, jerking motions he undid the sword belt wrapped around his waist, and threw the sword to his father. It had been
handed down father to son for six generations, and he'd been so damned happy when his father had given it to him - but
Rapier had said nothing but 'tradition dictates you get this now, but you had better not lose it'.
"There," he said. "If you are so disappointed with me, then I will cease to be a problem for you. All my life I've done what you
wanted, and you could not even remember that four days ago I turned twenty nine. Go find yourself a son that meets all your
bloody requirements. This one is through."
Turning sharply on his heel, ignoring the ringing silence, the startled, fearful looks, he stalked from the club and back into the
street, barking for his horse. When he was mounted, Sabre rode through the streets as quickly as he dared, and broke into
a full gallop once clear of the city gates.
He rode and rode, not stopping until he reached the seedy tavern he had left only that morning. Where his whole bloody life
had finally started to come apart only four days ago, and all because he'd dared to let some damnable stranger convince
him he could and should be happy.
The worst part was that he had been happy for those few, precious days.
Ordering his usual whiskey, ignoring the startled looks of the owners that he would return so soon, he slunk off to his
preferred table and started to drink.
No one would miss him, if he never went back. Now that he'd told his father to more or less go to hell, there was nothing to
which he could go back. Even his beautiful stranger, stupid fucking Lash, had already had enough of him.
Sabre called for more whiskey, determined to drink himself to death.
*~*~*
Sabre ignored everyone who dared to get even remotely too close to his corner of the ballroom.
He was very likely a great laughingstock right now, but he still was intimidating enough no one would dare laugh while he
was in the general vicinity. Those few idiots brave enough to approach him and start to speak were quickly driven off by his
glares.
A laughingstock, but a frightening one.
He did not want to be here. This stupid ball had not appealed three months ago when he'd first refused the invitation -
without telling his father - and it most certainly did not appeal now. Why the devil should he come and dance attendance
upon some recently returned Duke or whatever whose family was near and dear to the royal family. He had nothing to do
with the royal family anymore, and any friend of theirs would be instructed to snub Sabre.
There was no way, however, to refuse a direct order that he put in an appearance, and be visible, and remain the length of
the ball.
The ball formally ended at one am. It was half past nine.
It was, to say the least, going to be a long night.
He couldn't fathom why the crown prince himself would pen a letter ordering Sabre to appear - or else.
Maybe some suitable punishment had finally been arranged, after all this time. Dagger would finally have the last laugh.
So far as Sabre was concerned, he was welcome to it. He would not particularly care if they decided to strip him bare, and
then go with the old tar and feather treatment. There was not a drop left in him capable of caring about anything anymore.
What good did it do to care about anything?
All that mattered to him was that he'd had no proper clothes for the affair, and his already strained finances had not been
pleased by clothes shopping. He had private investments enough - including a certain new wine business, though he'd
rather die than ever admit he was Epee's mystery backer - but it still was nothing compared to the fortune from which his
father had ruthlessly cut him.
Bloody hell, could the night not be over yet?
He sipped at his wine, wanting a whiskey but knowing better than to start getting drunk again until he figured out what the hell
they were going to do to him. Hell, he didn't even know how they'd known where to find him.
Stifling a sigh, he glared off another curious would-be inquisitor, and took another sip of wine.
A quarter or so past ten, just as he was beginning to think prison would in fact be the better option, a hesitant cough drew
him from his thoughts. He scowled at the quaking footman standing nearby with a folded bit of paper on a silver salver.
"What?" he snapped.
"A n-note, m-my lord. From h-his Grace, the Duke of Lashton."
"What?" Sabre shook his head, confused. "The Duke? The one we're here for?"
The footman bobbed an eager nod. "Yes, my lord."
Sabre frowned, confused, and reluctantly accepted the note, dropping a coin on the salver.
"Thank you, my lord," the footman said, suddenly looking much less scared, and almost surprised.
Nodding, motioning for him to depart, Sabre opened the folded bit of paper.
I love you, so you can't kill me.
What?
The first three words caught his breath, made his heart speed up, though he knew they were complete nonsense. It wasn't
signed, but the tone - the audacity - could only be Lash. But Lash had left him…
And the footman had said the note came from the stupid Duk…
Suddenly a whole lot of little things made a lot more sense.
He started to crush the note in his fist, but his eyes caught those three, stupid little words written in a neat, tidy hand. He
could not bring himself to destroy the note. A pathetic dog clinging to scraps, but no one need know it but him.
Lash…Duke of Lashton.
The bastard was going to die. Why had he not simply said something?
Loved him? Sabre refused to believe those words were real. No one fell in love in four days. Especially not with the
despicable Lord Sabre.
He should leave, but as he turned to do precisely that, the gong sounded to announce the arrival of the royal family.
His eyes flew immediately to the man standing with the King and crown prince, as they announced the joyous return of the
seventeenth Duke of Lashton, dear Lord Whip.
Sabre was moving before he even thought, weaving his way through the crowd, barely noting the way people scrambled to
get out of his way.
When the royal family and assorted companions reached the bottom of the stairs, he blocked their way, eyes only for the
bastard who was smiling.
"My note said you weren't allowed to kill me," Lash - Whip - said, holding his hands up to ward Sabre off.
Sabre just glared.
When Dagger would have stepped forward, Whip motioned him back.
"I'm sorry," Whip said, stepping forward. "I panicked at the end, and fled."
"You could have left a note," Sabre said bitterly, wondering why his most humiliating moments of late must be in front of
audiences.
Whip frowned. "I did. On the bed."
"There was no note," Sabre replied. "I looked. If you only wanted to play games-" He broke off as he saw the look in Whip's
eyes, stepping back in panic. "Don't you dare, not here, you bast-"
But Whip dared, and kissed him as thoroughly in the middle of the ballroom as he did in privacy.
"I'm going to kill you," Sabre hissed when he was permitted to speak again. "This is neither the time nor the place, you
infuriating-"
"Be quiet or I'll do it again," Whip said, so bloody cheerful that Sabre wanted to tear his own hair out.
Sabre attempted to shove him back, restore some sort of respectability - the royal ballroom, for god's sake! - but Whip was
having none of that. "Why didn't you tell me?" Sabre demanded.
"I felt stupid," Whip said. "Like, really stupid. I didn't know I was the heir to a dukedom until my father died. I didn't know we
had close ties to the royal family until about two hours after I learned I was a Duke. I thought I could bluster through it, but I
panicked at the last moment. I'm sorry. Don't kill me?"
"You are the most maddening-" Sabre broke off, and heaved a sigh. "No, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to kill you. Bastard."
Whip snickered. "Why Sabre, my rose, I think you just made a joke."
"Dead!" Sabre bellowed, face hot that Whip had said that where everyone could hear. He started to speak again, but his
tirade was lost as Whip kissed him again, and the entirety of the ballroom stared in shocked, stunned silence.
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