Devilish Page 0,3

taken to marching back and forth in obvious impatience, playing to the crowd.

The crowd, though restive, showed no signs of siding with Curry in this. When death hovered, impatience was gauche.

As if judging his moment, Rothgar paused, straightened, gave Bryght one of his rare smiles, then walked into the center of the space.

Gad, but he was magnificent.

He always moved with a fluid grace, but before sword-play it changed slightly, as if the balance of his whole body shifted a lethal fraction. Of course, he'd taken off his heeled shoes, but he'd also dropped the studied grace of the courtier and released the beauty of the predator beneath.

Tall, broad-shouldered, lean, and muscled - the truth was no longer disguised by the elegance and artifice of the fashionable nobleman. A hush settled on the crowd, and Bryght knew it was more than anticipation of the duel. It was awe.

Everyone was familiar with the aristocrat who wielded great influence in England without taking political office. Few, however, had previously seen beneath the manners, wit, and silk.

Bryght wondered if Rothgar's reluctance to indulge in duels was not just that he had better things to do. Perhaps he disliked exposing this extra layer of power. It declared itself now in his strong body and lean features, still and focused on his deadly opponent.

Curry didn't seem to feel the change. With an audible huff, he stalked confidently to meet his opponent, only then settling into fencer's stance, and a rather rigid version.

Bryght relaxed slightly. Perhaps they were uneven after all.

Not enough. From the first click of the swords, Curry too changed, and it was clear he deserved his reputation. More of a fire-eater than a scientist, he was still strong, quick and skilled, and had that advantage of being left-handed. He even possessed some of the magic spark that took sword fighting beyond speed and mechanics, a separate sense that made him able to avoid the unavoidable, and take advantage of the slightest slip.

The light but lethal blades tapped and slithered, stockinged feet padded back and forth on the springy grass, agile bodies flexed and twisted, recovered, extended, retracted, lunged...

Attacking blades were beaten back, but not always without contact. Soon, despite the cool morning air, both men poured sweat, and hair flew free of ribbons. Both shirts were gashed red. No more than scratches yet, but Bryght's heart was racing as his brother's must be. Plague take it but it was close. A slip could settle this, or it might come down to endurance.

The two men fought in silence to the music of the blades, all concentration in eye and hand, and on the sword - the flexible extension of the hand, arm, and body. Agile feet and strong legs moved them back and forth with lethal speed. Both must know it was even, for they pushed the risks now, hunting the falter.

Curry thrust high, forcing an awkward parry that still sent the point slicing across Rothgar's shoulder. Curry was ready with an echo thrust to the heart, but by some miracle Rothgar kept his balance and knocked the rapier wide.

Both men stepped back, panting and dripping, then lunged forward again. It could not go much longer. Then Rothgar parried another clever thrust and extended, extended almost beyond strength and balance so his rapier point penetrated Curry's chest just below the breastbone. Not deep enough to kill. Not even deep enough to seriously wound. But instinct staggered the man back, shocked, hand to the wound, and the crowd gasped.

Perhaps they thought him killed.

Perhaps he thought the same.

With a rapid flick, Rothgar pinked him in the thigh so blood ran free. Curry tried to collect himself, to get back his balance and control, but Rothgar's sword flickered past a confused defense of the heart to pierce deep into his left shoulder.

The maiming wound. Curry would live, but unless he was very lucky, he would not use a sword with his left arm again.

Bryght realized he'd stopped breathing, and sucked in air. All around, cheers and applause made this seem absurdly like a popular scene at the opera.

Curry, to give him credit, seized his fallen sword in his right hand and tried to go on, but Rothgar disarmed him in a few moves. His sword rested at the man's heaving chest, poised with intent over the false wound. Still sucking in breaths, he said, "I assume you are now... resolved to sing songs that are up to date and in tune?"

Rage flared in Curry's eyes, the rage of