by Emerson, Ru
Chris waved him aside, smiled unpleasantly, held up the bo. “I don’t use those.”
“You have no choice!” Dupret snarled. He crossed the deck, tapped at the bo with the tip of his blade. “I named swords! What is this, a jest?”
“Hey, you afraid of a stick?” Chris sneered. “It’s a plain piece of ash, no bells or whistles, no tricks. Let Giraut examine it if you’re spooked. Oh, hell,” he added in disgust as Dupret began to protest once more, “let Albione examine it, if you’re that scared.”
“Scared,” Dupret hissed. “I take you, whatever you have in hand!”
“You wish!” Chris laughed, spun the stick, and stepped back. Dupret brought up his blade, hesitated as Giraut protested sharply, and darted forward to step between them.
“You remember what was decided, what you both swore; it is first touch only!” he said loudly; his voice cracked on the final word.
“First touch,” Dupret said; his eyes were glittering dangerously.
“Hey,” Chris replied as Giraut turned to him. “I got no problem with that.” But he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden; a wave of dizziness hit him, hard. Giraut exclaimed sharply; two of Dupret took a step back. “Let’s do it—” He flailed for balance, took one sudden sideways step in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright, two more the other way, then simply folded.
He didn’t go completely out; he could hear Dupret cursing in a full fury, Ariadne’s anxious-sounding voice over everything else. One of her small, slightly damp hands suddenly trembled on his jaw. He forced his eyes open and wished he hadn’t: there were at least two of everything, and he was almost as light-headed as he’d been on her balcony after Maurice—
“A trick!” Dupret shouted. “He tricks you all, playing he is ill. I knew he would attempt a way from this! That stick, instead of a blade, can you doubt he never intended to duel?”
“Be silent!” Ariadne leaped to her feet; the board under Chris’s head jolted. “How dare you say these things?”
“Giraut,” Dupret warned, “I am as yet an accused man only, and a noble one! It is not permitted that a common man toy with a Dupret so!”
“Less common than you” Ariadne snarled, and Dupret swore at her.
“Giraut, get this demon of a child away from me, before I—”
“Before you what?” Ariadne demanded flatly.
“Chris!” Edrith’s voice, low and worried against his ear. Edrith hauled him partway upright, so his head rested against the other man’s shoulder.
He panted for air; almost impossible to remember how to talk at the moment. “God, I—I feel awful, like I’m gonna pass out if I move. Damn. Like, back at the Parrot—oh, hell, Eddie, this was not what I had in mind.”
“Not your fault. You aren’t well yet, we knew it if you did not. I will move you a little, out of the way.”
“No, don’t, if I can’t fight him, then it’s over—” Edrith probably hadn’t heard him; he was back on his feet, hands hooked under Chris’s arms, scooting him down the deck on his backside. Sudden, total silence; Chris bit his lip, forced his eyes open once more. Ariadne was right in Dupret’s face.
“He either plays at coward or you have done this, somehow,” Dupret said sharply. “To keep him from my blade.”
“Oh, jeez,” Chris whispered. Edrith had to bend down to hear what he was saying. “She did! She dosed my water!”
“Again from your blade!” Ariadne hissed. “But that is what your man Maurice did, beating him senseless. You know his condition when you saw him last; let the ship’s healer look at him, if you dare! Let all of them see what you and Maurice did to cause him such harm, and such pain! For him to return here despite broken ribs and to face you, stick against sword—he has courage enough!” She laughed, snapped her fingers under his nose. “That for your so-high honor, man who was my father! I see it in your eyes, that first touch would have been through his heart!”
“Madame,” Giraut began nervously. Ariadne chopped a hand at him for silence, and he backed hastily away.
“Chris,” Edrith whispered. “Where’s your—wait, got it.” Chris caught his breath as his companion slid the short bo from his lax hand and got to his feet.
“Eddie, damnit! Don’t you dare!” He sagged, fell heavily onto his side. Dija caught him before his face could hit the deck, eased him up against her knee. “No one listens to me,” Chris mumbled in an aggrieved voice. “Dija, go back, you aren’t safe here—”
“I go nowhere. She is my responsibility, and for her sake, I watch you.”
Dupret glanced across his daughter’s shoulder as Edrith started toward him; his eyes widened. Ariadne turned and caught her breath, then shook her head furiously. She strode across the deck to intercept him, one hand deftly slipping into the waist of her dark green silk skirt. Edrith stopped short: She held a knife at waist level, small but narrow bladed and visibly very sharp. The tip brushed his shirt. “This is not your quarrel,” she said; her voice was low and hard. “You are impartial witness, responsible for Chris, nothing else.”
“You did that to him, didn’t you?” Edrith said quietly; his words were clipped, his mouth tight and white at the corners. “You planned it. All of this, everything.” She shrugged. “Chris will murder me if I let you do this. I can’t just—”
“I can,” she hissed. “It is you who does not just anything!” Edrith swallowed hard as the knife pressed against his shirt, cast his eyes up, and slammed the bo down with a particularly obscene curse; it hit the deck, clattered, and rolled away. He turned on his heel, went back to Chris.
“You cannot believe how glad I am that she is yours,” he growled. “And you are welcome to whatever he leaves of her!” Ariadne had already turned away to level her hand—and the knife—at Dupret. Her voice was pitched to include the whole—unnaturally still and silent—main deck.
“That man dares speak of honor-—what of my honor? I am also of noble blood!”
“Half only!” Dupret snapped. Giraut and the men around him looked suddenly exquisitely uncomfortable. Ariadne closed the distance between herself and Dupret with a catlike bound, knocked the sword aside with her dagger, and slapped him, hard.
“That for my mother,” she said softly. Dupret’s face had gone the color of parchment, save for one brilliantly red cheek.
“That I did not strangle Marie before she ever bore you,” he said evenly, and loudly enough for the men around them to hear. He brought up the sword; Ariadne gave him a cold little smile, spun away from him, and pulled a rapier at random from the rack, then knelt at Chris’s side.
“Chris,” she whispered. He shook his head.
“Ari—look, don’t do this. For me, all right?”
“You would have, and I must.” She set the sword on the deck, hesitated, then wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and kissed him full on the mouth, very hard. “You said it first: I know what I do,” she whispered. “Trust me.” Before he could even catch his breath, she had scooped up the sword and was back on small bare feet, moving swiftly across the deck to confront Dupret. His lower lip was numb.
Giraut was still arguing with Dupret, now with Ariadne; Chris couldn’t hear what any of them were saying. It didn’t matter, anyway: Giraut finally threw up his hands in disgust and let Joulon pull him away. Ariadne spun the back hem of her skirt around her left arm and brought the sword up. Dupret laughed unpleasantly; he touched her blade with his, slapped it skyward. “Oh, God,” Chris whispered. “He’ll kill her.”
Ariadne skipped back, got control over her blade at once, nimbly dodged a slashing overhand cut aimed straight at her face. If he didn’t kill her, he clearly intended to mark her for life. “I can’t watch.” Chris closed his eyes, but after a moment opened them again.
Ariadne laughed. “But you were so fond of Marie, why would you cut a face so like hers?” she whispered. “Man who was my beloved father?” She dodged half a dozen furious blows, ignored Dupret’s mutterings. Remember what Chris said; his age
, he is not the young papa you remember, striding across French Jamaica and dealing death where he would, by his own blade; he is a man of years and one who spends his days at a desk. He is angry and proud, but that is not the same thing.
The man who smiled while Maurice—she dared not think of that, nothing of Maurice, not now. It would weaken her to recall what Maurice had done to Chris. I gutted Maurice for what he did; this man who was father will not survive him for long.
Dupret dropped his left shoulder and tried to take her with his fancy, swift maneuver; she countered it sharply and he pulled back to begin stalking to his right. “How did you—I knew it,” he whispered. “Peronne!”
“Peronne?” She lunged twice in swift succession; he stepped back, almost into the surrounding watchers. Half off balance, he lunged in turn, seeking any touch at all this time; she was already two sword-lengths away from him. “But I am femme, daughter of an unwed servant, who teaches a nobleman’s sport to a doubly marked one?” Ariadne leaped forward, catlike; five sharp, swift clashes rang across the deck, and then she was away from him, circling, laughing once more. She was still unwinded. Dupret’s forehead shone with sweat, but he didn’t seem to have slowed yet.
“Garce! You and that—that man—”
“Yes. You gave me to him over cards and you planned murder upon us both. See how well you have succeeded!” She whipped the blade in a blurring backhand; Dupret jumped aside, off balance, but before she could pursue his mistake, he’d recovered, aimed two nasty short jabs at her ribs, and backed away. “We shall outlive you—he and I and our children!” Ariadne bared her teeth at him. Dupret snarled and lunged, faster than she’d expected; she parried the blow so near the hilt that Chris cried out somewhere behind her. She used the momentum of the blow to spin away and off side, parried again, nearly fell when the tip of his blade caught in her skirt. Dupret bared his own teeth in a mirthless grin.
“Touch,” he announced, and then, loudly, imperiously, “touch!”
Ariadne laughed somehow; the blade had gone through silk and underskirts alike, missing flesh by no distance at all. “You cannot tell skirt from skin?” Giraut came forward, clasping his hands anxiously. She laughed again, then drew the skirt to her knee, extended her bare foot and lower leg; the little nobleman went red to his hairline. “No touch,” she said evenly, and released green silk.
“No touch,” Giraut echoed unhappily. He withdrew a pace, a second; Dupret made as if to lunge, drew sharply back and came at her off side; his point came away with a small bit of lace from the throat of her shirtwaist. Her smile wavered.
“Whatever Peronne taught you, it will not be enough,” he hissed. “You’ll pay for this, Ariadne.” She brought her chin up and went after him again.
Chris strove to sit up; sagged into Edrith. “Trust me, she says,” he mumbled. “Trust me; I’ll strangle her if I ever get my hands back.” Edrith’s hands tightened on his arms and he fell silent. Dupret was on the offensive; hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, he was still unnervingly quick, and if he’d repeated anything yet, Chris hadn’t seen it. Ariadne wasn’t smiling at all now, and her face was flushed.
He is stronger than Chris thought; I did right to keep him from this. Not that Chris would ever believe it. Dupret’s blade described a swift, tight circle and sliced the air; she ducked sideways, assuredly saving her neck or her ear. A long, dark curl slid down her shirtwaist and slithered to the deck.
“I can’t watch,” Chris whispered, but he couldn’t look away, either. Behind him, Edrith swore flatly and kept him upright.
Ariadne backed away from her father; he laughed breathily and pressed the advantage. A step, a second—she took two wild slashes at him, backed away again. “One touch, eh? I will mark you so he does not look on you with pleasure ever again.” Giraut tried to say something; Dupret snarled at him and he went abruptly silent.
“No,” Ariadne whispered. She hesitated; Dupret lunged at her, his blade a down-slashing blur; she caught her breath, turned sideways, and slammed the side of her blade against the tip of his. Clearly nothing he’d expected: his blade rebounded hard and high, pulling him off balance. Ariadne spun neatly on one heel and came up beside him. “First touch, beloved Papa,” she said flatly, and lunged.
The rapier caught him low in the side, angled sharply up and in. Dupret shouted, a wordless cry of pain. His sword hit the deck with a loud clang. Ariadne stepped back, using both hands to bring the blade with her. She staggered, then braced the point against the deck. Her eyes were fixed on Dupret, her face expressionless. Dupret’s lips worked, but no words came. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and he fell.
Momentary, deathly silence; someone near the ramp began shouting, someone else ran down the deck, and suddenly everyone seemed to be talking much too loudly. Ariadne stood immobile, her eyes still fixed on Dupret; she appeared unaware of anything else. The ship’s physician knelt beside the fallen man, laid a hand against his throat. He looked up as Giraut came over, shook his head. Giraut brought his head up, stared dumbfounded at Ariadne, who sighed very faintly, shook herself, and held out the sword. Half its length was red; Giraut shuddered, caught hold of the hilt gingerly, and handed it immediately to one of the soldiers. “M-Madame—” he stuttered.
“M. Giraut?” Ariadne’s voice was distant; she blotted her forehead with the back of one hand. “M. Cray is—is unwell. Allow me to return with him to our cabin, see him settled. After that, whatever you demand of me for that man’s death—”
“Ariadne, no.” Chris tried to get to his feet; Edrith mumbled something under his breath and helped him up, held him as the ship swayed alarmingly and everything went momentarily black. Giraut turned a worried face toward him.
“M. Cray, you do indeed look not at all well, and you must be extremely anxious, all—all this. Madame—”
Joulon held up a hand. “Madame, this is all exceedingly unfortunate. Go rest and see to your husband.”
“You—”
“Madame Cray,” Joulon broke in. “Unfortunate, I say and mean and for you and he. Clearly Dupret intended more than a simple touch to whichever of you he fought, he meant disfiguration or death. Fortune was yours instead of his. It may be your uncle Philippe will wish to further question you once we have reported to him, but for now—” He shrugged broadly. “We have yet much to accomplish here, and you and M. Cray need be no further part of it. Go and rest.”
She inclined her head. “I—we shall. Thank you.”
It was wearing off as quickly as it had taken him—whatever it was. His legs were almost working by the time they reached the cabin, though he still needed to lean on Edrith and the dizziness—fainter but still unnervingly there—caught him every few breaths. Edrith eased him down onto the nearest bed. “What do I get you, Chris?”
“Nothing.” Chris gazed at Ariadne, who stood statuelike by the small window, her back to them all. Dija hovered a few paces behind her, visibly uncertain what to do. Chris sighed very quietly, waited until Edrith had his boots off, then jerked his head toward the window. “Take Dija; she and I need to talk.” Edrith gave him a sidelong, rather worried look. Chris nodded. “Talk. You know?”
“I—all right.” Edrith turned to Dija, spoke softly against her ear. It took him a few minutes; the girl finally nodded, cast Ariadne’s back one final, unhappy look, and went with him.
“Ariadne.” Chris’s voice came out too high; he cleared his throat. Her shoulders tensed, she didn’t move otherwise. “Ariadne, please. Don’t—don’t try to cut me out completely. Not after everything else. Please.”
“Please,” she whispered. She turned to face him, one hand braced against the windowsill; her lashes were beaded with tears. “Chris—”
“Shhh. No. Please come here. This is me, remember? Chris—not your old man, not any other man like him. Besides, I’m too limp to pound on you right now, even if I wanted to.”
“I—” She managed a very watery smile, swallowed hard, rubbed her eye
s angrily with the side of one fist, finally came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “I never—that was not to harm you; what I gave you—” She fetched a shuddering breath. “You—are furious with me.”
“No. Not furious. Okay, maybe a little bit pissed off, but mostly disappointed. I thought we were starting to trust each other.”
“Trust—I—” She shook her head; her shoulders sagged. “I should never have told you, the Anlu. But you will not believe anything I say.”
He kept his voice casual. “Well—you could try me.”
“What I meant, only to protect you—”
Chris caught hold of her hand. “I know, you were trying to keep me from getting killed out there. Right?” After a moment, she nodded. “But you did it wrong; the way Dupret or that old woman would have, the one who lumped me with your dad, and Sorionne and all the rest of those ‘all men.’”
“I—I did not mean to—”
“No.” He gripped her fingers; she fell silent. “Ari, listen to me, hear me all the way out, will you?” A long silence; she finally nodded, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I know you had it real hard, growing up with Dupret. And I’m sorry about that. I understand it, too: You know about my mom—my having to put up with her stupid, or drunk, or downright mean men. Seeing her drunk or stoned—life with her wasn’t a picnic, either. Thing is, I saw what that way of living was like, and I didn’t let myself fall into it. I don’t drink like that, I don’t get stoned. I can’t imagine ever hitting someone I cared about, even though when I was a kid, that was about all I ever knew.” Silence. “Once I saw something better, I changed. You’ve done that, too: remember the first thing you ever said to me?” She nodded. “Ariadne, we had everything in the world against us from the start, you and me, but even with all the stuff going wrong, we were starting to matter to each other—”