Duel at Dawn

by Kevin Berry

  You glance backward. Twenty or thirty people have emerged from their houses and are creeping along behind you at a safe distance, no doubt curious as to your purpose for being there.

  “This area’s a lot bigger than I expected,” you say. “I thought maybe there’d be a few dozen beggars and petty thieves, no more. But there must be hundreds of them.”

  “Maybe thousands,” Tempeste says without any trace of exaggeration in her voice.

  In the centre of the courtyard, you stop to get your bearings. Your eyes adjust to the lack of natural light in the overshadowed courtyard, and you see some of the occupants moving around. Most ignore you, but some stare with open hostility. A middle-aged man strides past, carrying a crudely-made wooden crutch and a blood-stained bandage in one hand, and a small jingling cloth bag in the other. Outside a house nearby, a young man folds one arm carefully behind his back inside a tattered tunic while a woman dabs pig blood from a bucket over his exposed shoulder. Further ahead, you hear an elder giving instruction to three young kids, maybe no older than six or seven, about how to pick pockets. He boxes the ear of one inattentive student, who cries out in pain.

  “Where shall we start looking?” Tempeste says, with a nervous glance behind. The small crowd of thieves and beggars trailing you have sidled closer.

  “Is there a tavern or some other public place where we could ask?”

  “I don’t think so. If there is, there’s no sign outside.”

  A woman walks out of a house directly ahead of you, babe in arms and two small kids clinging to her filthy smock. She sees you and immediately slows her pace, limping and hunching over so that she is several inches shorter, as if she’s aged forty years in a moment. Hand out, she approaches you.

  “My dear woman,” you say, trying not to shudder at her appearance and smell (you doubt if she’s ever had a bath, let alone one a year as is the usual practice). “Do you know of a child about this height”—you indicate with a flourish while she looks on—“who has been selling daisies today nearby? She may go by the name of Minni.”

  The woman tilts her head and jerks her outstretched hand up and down.

  You reach into a pocket of your jerkin and pull out a couple of copper sous, which you hand over to the woman. She shoves the money down her smock and grins. Her few remaining teeth are black pegs. She stabs a raw finger toward a particular house and steps away.

  “Merci,” Tempeste says, her voice muffled because she has her hand covering her mouth and nose to ward off the stench.

  “Come on, then.” You lead the way to the house. It’s a four-story dwelling, not in as bad a state as most of the others, but it still looks like it might fall down with a strong gust of wind.

  A group of about twenty people follow you, keeping out of reach. Are they more menacing now, or is it simply that you’re more anxious about the situation?

  You’re nearly there when Minni emerges through the lopsided door. Mud splatters the hem of her smock and her bare feet when she steps into the street.

  “That’s her!” Tempeste says.

  After a moment or two, Minni turns and sees you and Tempeste striding towards her. She doesn’t hesitate, but dashes around the corner of the decrepit building into a narrow, dark alley leading deeper into the tangled warren of tiny, tortuous streets.

  “Curses!” Tempeste says. “We might never find her in there unless we’re quick. She was fleet of foot.”

  Behind you, the small crowd of thieves and beggars edges closer. If you chase after the young girl, you might catch her, or you might find yourself trapped in the twisted alleys. If you give up the idea of recovering the money, you might get out of the situation unscathed, but you’ll have to get past the courtyard’s denizens blocking the way out first.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Give chase?

  Or

  Give up?

  Chase the thief

  “Let’s go after her!” you yell, grabbing Tempeste’s arm and pulling her along for the first few steps. “Even if we don’t catch her, she might lead us to a way out of here!”

  The two of you run to the alley that you saw Minni, the young cutpurse, enter. Your feet squelch in the mud, which splatters over your boots and breeches, and your sword swings in its scabbard at your side.

  You slip and skid as you round the side of the building, and Tempeste gives you a heavy nudge to help you stay on your feet. You nod thanks and take the opportunity to look behind before you pick up speed again.

  “The mob is following us,” you say. “This could be a trap.”

  “Now you tell me that. Just hurry and don’t slip again.”

  The alleyway is merely a narrow path between overhanging buildings in various states of disrepair. At this time in the afternoon there’s no direct sunlight, and it’s dark and cold. You veer left, then sharp right before coming to a T intersection. Minni is not in sight.

  “Which way?” Tempeste wails, hopping from one foot to the other.

  There’s no time to waste. The chasing rogues will catch you in seconds.

  Several sets of footprints trail through the muddy alley, but one stands out: child-sized, spaced too wide apart for walking, and deeper—a young person running. “That way!” you say, taking the right turn to follow them.

  The new alley swerves left after a few yards. Once past that bend, you’ll be out of sight of the intersection. Maybe the pursuing thieves will give up.

  You veer around the corner, almost falling when Tempeste crashes into you after skidding on a particularly muddy patch.

  “Excusez moi,” she says.

  “Split up!” comes a cry from behind you. The thieves aren’t giving up, but at least there’ll be fewer of them at your back now.

  This alley is long and straight with a high stone wall on the right-hand side. On the left are the backs of decaying properties.

  There’s no easy escape route. You keep running, squelching through the mud between the wall and the houses.

  “Where is she?” Tempeste huffs. “We should be able to see her by now.”

  You glance down to see untouched muddy ground ahead of you. “Her footprints have disappeared. She must have ducked in somewhere or taken a side alley that we didn’t notice.”

  “So … if we’re no longer chasing her, should we turn back? You said Musketeers never run from danger.”

  A quick glance behind tells you about a dozen thieves are still in pursuit. “I’ve reconsidered. It’s not honourable to fight thieves and beggars. Let’s just get out of here.”

  The long alley turns sharply to the right at the corner of the stone wall. Tempeste reaches it first but doesn’t slow enough to take the turn and slides into the opposite wall. You grab her arm, jerk her to her feet and turn to run on, only to discover your way is blocked by a heavy iron-grilled gate.

  “We’re trapped!”

  “No, we’ll climb over. Quick!” You link your hands together, forming a step for Tempeste, and brace yourself. She grabs one of the bars of the gate, puts one muddy boot in your cupped hands, and the other on your shoulder as she pulls herself to the top of the wall.

  “Now your turn!” she says, lying across the top of the wall and reaching down to you.

  You grasp her hand and, using her weight as a counterbalance, you somehow manage to clamber up the wall. Just in time, too, as the group of thieves rounds the bend.

  “Begone!” shouts a stout woman, brandishing a cudgel.

  “And don’t you never come back!” another says.

  You drop over the other side of the wall with Tempeste, relieved to have escaped from the denizens of the Courtyard of Miracles. They’re not pursuing you any longer.

  “It’s a miracle we got out of there alive,” you say.

  She grins. You take stock of yourselves and each other. Somewhere along the way you’ve lost your fine hat. Your breeches are covered with mud splashes. Tempeste has a graze and a lump on the side of her head where she crashed
into the wall, but you’re otherwise unharmed and nothing else is lost but a little pride.

  Or perhaps a lot of pride. Musketeers running away from thieves and beggars, indeed. Probably it’s not an adventure you’ll tell anyone about.

  “Where are we?” Tempeste says.

  You look around. You’re standing on grass, with several mature trees nearby. A sizeable building lies a short distance away. An elderly nun is busy sweeping the steps.

  “We’re in the grounds of the convent of the Sisters of God,” you say. “We’re safe now.”

  The elderly nun sees you as you approach, and waits, one hand gripping her broom and the other clenched as a fist on her hip.

  “Soldiers are not permitted in the grounds of the convent,” she snaps.

  “Sorry, Sister. We took a wrong turn. We’ll be leaving now,” you say.

  She lowers the broom to bar your way. “Not just yet. This is most fortunate. The Sisters of God are in desperate need of generous donations to continue our worthy work. May I ask you trespassing Musketeers for a contribution?”

  Tempeste looks at you helplessly, as she has no money. You sigh and reach for your purse.

  Congratulations, this part of your story is over. You’ve joined the King’s Musketeers with your friend Tempeste. On your way to celebrate, Tempeste was robbed by a young cutpurse, and at some point you both decided to go and look for her to recover the money. You ventured into La Cour des Miracles, the Courtyard of Miracles, home to hundreds of Paris’s thieves, beggars and scoundrels, where some of the inhabitants blocked your way out. Having seen the cutpurse, you chased her but she gave you the slip. You barely escaped pursuit by climbing the wall into the convent, where you made a generous donation.

  While this adventure might be over, others await you as a Musketeer cadet, if you choose. Maybe you would like to try some other paths in the book?

  It’s time to make a decision. Would you like to:

  Go to the list of choices and start reading from another part of the story?

  Or

  Go back to the beginning of the story and try another path?

  Give up pursuing the thief

  “You’re right,” you say. “We’ll never catch her. Let’s just get out of here while we can.”

  Tempeste nods. You both swivel to find the group of thieves, beggars and other rascals even closer than they were before. They come nearer, not a smile amongst them, forcing you both back against the wall of the not-quite-so-derelict house.

  “We have no business with any of you,” you say. “Let us leave.”

  “Not so fast,” growls a scar-faced individual. “You can’t enter the courtyard and just leave. What’re doing here?”

  A stout woman next to him tugs a cudgel from a pocket of her scruffy jacket. Others pull knives or bare their teeth. The crowd looks mean and ugly, and they’re still edging closer.

  You slide your rapier a few inches out of its scabbard, not taking your gaze off the group of assorted thugs and degenerates before you. Tempeste follows suit. The group stops a mere few yards distant. The scar-faced individual spits on the ground, some of his spittle flying unnoticed onto the tatty shoe of the stout woman as she taps the cudgel into the palm of her other hand.

  “Who cares why they’re here?” someone snaps from the back. “Let’s charge them. There’s only the two of them.”

  “They’ve got swords, knucklehead,” Scarface says.

  “We outnumber them. Let’s get them.”

  “Why don’t you lead the way?” the stout woman shouts at the enthusiastic rogue at the back. “Then when they’re pulling their swords out of you, the rest of us can rush them.”

  “They’re too afraid to come any closer,” Tempeste whispers.

  You already know that, but they’re not moving away either. It’s a stalemate. “It’s too dangerous to go through them. They’re encircle us. We’ll never make it. There must be another way.”

  “Is waiting around here any better?” Tempeste says. “Do you really think they’ll just go away?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think a moment.” Your throat seems dry suddenly, and you swallow. You could both die here, all because Tempeste wanted to look for the thief who stole a few livres from her.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Draw your swords and charge?

  Or

  Try to talk your way out of the situation?

  Draw your swords and charge

  “You’re right, we can’t stay here,” you say. “It’ll be night soon. We’ve got to make a run for it. Agreed?”

  Tempeste nods curtly, her forehead furrowed, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “On the count of three, draw your sword, and we’ll rush them. Let’s stay together and we might make it through. There are a lot of them, but if we bring down one or two, the others might fall back and let us pass.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “One …” In your mind, you run through what you’re going to do.

  “Two …” And hope for the best.

  “Three!”

  You draw your rapier, the sound of steel on the scabbard satisfying, and bound forward, Tempeste half a step behind. The group of scoundrels jostles, some of them trying to get out of your way, while others step forward with knives, sticks, cudgels, and a variety of makeshift weapons.

  They are almost within reach of your blade now. You whirl it in a semi-circle, keeping half a dozen of them at bay. Turning so you are back to back with Tempeste, you edge onwards slowly but steadily, your sword a flurry of activity, flicking a knife from someone’s grasp, deflecting a thrown boot, scratching someone else on the leg.

  Behind you, Tempeste swings her sword wildly. “It’s working!”

  Silently, a few of the ruffians slip around to the side so you are now both completely surrounded. You grimace. The crowd is menacing. A man with a crooked nose bursts forward, swinging a hefty stick at you. You duck, but the stick sweeps your fine hat from your head. The rogue steps towards you and raises his stick once more. You jab him in the upper arm with your rapier. He utters a cry, drops the stick and drops back.

  “Keep going!” you say. “We’re going to make it.” Another deft flick of your sword intercepts a bottle thrown your way. You catch it on the point of your sword and throw it back.

  “There’s too many! We’re—aargh!”

  Tempeste’s back no longer presses against yours. You swing your rapier widely to keep your assailants away for a few moments, and twist around.

  Tempeste is on the ground with attackers all around her, struggling, her sword lost. In a frantic attempt to save her, you jab at three of the attackers, sending them scattering with their wounds.

  But you can’t fight everyone on your own. A sharp pain screams through your right shoulder, forcing you to drop your sword. Turning and falling at the same time, the last thing you see is the sneering face of the scar-faced man and the bloodied dagger he holds.

  I’m sorry, this part of your story is over. You’ve had a rather short existence as a Musketeer cadet with your friend Tempeste. You decided to risk your life entering the perilous Courtyard of Miracles, the residence of hundreds of the city’s most desperate and dangerous individuals, to try to recover a few livres stolen from Tempeste, barely enough money to buy a meal and a pair of boots. You found yourselves cornered and tried to fight your way out, which turned out to be a bad idea. But never mind, in this YSWW book you can always change your decision. How would things have turned out if you hadn’t charged the mob? Do you want to find out, or try a different path?

  It’s time to make a decision. You have three choices. Would you like to:

  Change your last choice and try to talk your way out of the situation?

  Or

  Go to the list of choices and start reading from another part of the story?

  Or

  Go back to the beginning of the story and try another path?

  Try to talk your way out
of the situation

  The mob creeps forward, knives and cudgels raised. Some of them snarl at you, perhaps to scare you. Their stinking breath mingles with the fetid smell of the rubbish strewn around the courtyard.

  Coming here was such a bad idea, you realize.

  “Say something!” Tempeste hisses. “Before it’s too late!”

  Mortdieu! you think, and step forward, your heart in your mouth. You look Scarface in the eye with enough phony confidence that he and the people around him pause.

  “Who’s your leader? I want to talk to the person in charge.”

  “Why?” the stout woman demands suspiciously.

  “We want to make a deal.”

  “No deal! Let’s charge them and grab all their stuff,” shouts the scallywag at the back.

  “Wait!” Tempeste says. “It’s a good deal.” To you, she whispers, “What deal are you talking about?”

  “We’ve got to think of something, and quickly. We can’t fight them all.”

  Someone runs off, possibly to fetch the gang’s leader. The rest of the scoundrels argue amongst themselves. You don’t understand what they’re saying—they’re talking in the secret language of the Underclass. Scarface glares at you, his lips curled in a sneer made somewhat more menacing by his scar.

  “What’s going on here?”

  You can’t see the woman who shouted that, but the group of crooks and vagrants go respectfully silent. They part to let someone through. Moments later, a figure emerges to the fore and smiles at you, though not in a friendly way. She’s still got most of her teeth.

  “Are you the person in charge here?”

  The woman nods several times, letting you both take in her curious appearance. Black hair sprouts haphazardly from under a blue bonnet that seems too small. A grubby, patched sheet wrapped around her comprises the rest of her clothing, like a Roman senator fallen upon hard times. In one hand she grasps a thick oak stick, as tall as her, topped with a painted rock as if it were some kind of scepter. She bangs the bottom end of it on the ground several times, but it makes little sound in the mud.