Ördelon/Greer woke me with the sunrise the next morning. Back to the land of the living! I had been out like I was dead last night. No dreams … no, wait, there was a dream.
It was Margrin Ephisieryón with two very thuggish compatriots, chasing me, saying they just wanted to talk. It was brief, thankfully. I wouldn't be able to elude him so well in my waking hours.
“Good morning, Mister Bascombe. I trust you slept well?”
“Is that you talking, Ördelon? Or is it Greer's doppelganger waking me?”
“Sir,” he whispered, “if you please, the Queen insists we continue this ruse for the time being. Someone may be listening.”
“ I see. Very well. I slept splendidly, Greer!” I said for the world to hear.
“You'll be pleased to note, Mister Bascombe, that my fellow Wiz… er, the Wizards here have created you a magnificent, non-vegetarian breakfast! How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful, Greer. Let's see what they've come up with.”
I pulled my robe about me and took a seat at my breakfast table. A cloche was there waiting along with a coffee service for one and a glass of what looked to be freshly squeezed apple juice.
As I picked up my fork and knife, Greer uncovered the cloche and presented me with a splendid looking array of breakfast foods. Hot scones, a rasher of bacon, crispy fried potatoes, and a soft-boiled egg with a tiny pitcher of butter on the side. My mouth was watering as I spoke next.
“Sir! Tell your associates that they have surely outdone themselves. What a splendid looking plate!”
I dove right in, eating as if I hadn't eaten since I'd arrived. The effort put into making me feel comfortable was very much appreciated, and the food simply fantastic.
Ördelon had obviously played a large part in putting this together because he watched me eat every bite, bouncing up and down on his heels to see if everything was satisfactory. Then he started trying to get my attention, pointing to himself then at the food, letting me know it was his creation.
“Yes, yes, thank you sincerely, Greer, that will be all.” What an annoying Elf that one is.
Before he left, he interrupted me trying to savor my breakfast once again, “Mister Bascombe, when you're ready, Sir, Count Pelisir has requested your presence in the gymnasium. I've brung an outfit for you to wear in the armchair over there.”
“By the gods, the Elf does love dressing me. I feel as if I'm a plaything, Greer!”
“There are much worse places to be than on Count Pelisir's good side, Mister Bascombe. You should enjoy it. You can learn much from someone who has lived over 500 years as well!”
“You're right, my friend, I just get irritated easily. I've been told I'm the world's youngest curmudgeon by women who've left me for it. I have no idea why I'm here, Greer. The more I think about it, I'm supremely under-qualified and I don't get along with people very well. Surely, that's one of the more desired traits for a diplomat?”
“One would think so, Sir. But I'm not going to feed your self-pity. I have much better to do, no offense.”
“How am I not to take offen…” Cutting me off mid-sentence, the Wizard said, “I'll be waiting for you in the corridor, Mister Bascombe. I'll escort you to the gymnasium. Please wear what I've brung.”
“Very well, I'll play the doll once more. Let's see what the Count has dressed me as today!”
It was a simple outfit, white linen tunic, black hose, broad black belt, and black slippers. In the gymnasium. This was a fencing date. I clipped my rapier to the belt and stepped into the corridor to follow my valet/Wizard/spy to meet up with the Count.
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The gymnasium was rather large for the size of the Palace in general. Perhaps one hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. There were a number of fencing blades, rapiers, épées, foils, sabres, all blunted and dull.
I think the Count underestimated me this time. I've taken many hours of fencing lessons and typically have at least two bouts a week back home. I'm no elite swordsman, but I have won multiple matches in Wikehold and on the Hard Coast. I went to have a look at the practice blades in case I might need to use one.
As I was browsing the inventory, a shout came from behind, “En-garde, you knave!” As Count Pelisir came at me waving his rapier wildly. I got into my stance and replied, “En-garde, you loathsome ne'er-do-well!”
As I assumed he would, the Count went for the lunge immediately. I performed a fluid esquive, stepping to the side, letting his inertia carry him through and past me. The Count stepped into a forward recovery, planning to surprise me. On his next lunge, I employed a prise de fer, disarming him, and put my rapier’s point to his neck.
“Ah! Well the man is full of surprises! That was quite good, Mister Bascombe. I sought to play with you and got played with instead.”
“I must be modest, My Lord. Two lunges? That's amateur fencing, Sir. No disrespect intended.”
“No, you're right, Mister Bascombe. You're clearly my better here. Perhaps you can show me a few maneuvers?”
“Of course, My Lord, but let's play with practice blades, shall we?”
Just then, four men stepped into the gymnasium, four Humans. One of them was Prince Anoresti. The other three I recognized as officers from his Royal Guard. They were all dressed as were we.
Count Pelisir leaned into me and whispered, “They say he's the best swordsman in the land. You should challenge him.”
I laughed heartily at that, the Count clearly misreading my abilities.
“Is there something funny, gentlemen?” the Prince asked us.
“Ah, no, Your Royal Highness! My friend, the Count, was just suggesting that I challenge you, but he apparently knows very little about swordplay. Your reputation precedes you, Sir.”
Good gods this man looked insufferably arrogant, and I certainly didn't intend on running afoul of him and his rapier.
“But, Mister Bascombe, you laughed as if you had seen something funny when we entered this hall.”
“Again, Your Highness, I was merely laughing at the mistake my friend the Count was making in his assessment of my sword skills. Nothing more, Your Highness, I assure you.”
“You speak with a diplomat's tongue, Sir. Whether I can trust you or not, I don't know. Maybe we should have a little assault so that I might judge your skills for myself. It's a shame to see the Count's faith in you go unrewarded. Please, Mister Bascombe, humor me. I, too, love laughter and joy.”
“Very well, Your Highness, but no blood and we use the practice blades.”
“Count Pelisir, am I wrong in believing that the highest in rank picks the terms of engagement?” the Prince asked in his thick Swalesian accent. It's unusual that these days Common is spoken almost universally as the first language. In Swalesia, it's a distant second to their mother tongue. Their grasp of Common is typically rather limited.
But the question was posed to Count Pelisir and there was only one correct answer. “Yes, Your Highness, the ranking individual chooses the terms. Sorry Bascombe.”
“Quite alright my friend. I'm the idiot who laughed, after all.”
“Very well, Mister Bascombe, the terms are standard rapiers and first blood.” Then it was his turn to let loose a hearty laugh. “We do this honorably. As men. We are no longer children, Sir!”
I unsheathed my blade and took the center of the piste as Prince Anoresti slowly sauntered over to his position. An elderly Elf with competency as a referee, observed the proceedings.
“En-garde!” he called. We both raised our blades. “Pret!” I'm quite sure I was visibly trembling, but I took a few great breaths and calmed myself to what extent I could. “Allez!”
The match had begun and Prince Anoresti began beating my blade with his to distract me. I stomped my foot on the ground, which caught the Prince off-guard momentarily. He suddenly looked a little unsure.
Ah! But there it was, that overabundance of confidence coming off the man like a stink. It blinded him. And then, you can't be serious! A hop and a lunge, then my parry and riposte. I didn't even move my feet. His rapier clattered to the straw mat upon which we stood and he looked at me in bewilderment. I flicked the top of my blade across his Adam's Apple. Just enough to get a nice trickle of blood.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I believe that concludes today's practice.”
“I want a rematch!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Apologies, Your Highness, but you made the terms. First blood. We've had first blood. Thank you for the match.”
The man was absolutely fuming, but the Code was the Code. “I'll have my satisfaction, Mister Bascombe! Of that you may be certain!”
For some reason, that morning, I was forced into making a powerful enemy. I would see a lot of him in the coming days. Oh, and he had Assassins everywhere. Hopefully Mal'friq would handle his end of that bargain.
Word went around Nez Ambríl like wildfire that day that Prince Anoresti had been bested with sword. And apparently he was so angry over the matter, that he killed one of his officers during some light sparring after we left. I feel that keenly, though the man be Swalesian, he didn't deserve death.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7pPdAIo.jpeg]