Two brash words and the duel was on.

A wave of roaring, florid faces carried them out onto the long balcony that faced the harbor. The mob chased away the stargazers and dragged chairs and tables aside. Someone handed Revel a heavy, unfamiliar blade.

He shook his head, but the stupor remained. It had all happened so fast. Revel expected one of his friends to intervene; anyone could see he was too drunk to fight. No one spoke for him. Inside the banquet hall, El Sha La shouted, her voice fading as they dragged her away. The wind shifted, and Revel could smell the garlands woven around the balustrade. Flowers from the last pomegranates of spring. A slow, uncomfortable spin crept over the horizon. He was about to die.

Ambassador Ghel Shimae raised his sword, and silence swept the crowd. Revel looked down at the unfamiliar steel in his own hand, the twin of Ghel’s falchion. In Lhaz, only criminals carried single-edged swords.

“Trade swords,” Revel demanded, his voice slurred. A titter rose, and Ghel Shimae smirked, but it was Revel’s right. Ghel’s manservant scurried to swap the swords. The other was the same, but it bought a moment to clear his head.

Why did Ghel Shimae have dueling blades so close at hand?

Lhazzans did not duel at the Malogranati Ball, it was the wrong season for swordplay. The night was meant for extravagant floral arrangements, intricate footwork, slender flutes of sparkling wine, and the tinkling laughter of insufferable young women in exquisite dresses. There were no debutantes on this moonlit balcony, only strangers.

Half the Terhaljatani delegation was gathered behind Ghel Shimae. Revel had met many of them for the first time tonight, as they called him over again and again for toasts of peppery Khazic port. He’d been too polite to refuse. Then came Gel Shimae’s outrage. His untoward hand placed impossibly high on El Sha La’s thigh where Revel could see, and where everyone could see Revel had seen.

Arath’s daughter spat in the ambassador’s face; the crack of his backhand silenced the hall and almost knocked her cold. Revel had rushed over to help El up. Her eyes rolled, and Revel grew as red as the handprint on her cheek.

Just as they’d expected.

Revel V Ramos blinked in sudden understanding.

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The fix was in.

Ghel Shimae advanced with a grin. The feigned anger melted from his face like rouge in the rain. His sword seemed impossibly fast. Revel barely got his blade into guard. The next blow came so fast it nearly took him off his feet. He attempted a counter and caught nothing but air. In three exchanges, he knew he was doomed.

The strange blades, the strong drink, it was all completely unnecessary. Revel was hopelessly outmatched by the ambassador. When he tried to mount an offense, Shimae was already there. When Revel tried to retreat, the ambassador was a step ahead. The falchions clanged on as the ambassador toyed with his prey. This was all play to Ghel Shimae.

At last, Revel fell for a feint. Shimae stepped past his strike and kicked the back of Revel’s knee. He fell backward and cracked his head against the tiled floor. Lights blared behind his eyes. It was all he could do to hold onto his sword.

“Lights out!” Revel heard some wit shout.

Ghel Shimae stepped over Revel, a sheen of moonlight on his face. His eyes were too bright, too excited. He held the point of his falchion between Revel’s unfocused eyes. Stunned, Revel couldn't even plead for his life.

“Yes, lights out. Hold his arms. I’ll take both eyes for this insult,” Shimae ordered. There were scattered laughs, but a few cried in protest. Even dead drunk, they knew this was too much. Ghel Shimae would get them all killed.

“That’s the duke’s son!” shouted Bel Davi, a silk trader. Bel was drunk enough to grab the ambassador’s sword arm and stay his strike. Ghel Shimae turned in fury. Revel took his chance.

Everything went red.

* * *

“You’re dead, idiot.”

Revel V Ramos squinted against the glare. Fish had managed to steer the fight so the sun was in Revel’s eyes, again. The blunt point of the training rapier rammed into Revel’s thigh. It was the old man’s third touch in a row. Revel was drenched from his efforts. Fish hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Big vein there. Tourniquet couldn’t save you. You’d bleed out like the pig you are.”

A season of hard lessons had taught Revel not to talk back. Spring was long gone. Summer was almost over. The Malogranati Ball seemed a lifetime ago.

Revel and Fish stood on a bare spit of sand surrounded by the blue waves of MoriconeBay. The spires and sprawl of Lhaz were two hours of hard rowing behind them.

Fish jabbed him again for emphasis. There was no mercy in the drifter’s lake-gray eyes. The old man had drunk of the deep lake and forgotten everything, even his name.

The story went: Years ago, the mariner washed up on Beggar’s Beach, bare as driftwood. There was nothing to loot, so the bums let the tide take him back. For a laugh, some churl cast his line and hooked the corpse as it tumbled in the breakers. To his surprise, the dead man revived. Fish swam to shore and rewarded the angler with the beating of a lifetime.

Revel could relate. Fish’s face was a ruin of scars and sags, but the old man fought like no swordsman Revel had ever seen. In one summer of lessons, Revel suffered more lumps than the lifetime prior. It hurt to learn.

“Again,” Revel urged.

“Why bother? You keep making the same stupid mistake. I might as well train the rocks. At least they don’t talk.” Fish shook his head.

“Again.”