Gavin was surprised that L’Marc had found him a sparring partner in five days. He was grateful for the exercise. He loved to read, but that was all L’Marc ever did and his legs were growing stiff.
It was four hours yet until he’d meet the king. There would be time enough to bathe and change into Finnegan’s suit after the duel.
Gavin caressed the gold inlay on the hilt of the rapier. When Montegue had handed it to him, Gavin had strapped it to his belt. He refused to belittle the man by testing the balance in his workshop.
He drew it now. The tip sank and swayed.
I’ll have to get used to the balance, Gavin thought. He realized that he had not strapped the buckler on his wrist. It sat on a padded wooden chair. The hall was filled with paintings and smelled of old oil and dust. L’Marc had exquisite taste in art.
“No shields then, sir?” Damio, like most Gallians, had his dark hair greased back into a ponytail that fell in a single oily curl. He stood relaxed, looking like a coiled spring. Gavin imagined he could spend all day in that stance. He looked as if he had.
“I think not. I merely want to test the weight of my blade,” Gavin counted internally.
One, place the foot.
Two, shift weight back. His back heel turned.
Three, extend the blade.
“Is master ready?” The man still leaned against the wall, “L’Marc did not say what your skill level was.”
“I have trained for twelve years. Yes, I am ready.”
The words no sooner escaped his lips than the man leapt forward, drawing his blade in a single motion. Gavin fell back, parrying. Montegue’s blade flew from his hand and bounced off a painting on the wall. It fell to the polished wood with a clatter and then made a sproinging sound. Gavin heard his teeth click shut and pain erupted from his jaw. He licked the chewed mint leaves off his lips and tasted for blood.
Damio examined the painting and said, “Not a nick on it.”
Gavin picked up the rapier with wide eyes, holding it aloft to his nose. “The blade is set.” He stared. He stared at the nearly-imperceptible curve near the tip. He brought the imperfection to his hand, and touched it with horror.
Damio stepped forward and examined the edge. “Yes. Seems the steel wasn’t tempered correctly. The gold on the hilt is beautiful. Maybe one for court, I fear.”
Gavin had no words for the swordsman. He held the rapier out in front of him like a diseased snake and stormed out of the hall.
He found L’Marc reading in his study and holding a crystal snifter as big as a grapefruit. A golden thimbleful chased the bottom.
Gavin shouted, “He cheated us!”
L’Marc looked over the top of his book and down his nose, “Pardon?”
“Montegue! Mountebank! He gave me a poorly tempered sword.” Gavin gestured wildly with the rapier, if it could even be called that.
“What did you order, Gavin?”
“I asked for a rapier.”
“Is that not a rapier?”
“I told him it was for an audience with the king!”
L’Marc held up the snifter to his nose. He breathed deep and then took a tiny sip. No liquid seemed to leave the glass, but his throat bobbed. “Did you tell him you would be using it for duels?”
Gavin clenched his jaw, hoping the pain would distract from the tears rising in his vision. “I assumed utility would be implied.”
L’Marc turned a page in his book. “I do not deal in weapons. I deal in contracts. The utility of the sword was to be taken for an audience, and for that it has not failed.”
“The blade is set. It will touch the scabbard!”
L’Marc picked up a small bell from an ornate rosewood table. Gavin thought the sound of it ringing was off-key. A stout man appeared, “M’Lord rang.” The man’s voice was sultry and deep.
“Fetch Damio.” L’Marc did not look up from his book. The servant turned and walked from the room.
After another sip was taken and another page turned, Damio lounged in the doorway. L’Marc addressed him, “Please recount your duel.”
Damio examined his nails. “Can hardly call it a duel. I asked the young master his experience. He replied twelve years of training. I thought him to be an expert, so I set upon him. I disarmed him, and his rapier hit a painting and fell to the floor.”
“Which painting?” L’Marc placed a tasseled mark in the book and closed it. Gavin looked from Damio to L’Marc, whose voice had gained an edge.
Gavin jumped in, “Damio said it was unharmed.”
L’Marc asked again, “Which painting?”
Damio said, “It had ladies on a lawn with a storm behind them. I thought the purples in the clouds quite moving.”
L’Marc stood up and placed his book and the snifter on the rosewood table. He swept past Gavin and Damio. Gavin followed.
Gavin reached the painting to find L’Marc poring over it. “Here. The paint has chipped.” The hawk of a man pointed a long finger at a span of blue.
“The sword was not only untempered, it was badly weighted. Damio came at me like a madman, I should have him flogged for assault!”
“I hired one of the best mercenaries in the city to spar with you.” L’Marc’s face was nearly touching the painting as he spoke. “Why did you lie to him about your mastery?”
Gavin tasted bile. He swallowed. “I did not lie. I have been dueling for twelve years.”
L’Marc’s eyes moved to Gavin, but his face did not turn, “In that time, were you ever victorious?”