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  In the small hours of the morning, Stephano went to his bookshelf and found a small, thin volume given to all officers in the navy. It was called the Codes Duello and laid down the rules of dueling. Stephano was familiar with the guide, but he read it over again, hoping to find some way for Rodrigo to honorably withdraw. Unfortunately, the book only confirmed what Stephano had known from the beginning-there was nothing to be done.

  According to the Codes Duello, Rodrigo might have been able to offer an apology to Valazquez and his sister without loss of honor except that a blow had been struck-an insult no gentleman could tolerate. The Codes offered only one hope and it was faint: as a second, Stephano had the right and the duty to attempt to reconcile the parties before blood was shed. Considering the hot-headed Valazquez, Stephano didn’t think reconciliation likely.

  The night passed slowly for Stephano and yet far too quickly. When the clock struck four, he dressed by candlelight, putting on his military-style dragon green coat and breeches with high boots and a plain waistcoat. Beneath the waistcoat he wore a lightweight, chain mail vest made of tiny riveted links of steel, each set with its own magical construct. The vest had been a gift from his Dragon Wing when he had been named commander of the Dragon Brigade. The vest weighed only ten pounds and provided better protection than a steel breastplate. A craftsman in the Royal Armory had worked three months to make it.

  How ironic would it be, Stephano thought, if that craftsman had been Pietro Alcazar.

  Wearing armor to a duel wasn’t exactly proper etiquette, but protecting himself was good, common sense. Stephano didn’t know either of these gentlemen and while he assumed they were gentlemen and wouldn’t resort to any dirty tricks, he considered it wise to take precautions.

  When he was dressed, he went to summon Rodrigo. Having expected his friend to be lying awake, a prey to anxiety, Stephano was surprised to find Rodrigo sleeping as soundly as a babe in arms. Stephano had to shake him to rouse him. Rodrigo woke groggy and disoriented, at which point Stephano sniffed at the mug containing the honey posset, smelled the opium, and yelled angrily for Benoit.

  Between the two of them, they managed to get Rodrigo out of bed, sobered up, and dressed. The laws of dueling forbade the wearing of any clothing set with magical constructs. The duel’s adjudicator-a person brought in from outside to see to it that the proceedings were handled fairly-was required to check to make certain neither opponent took such an unfair advantage. The Codes did not say anything about the style of clothing the combatants wore. Stephano insisted that Rodrigo put on a loose-fitting white shirt with overlarge, flowing sleeves. In any sort of breeze, the sleeves would flap in the wind, making aiming at a vital organ difficult.

  Rodrigo protested against the shirt, which was old and completely out of fashion.

  “He’ll probably just shoot me in the head,” said Rodrigo. “At least let me die in style.”

  “A head shot is unlikely,” said Stephano briskly, determined to be matter-of-fact. “You both will stand back-to-back with your guns in the air. At the signal, you will each walk ten paces, turn, and fire. Because Valazquez has to turn, he will be forced to fire quickly, hoping to hit you before you can get off a shot at him. He won’t have time to aim at your head. He’ll likely try to hit you in the chest, which provides a larger target and is easier to hit.”

  “So I should do the same?” asked Rodrigo. “Aim for his chest?”

  Stephano thought back to the first, last, and only time he and Dag had tried to teach Rodrigo to shoot. They had all three been extremely fortunate to escape with their lives. Rodrigo had a most lamentable habit of closing his eyes whenever the gun went off.

  “Just keep your eyes open,” said Stephano.

  “I can’t help it,” Rodrigo protested. “It’s like sneezing. Absolutely impossible to keep your eyes open when you sneeze.”

  “You will have only one shot, Rigo,” said Stephano quietly. “You have to make it count.”

  Rodrigo looked down at his trembling hands and smiled wanly. “I’m not sure it will matter whether my eyes are open or closed, my friend.”

  Stephano tried to say something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come past the burning sensation in his throat. Down below, a clock struck five. Stephano put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Is it time?” Rodrigo asked with terrible calm.

  “It is time,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo picked up a sealed letter and handed it to Stephano.

  “For my father,” Rodrigo said. “You will take it to him if… if…” He couldn’t go on.

  Stephano took the letter and tucked it inside his waistcoat. “A sacred trust.”

  Rodrigo nodded gratefully and the two went downstairs together. Benoit stood waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  “I summoned the cab, sir,” he said in a shaking voice. “It’s waiting.”

  Benoit handed them their cloaks and hats. Stephano draped his baldric with his rapier over his shoulder. Sometimes the seconds ended up in a duel themselves. Stephano hoped that happened. He found the prospect of fighting the cold and supercilious Freyan, Sir Richard Piefer, extremely appealing.

  Benoit held a tray containing two crystal goblets filled with a goldenbrown liquid. Stephano sniffed at it and wondered how Benoit had managed to come by brandywine, which was very expensive. He did not ask.

  “To calm the nerves,” said Benoit.

  “Thank you, Benoit,” said Rodrigo, and he downed the brandy gratefully.

  He impulsively embraced the old man. Stephano felt tears sting his eyes, and he hurriedly blinked them away. Benoit wiped his nose with a large handkerchief and then bravely stood at the door to see them off.

  Stephano remembered Benoit standing in the door like that, looking brave like that, on the day his father had gone to his execution. Stephano’s stomach clenched. Bile filled his mouth. He reminded himself sternly that his friend needed him to be strong, and he drank the brandy. The liquid bit into his throat and warmed his blood. He handed the glass back to Benoit, who said softly and pleadingly, as he took it, “Keep him safe, sir.”

  Stephano gave a sorrowful shake of his head and turned away.

  The two men entered the hansom cab. Neither had shaved; neither felt his hand to be steady enough, and asking Benoit to shave them was out of the question. Stephano gave the driver directions to the Church of Saint Charles, mumbling something about attending early mass.

  The hansom driver, who was about thirty, and had the jaunty air of a racecourse tout, gave them a knowing smile and a wink. He took his seat up top and whistled to the horse.

  Stephano, glancing back, saw Benoit standing on the door stoop, a candlestick in his hand, tears running down his dried-up, leathery cheeks. The cab was pulling away when movement on the sidewalk caught his attention.

  The sun had not yet risen. The street was dark, except for Benoit’s candle, and that gave only a feeble light. Yet Stephano was convinced he saw a shadow detaching itself from darker shadows. Stephano leaned out of the open-air compartment to try to get a better view. The shadow melded with the darkness. Stephano sat back, frowning.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rodrigo listlessly.

  “I saw a man in the alley,” said Stephano. “Someone is still watching us.”

  “Probably to make certain I don’t run off,” said Rodrigo.

  “Possibly,” said Stephano, but he was not convinced.

  Rodrigo wrapped his cloak closely about him and sat back against the cushions, staring at the world he might shortly be about to leave. Stephano tried to think of something to say that would bring his friend some comfort, but everything he thought of sounded stupid and maudlin. Rodrigo’s hand, fist clenched, rested on the seat. Stephano placed his hand over his friend’s. Rodrigo responded with a pallid smile. They rode in silence to the church. Once there, Stephano asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for them until mass was over.

  The dri
ver gave a chuckle and another knowing wink. Sitting back in the seat, he tipped his hat over his face and settled himself comfortably. The horse began to graze on the dew-wet grass.

  “At least, you’ll save money, my friend,” Rodrigo said, as they were walking toward the site of the duel. “Going back, you’ll only have to pay for one fare.”

  Chapter Seven

  Magic, according to the church, is the echo of God’s voice. Magic is of God and therefore under the dominion of the church in order to make certain that crafters use their talents for God’s glory. What this means is that the church oversees the use and development of all magical constructs. The church is the final authority on the creation of new constructs.

  “Magic is from God and so should glorify God and serve God and his people in their work to do God’s will.”

  I say-bullshit.

  Magic is of men.

  - Introduction to treatise written by Rodrigo de Villeneuve prior to his expulsion from the University

  THE CHURCH OF SAINT CHARLES WAS ANCIENT, one of the first churches built in Evreux when the city was established as Rosia’s capital five hundred years ago. The church stood on a low bluff at a bend of the River Counce. According to ancient records, the original structure had been simple in design. The records listed the amount of stone and wood required, the number of crafters and laborers and masons who had worked on the church, careful notations of the money the people were paid, and a faded plan of the structure drawn up by the unknown architect. The records and the plan were all that was left of the first church. It had been burned to the ground by Freyan invaders during the Blackfire War.

  The Church of Saint Charles, patron saint of Evreux, had been rebuilt on a grander scale-a defiant gesture on the part of the Rosians after driving out the Freyans. With its delicate spires and stained glass windows, the church was now a beautiful edifice overlooking the meandering river.

  A cemetery had been established on the grounds adjacent to the church. A quiet and private place, the cemetery with its ancient mausoleums and marble monuments, sheltering trees, trimmed hedgerows, and long stretches of green grass was a favored place for clandestine meetings, whether for love or for those of a more violent nature.

  At this early hour, the pale sun was barely visible through the thick mists rising from the river. The orb looked shrunken and gave no warmth, shining with a gray-tinged light. Rodrigo and Stephano were the first to arrive, which allowed Stephano the chance to view the ground. He had not fought any of his own duels here, but he had acted as second to a fellow officer in the Dragon Brigade who had. That duel had ended as well as these things can. The two men had fought with swords. One had been grazed in the arm, the other in the chest. Since blood had been drawn, both gentlemen had pronounced themselves satisfied and had departed with honor.

  Stephano had a grim feeling today’s duel was not going to end as well. He walked the long, broad sward that formed a border between the old, graying tombstones and the low stone wall that stood between the cemetery and the river. A grove of oak, walnut, and maple trees stood outside the cemetery wall at the south end. Willow trees lined the bank of the sleepy river. The church itself was at the north end, some distance from this part of the cemetery. The duelers would face north and south, so that neither one would be blinded by the rising sun which, given the mists, was not likely to be a problem.

  The cemetery was very old. Few people were buried here anymore; only those with family vaults, and most of the ancient families had died out. The tombstones were worn and faded; the dead slept quietly. Any restless ghosts had long since let go their tenuous grasp on the world and drifted off to a final rest. An air of peaceful melancholy pervaded the cemetery. A statue of Guardian Saint Simone, Acceptor of the Dead, stood in the center with her arms spread in welcome, her face loving and forgiving.

  The mists crept among the tombstones and rolled off the river between the trunks of the trees. Rodrigo stood quietly staring at one of the tombstones as though he could imagine himself lying beneath it. Stephano pulled out his pocket watch. They lacked fifteen minutes until the designated time. Just as he was thinking that Valazquez was going to be late or might not come at all, a black coach arrived. The elegant coach with its team of four horses and two footmen riding behind rolled to a stop next to the hired hansom cab with its driver snoring in his seat.

  Sir Richard Piefer descended, followed by two men, and then Valazquez. All of them wore black cloaks and looked rather like ghosts themselves as they walked through the mists. Stephano focused on the two gentlemen who accompanied Piefer and Valazquez. One of them was portly, slightly stoopshouldered, and walked with the aid of a silver-headed cane. He wore a shoulder-length, curled periwig beneath a black, tricornered hat. His black waistcoat barely met across his broad middle. His face was fleshy, his eyes dark and flat.

  Formal introductions followed. For the first time, Stephano met the notorious Oudell Chaunquler, unofficial official adjudicator of duels in the capital city of Evreux. Chaunquler was perhaps fifty years of age. His passion was dueling, and he was often invited to officiate. He always brusquely refused payment, though he would accept a gratuity pressed into his palm after the affair was over.

  Chaunquler was reputed to know the Codes Duello by heart, upside down and backward, and was here to settle any dispute or question that might arise. Since dueling was illegal and such matters could not be taken to court, Chaunquler’s judgment was considered final. Stephano had been feeling the weight of his responsibilities as second lying heavy on his shoulders, as his fear lay heavy on his heart. He was relieved that he could turn over the procedures of the duel to a man who understood what he was doing and would see that all was handled fairly.

  The other man was introduced as Doctor Alabarca. A surgeon was always present at a duel, for obvious reasons. Doctor Alabarca was so bundled up in his cloak that Stephano could not get a look at him. The surgeon had brought a camp stool with him. He set it down, sat on it, rested his bag of instruments on the grass, and did not move. He said nothing to anyone, responded to no greetings, and gave the impression he was annoyed at having to be up this early.

  Chaunquler walked over to a tall, broad marble tombstone that made a perfect table. He drew a black cloth from his waistcoat pocket, shook it with a loud snap that caused Rodrigo to flinch, and spread the cloth on the tombstone. Valazquez and Piefer removed their cloaks and handed them to a servant, who took them back to the carriage. The two men advanced onto the lawn.

  Valazquez wore a shirt with long sleeves and a fancifully embroidered waistcoat decorated with peacocks and flowers trimmed in golden thread, gray breeches, and black boots. He stood aloof from the proceedings, as was proper. Rodrigo mechanically took off his coat and draped it over the head of a marble angel. He stood shivering in the chill mist, his face exceedingly pale. He watched the proceedings with a detached air, as though this was happening to someone else and he was merely a confused observer.

  Stephano noted with interest that Piefer was openly wearing a lightweight leather breastplate inlaid with sigils-magical constructs made of thin brass. Stephano had been feeling guilty for having put on his own magically enhanced chain mail beneath his waistcoat; the implication was that he did not trust his honored second. Stephano guessed that Piefer’s long coat also had various magical constructs sewn into it. Since both he and Sir Richard were acting as seconds, nothing in the rules prohibited them from wearing such protection. Apparently, Piefer did not trust his opponents any more than they trusted him.

  “Bring the pistols forward for examination,” said Chaunquler in cold, dispassionate tones.

  Piefer motioned to one of his servants, who brought forth a beautiful case made of ebony. He placed it on the tombstone that was serving as a table and then withdrew.

  “Are these your pistols, my lord?” Chaunquler asked Piefer

  “They are, sir,” said Piefer.

  “Have you any objection to the use of pistols provided by your oppo
nent, Captain?” Chaunquler asked Stephano.

  “None in the least, sir,” said Stephano. “I assume I will be permitted to examine them.”

  “Certainly! I do know the rules, Captain,” said Chaunquler sharply, annoyed.

  “I meant no offense, sir,” said Stephano.

  Mollified, Chaunquler grunted and reached out his large, puffy hands to open the ebony box, revealing a pair of matched dueling pistols, a brass powder horn, lead balls, and small patches of oiled cloth nestling beside the guns.

  Stephano picked up one of the pistols and took several moments to thoroughly examine it, looking for any signs of magical constructs that might either interfere with the pistol’s firing mechanism or enhance it. Rodrigo would have been better suited to the task, but permitting one of the duelists to examine the weapons was very much against the rules.

  Satisfied, Stephano loaded the gun, pointed it at the ground, and pulled the trigger. Rodrigo shuddered visibly at the sound. Piefer gave a faint, disdainful smile that made Stephano long to knock it off the Freyan’s face. He kept himself in firm control. He had to, for Rodrigo’s sake. But Stephano resolved privately that no matter what happened today, he and the Freyan would meet again. Piefer picked up the second weapon, examined it, and fired.

  Chaunquler then examined the two pistols. Satisfied that both guns were smooth bore, as the rules required; that both were in good working order; and that neither had been magically enhanced, he returned them to the seconds. Each man reloaded his pistol and placed it back in the case. Both men turned to Chaunquler, who had been watching with a critical eye.

  “You are both satisfied?” he asked.