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  Piefer and Stephano nodded and Chaunquler continued.

  “The seconds will now determine the distance,” said Chaunquler.

  “Ten paces,” said Piefer.

  “Twenty,” said Stephano, thinking that the farther Rodrigo was from Valazquez the better the odds he might come out of this alive.

  Piefer was not pleased. He argued that ten paces was the rule, but Chaunquler stated that such was not the case. He decreed that twenty paces was acceptable. Piefer glanced at Valazquez, who shrugged. Piefer agreed with an ill grace.

  Once this matter was settled, Chaunquler motioned. “The two participants will please come forward. I will check to make sure neither is using magic to gain any advantage. Are we agreed that I may proceed?”

  “Of course, sir,” Piefer answered.

  “We are, sir,” said Stephano.

  Valazquez walked to the table and began to unbutton his waistcoat. Rodrigo made no motion to walk over, and Stephano had to call his name in a low undertone. Rodrigo looked at him pleadingly, begging him to tell him this was some sort of strange mischance and they could all go home to a good breakfast. Stephano’s heart ached, but he could do nothing. The duel had to proceed. He motioned to the table and Rodrigo, gently sighing, began to try to unbutton his waistcoat. His trembling fingers fumbled.

  Valazquez laid his waistcoat on the table and, as he did so, he cast Rodrigo an odd glance, as though he seemed to want to say something, but couldn’t make up his mind. Stephano noticed the glance and so did Piefer. The Freyan frowned and walked up to Valazquez and said something to him in such a low voice that Stephano could not hear. Stephano watched Valazquez closely and saw the young man shake his head. He continued to appear to be undecided and Stephano had a sudden wild hope that Valazquez wanted to call off the duel. Perhaps he was afraid or perhaps he had discovered he’d accused the wrong man. Piefer appeared to be attempting to bolster the young man’s resolve.

  Stephano tried frantically to think of some way of speaking to Valazquez, but the rules of dueling strictly prohibited either second from talking to the opposing combatant. As for Rodrigo, he was completely oblivious to anything. He took off his waistcoat and went to lay it on the tombstone and missed. The waistcoat fell to the ground. He stared at it as though trying to figure out what it was doing there. Stephano picked it up for him and rested it on the black cloth.

  Chaunquler went about his job briskly and efficiently. He turned both waistcoats inside-out, searching for magical constructs that might deflect a bullet. Finding nothing, he then asked each man to hold out his arms. Chaunquler examined the shirts each man was wearing. This done, he asked if there was a possibility that either man could be dissuaded from this course of action.

  A slight breeze had risen, enough to cause the mists to swirl about the boles of the trees. The breeze ruffled a few loose strands of Rodrigo’s hair, that he wore tied back. He was deathly pale, no color in his face. His brown eyes appeared unusually large. He made some movement with his lips that might have been a “no.” Chaunquler turned to Valazquez, who cleared his throat.

  “Before we commence, I have a sentiment I wish to express to Monsieur de Villeneuve,” he said.

  Stephano’s heart beat fast. Rodrigo’s cheek stained with a faint flush of hope. Piefer looked angry and disapproving.

  Valazquez made a slight bow. “It would be unseemly of me if I did not express my sympathy to Monsieur de Villeneuve on the death of his father.”

  Rodrigo stared at the man. He looked dazedly at Stephano.

  “What did he say?”

  “That your father is dead,” said Stephano, shocked. He wondered if this was some ploy by Valazquez to attempt to rattle Rodrigo.

  “That can’t be!” said Rodrigo, shaken.

  “We are both amazed by this terrible news, Monsieur,” said Stephano sternly. “My friend has heard nothing of this. Please explain yourself.”

  Valazquez looked startled. “Truly? He has heard nothing? Then I fear I am the bearer of ill tidings. My father, as the Estaran ambassador, received the news last night. Monsieur de Villeneuve was the victim of an assassin’s bullet. The murderer escaped, unfortunately, but the authorities are doing all they can to find him. They have evidence that he was a Travian. Probably having to do with this lamentable dispute over Braffa.”

  Stephano had no reason to doubt Valazquez, but he knew that this information, having traveled a great distance and passed through many hands, was open to question. The news of the death of the ambassador would have to be verified. The countess would know the facts. Meanwhile, he saw a way to save Rodrigo, who was staring in wordless confusion at Valazquez. Stephano turned to Chaunquler.

  “Monsieur, as you can see, my poor friend is overcome by grief and amazement. He is in no condition to fight this day. I ask for a postponement.”

  Once the duel was postponed, he could take Rodrigo off to Westfirth and then try to negotiate a settlement with the Valazquez family.

  Stephano was not pleased to see Chaunquler cast a swift glance at Sir Richard Piefer, as though asking what he should do. Chaunquler was here supposedly as an independent judge and observer. What business did he have looking at Piefer for the answer?

  “Well, sir?” Stephano demanded tersely.

  Piefer stepped forward. “I see no reason to postpone this meeting. Lord Valazquez has acted as a gentleman in giving his condolences. He still requires satisfaction for the insult to his sister.”

  Stephano saw Valazquez frown at the Freyan lord’s intervention.

  “I would like to hear Monsieur Valazquez speak for himself in this matter,” Stephano insisted.

  “Of course,” said Piefer. He turned to the young lord. “I would remind his lordship that the name of Valazquez is untarnished. Should his lordship agree to postpone this meeting, there are those who will put his delay down to cowardice.”

  Valazquez flushed in anger at the imputation.

  “There will be no delay,” he said shortly.

  “I received a letter from my father only three days ago, Stephano,” Rodrigo said, bewildered. “How can he be dead?”

  “It’s just a rumor. We’ll find out the truth from my mother. But right now,” Stephano added gently, “I fear you have to go through with this.”

  “I know.” Rodrigo gave a faint smile. “I may not be overly burdened with courage, but I am not a coward.”

  His unshaven cheeks pale, his mouth tight, he walked over to the box holding the dueling pistols and picked up one of the guns. Valazquez took the other pistol.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” Chaunquler said. “Since you will not be dissuaded, I ask you to take your positions. You will stand back-to-back, the guns pointed in the air. Your seconds have determined that you will walk twenty paces and then turn and fire. I will commence the count.”

  Rodrigo and Valazquez stood with their backs touching. Valazquez pulled back the hammer. Rodrigo, hearing a sound, cast Stephano a panicked glance, asking him wordlessly what he was supposed to be doing.

  “Cock the hammer!” Stephano mouthed, going through the motion.

  Rodrigo lowered the gun. He was forced to use both thumbs to drawback the hammer and nearly dropped the gun in the process. Stephano was cold and sick with dread. Piefer was impassive, unconcerned. Doctor Alabarca, the surgeon, opened his bag of instruments. Rodrigo resumed his position, standing back-to-back with Valazquez.

  Chaunquler began to count out the paces. “One.”

  Each man took a step forward, moving away from his opponent. Chaunquler continued the count. The two men walked off the paces. Stephano noted that Rodrigo was taking unusually large steps. He also saw, to his dismay, that his friend had his eyes squinched tightly shut.

  “Ten,” said Chaunquler.

  He was about to say “eleven” when he was interrupted by a bang. Rodrigo stood enveloped in a cloud of acrid smoke staring in blank astonishment at the pistol he had been carrying, which was now lying on the ground.

&nb
sp; “It went off!” Rodrigo gasped. “I didn’t pull the trigger. I swear! It just went off!”

  “ ‘A misfire is equivalent to a shot,’ “ stated Chaunquler, quoting from the Codes Duello. “The duel will proceed.”

  Rodrigo looked wildly at Stephano. “The gun went off. I didn’t fire the blasted thing! What am I supposed to do now?”

  “You have to keep going,” said Stephano grimly.

  Valazquez heard the shot and stopped walking. He remained in position, his gun raised, though he did cast a glance over his shoulder to see what had happened. The pistol’s misfire meant that Valazquez could now take his aim at his leisure without the fear that Rodrigo might shoot him first. Valazquez was known to be an excellent marksman. He would not miss. Rodrigo was a dead man and he knew it.

  Stephano pressed his hand against his breast pocket, against the letter he had promised to deliver to Rodrigo’s family. Rodrigo saw the gesture and understood. He smiled sadly, swallowed and, lifting his chin, continued to walk steadily to his death. Stephano knew the courage this simple act cost his friend and even in his despair and grief, he was proud of him.

  “Twenty!” said Chaunquler.

  Rodrigo turned and stood unflinching. Valazquez pivoted, aimed, pointed, and fired. Rodrigo shuddered involuntarily at the crack of the shot and closed his eyes.

  The bullet whistled by his head, so close the bullet grazed his cheek. Valazquez lowered his gun. He cast a cool glance at Piefer.

  “I would not want it said that I killed an unarmed man,” Valazquez stated with dignity.

  Stephano gave the young man a look of gratitude, then hurried over to Rodrigo, who was still standing stiffly, his eyes closed tight, waiting.

  “It’s over, my friend,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo didn’t comprehend. Opening one eye, he whispered, “What’s taking the bullet so long?”

  Stephano began to laugh, and then he suddenly noticed that both Chaunquler and Doctor Alabarca were running rapidly down the road, running as though in fear of their lives.

  A pistol fired. The shot half-deafened Stephano. and he turned to glare angrily at Valazquez.

  “Why the devil did you shoot-”

  The words stuck in Stephano’s throat.

  Valazquez no longer had a face. His head was a mushy pulp of blood and brains and shattered bone. His body jerked spasmodically, then plopped wetly onto the ground.

  Stephano stared at the murdered man, then looked in blank astonishment at Piefer, who was thrusting one smoking pistol into his belt and coolly drawing a second. The Freyan turned from Valazquez to face Rodrigo and raised the gun, taking aim. Stephano had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t have time to sort it out. He hurled himself at Rodrigo, knocked him to the ground, and flung himself on top of him.

  Another bang. A sharp blow hit Stephano between his shoulder blades. The bullet knocked the breath from his body, but his chain mail and its magical constructs deflected the bullet that otherwise would have torn through his back.

  “What’s going on?” Rodrigo demanded in muffled tones, his face in the dirt. “Why is he shooting at us?”

  “I wish I knew!” said Stephano fervently.

  Piefer thrust the useless pistol into his belt and reached into his breast pocket where he had another gun, probably what had come to be known as a “corset gun,” a type of short-barreled pistol small enough for a lady to tuck into her bosom.

  Stephano leaped to his feet and drew his sword in the same motion. He calculated he could reach the Freyan before he had time to fire. Stephano took a step, heard another shot. A bullet struck the dirt at his feet, kicking up dust. The flash of muzzle fire came from beyond the stone wall. Another bullet whistled over his head. At least two more men were firing at them from the shadows of the trees.

  Piefer had drawn his corset gun and was taking direct aim. He cocked the hammer and was about to pull the trigger when another gunshot sounded. The small pistol went spinning out of the Freyan’s hand. Piefer cursed and whipped around to glare in anger and astonishment into the woods.

  Stephano did not take time to wonder if someone in the forest was on his side or one of Piefer’s friends was a bad shot. He grabbed hold of Rodrigo, who was staring in shock at the bloody remains of Valazquez. Stephano dragged his friend to his feet.

  “We’ve got to make a run for the cab!”

  “Wait!” Rodrigo cried and he darted forward to pick up the dueling pistol he had used. A bullet struck the ground. He snatched his hand back, then made a grab for the pistol, and ran, hunched-over, to Stephano, who glared at him.

  “That thing’s useless!”

  “I know!” Rodrigo gasped. He thrust the pistol into his belt.

  Stephano gripped his friend’s arm. “Keep your head down! Use the tombstones for cover!”

  Crouching low, they tried to blend in with the mists that were, unfortunately, starting to burn off, and dashed from one tombstone to the next. The bullets hit close, striking the tombstones, chipping off pieces of marble and sending the shards flying through the air. They took refuge behind a monument of a marble angel and stopped to catch their breath. A bullet struck one of the angel’s wings, knocking it off. Both ducked.

  Rodrigo asked in altered tones, “Do you think what Valazquez said about my father being dead is true?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Stephano. “The countess will know.”

  Another bullet took off the angel’s nose.

  Rodrigo was suddenly angry. “Why is he trying to kill us?”

  “Damned if I know,” said Stephano, wiping the sweat from his face. He’d lost his hat to a bullet. “His friends are extremely good shots, though. They must be using those new weapons with the rifled bores. I’ve heard about them, but never seen one. They’re supposed to be more accurate than barrels that use targeting constructs. I’d really like to get a look at one-”

  “I’ve seen quite enough, thank you!” Rodrigo flattened himself on the ground as a bullet slammed into the angel’s foot.

  Stephano risked raising his head, hoping to see what had become of Piefer. The Freyan lord was nowhere in sight. Stephano didn’t know if his disappearance was good or bad. He shifted about to see if the hansom cab was still there or if the driver had fled. Surprisingly the hansom cab was still there. The horse didn’t like the gunfire, however. The animal was rolling its eyes and shifting nervously in the traces. Stephano was amazed the driver had not run off at the first sign of trouble. Or maybe he had fled and left the carriage behind.

  “One last dash!” Stephano said.

  Rodrigo nodded. The two jumped out from behind the angel and ran headlong for the cab. They were tense, expecting more bullets, but all was suddenly quiet.

  “They’ve gone!” Rodrigo cried, elated.

  Stephano shook his head. Men armed with such expensive weapons were most likely professionals. They weren’t about to give up this easily. Reaching the hansom cab, he found out why the driver had not taken off. He was crouched on the floor of the cab, his eyes closed and his fingers stuffed in his ears. Stephano grabbed hold of him.

  “Don’t shoot me!” the driver wailed, flinging his hands in the air.

  Stephano eyed the man, who was shaking all over. “He’s worthless. Get inside with him. I’ll drive.”

  “Do you know how?” asked Rodrigo dubiously.

  “I’ve flown dragons,” said Stephano. “How hard can driving a cab be?”

  The hansom cab was a small two-wheeler, with room for only two passengers, both of whom sat directly behind the horse. The driver’s seat was on top of the cab, in the rear. The reins ran through two supports located at the front of the roof. Stephano climbed up onto the seat and took hold of the reins. Not certain what to do, he slapped the reins and shouted, “Giddy up!”

  The horse was only too glad to leave and plunged forward with a jolt that almost sent Stephano flying off the seat and flattened Rodrigo and the howling driver against the cushions. The hansom cab c
areened madly down the road, swaying from side to side, rattling and shaking as Stephano grappled with the reins and tried desperately to gain some sort of control over the terrified animal.

  Rodrigo, who was clinging to whatever he could find to cling to, leaned his head out to yell at Stephano.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Cloud Hopper!” Stephano shouted back.

  A bullet smashed into roof of the cab. Swearing with what breath he had left, Stephano glanced over his shoulder to see the black carriage racing after them in pursuit. Piefer was seated next to the driver.

  Stephano had an excellent look at one of the new rifled guns. He stared straight down the barrel.

  Chapter Eight

  I am saddened to find the leaders of the Church focusing more on secular politics than on the worship of God. The grand bishop must now have his own personal army, his fleet of warships, his networks of spies… Young crafters do not practice their art for the glory of God, but for the glory of the grand bishop. It was with a heavy heart that I counseled His Majesty the King to break with the Church of the Breath.

  - Fifty-year-old Journal entry by Archbishop Samuel Winton, Church of the Restaration, Freya

  DUBOIS WAS IN THE VICINITY OF THE CEMETERY well before dawn, in time to see Rodrigo de Villeneuve and Captain de Guichen arrive for the duel. Dubois was not on the grounds. He had taken up his position in a tree.

  To look at Dubois, one might not think he was someone adept at treeclimbing. He had developed this skill over time, finding it useful to ascend to such perches where he could hide among the leaves, see without being seen. Dubois was also adept at climbing up trellises to sneak onto balconies or peep into windows, and he had become an expert at walking over rooftops.

  Ensconced in his tree, shielded from view, Dubois settled himself comfortably. He straddled a broad limb with his legs and rested his back against the trunk.

  His perch provided him an excellent view of the field of combat and the woods surrounding the cemetery. He was vastly interested to note the stealthy arrival of two other men in the woods. Both were strangers to Dubois. He watched the two slip through the mists and take up positions directly behind the cemetery wall. Both were dressed in long coats and tall boots and carried long-barreled muskets. Anyone seeing them would mistake them for two gentlemen hunting grouse.