Rejar

  “When you say calling him out, what exactly do you mean?”

  “First ’e’ll start a rumor that yer brother somehow cheated at cards the other night. Gossip bein’ the delicacy it is, the story will be devoured quick-like. Some will believe it, some won’t. Either way ’is Princeship’s honor is at stake.”

  “I see. Rejar will be compelled to challenge him.”

  “Who’s this Ray bloke?”

  Traed waved him to continue.

  “Well now, Rotewick’s a fencing master, so ’e’ll be sure to challenge ’im to a duel with the blade. And what are y’ smiling like that fer?”

  “You did say the blade, did you not?” The jade eyes gleamed.

  “Aye.” He chewed on his pipe stem.

  “Tell me, Jackie, where is this man now?”

  “I can show y’ where ’e lives.”

  “Good. Take me there.”

  Jackie’s eyes bulged out further. “Now? Before I had me bangers and biscuits?”

  “Yes. I vow I look forward to it.”

  Indeed, Jackie noted there was almost a spring in the normally solemn man’s step. Must have a yen for the danger. “All right then. But don’t y’ want ta know the cure?”

  “Cure? What cure?”

  Jackie blew out a breath of exasperation. “The one fer insomnia!”

  Traed raised his eyebrow skeptically. “Ah, yes, the remedy from the—what did you call them? The little people.”

  “Aye. ’Tis a simple one.”

  Traed sighed. The man was not going to let it be until he told him. “Very well, what is it?”

  “First y’ got to find out what it is what keeps y’ from sleepin’.”

  “This is brilliant,” Traed said dryly.

  Jackie lanced him with a you-just-listen-now look.

  “Very well—I find out what keeps me from sleeping; then what?”

  “Why, then, lad, you confront it.”

  The Aviaran looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Mmm.” He put his hand on the back of Jackie’s neck, steering him out the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I am sorry, sir, Lord Rotewick is in the garden for his morning practice. He is never disturbed at this hour.”

  Lord Rotewick’s butler attempted to look down his nose at Traed. Since this was impossible due to the man’s impressive height, he settled for a sniff of disdain. No one of decent breeding would call at this ungodly hour of the morning!

  “And what practice would that be?”

  The forbidding man had a look that could freeze ice. It effectively put the butler in his place. “Lord Rotewick fences in the morning hours, sir.”

  A chilling smile etched its way across the green-eyed man’s face.

  “Mmm, which way is the garden?” Traed strode boldly into the house, Jackie trailing behind.

  “Sir! You can’t barge in here like this! I tell you his lordship is indisposed!”

  “Not yet,” Traed murmured, heading in the direction of the back of the house.

  It did not take him long to find the doors leading into the back gardens of the house. Standing on the terrace, he easily spotted his “lordship.” The man was engaged in a practice match of the blades.

  Traed noted both men wore protective masks over their faces. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. An Aviaran warrior would never wear such a device. Where would be the challenge?

  He continued to stand on the terrace watching the men fence. Traed carefully observed Rotewick’s moves. The man was good, he would give him that. His moves were quick and fluid, and he had a tendency to be clandestine in the strikes he delivered. Precisely as Traed would have expected from a man of his nature.

  There was no doubt in Traed’s mind that Rotewick was aware he was standing there.

  “I told ya ’e was good.” Jackie spoke under his breath. “Do y’ think y’can take ’im?”

  “If you are asking me if I think I can disarm him, the answer is yes. Although it will take me a few moments to get used to this kind of weapon.”

  Jackie almost swallowed his pipe. The man began coughing uncontrollably.

  Traed slapped him on the back to clear his air, the casual blow sending the poor fellow halfway across the terrace.

  “Cor, are ye sayin’ ye ain’t fenced before?” Jackie tried to speak between wheezes. “Are ye daft, man? ’E’ll skewer ye through ’ere y’can say jack rabbit!”

  Traed snorted at the foolish statement, waving Jackie’s words aside.

  Worried, Jackie grabbed his sleeve. “What are ye thinkin’ of, lad? Ye cannot fight a man wit’ ’is skill! And you not bein’ a swordsman!”

  Traed inhaled deeply as if to indicate the measure of his patience. “I did not say that, Jackie.” The match suddenly ended victoriously with Lord Rotewick delivering a touché directly over his opponent’s heart.

  Before Jackie could object, Traed stepped forward.

  Rotewick pulled off his mask. The two men met eye to eye. Traed did not cloak what he was there for by any softening of his expression.

  Rotewick raised his eyebrows. He had not expected this brash cheek from a man who up to now had remained silently impassive in the face of his flamboyant brother’s activities. The Prince seemed a reckless, dashing type; it was one of the reasons Rotewick had accepted the outrageous bet. He knew that if he lost, he could always call the rogue out; youth was often impetuous.

  This cool-headed brother, however, might prove irksome.

  “Ah, yes, here to safeguard the little Prince.” Since Rejar surpassed even Traed’s impressive height, it was a rather ridiculous statement.

  “That must get tiresome for you.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “Do you have to fight all of your brother’s battles?”

  “Only the unimportant ones.”

  The barb hit its mark. A stain of red flushed his cheeks. Lord Rotewick suffered from a surfeit of vanity.

  As a titled and privileged member of the crown, he naturally assumed the world revolved around him. It was not very wise of this upstart to imply otherwise. Up until that moment, he might have considered letting the man live.

  “There is a lot of rumor floating about the ton concerning you. Some say you have a title but refuse to use it; others say you are the bastard son of a Scottish chieftain. Doesn’t say much for the Prince’s mother, does it?”

  Traed’s green eyes flicked over him in cool dismissal.

  “Of course there is no doubting that the two of you are brothers. You both have a certain…look about you.” Rotewick swaggered back and forth, the lace trim on his sleeves fluttering with his expansive hand movements. He slowly paced a circle around Traed, looking him up and down. “Although my money is on the colonies.”

  “The colonies?” Traed’s voice was evenly modulated.

  “Um, yes, you do have that rough-around-the-edges look to you. Who is your tailor? Never mind—where was I? Oh yes, the colonies…it’s quite obvious to me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Why, you have no respect for your betters! You seem just the type to revolt against your parent country in the name of some nebulous quest for independence.”

  Something flickered in Traed’s eye. It did not go unobserved by the sneering lord.

  “Yes…I see I have guessed it after all.”

  Not quite—although Traed was intrigued by the reference, making a mental note to ask Jackie about these “colonies” the man spoke of. He might want to see for himself a place that had the courage to throw off the yoke of its past to start out anew. Yes, it would be most interesting.

  “Are we done for the day, your lordship?” The man who had been fencing with Lord Rotewick approached.

  “Yes, Herr Schimmer, that will be all. You may go.” The man turned to leave. Traed forestalled him.

  “A moment, Herr Schimmer.” The man turned, curious. “Might I borrow your fence?”

  The man appeared confused. “My fence? Ach
, you refer to my sabre! Ya, of course.” He handed him the heavy dual-edged sword.

  “This is not the salles d’armes, Mr. Yaniff.” Rotewick did not try to hide his condescension. “We do not use foil or épée here.”

  Traed tested the heft and balance of the blade. His sights went to the metal blade, comparing it unfavorably to his own deadly light saber. He frowned. The weight would slow down the speed of action and reaction. “It does not seem like much of a weapon.”

  Rotewick sneered. The sabre was a weapon which required enormous strength, fast reflexes, and considerable skill to wield. “Is that so? Would you care to test it out? Unless, of course, you can’t handle a sword…”

  Not bothering to answer, Traed expertly sliced the blade through the air, testing the strength and length of the weapon to the parameters of his movements.

  Then he faced Rotewick and calmly motioned to him that he was ready to begin by arrogantly circling the tip of the blade. “Are you just going to stand there, Rot Wick, staring at the flowers?”

  Jackie started choking again. “Sir, perhaps ye oughtta think on this once again—”

  “Listen to your servant. My quarrel is with your brother, not with you.”

  Traed shrugged. “Where is the difference? We are family—I am the elder. His quarrel is my quarrel. However, I will return your benevolence with my own. Do not think to ‘call’ my brother out; pay him that which is your fair debt, and I will walk away.”

  “You think to toy with me? Your brother is a cheat. Soon he will be a dead cheat.”

  Rotewick’s threat had a meaning to Traed his lordship would never have guessed at. This must be the danger to Rejar that Yaniff had foreseen! The reason he had been sent here as Chi’in t’se Leau.

  “My brother is a man of real honor, something you know nothing about. His victory over you was a fair one.”

  “If what you say is true, why send you in his stead? Only a coward stands behind the shield of another.”

  Traed’s eyes flashed with private amusement. “He did not send me; in fact, he does not even know I am here. This is very lucky for you, Rot Wick.”

  “Lucky?” Rotewick scoffed. “Forgive me if I fail to see your allusion.”

  “Best be glad it is me you face.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because if he so desired, my brother could kill you in the blink of an eye. You would not even be sport to him. At least I will let you ‘strut’ a bit before I finish this. You should thank me for the privilege.”

  If Jackie didn’t know better, he’d swear his Princeship’s solemn brother was making a jest. What a time to pick to expand one’s humorous side! Did the man not know he was on the threshold of danger?

  Jackie scratched his head. Look at the way those light green eyes of his are flashing! And isn’t the lad just enjoying this. He snickered. Well, even at his age, Jackie supposed he could still be surprised by a thing or two.

  “I hate being annoyed before my midday meal. It absolutely ruins my mood.” Rotewick assumed the en garde position. “Better say goodbye to your handsome face; I intend to carve it up some.”

  The corners of Traed’s lips lifted slightly. “Your blade will never get near my face,” he stated very softly.

  “No?” Rotewick began circling in an attempt to get Traed facing into the sun. “Say goodbye to the ladies. After this, they’ll never look at you again.” In a lightning-quick move he extended his arm chest-high, rotating his hand so the blade cut vertically down Traed’s right cheek.

  Except it was not flesh which met his lordship’s blade but thin air.

  Traed, anticipating the move, had feinted to the left and parried.

  “I would not want to say farewell to all of my many women,” Traed intoned drily, delivering a point thrust. “By Aiyah, they would be beside themselves.” His selfmockery was lost on the vainglorious lord. Traed effortlessly met the next lateral cut.

  “That’s a fact, sir!” Jackie loyally piped in, although, truth be told, he had never actually seen the man with any women. The Princeship’s brother was a quiet type, he was. And deep as the Thames.

  Rotewick disengaged, then lunged. The sabres met in a series of lightning-fast clashes. “You are better than you let on…but not good enough.”

  “We shall see.” Traed easily parried a half-lunge.

  Rotewick feinted, then closed. Traed stopped him with a bind, seizing his opponents blade strongly—high then low. The move gave him access to Rotewick’s arm. He neatly sliced a piece of Rotewick’s shirt, and drew first blood.

  The battle heated up considerably after that.

  Both men became deadly serious as the snap and whoosh of their blades charged the morning air. Their duel took them across the landscape as each tried to get the vantage point of the other. Both Jackie and Herr Schimmer raced after them to watch the intense swordfight.

  Aggressive in his stance, Rotewick lunged forward again and again, attempting to strike a hit. Traed, on the other hand, waged a subtle battle, feinting, parrying, and moving lithely; it was almost as if he were simply biding his time.

  Rotewick looked for any opening; the man did not give him one. He was being difficult—staying just out of his reach. And there were certain moves the man executed that he had never seen before. Rotewick attempted a riposte. Traed countered and parried.

  But Rotewick had finally succeeded in turning Traed into the sun.

  Rotewick saw his chance and lunged. The Aviaran gracefully leapt on top of the stone bench behind him, swung around, and delivered what might have been a fatal lateral cut if Rotewick hadn’t leapt back in the nick of time.

  Traed smiled slowly. “Forgive me,” he mocked, throwing the lord’s previous words back at him. “I only wanted to see how quickly you could move. Not bad—you are not as slow as you look.”

  Rotewick turned purple. “You bastard!”

  Traed actually grinned.

  The blades crackled in a fierce encounter.

  Traed met Rotewick thrust for thrust. Rotewick was starting to get winded; Traed was not even breathing hard. They broke apart near a wall bordered by potted plants.

  Gasping, Rotewick lunged. Traed neatly parried.

  “Have you had enough, Lord Rotewick? It is a simple matter. Fifty thousand of your pounds; no disparaging words against my brother. We can end this now.”

  “Oh, we will end this, but not in the manner you suggest!” The deceitful lord suddenly grabbed a handful of dirt out of a nearby pot and flung it in the other man’s face.

  Traed tried to step back but he was hemmed in by the wall on one side and a shallow pond on the other. The dirt hit him square in the face, temporarily blinding him. Rotewick took advantage of the opportunity. With a straight thrust, he lunged right for his heart.

  “Sir!” Jackie started to run toward them, not stopping to think what he would do when he got there. Herr Schimmer trailed behind, swearing in German.

  Vision impaired, Traed managed to turned away from the fatal blow. The blade caught him in the fleshy part of his shoulder. It pierced his sword arm deeply. A dark red stain immediately soaked into the cloth of his white shirt.

  Wounded, vision impaired, Traed staggered back, falling into the shallow pond.

  The water at least helped to clear the debris out of his eyes. Rotewick was advancing. He tried to defend himself, but he could not seem to lift his sword arm.

  Rotewick stood over him, gloating. “I think you are finished.”

  Traed lay sprawled in the water at Lord Rotewick’s feet. He looked up at him, droplets of moisture clinging to his black lashes.

  For someone who was about to die, there was not a hint of emotion on his handsome, chiseled face.

  Rotewick could have stopped the duel then and there.

  Instead, he brought the blade to bear, preparing for the kill. “It is over,” he sneered, starting his descent.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Traed rolled to his right, in the direction
of his injured shoulder. His vulnerable stance in the water had been designed to test the villainous lord, to give him one last chance if there was any decency left in the man. Rotewick had failed miserably.

  At the same time, Traed’s left hand grabbed his sword and he lithely rose to his feet. “No, it is only just begun.”

  This time, Traed did not hold back.

  The blade scalloped about Traed’s left hand, his true sword arm, zinging through the air in a blur of movement so fast as to be almost undetectable to the naked eye.

  In an astonishing show of artistry, Traed advanced.

  Eyes widening, the “fencing master” began backing up while trying to fend off a blade that was everywhere at once. Where had he learned those moves?

  Pale green eyes narrowed, and, glittering with his cold fury, Traed showed no mercy. In one continuous catlike spring, he broke into a full run, launching an Aviaran version of the flèche. It was a risky maneuver that always had to be executed perfectly; for if not, it put the attacker at the mercy of his opponent.

  Traed’s flèche was exactly on the mark.

  In short order, their positions were completely reversed. Rotewick lay at Traed’s feet, his sword having been flipped from his hand by Traed’s blade, only to rest seductively a few feet to his right.

  Traed rested the tip of his blade against the man’s bobbing throat.

  He tossed back several strands of the waist-length, midnight hair that had come loose from his ponytail during the fight. “And now I have a dilemma, Rot Wick.”

  Rotewick watched him, fear causing a drop of sweat to trickle down his nose.

  “I dislike killing, you know. It does not sit well with me.”

  A sudden gleam came into Rotewick’s small eyes. Traed did not like it.

  “However—” he nicked the tender skin of the man’s throat, drawing a bead of blood. Rotewick’s eyes bulged. “—if I let you go you will undoubtedly cause grief to someone else. A man like you has a tendency to prey on certain people, especially those less able to defend themselves.” The jade eyes hardened. “Like children.”