1 comments/ 20752 views/ 0 favorites Fences By: SunrockSin As I looked over the damage to my house and yard from the recent hurricane, I was reminded of a Japanese haiku written by a man who had lost the roof to his house. In the haiku he finds that with the roof gone he has a much better view of the moon. I guess I need to look at the damage to my fence the same way. Now that my fence is damaged I have a much better view, a much better view of my neighbor's house, more specifically my neighbor's master bedroom window. It's a funny thing about fences, while they typically aren't built tall enough, or strong enough to keep people out, once a fence is built a boundary is defined and people generally respect that boundary. Certainly most people could climb a 6' fence, but they typically don't, they simply go around it. For the owner of the fence, the fact that people don't encroach through the fence enables them to feel a sense of security and privacy once they have a fence. Strangely, it seems some people who've grown accustomed to the privacy and security may not immediately realize all the repercussions when their fence is blown down in a hurricane. Well, at least my neighbors don't seem to have absorbed it completely. I realized this as I watched Bill, my neighbor, walk into his bedroom taking a last sip of coffee, step into the bathroom to place the cup on the counter and return to kiss his wife goodbye for the day. I don't want to imply that my neighbor's are completely stupid, you see, all of the fence did not go down in the storm, just a small part, where a tree broke out a section of boards in the corner. It just happens to be a convenient corner to set up a lawn chair next to my bush and lean forward a bit to watch. Anyway, after the kiss goodbye, Bill headed to his car and his wife, Candice, disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Today Candice's departure reminded me that I needed my binoculars, so I quickly scrambled back to my garage, grabbed the binoculars and moved back to my lawn chair. Sure enough, after a few minutes wait I found myself adjusting the focus as she finished drying off her shoulders and then wrapped the towel around her head. It's so sexy how the women do that. The first few days after the hurricane, when Candice didn't have power, I really enjoyed how she shivered and hopped about as she stepped out of the shower. And her nipples, damn I've never seen nipples stand up so hard. Of course back then she'd dive into her bed and I'd only get to watch her body move beneath the blankets. I knew what she was doing, and it was a turn on, but now, after a hot shower, I enjoy her more languid movements as she dries and prepares herself for pleasure. This morning, like most mornings, Candice took a moment in front of her dresser, staring down into an open drawer. As she tried to decide exactly what toy she would use, I took a moment to gaze at her magnificent, magnified body. I began at her head, the towel wrapped around her hair let just a few strands of blondish red hair trickle down her neck before running up and pulling her forehead tight. Her eyebrows were a bit darker than her hair, the red tint a bit heavier here. There were a few wrinkles at the corners of her beautiful, steel blue eyes and I let my gaze slip quickly past the slight hint of darkness beneath her lower lids. Her nose is small, kind of turned up a bit which accentuates her full lips. Even without make up, the lips seemed deep red as they quivered while she debated which vibrator she might use today. Candice's breasts sagged some, as any forty-something woman's would, but they strangely seem to turn as her nipples don't point to the ground, but almost point upward. I quickly unzipped my pants and slipped out my erection as I pondered sucking those upturned nipples. Down from her breasts I curved over the slight paunch in her stomach to the dark patch of hair between her legs, not nearly as reddish blonde as the hair on her head. Oh but I forgave the woman for coloring her hair as I began stroking my cock, picturing it sliding through those gentle curls. She had made her decision, a cock shaped dildo that vibrates, one I've particularly enjoyed seeing covered in her juices. I continued stroking my cock as she moved onto the bed, reached to a nightstand drawer and brought out a small vial of lubricant. Adjusting the binoculars while continuing to stroke myself, I watched as the vibrating cock slowly moved down between her legs and then began to disappear into the soft folds of skin. Feeling a wave of pleasure forming in my balls, I stopped stroking, wanting to hold off, wanting to match her rhythm as she began thrusting that cock into herself, but my cock kept tingling. Her pussy lips stretched outward, sliding down the length of the plastic cock as I felt it happening and I began stroking wildly, feeling the electric sensations spasm through my body and I watched the white cum spurt from me, arching out onto the dirt in splotchy puddles here and there. Continuing to stroke myself, I looked back through the binoculars as Candice began to slowly move her hips. Fuck, the last drops of my cum dripped onto my pants as Candice was just getting started. I slipped my soft cock back into my pants and watched as she moved adjusted the vibration on the dildo and then continued moving it in and out, but it just wasn't the same. She moved alone now, without me. It was a moment we no longer shared as I became a voyeur, a peeping tom. I wasn't her distant lover anymore, I was just a fat fuck ogling her as she completed a very private act. I did wait for her to finish, but then I grabbed my lawn chair and headed back toward my house. While walking along the undamaged portion of my fence I heard a splashing next door. Curiously I moved to a well worn portion of my lawn and leaned down, adjusting my height so I could peek though a knothole in the fence, but noticed it had broken away here too. Julie, my next door neighbor was relaxing on a chaise lounge while her kids swam in the pool. "Ah," I whispered to myself, "Today is soccer day." Sometime after lunch Julie's husband would take the kids to soccer, leaving Julie alone to relax by the pool. I set down the lawn chair and headed inside to set my alarm. Once inside I grabbed a bottle of my light blue pills and set one out. After doing a bit of math, I set my alarm and then went inside to get cleaned up. I had a date on my side of the fence and I didn't want to be late. Yep, these fences really do make great neighbors, even when they've been blown down. Fenchurch Street It was the 11.36am train I caught that morning, I'd left my car in the Eastgate Shopping Centre, from there it was just a short walk across the road to the station. It was a hot day, slightly muggy, I felt a sheen of perspiration on my brow as I approached the ticket office and bought a cheap day return. In 45 minutes I would arrive ay my destination, so the perspiration could have been brought on by a mixture of the heat, anticipation and slight nerves. As the train pulled out I found a window seat, only two other people were in the carriage both engrossed in newspapers so I opened my bag and took out my compact to powder away the sheen and to check my lipstick and hair. Satisfied I had a quick spray of perfume and spent the rest of the journey gazing out of the window. The train arrived at 12.16 pm, right on time. I walked the concourse until I found the large station clock, glanced around, then saw him striding forwards in my direction. He gave an imperceptible nod then walked purposefully off, towards the underground. The coolness of the London Underground system was a welcome relief from the heat of the world above. I had to walk fairly quickly as not to lose sight of him, I was glad I had worn low heels as the train was waiting on the platform and I barely made it in the doors behind him as they closed. He stood in the doorway facing away from me, a man jumped in behind me and almost pushed me up against him but I managed to stop short, just a few millimeters between us I could smell his cologne and was tempted to put my arms around his waist and rest my head on his broad shoulders. I couldn't of course, but felt a shiver of anticipation course through my body, I had no idea where he was taking me..........the truth was I hardly cared. The train pulled into Tower bridge station, the door opening opposite where we were standing, I jumped off behind him and hurriedly followed, scared of losing him in the crowds. Once through the ticket barriers he approached the escalators, I got on several steps behind him wondering if he realised how he was making me almost run to keep up, his long legs making such long strides that I had the take three to match one of his just to keep up. Once out of the station he turned left approaching The Tower of London, then on past the historical building for several hundred yards until I noticed a sign indicating there were some gardens ahead. He entered the park taking a path leading off to the right, we passed several benches filled with office workers taking advantage of the fine weather to eat their lunch, an old woman feeding crumbs to the birds, one pair of young lovers staring into each others eyes smiling and giggling about nothing in particular. Once past the general thong he surprised me by suddenly leaving the path, taking me deeper into a secluded copse, walking for several minutes as the sounds of traffic grew fainter and that of birdsong louder. I was quite breathless now, glad that I had worn a cool short cotton skirt with just a white thong underneath..............then he suddenly stopped several yards ahead of me and leant against a large oak tree, waiting for me to catch up. He smiled, I smiled then quickened my pace towards him. He opened his arms to me as I approached and I fell into them gladly as he pulled me to him and in one swift movement turned me around so that my back was up against the tree. He kissed me fiercely, passionately, as my stomach lurched and I felt my knees sag slightly. We were both breathless as he pulled away and bent to nuzzle my neck, I threw my head back and let out a deep sigh of contentment as I felt his erection growing against my thigh. I caressed the back of his neck then ran my hands down his spine, on reaching his buttocks I pulled him against me, I could sense the urgency growing between us now as his hands reached under my t-shirt and he felt my sides, his thumbs against my stomach which tensed at his touch. His hands rose higher and when his thumbs brushed across my hardening nipples, I couldn't help but let out a moan of desire. He kissed me again as his hands lifted my my bra then exposed my breasts to the warm air, as he bent to take each nipple into his mouth in turn I could feel the dampness between my legs which I involuntarily opened wider. I began unbuttoning his shirt urgently, when the last one was undone I pulled it free of his trousers then pressed my self against him, kissing him as I lifted one leg up around his waist. God, he felt so big and hard against my stomach, how much I wanted him, I frantically undid his belt feeling him twitch against my hand as I did so..........I could tell he wanted me badly too. He lifted the hem of my skirt and quickly hooked his thumbs in the sides of the lacy thong pulling them down to my ankles so I could step out of one leg. I opened his fly wanting to free him from the constraints the garments were placing on him, as he lowered his trousers I pulled at his boxers, almost swooning from wanting him. He lifted my right leg again, his hands running down my thigh as I hooked it around his waist again, he put his arm around the back of my left thigh, lifting me easily as I put my arms around his neck, supporting my back against the huge oak as my own huge oak lowered me onto him. We both let out a groan, it felt so good to be joined together again as he slowly lifted me up and down on him sliding wetly together. Up, down, up, down, so slowly so sensuously I felt my insides quiver, already approaching orgasm I tightened my grip around his neck, my thighs squeezing his back as I ground my hips a little faster, round and round, ,just loving the feeling of him inside me, the sweat of our bodies adding another totally delicious sensuous feel to my already tingling nerve ends. Oh, I was about to cum, oh yes, my breathing quickening the feeling so good I almost didn't want to cum, I wanted these delicious sensations to last forever...........then suddenly he pushed me back hard against the tree with his body and began to thrust into me deeply and furiously, harder and faster, I watched his face, I knew the signs and as he let out a guttural moan I gave in to him and threw my head back lowered my feet until they were against his buttocks and held him in deeply as he gushed in me and I gushed over him, both moaning in unison as we came together, then slowed down together as he lowered me gently to the ground, his cum running down my thighs, hot sticky and sweet as he kissed me once more. I guess I will be taking a few more 'away days' this summer. Wouldn't you dear reader? Fencing Academy Pt. 01 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for reading this! This is the prologue of a new erotically-charged low-magic fantasy series, full of sex, violence, politics and intrigue: my favorite kind of story. I was going to make this into an AIF game, but it turned out to be too complicated, but the idea was too good to pass up. This particular tale takes place two years before the events of the next chapter. There isn't any sex right now, but I hope this whets your appetite for more. Edited by Bert Fegg, something of an eccentric genius. ### The peninsula of Zachon is a land of brooding forests, low, jagged mountains, ruined castles and a dour, serious folk. But from anywhere in this land a line of smoke was always visible, like a black tear in the sky. To follow it leads to Rotham, the city built on blood and iron and lead. Here, coal powers the city's machines in the day, filling the crooked streets with the metallic din of heavy machinery. At night, electric lamps buzz and cut islands through the gloom. Whores, murderers, rakes and thieves stalk in this artificial twilight. Blood cements itself between the stones of cobbled streets. Lyza had returned home. She had fled Rotham as a girl with one family name, and in amongst the mossy ruins of Arbalea she chose another. As she stepped down the plank, she wondered what her next would be. "Dunwall," she said. That had been the last name of a kind old man she'd made friends with, his only possessions a carving knife and a sack of potatoes. He'd scrape the skin off the potatoes until they were like perfect little spirals on the ground. When he was done, he'd give her half while he had the other. They were hard and dry, but spiced by generosity; she had never had better, hungry and poor as she was. It was a time like that the old man pointed at her rapier. "That's a fancy sword." Lyza was sitting on the rough-hewn planking, beneath the decks, nursing the blade on her lap. "His name is Brass Pig. My dad gave him to me," she replied. He chuckled at the name, and spoke in a sing-song voice. "Ah, I see why you keep him, then," he said pulling a new potato from the sack and sinking his knife into it, "I was thinkin' you'd sell him, but you'd lose those memories, wouldn't you?" The burlap sack was a large, lumpy thing, threadbare in parts, but it hadn't left his side the entire trip. The man had no sea legs and little strength to pull it top deck, so he had stayed in the hold. Lyza nodded at it."Your father give you those potatoes?" she asked. The old man Dunwall laughed. "Her name is Sack of Potatoes. My father's farm did, but I couldn't keep a hold of that," he said sadly. He looked again the blade, his eyes tracing the intricate brass wiring around the guard. "Someone'll try to kill you for that sword." "Let 'em try, I'm good for it," she grinned toothily, pulling Brass Pig just a tad from its scabbard. The old man looked her up and down. His eyes were clouded with a gray film, but she could tell they must have once been a brilliant blue years ago. After that long and strange appraisal he closed his eyes and nodded, like he had come to some realization. "Ah, I see, you're a virgin." Lyza's eyes flared, and recoiled defensively. "Wot... wot... you sick old man, wot's that gotta do with anything?" The man chuckled as he returned his attention to the potato. "You mistake me. There are two sorts of virginity in Rotham. The one sort when you're with someone you love y'see, but what I'm talking about is the second sort, the one you lose when you're with someone you hate. The innocence that flees you when you end your first life." Lyza nodded slowly and with understanding. "Ah, I see..." she sniffed, "I'm a virgin both ways then." That was their last conversation. The old man was dead the next morning, a smile on his face and his final potato clutched in his hand, white and skinless. They lowered him into the sea after that, potato and all. He left a last will and testament on his person, a barrister who happened to be on the ship read it declared all his earthly possessions were now Lyza's. They gave Lyza his sack of potatoes. Lyza could count her possessions on one hand: Brass Pig and his scabbard, rags, potatoes and counting beans. The beans were important, because if she encountered numbers past ten she ran out of fingers. She couldn't do letters, either, but that was normal for an orphan girl. The sack of potatoes shifted ponderously on her shoulders as she walked onto the wharf. The passengers stood in loose lines, awaiting the attention of a customs officer with a pointy goatee that glared at her from his desk. They moved slowly, but soon she was face-to-face with the man. On his fancy blue tunic he wore a badge bearing a peacock. The peacock was a symbol of Rotham, she'd heard, and marked a person who worked for the government. "What's your name?" he asked, a posh reservoir pen dancing in his fingers. "Lyza Dunwall, if it pleases you." The officer didn't say if it pleased him or not. He just bellowed, "Weapons?" "I got one," she said. The officer eyed the sword at her belt. She opened her sack. "These potatoes are hard as rock. You throw these at someone's head it's bound to break a skull." The officer did not seem amused. He gestured at the scabbard. "What's that you're wearing?" "Oh that? Nothing but a toy sir. My daddy didn' let me have a real sword." The officer frowned, his goatee retreating up his chin. "Could I take a look at it?" There was no way that Lyza could refuse, and the officer reached to pull Brass Pig from her regardless. He held the blade to the light, and watched it ripple across the surface like water. "Hand-forged, sturdy grip, beautiful artistry..." he remarked. He stroked the edge, and flinched when he cut skin. "Bloody sharp too. What was an urchin like you planning on doing with a weapon like this?" Lyza smiled innocently. "Oh, it's just fer meself." To Lyza's horror, the officer slipped Brass Pig into his own belt, with an ingratiating frown. "This should have been confiscated before you got on the boat." It was as if another memory of her father had been snatched from her. Her legs tensed and fingers twitched, she was prepared to spring at him. "That was me father's blade, sir..." she said darkly. The customs officer patted the hilt. "Your father's toy, you said it yourself. And you've grown too old for toys." Lyza made a grab for it, but the officer drew back quickly and slapped her across the face hard, so hard she stumbled into some guards. They both gave cruel chuckles as they took her by the arms and dragged her from the harbor. "Gimmee my sword, gimmee my sword you sad cocksucker!" she shouted and cursed at the officer, but he merely stroked his goatee and moved onto the next immigrant. The guards threw her onto the street, followed by her sack of potatoes, knocking the wind out of her. They really are as hard as rocks, she thought as she pushed them off her back. She wanted to sling one of them at the guards to see if they really could break a skull, but of course, they had swords and guns and she didn't. ### The potatoes were so dry they crumbled in Lyza's mouth. It was like chewing through wall plaster, and each swallow was forced. The labor caused her jaw to ache afterward. She would sell her soul to the Darkness itself if she could get a mug of ale to wash it down with. But in Lyza's experience neither the Darkness nor the Saints of Light answered any of her prayers. Which was odd, considering how the priests were always droning on about how the Darkness was around every corner, always hungry for souls to steal. Maybe only some sorts of darkness were special. "Darkness, you wanna sack o' potatoes?" she tried half-heartedly. No answer. Somewhere out there in the sea of murkiness, an idjit screamed in despair, a long one like an animal howl. Definitely got stabbed, prolly a murder, she thought idly as she forced another chunk of potato into her mouth. She imagined it being the customs officer, crying like a babe while the ghost of her father pulled Brass Pig from his fat chest. She was hungry still, but full enough. She had to make sure there were enough potatoes. Tomorrow morning, she would need to find a flesh-and-blood buyer for them. ### There were many streetside markets near the harbor. This was a fish district, and fish they sold by the hundreds, in varying degrees of freshness. It was the first time she felt like she was at home since she got here. Arbalea had a big fish market too, but the fish there were bigger and meatier and heartier. Rotham's fish were smelly and stunted. It was not surprising. Arbalea's waters were blue and clean. Rotham's Blackwater river was a sewer so thick and putrid it moved like molasses. She chanced a bystander. "You want this sack of potatoes?" she hawked, "Two pounds!" "Is that a joke?" remarked the bystander as he hurried past. She spat at his shadow, then tried the next one. "Sack of potatoes! Two pounds! Two pounds!" "I'll trade you that sack for this one," said a voice from behind. She spun around. The man had a rash of dark stubble around his square chin, a shock of hair as brown as it was lustrous. His white shirt was open at his neck, revealing a tuft of chest hair. His eyes and lips were full of mischief. Most importantly, he had a sword at his belt. "Wot's in yer sack?" she asked. "I'm not telling you," he said. The burlap sack at his feet certainly looked full of... something. And heavy. "You tryin' to cheat me?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Yes." She had to laugh. "Now I'm curious. Wot's worth less than a sack of potatoes?" The man grinned. He had nice teeth, strange enough, like little pieces of white stone. They stood out well against his sunkissed skin. "You'll have to do the swap to find out." "You cheeky bastard," she huffed, not able to stop herself from smiling, "What makes you think I'm so stupid as to take you up on your offer?" He cocked his head at her. "Oh, maybe that you're trying to sell a sack of potatoes for two pounds." The reason she chose that number was that, at the very least, she could count to two, and she knew a pound was a lot, and so at the very least she wasn't going to get swindled. But she said: "Two pounds is a fair price." "Yeah... for a potato farm," he said chuckling, "Who taught you numbers?" "Oh I'm just a natural methinks." "What's six and five?" "Go fuck yerself," said Lyza, folding her arms and growing red. The man laughed hard, and it stung more because he was also handsome. Of all the orphans that thronged Arbalea's streets, she was the worst of all counters. "Hopeless," it was said of her. They thought her an idjit because of it, no matter how quick her tongue and how tough she was. When he was done, he walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. His hands were heavy and warm. "What you need is someone who's going to sell these for you," he said, "and we can split the profits in half. But first, you have to trade me that sack for my sack." Her arms were still folded as she looked dubiously at heap of burlap. What's worth less than a sack of potatoes? Unless it's not about the sack... "Alright, gimme that thing," she relented. The man brightened and they took the other's sacks. Lyza found his surprisingly light, and when she opened it up, her heart sank. "It's a sack, full o' sacks..." she said, pulling out a crumpled piece of burlap. The man bowed deeply, too deeply to be serious. "Liam Waters at your service, heir to a sack empire. You might know my father. Jon Waters, famous sack merchant." Lyza raised an eyebrow. "Y'sell sacks?" Liam Waters shook his head. "No. My father sells sacks." "My name is Lyza... Dunwall," she said, then added, "I'm not the heir of anything." ### Liam Waters had a clever scheme going. He divided the big sack of potatoes into many, smaller ones. Then he began to sell them all individually. They managed to find a place to hawk their wares... just outside the brick wall of a foundry. There was plenty of traffic but the town guard didn't venture here, it being just between precincts. Business was brisk. An old peasant woman with a moustache was molesting a sample of their wares aggressively, sucking at her own lip as if she couldn't decide what she felt about them. "Do you mistake me for a general? Are you trying to sell me cannon balls?" she said finally, "Those are as hard as iron." Liam laughed falsely. It was different from how he laughed with her. "Of course. They're supposed to be. These are special mashing potatoes from... a valley way north called... Northvalley." The old lady's eyes flickered to life. "Mashing potatoes? Northvalley?" Liam nodded. "Oh yes. Northvalley mashing potatoes. Very famous. You won't find Northvalley mashing potatoes any cheaper than here. Snows have closed off the valley for the winter, y'see, so there's no more for the season." "Oh!" remarked the old lady, "Northvalley, you said? Very fancy. I'll take two sacks." The old woman poured her payment into Liam's fingers like water. When the old lady was gone, he divided the coins into two piles, one for him, one for Lyza. Lyza tried to compare the sizes of the two piles. They looked equal, but Lyza would need to get out her counting beans to know for sure. Such a count would take hours for her. "How do I know yer not cheating me?" she said with a cocked eyebrow. Liam rolled his eyes as he shoved the old woman's coins into a purse. "Please, Lyza. I'm trying to get away from the merchant business, not back into it." "So wot are you tryin' to get into, then?" she asked. Liam pulled out his sword and lifted it into the air. The sunlight shone blindingly off the blade. He seemed so proud, like he was looking at himself in ten years, somewhere in that blue sky. "I want to be a professional duelist," he declared, "What sort, I don't know yet. Maybe a performer. Maybe some noble's champion." Yer head's in the clouds, she wanted to say, but she ended up nodding, saying, "Sounds fascinating." He slipped the sword back in with a clink. "I'm saving up to go to the right school. I don't want to start my career in some back alley..." Lyza let him talk, and instead she watched the passersby... the dockworkers, the old women, the fishmongers and the beggars, all moving past each other in a noisy, chaotic procession. She regretted asking him about where he wanted to go, she hated it when people started talking about their dreams. She knew why too, she didn't have any of her own except dreams of blood and vengeance, of plunging her blade into the hearts of the filth that took her family away... "...I've even picked out the school I want to go to. The Sunderland School of Fencing, to study under the famous Sara Sunderland..." ...But they had taken away Brass Pig from her, too. She'd defended and hid him for so long, from bandits and thieves and jealous children, even when she was too young to defend herself she'd make sure that blade was safe. It was almost as if the sword wasn't there to protect her, but she was there to protect it. But it wasn't a ruffian who ended up prying it from her, it was the law and pieces of paper. "...and I've heard the Duchess goes there too..." Her ears suddenly pricked up. "I'm sorry, wot didja say?" asked Lyza, scarcely believing what she had just heard. Liam blinked at her. "I said, the Duchess goes there too..." Lyza suddenly stood up and shook Liam by the shoulders. "Which Duchess? Which!" Liam spoke through the shaking. "Adriana Challette, Grand Duchess of Rotham..." Thank you Light, or Darkness, whichever one of you did this... Lyza burst out laughing. "That's great!" she said, grabbing Liam by his collar and kissing him straight on the lips. She would've done it longer, too, if he'd kissed her back. His eyes widened so much Lyza couldn't help but think it was cute. "Wonderful! I've always wanted to meet the Duchess. I've got to so much to share with her..." ...Like a knife in the ribs... Liam scratched his head, his lips formed into a deep frown. "Yeah, but by the time we scrounge enough money to go, the Duchess will have long graduated..." "No, no, no..." panicked Lyza, feeling the opportunity slipping, "we need to meet the Duchess. You're clever! Tell me wot I can do, and I know we can put together the money!" Liam shrugged. "Well, what are your skills?" I was trained by the greatest fencer that has ever lived, she thought. "I'm pretty good at that," she said, pointing a crooked finger at Liam's sword. Liam glanced down at his sword. He unbuckled it and allowed Lyza to pull it from its sheathe. When she put her fingers on the cold metal she immediately felt herself again. The sound of the metal sliding against leather was like her father's own voice. Holding a sword in her hands gave her feelings of power, like it was a lightning rod filling her muscles with thunder. She watched the light play across the surface. It did not ripple like Brass Pig did, being factory-forged with a steel was not of such exceeding quality, but still impressive. She swung, slashing an eight into the air, the cut smooth and graceful. "You certainly look comfortable with it..." he said, as though mesmerized by the tip of her sword. "I've been fightin' since I was a wee age," she reported, grunting as she hacked through the air, "a sword is like me own arm." Liam was staring now, bewildered. She shot him a warning look as she slipped the sword back into his scabbard. "I hope you're not seeing me as some sorta sheathe, too," she lowered her voice, eyes narrow. Liam shook himself out of the trance. "No... I'm just shocked that a girl who can't count has such a... such a... refined technique..." Lyza sat cross-legged on the ground. "Yeah, you get to be refined real quick when you're alone on the streets." That was half a lie. Her father taught her the blade, for just two years before they took his head off... enough time for Lyza to have mastered the basics. The rest of her education she received fending off bullies and predatory adults alike. I never killed nobody, though. Liam looked out and pondered something. She noticed when he was pensive he'd start rubbing the hilt of blade like it was a knob... or his cock. Lyza wondered briefly what it looked like... she didn't want to touch it, just look at it a bit. "I have a plan," he said finally, "but it's dangerous, risky, and illegal." Lyza grinned. "Good. My favorite sort o' plan." ### It had been a long time since Lyza had a mark. She had indulged in a bit of thievery in Arbalea, mostly a few coins from a pocket here and there. Liam's plan felt familiar to her in that way, but it was not pockets she was after. Just as Liam had said, a lady nob with a towering bun of golden hairs and white dress, followed by a female bodyguard, emerged from the tailor's at the far end of the street. The nob's face was severe and narrow, her long nose crumpled up at the nostrils. The bodyguard was easier on the eyes, she had a broad cinnamon face with her long brown hair held back by a band, and curvy hips knotted by fitness... Lyza turned her eyes. She waited for her pulse to slow and the thoughts to fade. There was a task at hand. The first part will be easy. No, a delight. Lyza lifted herself from the barrel she sat on, summoned the phlegm from the back of her throat, strode up to the lady nob and propelled a yellow-green wad at her boots. Fencing Academy Pt. 01 There was a moment pregnant with shock, then lady nob's wordless indignation boiled over. "You insolent rat! How dare you!" said the nob, growing red, "Do you know who I am? I'm Marquess Victoria Knightling!" Lyza curtsied. "Me lady! I am so sorry. Here, let me fix that..." Lyza summoned another wad of mucus and hit her right on the tit. The ball dripped slowly down the woman's white gown. "See? Now yer dress matches yer booties." Knightling went through stages of disbelief, shock, and finally rage all in just a few moments. She lifted her hands as though the wad of spit would crawl up her breasts and assault her, her face contorting in supreme disgust. "YOU... BITCH!" she cried out, "YUUUCK!!" The lady's champion, the one with the attractive hips, shouldered forward between her and Victoria, her expression stony with a hint of murder. "You face Margaret Fey," she declared in a confident, serious voice, hand resting threateningly on her pommel, "Stealing a sword does not make you a swordswoman, and does not give leave to soil a lady's garments. I'd cut you down but you'd tarnish my steel." Lyza walked up to Margaret, so close she could smell Margaret's fragrant breath. She lifted her nose at her. "You face Lyza Dunwall, and I'll show you who's worthy. As a matter of fact it happens to be my sword, and I'm as good with it as you are with yours." Margaret sneered. "Do you stake your life on it?" "Oh, without hesitation." Margaret raised her chin and declared: "I challenge you to a duel to the death." Before Lyza even thought about it, her pride said, "Accepted." Margaret's face betrayed no fear. "I'll see you two weeks hence, on the Field of Honor." "One week," glowered Lyza. Margaret sniffed. "It makes no difference to me when you die," she said, "I thought you might want the time to say goodbye to your urchin family." "I already have," said Lyza grimly. Margaret took her lady by the arm. "Come, Lady Vicky, don't let this ruffian concern you. You'll have her head soon enough." Knightling buried herself in Margaret's shoulder as they walked down the street. When they were well out of sight, Liam emerged, his whole face quivering with anger. "What in the Light's thousand names, Lyza! You were supposed to get a duel to first blood!" Lyza turned sharply to Liam. "I got the duel you asked for. One duel's as good as any, right?" Liam shook his head and spoke breathlessly: "Margaret Fey is no joke! It's one thing to get first blood on a swordswoman like Fey, it's another to kill her! Fey is twelve years older than you with that much more experience, and she's... she's... she's killed before! People much more talented than you! She'll... slice you to bits!" In truth, the acceptance of the duel had been a reflex, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had to do it this way. If she wasn't capable of killing in a duel, how would she ever get vengeance for her father? "Don't worry about me, Liam. I'll win," said Lyza. Liam shook his head. "It's not just you dying, Lyza. I'm worried about what will happen to you when you survive." There are two virginities in Rotham... Lyza gave Liam a sweet smile. "I can't stay innocent forever. I have to do this. I have to learn to kill." ### It had been months since Lyza had last looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair had become a muddy brown, matted by salt and soil, her freckles buried by grime, the lines in her face exaggerated by the dirt that had ingrained itself in her skin. Around her neck she was so thin she could see her own bones, and how sunken and baggy her eyes looked. She looked a homeless orphan. I am a homeless orphan. The thought made her smile bitterly. But she had never once looked this bad. She often bathed in Arbalea's Whitewater. Poor the city may have been, sunken to mossy ruins hinting at ancient glories, but the waters were clean. Rotham's waters were death itself. Even the rats shunned it, and those that didn't, floated atop the murk. The woman behind her finally put a brush to her hair. "Oh my!" she squealed in her Solissian accent, "Your roots are such a brilliant orange color! You will be so pretty when I am finished! You will see!" Lyza was not a normal girl, but even she wanted to be pretty. Even if it meant having a middle-aged woman pull her hair out with a comb. The Solissian made envious noises as she fought with it. Those from the Solissian islands considered bold hair beautiful, so they dyed their own like mad: from black and blonde to odder colors such as purples, greens, blues and reds. This Solissian had orange hair, a shade more ostentatious than Lyza's. Beauty was pain, she'd heard, and Lyza finally knew it was true, but after a half-hour Lyza's hair was no longer matted and it fell to her shoulders. It felt good and less itchy, even as coarse as it was. Next, Lyza was stripped and made to bathe. She was so grimy the dirt molted from her and stained the waters black. When she lifted her hands from the water, she marveled at how pink her flesh was. The Solissian lady was stunned when she arose. "Oh my! You are a beautiful girl under there! I thought that was soil on your face, but now they have bloomed into freckles! And look at your hair, it is like fire! But it will look better, you will see!" The Solissian woman reworked her hair with ointments and frothy potions. Lyza was dubious, but when she was turned to the mirror she gasped: she looked on a different person. Her hair had gained a wondrous luster, her lips were plump and red again, skin ruddy with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She had a nose like a little button, with two large, green eyes and narrow face. Her orange hair fell onto her shoulders. "That's me!" she cried in disbelief, touching her own face. The woman nodded from behind. "I told you, you would see!" She watched her fingers push into her plump cheek, making sure it was her own face she was looking at. When she grinned, dimples formed. Lyza squealed in delight. The Solissian woman took a clump of her hair and let it fall like water down her neck. She suddenly looked sad. "It is a shame a girl as pretty as you will be in such a beastly contest in three days. Dueling is a waste of your beauty, a thing for men. You should work here instead. Madam Picot would treat you well, and give you only to her most gentle customers." In other circumstances, Lyza might have taken offense. But it was like she was a new person in a new skin. "No thanks," she said, "that's not the life for me. But if I change my mind I'd come here first. Hey, can you whiten my teeth?" For the next five minutes the woman scrubbed her teeth aggressively with a tiny brush. When Lyza spat, it was so full of yellow gunk she wondered if the Solissian had washed her teeth away. But when she looked back at the mirror her mouth glinted with shiny white pearls. "I never knew I was so pretty," said Lyza, bewildered. The Solissian smiled benevolently. "Every woman is pretty to at least one man's eyes. But you, especially so. You'll need a sword to fend off suitors. But before you are a woman, you'll need a dress..." She crossed the room to a closet and opened it up, revealing a collection of frilly dresses arranged like a rainbow. But when she turned around, Lyza shook her head. "I prefer men's clothes, sorry," said Lyza, standing up, "Something comfortable. Something I can fight in." The Solissian clucked her tongue. "A shame. But a woman can still look a woman even dressed as a man. You will see." Lyza's itchy, soiled rags went into the dustbin. A loose, silky shirt was buttoned over her chest, and over that an ocher vest which clung well to her waist. For her pants, she wore stitched horse leather of a maroon color ending in a pair of comfortable, floppy boots. She finished the ensemble with a cavalier's cap, black and felt with a wide brim laden with ostrich feathers. The Solissian woman was sobbing. "Please don't go and die!" she choked, "You are so beautiful! Your beauty would move the world to tears!" Beauty can't avenge my family, she thought. "Thank you, me lady," said Lyza sincerely, tipping her new hat, "if I die, I'll make sure they bury me as I am." The Solissian unleashed a torrent of sobs even as she left the room. But Lyza left in a saunter... she was finally feeling like herself again. The brothel's halls were a deep red, filled with the sound of drunken laughter with the undercurrent of urgent moans, even early as it was in the evening. A fat naked drunk man chased a whore through the corridor, giggling like a child. When she reached the landing, she looked down the banister into the entry hall, where Liam was wagging chin with Madam Picot. Liam briefly looked up at her, but no recognition flashed across his face. She walked down the stairs slowly, heart pounding for the moment for Liam to recognize her. But it was Madam Picot who noticed her first, a faint smile spreading across her lined face. Liam turned around too, looked befuddled at Lyza, and then realization hit him like lightning bolt, he whispered, "Bull's balls..." She grinned and took off her hat. She even spun around on her new boots, so the two of them could see her from every angle. Madam Picot nodded knowingly. "I told you, Liam, I can always tell a beauty, even when she's hidden under a layer of dirt." Liam was still struggling for words, but even if he had something to say his mouth had gone completely slack. His stubbly chin hung open. Madam Picot added, "...But that is quite dramatic, quite dramatic indeed." The Madam was not bad looking herself, Lyza noted. True, she wore all black, being a widow and all, but she had a friendly, warm face and a calm smile, even with her thin lines. More than once Lyza's eyes wandered to her bustle, curious to what was under all those frills. Lyza took off her hat and put it under her armpit. "All I needs now is me own sword. But I don't think I'll find one here, if you'll pardon me saying, Madam." Picot gave another slanted smile. "You'd be surprised." She turned to Liam. "Half the city is talking about the fight. They say that Margaret Fey will be butchering an urchin on the Field of Honor for the amusement of Victoria Knightling." Liam finally said something, but his eyes were still fixed on Lyza, "They'll be surprised when a true swordswoman shows up." The Madam returned her gaze to Lyza as well. "I've seen the odds the bookmakers have against you. There are many zeroes." "That's the whole point, innit?" grinned Lyza, "Let them think I'm a simple urchin. Put a whole lotta money on me, then when I win, we'll take the bookies for everythin'. They'll hafta send their daughters to come work here, ha ha!" "We'll see about that," sniffed Liam, "the bookies can be quite vindictive when things don't go in their favor." The Madam added, "Betting on fights is illegal, too, and betting on your own even more so. If you're found out you might find yourself at the bottom of the Blackwater." Lyza shivered. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, heh." The Madam's gray eyes cast an unreadable gaze. "If you win this fight, I hope you'll consider working for me." Lyza shook her head emphatically. "No! I'm not an ungrateful sort but—" "I didn't mean as a whore," corrected the Madam, "Didn't Liam tell you what he does for me?" Liam frowned and shifted uncomfortably. Does Liam bugger the Madam? wondered Lyza for a moment. "He sells sacks...?" ventured Lyza. Liam said nothing, kept his eyes glued at the wall. Madam Picot continued. "I'll let him tell you who he is, when he's ready. The point is, I am always looking for people I can trust. Women who know how to fight are rare. I could use you. I pay well." "...Not to mention killing Margaret Fey would break her in well to the rigors of the job," added Liam, in a low voice. Madam Picot gave a curt nod. "A little blood is good for the hands, I always say." "I'm not tryin' to prove anything to you," she said sharply, "When I beat 'er, it's gonna be because I wanted to, not as some job application." "Think on it," said the Madam with a gentle smile. "Aye, I will." The sun was sinking when they left the brothel. The sea glittered gold and orange, and for the first time Lyza saw beauty in Rotham. Her heart caught in her throat. But it isn't Rotham that's pretty, she thought, it's the sunset, aye. It reminded her of the sunsets over Arbalea's harbor. The crumbling city faced the sea west, so even they were prettier there. But it wasn't just that, everything was nicer, fresher, more welcoming. The glittery Whitewater wound through these big old abandoned castles pockmarked by age, with moss and flowers growing from every crack and crevice. It was amongst these rocks where she grew up, crawling and creeping and exploring, skinning her knees as she shimmied up the ruins. It was at a time like this the kindly monks would come out, to give the orphans like her fresh bread and regale them with heroic stories of the Saints of Light who'd pushed back Darkness so that the first plants could grow and the first towns could be built. The tales stirred their dreams, and were woken the next morning to the chant and toll of bells. It was in hope of rousing the Saints one day, who'd come in the End of Days to burn Darkness and Sin from the world. They said Rotham was Arbalea's dark twin. Old and deep was the two cities' rivalry, as once Arbalea held Rotham in thrall. It came to bloodshed many centuries ago, and now the king in Arbalea answers to the Grand Dukes of Rotham. In a few days, she'd baptize her new home by killing someone, or else be killed. And not for honor, but for gold. How the Saints of Light would weep beneath their shining halos if they knew. Liam's words snapped her out of her trance. "What are you thinking about?" "I was thinkin' what sort o' sword I'm gonna get when I get my money," she lied. "A cheap one," answered Liam, "whatever we win from your victory will probably just cover our tuition. The Sunderland School is for nobles and the industrialists." "Aye," she sniffed, "I just wish this fight was now. I want to get it over with." ### The next few days passed slowly. Lyza practiced with Liam in the day, where it became clear that Liam had little to teach her, since Lyza could disarm Liam with just her hands and body. Liam actually started to become embarrassed by the extent of her skill over him, but still he persisted trying. Lyza thought it sweet. At night, only unhealthy quantities of barley wine and ale put Lyza to sleep, uncomfortable and dreamless as it was. Her heart pounded, the flickering lights beneath her closed eyes became the clash of steel on steel. On the day of the fight, Lyza slept until noon. She was awoken by a splash of fresh water. She swore groggily, looked outside at fresh daylight, looked at Liam, and swore again. "Why didn't you wake me early, like I said?" she moaned, "We were gonna practice more, weren't we?" "You needed the sleep, not the practice," said Liam. He tossed Lyza's freshly laundered clothes onto the bed. "We're going to have breakfast, and then you have your fight." He said the last word like he didn't want to. I also need more moments alive, as many as I can have, she thought as she pushed the sheets off. Liam was a gentleman. He turned his back as Lyza slipped into her clothes. She put them on slowly, savoring the feeling of fabric on her skin, doing each button one at a time. She donned her hat last. She loved the ostrich feathers that plumed out from it, the rich black felt, the way it was folded roguishly to one side. Would the Saints let her keep it when she went into heaven? Or will I be damned to Darkness for what I do today? When she was done he threw her a pair of black velvet gloves, embroidered with silvery thread by the wrist. "It'll help with the grip," he explained, "Stop blisters." Lyza slipped them on. She flexed her fingers, marveling at how the velvet shimmered. "Aye. Thanks." Lyza and Liam broke fast on water and bread. They couldn't think of what to say to one another. The dour look didn't fit Liam. In his best of days the boy was a bit scruffy, but the circles under lids were deep, the eyes that usually brimmed with dreaminess were dull and downcast today. Even so, he still looks handsome. He was broad-shouldered, with a hale color to his skin. Sometimes his smile would leave her a little short of breath like she'd been squeezed. His shirt was always baggy around the neck, which was just fine for Lyza because she could always get a good peek at his smooth chest, accented by tufts of hair. Goodbye, Liam Waters, son of a famous sack merchant, she smiled to herself. "Don't eat too much," he said sullenly, "a full stomach will slow you down." "Thanks, Liam," she said. When they were done they walked out to the intersection. One direction went to the Field of Honor. The other went to the gambling dens. Liam sighed. "You know the deal. I'll be in the gambling hall, placing a bet on you. I'll wait for news of y—" Lyza kissed him. For real this time, and for more than just a lingering moment. When they thought they'd separate they'd rejoin again. It was only when they began to attract stares when they left each other's lips, and when they did they were both breathless. "I didn' want to die without having done that," she explained. They were nose to nose, just looking at each other, unsure of whether to continue or not. "You're not going to die, Lyza. And this isn't the last time." Their lips met again, and when they separated they made the soft, wet sound lips do. He gave her his sword, and they had nothing left to say with each other, although Lyza was left with a burning sensation on her heart and mouth. She didn't know if that would make her fight harder, or if it would distract and kill her. The Field of Honor was no field but a hill a little outside Rotham. Dueling was not supposed to be a spectacle, but still hundreds of people sat on the rooftops the city wall, feet dangling and eyes popping curiously. Victoria Knightling was in an outdoor red dress, while Margaret Fey sat on a wood folding chair, putting an oilcloth to her rapier. The rest of her entourage were milling about, a priest, a doctor, an old man, a Ducal observer. They all looked at her without recognition. "I'm sorry," said Margaret, still focused on cleaning her sword, "spectators aren't allowed on the field." Lyza took a deep breath to still her pounding heart. "I'm yer opponent," she declared. Margaret's eyes flashed upwards. Victoria Knightling gasped in such shock she stumbled into the arms of a stout old man, perhaps her father or husband. Lyza smiled. It was exactly the reaction she hoped for. Margaret stood up and walked right to Lyza's face, he gaze shifting from her face to her clothes. Then she gave a cool smile. "You are the same girl," she said, "though I didn't realize that under all that dirt you were quite so young." She motioned for a servant with a beak-like nose to approach. He cleared his throat, opened a piece of parchment, and spoke, "In the name Victoria Knightling, Marquess of Whitehall Chapel, we offer our terms of withdrawal. The offending party, Lyza Dunwall, will serve without recompense Victoria Knightling's household staff, until the wages that would have been paid, at a fair rate, exceed the value of Madam Knightling's vandalized dress and footwear. Damage has been estimated to be four pounds, or four hundred shillings. The estimated length of service is two years. Should you accept these terms, Margaret Fey will withdraw her challenge." Fencing Academy Pt. 01 "Fuck your offer," said Lyza, without hesitation. The servant looked uncomfortable as he turned toward Victoria. "I suppose that means 'no', my lady." Victoria glared at Lyza hatefully, but Margaret kept her faint smile. She said, "Are you really going to lose your head over— what, two years of your life? Victoria Knightling is a generous employer, you know. And forgiving, as you've just witnessed." Lyza spat on the ground and stamped on it. "That's what I think of you nobs." Margaret shook her head and laughed darkly. "Let me put it this way," said Margaret, her eyes narrowing to slits as she stepped once more toward her, "In the past five years there have been three duels to the death between women. I fought in every one. You think I survived three fights for some fluke? You think you can beat those odds?" "I don't think I can," said Lyza, doing her best to keep her voice calm and low, "I know I can. Like I know you're stallin' fer time, 'cause you're scared." Margaret laughed, hoarse, mirthless and bitter. "Scared? Of course I am. I've been wondering all day how I can bring myself to kill you," Margaret leaned closer in, as if she wanted a look straight into her eyes. "The question is: are you really prepared to kill me? When the instant comes, can you cut me here?" she says, drawing a line across her jugular with a long fingernail. "It's easy to say you'll do it, that's why everyone says it. It is something else entirely to do it. You'll lose your innocence, you'll be changed forever. Can you accept that?" That was why Lyza wanted to do it: she wanted to change, to harden her heart so she could commit the bloodshed she needed to. The world was a cruel and unyielding place, as she would need to be. "Yeah," she said simply, "'tis a price worth paying." "I was hoping the threat of a duel would scare you, Lyza Dunwall. I didn't think things would get this far. Someone get me some wine." One of Victoria's servants came forward and poured some red wine into a clay goblet. Margaret swallowed it down greedily, she had to wipe her lips with her sleeve afterward. Lyza went into a guard stance, her rapier still in front of her. "Is that a good idea? Drinkin' before a fight?" Margaret threw the goblet over her shoulder. "I can't kill you sober," she answered, before drawing her parrying dagger and entering a ready stance. "Where's your main-gauche?" Lyza cocked her head. "I got one, you just happen to be holdin' it right now." Margaret snorted. "Funny." They stood before each other, swords drawn and pointed at the other. The world suddenly became very still and very silent, and seconds passed slowly. Lyza tried to stay still too, but her heart was thumping like an ax on firewood. Her eyes kept bouncing from Margaret's toes to her blade, wondering which would move first. It almost seemed to be between moments when Margaret lunged. Lyza's parry was desperate and slow, the point deflected inches away from her collarbone. A second thrust seemed to begin even before Lyza had raised her sword. That was even closer. Lyza retreated. Shit, she's drivin' me to the slope! she realized. Parry after desperate parry, Lyza was given no choice but to give ground. She was being driven so fast that she was practically walking backwards, with no time even look to see where she was going... a loose branch or small rock could be the end of her. Lyza's heart froze and despair gripped her... she suddenly realized what she had gotten herself into. She's gonna win. I'm gonna die. Lyza was trying to watch Margaret's blade, but Margaret had murderous brown eyes that stared unblinking into her. She knew Margaret was trying to unnerve her, and it was working. She'd been in fights before, but she now knew what being a professional meant. Margaret was a duelist, there was not a wasted movement, and her face was the picture of stony discipline. Lyza stumbled. She was trying to dodge an overhead hack, and next she knew she was on her back, her head rushing with blood, temples pounding. Margaret strode forward, the small, razor-sharp hirschfanger already drawn. She saw her father again, but with a face half-remembered. He was holding a hirschfanger too, the knife loose in his hands. It looked as cruel as it was small, the edge had a deadly glint. "I hope you never have to use this one," he explained to her once, "This is not a weapon. It's a tool. See how sharp it is?" He pricked her finger with it. She winced reflexively, but no pain came. She marveled at the pool of blood on her finger. "The blade is so sharp that its cuts are painless. It is a tool of mercy. When you see a person who is dying and in pain, it is sometimes the only good thing to do to end it. Do you understand?" She didn't understand then, but she understood now. Margaret thought this fight was over. She wanted to end her quickly and painlessly. "I'm not a wounded animal!" Lyza said defiantly, and swung her blade at Margaret. Margaret deflected the attack with the tiny blade. Lyza would have been stunned by that feat, but she was too busy getting back to her feet. In the brief pause, Margaret stonily slammed the hirschfanger back in its sheathe, and pulled out her parrying dagger, the main-gauche. Margaret isn't taking me seriously, thought Lyza. Margaret was giving Lyza a chance to attack, and so she took broad swings, and each one was caught by the broad hilt of the dagger. Margaret wasn't even sweating. Lyza desperately recalled one of her father's moves, and so she made a deep, clumsy feint over Margaret's head. She caught that blow too, exactly what she had wanted. Lyza pulled her fist back and almost managed to slam the hilt into Margaret's nose, but Margaret drew her head back just in time. Lyza feel an ache in her shoulder. She looked down, and saw to her horror that blood soaked the silk of her left shoulder, almost black, a puncture ripping through the cloth. Lyza quickly backed away, nausea gripping her insides. When was I stabbed? Margaret didn't pursue. "Who taught you that move?" she barked. Lyza blew on the wound. Blood continued to seep. "My father." Margaret crumpled her brow. "Where have I seen that move before?" Margaret shrugged, but as she did an expression flashed across her face as though a pain had moved through her body. What's wrong with her? wondered Lyza. It was as though Margaret had just suffered a stomach cramp. Lyza cursed: she could have driven through Margaret while she was distracted, but she had forgotten what she was doing. It was too late to act, Margaret drew her rapier again, and soon the dance began again. Lyza was slowed by her wound... but so was Margaret, her swings longer and heavier than before, her parries a fraction slower. She no longer seemed focused, but distracted. Her concern showed on her face. Margaret grimaced again, her hand gripped her stomach. She backed off quickly. Now's my chance, thought Lyza, but she couldn't get her hand to push her blade. "Do you want to stop the fight?" she found herself saying instead. A bead of sweat trickled down Margaret's face. She wiped it with her forearm. "Why, are you reconsidering my lady's proposal?" Lyza steeled herself. "No." Margaret pulled herself upright. "Then we have nothing to discuss." She launched an attack, but it was slower than before, and Lyza parried it easily. The crowd was sensing a shift in momentum... as was Margaret, whose face was slowly filling with doubt. A feint had Margaret's dagger inches from Lyza's face, arm stretched out bare before her. She overcommited, realized Lyza. She struck Margaret's arm, the sword tip biting into flesh. Her hand jerked open, the dagger tumbling to grass. Lyza kept her eyes on Margaret as she stooped to pick it up. "You know what you fight like?" said Margaret between heaving breaths, nursing her wound, "You fight like... you had been trained by a master, but then... then you were thrown on the streets and made to fend for yourself.... for years and years." Lyza nodded. Her wound was still seeping, and she felt weak. "That's wot happened... you can tell just from how I fight?" "Not just that," huffed Margaret. "I know who your father is. I didn't realize it at first, but he had a very distinctive technique... based on precise timings and feints. You've only got the basics down... everything else... it's like you've had to fill in the blanks." Lyza was wordless. She just listened to her. "I did more than cross swords with your father, Lyza," she grimaced, and hissed, "But I'm not ready to die, not even for you." Margaret sprung at her. Lyza tried to parry, but the swordswoman's blade was no longer where she thought it was. Lyza saw the glint of steel screaming towards her, and only a lightning reflex made her jump back in time. The opportunity came: Margaret left an opening, but Lyza just stared indecisively at it, her blade shivering in the sunlight. It was Margaret who collected herself first. With a surge of strength she sprang, an animal snarl escaping her lips. Lyza moved fast enough to avoid the blade, but Margaret's other hand grasped her hair. Lyza yelped in pain as her back was pulled into Margaret's chest. Lyza was staring at Margaret razor edge, the only thing keeping it at bay was her own blade. She twisted and kicked and struggled to keep the sword from her face, but Margaret's other arm was tight around her neck. She could feel Margaret's hot, labored breath on the back of her ear. The sword pushed inexorably downward, finally biting into Lyza's flesh, across her nose, her cheek and her brow. Warm liquid seeped down Lyza's face. She cried out. The pain gave Lyza strength she didn't know she had... with it she began to drive the blade back again, lifting it from the crevice of the wound, the swords scraping and shivering. It was far enough that Lyza could duck under it. At least she thought. Lyza felt a sudden pull... Margaret had grasped her hair again, her sword lifted to bring down on her neck, her grimace full of fear and rage. Lyza acted fast, her sword going through her own hair like a razor. Margaret was left with a clump of it tight in her hands. "No..." muttered Margaret. Those were her last words. Margaret's blade was too far to block, so Lyza reflexively plunged the tip into her chest. It was odd. She felt the steel scrape against the ribs, to punch through into Margaret's heart. The sensation sent Lyza's innards squirming, her arm numb. The crowd gasped despairingly. Margaret choked on... something, coughing blood, her ragged breath unable to take in air. Lyza was hugging Margaret, even as her hand was pushing on the hilt. Her arm was around the back of her neck, and when she looked down she saw crimson spreading on the other side. Lyza was leaking too... blood and tears, falling like beads to burst on the grass. "MAGGIE!!!" Lyza heard, a distant, desperate yell as if someone was screaming it from the bottom of the oceans. The last of Margaret's strength left and she went limp, her weight bringing Lyza to her knees. Lyza couldn't lift her head for a long time, even as shadows grew around her. Victoria was the first to join her, she shook Maggie's shoulders violently and desperately. Margaret's empty eyes rolled uselessly in their sockets. "Maggie! Maggie! Don't die Maggie! Save her doctor!" The doctor knelt to feel Margaret Fey's pulse, his mustache twitching. When he rose, he said as matter-of-fact, "My job is done, I'm afraid. Priest's work from here on out." "NOOOOO!!" wailed Victoria. She buried herself in Margaret's shirt. "NOOOO!!" The old priest prodded Lyza on the shoulder. "Remove your sword, if you wouldn't mind." It was like Lyza had been awoken from some slumber. "Oh... sure..." she said dumbly. The sword made a squishing, scraping sound as she removed it, she had to put her boot on Margaret's stomach for leverage. She backed off, letting the priest do his work. He waved the censer over the body and chanted. "Oh Saints of Light, please guide this soul into heaven..." Victoria twisted her head at Lyza, eyes reddened with hatred and tears. "IT WAS YOU! YOU CHEATED! I KNOW YOU DID! YOU CHEATED!" "...judge her worthy, cleanse her soul of sin, give her the peace she desired in life..." "YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE WON! YOU CHEATED! YOU CHEATED!" "...Saint Agnes, shepherd of the souls of those who die in battle, keep her from the Dark..." There was another tap on the shoulder. Lyza turned. It was the doctor, with his best sympathetic expression. "If you see me later, I'll put some stitches on that wound of yours," he cleared his throat, and added more quietly, "I can recommend a good confessor, too." He slipped he a card with an address scrawled on it. Lyza didn't bother telling him she couldn't read, but she muttered a "thanks," and slipped it into her pocket. Lyza was at a loss for what to do, so she just left, slowly and uncomfortably, towards the city gates. The priest's chanting and Victoria's wails faded to distant murmurs. She had not even walked through the gate when a flash blinded her. "Miss Dunwall, why did you kill Margaret Fey?" asked the reporter, scribbling something urgently. "Miss Dunwall, what did you have against Victoria Knightling?" asked another. "Miss Dunwall, what were Margaret Fey's last words?" asked yet another. Lyza blinked at the throng of reporters and the blinding pop of flash lamps. "Uh, 'No'..." She was quoting Fey, not refusing the question, but the response provoked a torrent. She could only make out urgent calls of "Miss Dunwall", "Miss Dunwall". "Uh... I'm sorry, I gotta go..." She forced aside the throng. When they followed her, questions and flashes shooting past, she descended into the alleyways and finally lost them. "I've got to find Liam," she said to herself, navigating through Rotham's dark streets. The blood began to drip from her chin to her shirt. She swore, looked to see if anyone was around, and ripped a strip of her shirt from the sleeve. The wound was in an awkward place, Running diagonally from her left eye to her right cheek. It took a lot of adjusting to make sure it was secure and not blinding her. She had agreed to meet Liam by Oldtown Plaza after the fight. It was a scarcely traveled area, but safe. The buildings were medieval here, with crumbly cramped walls. It reminded her of Arbalea. "Come on, Liam," whispered Lyza, "Don't leave me now..." ### Night fell on Oldtown Plaza. Lyza had stopped bleeding finally, but she felt sick and weak. When temptation struck her, she touched the wound and was rewarded with pain. But the pain was tolerable. Waiting for Liam was the agony. "I thought you had won that fight..." said a woman. Lyza bolted upright to the first human voice she'd heard since she escaped the throng of reporters. She looked blearily at the dark figure. "Madam Picot..." she voiced. Madam Picot approached her close enough to push Lyza's hair aside. Lyza had her back against a cobbled wall. When she tried to stand, her knees buckled. "...but you look to be the living dead," finished Madam Picot. "Where is Liam?" she whispered. Madam Picot had a gentle, comforting smile as she traced the bloody mess with her finger. "The wound will not be life-threatening. It will look ugly, for a while, it will pus and swell. When it is over, the scar will be clean. Some will find it beautiful." Lyza hissed, "I don't give a fat fuck about my scar! Where's Liam?" Picot's face suddenly went pale. "I am afraid I have bad news for you." Lyza's heart froze. "Liam had acquired quite the winnings. Some say close to fifty pounds. It proved too great a temptation for the street ruffians. I'm sorry." Lyza grimaced so hard she tore open some of her wound. Fresh, hot blood ran down her pink cheeks. "WHAT? NO!" she cried out. Madam Picot nodded sadly. "It is a shame. He was a good child. The Blackwater has him now." Lyza threw her arms around Picot's shoulders, sobbing madly into her chest. Picot put her arm around the girl, stroking her ruined hair. "It is a sad thing, it is a sad thing..." the Madam said over and over. She thought about Liam, how he'd come like a bolt of thunder from nowhere, giving her the first hope that she might have vengeance for her father. She remembered the kiss they shared, still burning on her lips, even though Liam's were now cold. She could still feel her sword plunging into Margaret, a heinous act, made meaningless. Madam Picot lifted Lyza's chin. Picot's eyes were soft and shiny, her expression so calm and gentle, with hair blacker than night. "But your efforts are not wasted," she said, as though reading Lyza's mind, "We have found each other." Lyza wiped her face with her sleeve, a mixed of dried blood and salty tears staining her sleeve. "What do you mean?" "That school, run by Sara Sunderland was it? I can pay for the tuition." Lyza was bewildered. "You would do that?" Madam Picot nodded. "Oh yes. But there will be a price. Oh yes." Lyza braced herself. "What price?" Madam Picot pulled Lyza to her chest and kissed her brow gently. "You must come work for me, child. Not as one of my girls, no, but as one of my killers." ### Lyza's scar had healed up well, leaving a straight, bleached line across her ruddy, freckled face, from her brow, across her button nose, and down the other cheek. It suited her well, for without it, people would mistake her for a virgin maid. She was not that sort of innocent anymore. She slipped on the black gloves Liam had given her. Goodbye, Liam, son of a famous sack merchant. She buckled on his sword, and Margaret Fey's parrying dagger and hirschfanger. Goodbye, Maggie, I shall never forget our first time together. With the help of the papers, Lyza had cut a large figure for herself, but she still felt dwarfed by the Sunderland school. The stone building loomed over her, the arches wide and open. Inside, students sparred in pairs in the vast training hall. Musketeers wearing the peacock of Rotham stood straight as nails outside the buildings. One of them, a large, burly one, threw his hand out to stop Lyza. "Sorry, students and faculty on the premises only, no visitors," he recited. Lyza fumbled for her pouch. When she found it, she held it out. "I am a student. Here's me tuition." The burly man leaned forward to poke his finger into the pouch. When he got an eyeful of what was inside, he snapped upward. "My apologies, Miss. Welcome to the Sunderland Academy of Fencing." Lyza's sauntered inside. It was like a ballroom, with hardwood floors polished like mirrors and large, light-filled windows. Echoing through the room was the soft clink of swords. The sound took her back to a lifetime nearly forgotten... Lyza felt she'd wandered into a long-lost home. She looked about. There was a tall Solissian woman with large breasts and a dyed purple ponytail. She patrolled the class, watching their performance with a look of mild dissatisfaction. Their eyes met almost immediately, and the Solissian strode toward her. "Sara Sunderland," said Lyza with awe. "Lyza Dunwall," said Sara without a note of surprise, "I saw you in the papers. You've come just in time. Let's get you geared up." Lyza held up the pouch. "Don't I need to give you tuition?" Sara waved her hand dismissively. "Yes yes, after class. Just get in your gear." Lyza was sent out back to get her padding on... thick, quilted armor, bleached bone white. She felt like a snowman, but the material was surprisingly light and breathable. She picked a blunted training sword from the rack. When she was done readying herself, she stepped out into the hall, and felt a knot in her stomach. Fencing Academy Pt. 02 AUTHOR'S NOTE Thanks for reading this, and for putting the "H" on the previous submission. Hope you enjoy. Edited by Redscaledknight, a gentleman of worth. Consultation by LibraLady4U. Two Years Later Was this who she was? Jenny Stirling's chest was bare, her breasts pointed like soft little pyramids, coy smile playing on her lips. She dipped the cotton ball into the amber bottle, tapped off the excess moisture, and held it to her. Adriana Challette, Grand Duchess of Rotham, pushed her black hair back, leaned forward and took in the intoxicant's sweet fumes. The high came immediately, euphoria erupting like sweat from her pores. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing, the world had become a swirl of color, strokes of a master painter. "Do you require release, Your Grace?" Jenny Stirling's words echoed over and over, but she could not recall if they were said seconds or hours ago. All she knew now was that her head lay against her pillow, gazing upwards at the stars in their strange rotation across the sky. They reminded her of the sparks evoked when sword met sword, or perhaps the stars were more like those evanescent flickers... "Do you require release, Your Grace?" "Yes," she commanded the nothingness. Something stirred deep from below... her naked legs being spread by familiar yet curious hands. Something warm and wet touched her from within, lapping at her most feminine of places. Adriana opened her lips to moan, a fragrant smoke escaped from her lips... monk's incense, her lungs burning sandalwood and lilacs. There were many words for what Jenny Stirling was, most of them hedged the truth: "bedmate", "night servant", "the private attendant"... but what brought Adriana to profound pleasure was a mere masturbation aid, just a tongue and some fingers, whose sole purpose was to ameliorate a virtuous young lady's frustration. Jenny was to be nothing more than that. That was by decree of the Saints. Through the euphoric haze, Adriana gazed at the three ladies-in-waiting at her attendance, each looking frightfully uncomfortable, eyes downcast, their bodies stiff and hands folded their laps. Their role was to watch for behavior that was unseemly and unnatural between ladies, that which the Saints of Light held depraved. A job they performed admirably. In her eighteen years Adriana had not put her lips on anything but her father's brow. Adriana twisted a curl of Jenny's blond hair. What would my subjects think if they saw me like this? she wondered, To see their calm, collected Duchess writhing in lust to the ministrations of another woman? She forgot. Jenny was not a "woman", not in her function right now. It was an easy thing to forget, especially beneath the lotus. Timelessness made certain things lose meaning. Desires long bottled frothed beneath their corks. Jenny's lips smacked softly against her labia. Adriana loved that strange, elegant sound of two wet things separating from one another; it took her far from herself, the loving noise lulling her into sleep... ### Adriana had servants to wake her up, but it was always duty that roused her. Jenny Stirling was still fast asleep, snoring peacefully, her arm wrapped around the Duchess's pale chest. She had to ease it off without waking the poor girl up. Her bedroom had picked up a chill overnight, but she would not have to feel it long. Her ladies-in-waiting descended upon her, taking her like a chattering tornado to her dressing room. Any man would dream of being stripped from their clothes by these girls, the nubile, unmarried daughters of aristocrats and industrialists. But for Adriana it was a routine wordlessly accepted. She was bathed, washed and brushed, the girls would shave the fuzz from her legs and armpits, then finally they chose a dress for her. Today, they chose a light white sundress paired with elegant white boots. An older woman applied a powdery blush to her skin and a pale gloss to her lips. Adriana preferred light cosmetics. She thought the lead paints slathered over some women of the court to be dreadful. The sword she put on herself. Her stylist had long refused to buckle it on. She thought it vulgar for a woman to wear a sword, a heresy of fashion, but Adriana wanted it all the same. The sword's weight was comfortable and pleasing, and should she need to take it out, the ripples on its surface reassured her with steel of exceeding quality. Her blade was supposed to be called The Duchess's Heart, which was inlaid in florid lettering to the surface, but Adriana found it to be as ill-fitting as her stylist thought the sword. She referred to it instead as Papercut, after what its certificate of authenticity had once given her. At six-thirty she was expected in the dining room for breakfast. It did not feel odd to her that she should be the only one sitting at the massive banquet table as a row of soldiers, courtiers, civil servants and petitioners stood at attention. Her chefs had made something light and good for the Duchess's skin, a piece of toast topped with pink salmon and inky caviar, topped with a garnish of parsley. An attendant brought her some fragrant tea and squeezed orange juice, a little pulpy and sour, which was to the Duchess's taste. She hung onto every word of Harold Massey, the minister who each day would run through the day's schedule and alert her to events that demanded the Duchess's attention. "...Overnight you have received five new offers of marriage," said Massey, reading from a clipboard, "The first is from Rory Quentin, the Earl of Bearwood..." The Duchess swallowed a portion of the salmon and wiped her mouth. "He is over fifty. Besides, he is no longer the Earl of Bearwood. He was deposed." Massey bowed. "My apologies, Your Grace. He still styles himself an Earl." He continued reading. "The second is from —" The Duchess was tired of hearing of marriage proposals. "If you wouldn't mind, Massey, I'd like to move onto domestic matters." Massey cleared his throat. "Very well, Your Grace. Three more bodies were found in the Blackwater last night. The newspapers are declaring this the work of the Weeping Maiden..." The papers could scarcely stop talking of the Weeping Maiden. The Duchess supposed that a vengeful female killer preying on men was more exciting than another stabbed whore on the harbor. Still, they probably expected her to do something about it. "Issue a reward of a fifty pounds to whoever can capture the Weeping Maiden." "...On top of the hundred we are already offering?" ask Massey. Adriana didn't know about that. "No, a hundred is fine. We don't want people to start beheading harlequins." She popped the rest of toast in her mouth and listened to Massey intently. "...Negotiations between H. Humbert and Sons and their employees have deteriorated. The workers are barricaded inside the factories. Some think this is the start of another Great Unrest..." Adriana swallowed the last of her breakfast. "Tell my brother—" Massey looked uncomfortable as he corrected Adriana. "—Your cousin, Your Grace..." Adriana gave Massey a hostile glance. "He's my brother, half or not, a bastard or not." "Your Grace," continued Massey, "calling him a 'brother' has certain political implications..." Adriana huffed. "Tell John Clay, Captain of the City Guard, my cousin, to take down the barricades, but also suggest, in the interests of the city, to the Humbert Company that their workers be allowed to unionize." "Yes Your Grace... there is one other matter. Your cousin Gwenevere Challette is arriving today in from Svandia... I have taken the liberty of scheduling you some time with her in the gardens, before your fencing lessons." Gwenevere... it had been six years since they had last seen each other, though at the rate they exchanged letters she always felt much closer. She had four years over her, and had seen as her concerns went from handsome knights and dragons to issues of state, foremost being marriage. They were far apart in peerage now. Adriana ruled not just a duchy but an empire, her title commanded allegiance from kings, foreigners, rakes, murderers, nobles and armies. Gwenevere, however, would never command anything, not since her mother produced a male heir. It made tittering with her as productive as fishing in the Blackwater, but that was exactly why she wanted to do it. Stars, sparks, swords, Jenny's serpent tongue plying against her cunt, the imagined kisses of a man of worth... and Gwenevere, with the promise of comfortable, idle chatter... these things washed away thoughts of flagpoles, peacocks, pens, guns, treaties, miters, gavels, barristers and wigs. A diversion... if only for a short while. "Excellent," she said, "I'll be eager to see her." ### Everything about Marcus Challette reminded her of a raven. Most of all it was his midnight black hair, the shade all Challettes were known for. On him, it was long, it framed his head like a cloak. His doublet, breeches and cape were all the same shade, dark velvet of fine quality. A frown had become a feature, spoiling what should be a smooth, young face with something twisted and grim. It was that grimness that made him perversely handsome... to some girls, at least. As Adriana approached he stiffened alarmingly. He was very tall if not broad, and even a slight movement was noticeable. "My lady Adriana..." he spoke reverently, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart. "Cousin Marcus, how goes my uncle?" Marcus cleared his throat. "Sickly. He sends his apologies." Thank the Saints. There were few words to express how much Adriana preferred Marcus over his father, and Marcus was awkward, clumsy, and humorless. Her champion, Fiona, smiled pleasantly on seeing her and sauntered over. She had somehow become middle-aged, her hair a sandy blond with a that famous streak of white. In truth, she had only started to earn the lines to match the gray spot she'd been born with . When Fiona used to carry Adriana on her shoulders, the heir of Rotham would run her chubby fingers down that same streak. "Silver on gold," Fiona would boast. Unfortunately, that was not Fiona's most notable feature any longer. A leather eye patch was slipped over one side of her face, a strap really, cut from a thick, sturdy hide. Even so, it was not large enough to conceal all the burns that spread beneath it, a black shadow creeping across her left cheek and seeping above her eyebrow. It was a wound earned in the Great Unrest ten years ago. A wound that had made Fiona a living legend. "How's my girl?" Fiona brushed the hair from Adriana's face. "Fiona..." said Adriana. They took each other into their arms. As a child Adriana always confused Fiona for an aunt. Her father was the first to remind her, ever so sternly, that servants were not family. Fiona was to champion her and die for her, if necessary, but she was not be her friend. But Duke Corliss II was dying now himself, bound to his bed, and no longer the duke besides. She could do what she wanted. Fiona patted Adriana on the head. "Let's not dawdle. It's too rare a day to be cramped up in that palace." Fiona's voice had a trace of gravel in it, it was rich and mature. "Mother is not with you, I take it?" Fiona frowned. "Lady Tetra is by your father today. She's not feeling well." It had been months since mother had last felt well. She was taking her husband's slow, lingering death poorly, and hardly left her chambers most days. It was all her servants could do to make her touch her food. A line of seven coaches had been waiting for them. Most of them were filled with bodyguards, others with her personal advisers and assistants. On these casual outings, seven was all she needed. The three of them piled into one of the coaches. Marcus took the seat opposite Adriana and Fiona. They lurched as the horses began to trot. "How is your sword work shaping up?" asked Fiona, fishing a silver case from the cleft between her breasts. Frustrating. The burden of governorship had taken too much time and energy away from her studies. She was not improving. "It is going well," lied Adriana. Fiona opened the case and took a pinch of snuff onto her finger. She snorted it noisily one nostril at a time. "As always, if you need a sparring partner, I am available at any time," said Fiona, pushing the case back in. "Thank you, Fiona, I should take you up on that offer." Marcus leaned forward, swallowing as though to clear his throat for a dramatic statement. "And I should say... Adriana, I would be your sparring partner too, if you would take me." Marcus's offer was delivered so stiffly and with such restrained affection it could have been mistaken for a marriage proposal. It would have made for quite an uncomfortable situation had there been anyone but family present. When Adriana glanced at Fiona, she was covering her mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter. Better end my poor cousin's torture, thought Adriana. "Thank you Marcus. I shall take you up on that offer too... next time we are in fencing class together..." A snigger escaped from beneath Fiona's hand. Marcus looked at her in confusion. Fiona rubbed Marcus's knee affectionately. "You're a good lad Marcus," she said. Their party arrived to the Ducal gardens not long after. It was a square of tended land on the fringe of the city, high hedges blocking Rotham's skyline. Anxious for Gwenevere, Adriana craned her neck towards the road, watchful as her entourage chattered amongst themselves. When the coaches came and her cousin stepped out, she ran over to embrace her. "Gwen," said Adriana. Gwen combed her fingers through Adriana's hair. "It is wonderful to see you too, cousin." When they separated, Adriana held onto Gwen's hands. "You're looking radiant." She truly was. The last time Adriana had seen Gwen she was gawky and skinny, her broad face tight with nerves. Now, she had fleshed out, her expression relaxed. "They say a child will do that to a woman," nodded Gwen. Adriana's eyes widened. "Oh... Anjelm! Is he here?" Anjelm was mewling in the arms of large, broad man covered from head to toe in rich silks and velvet, fringed with brown bear fur. He wore an embroidered cap of crimson, out from which spilled long blond hair. He was surprisingly young of face, his features sharp and handsome with a long nose, impetuous smile, and bright blue eyes. Not a fleck of hair on his cheeks, she noticed, I suppose that is why they call him "the beardless"... "Ah, my Duchess," said the man in a heavy Svandish drawl. He gave the child to Gwen as went to his knees to kiss Adriana's ring finger. He rose again and said, "I have been hearing of your beauty from my homeland, but I am seeing they were filthy liars... you are much more beauteous than the most boasting of boasts..." "You don't have to take someone's word for it. Last I heard they had photos in Svandia," chided Adriana with a smile. "...Yes, we are having those. They are filthy liars too... compared to..." Gwen stepped in. "Your Grace, this is my husband—" "—Svieg Rolfson, Duke of Ostfeld, yes," finished Adriana. Anjelm tugged a lock of his father's hair, eyes shiny and curious. Svieg bounced the boy in his arms. "I think you want to be holding Anjelm, yes?" Adriana took the boy gently into her arms. He was swaddled with plush furs, and from beneath them the child looked out at the world with curious eyes. He gazed at Adriana's face with wonder. "Oh, he is precious," muttered Adriana. "Yes," said Svieg proudly, prodded the child's swaddling skins, "and looking beneath the fur you can see Anjelm is growing big as his father—" Adriana flushed appropriately. Gwen slapped Svieg on his cheek. "Svieg!" Svieg rubbed his cheek, perturbed. "What? It is a good thing! Rolfson men all have big cock." Svieg gave Adriana a seductive little wink. "You know, I am having brothers that are all having cocks almost as big as Svieg's..." Gwen slapped him harder this time. "What? She is woman! She likes cock!" "...Do not espouse vulgarities to the Duchess," said a dark voice. It was a threat from Marcus, and if the tone wasn't clear his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Svieg's own hand went to his broadsword, his bulk turning towards the boy, eyebrow lifting. "Who is this?" Adriana cleared her throat loudly. "Marcus, Svieg was just telling me a joke... one that doesn't belong in mixed company..." Marcus stepped up to Svieg, his eyes narrowing. "What I heard was this northern barbarian here offering our Duchess to his... his sweaty... hairy... fur-swaddled brothers..." Svieg gripped his sword tighter. "You, twig-man, you are so skinny I would cleaving through you one cut!" Adriana snarled, "If you draw your swords, by the Saints I'll have you both in gibbets!" Both the men watched each other hatefully for a moment, before reluctantly letting go of their swords. "Good," sighed Adriana, "Now, why don't you two talk about men-stuff, like hunting or guns or pissing standing up. And Fiona..." Fiona stood at attention. "...If they try and kill each other, kill them first." Fiona bowed her head with a slanted smile. "My pleasure, Your Grace." Adriana took her cousin by the arm. "Let's leave the men to it, shall we?" Svieg had his own quaint charm, but men could get awfully intolerable, especially when they gathered in groups and began to compare cock size, in so many words. The two girls walked to the hedges wordlessly. When they were some distance away, Gwen said to Adriana softly, "Marcus is very protective of you." Adriana nodded. "He is. I wish I was fond of him in the same way he is fond of me." "He makes romantic overtures?" Gwen asked. "He makes overtures of nothing," laughs Adriana, "To be so bold would chip his armor of stoic chivalry. What gives it away is how he always keeps his distance, and looks on me like I was an untouchable golden goose." Gwen giggled lightly. "He is handsome though." "Lots of people are handsome," sighed Adriana, pausing, "I should learn to love him more. He will probably be my fiancé." "Oh?" said Gwen. She tried to seem casual, but her cousin's eyes followed her reaction with too much interest. She wants something, realized Adriana. "Politically, a match with him makes the most sense," explained Adriana, "Many of the conservatives here would prefer Marcus to become the Duke. And it would keep my uncle Victor in line. He looks on the ducal seat like Marcus looks on me." Some canvas had been set on the grass for the two them. Adriana and Gwen both had to adjust their gowns to sit on it. When Adriana turned to faced Gwen, she noticed a perturbed frown marred her face. Adriana waited for her to voice her mind. "Don't you think it a bit early to make a decision on Marcus?" said Gwen finally, "I mean, cousin marriages are not exactly uncommon... but... he's still very closely related to you..." Adriana sensed she was referring to the family taboo: the time of Count Auguste the Second, when the Challettes had become so inbred that the line almost became extinct. The idiot-count was incapable of dressing himself, let alone ruling his demesne, and the inevitable succession crisis would put a Challette third cousin on the seat who was not quite of such "pure" breeding. Since then, their family had avoided marrying too closely. "Some would say leaving it to eighteen is far too late," said Adriana, "Besides, it has been a long while since Challette married Challette. The bloodline will not weaken from this." "I mean... it makes sense, politically speaking," she muttered, "but shouldn't you wait for a husband more suitable? I mean..." Fencing Academy Pt. 02 Adriana watched Gwen search for words. Gwen pursed her lips, making false starts and deep breaths. Finally, after looking to either side, she whispered, "There's another reason I'm here, Adriana. I'm here to pass on a message to you, from my brother Ferdinand, the next Count of Merida." Adriana had hoped there would be no politics today, but she was graceful enough to pretend to be surprised. "Oh?" Gwen shifted awkwardly on the canvas. "Yes... he intends to propose marriage to you." Oh no. Adriana's brow furrowed. "Impossible. My people would never accept it, they'd take it to be a consolidation of power. Besides," she added, "Merida is a thousand miles from Rotham. One person could never run both." Evidently, Gwen had prepared her arguments earlier, and she began to follow them like a stuttering cart on a rail. "My brother is very handsome," she said, "one of the most popular men in the kingdom. You'll look very good together, by his side." Adriana had seen photographs of him, riding horses, playing violin, dancing with ladies... he was handsome indeed... to girls too immature to appreciate an actual man. Adriana found his features too soft and feminine, his chin too pointed and unsquare, his cheeks naked of any facial hair. It was the throngs of hopeful adolescent girls who pined for him. "I'm not attracted to him," she said firmly. "He's a more distant cousin than Marcus..." she said hopefully. Adriana gave Gwen a sidelong glance. She sensed a note of desperation in Gwen's voice. "Why do you need this so much?" asked Adriana pointedly, "Ferdinand could have any woman he wanted." Gwen shifted closer to Adriana. "We need someone we can trust..." Adriana did nothing but frown, hoping that would communicate that she needed the full truth. Gwen evidently got the message, Adriana waited for it with interest as she sidled up to her ear. "He's... he's a boy prince," she said in a whisper. Adriana shrugged. "That's not unusual for lords. When he gets married and starts doing his husbandly duties he will forget all about other men." Gwen shook her head. "No... I mean, he's a boy prince in the old sense of the word..." An instant of confusion passed over Adriana before she let out an "Oh." Adriana had heard the term many times, mostly rumors about gentlemen acting the "boy prince" at night, being as a women to other men, fornicating in ways against the laws of nature. But the word had a far older meaning: a noble's daughter who is passed off as a son, for the purposes of inheritance. It was a common thing before women had such legal rights. There were rumors of men who had run entire kingdoms, marrying, somehow managing to impregnate their wives and siring children, before it was found on their deathbed that they were never really men at all. Gwen whispered even more urgently. "Svieg must not learn! If he does, he might use it to press our son's claim on Merida!" It all made sense now. When Adriana had visited her cousins in Merida six years ago, Ferdinand was inexhaustible, a son any noble would have been proud of. He climbed and rode and studied and chattered endlessly on every subject. Adriana had doubted whether there was an aspect of boyhood Ferdinand hadn't explored... until that day by the lake. Ferdinand seemed so miserable on the shores as everyone paddled naked and laughing in the blue waters. His excuses were clumsy and out of character. "I might get wet," he might have said, or, "there are lampreys in there," but each time he would say it he had the same bitter glower. What she had always assumed was an irrational fear of water turned out to be a kiss from the sword dangling over Ferdinand's neck. In a world wet and drooling for the bucolic lands of Merida, Ferdinand needed someone who would not use his... rather, her... female sex against her. Adriana was an obvious choice... they were family, she was already very powerful, and she was a Challette. In fact, I might be the only choice... Adriana cleared her throat to give her a moment to think. Marcus adored her in a way she could never feel about him, it would be an uncomfortable relationship, but even that was preferable to a loveless marriage with Ferdinand. As much as she appreciated Jenny, she did not want another night servant for the rest of her life... she needed a man. "I would like to help you cousin, but if I were to marry Ferdinand, I might lose Rotham... Marcus's father plots against me..." "Let him have the Duchy," said Gwen. Adriana's eyes widened with shock. "Yes... let him have the Duchy," said Gwen, more confidently. She gestured at the smear of brown and black that smog over the Rotham skyline. "What's here for you, in this hideous city, full of smoke and ignorance with its river of... of... excrement? Your brothers are dead, your father is dying, your uncle is most likely a murderer... We're your family, Adriana. Marry my brother. Move to Artisia. Become my sister." Adriana heart was thumping. No one had ever put it to her in quite that way... she had suddenly felt tempted... and she was right. She did not want to marry Marcus. She did not want to rule Rotham. There was nothing for her here but blood and death... but... "I made a solemn vow I wouldn't..." lamented Adriana, her eyes on the ground. Gwen took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "To who?" "To him..." There was a mighty crack, and Sveig fell off a tree. As he got up he released a torrent of Svandish curses. "...Zachonian trees are weak! Weak!" he shouted. The guards raced toward him to pick him from the ground. The distraction was so timely that Adriana thought it the work of the Saints. "...I will think on it," said Adriana. The perturbed look on Gwen's face did not leave. "You had better think on it soon... Ferdinand is coming to Rotham." Adriana suddenly felt like slapping her. "What?!" Gwen flinched. "He wants to woo you." Adriana had to stop herself from shouting. She said in a hasty whisper: "How can he woo me, he's a girl!" Gwen took a glance at Svieg, who was still muttering and cursing. "Please, quieter!" "He didn't think to consult me!?" Adriana hissed, shaking her head. "My brother he's..." Gwen searched for words, "he's never doubted himself, and he wears his boyhood like he was born with it. He's... he's truly convinced he can win you, with his own efforts." "I'm not... I'm not... a pervert..." Adriana spat the last words. "That is good," said Gwen firmly, "neither is Ferdinand. You'll find he is as much a man as any you've ever met, and he'll conduct his husbandly duties with no dissatisfaction." "...He can conduct no husbandly duties. He's a she... and what do you mean by that anyway? Will he knit me a nice scarf?" Gwen blushed. "Will you make me say it? You... you employ a night servant, don't you?" Adriana was careful with her words. "She provides assistance with the issue of a woman's virtue..." It was as though a flash of fire had erupted in Gwen's eyes. "She eats your cunt, you mean." Adriana went stiff, appalled by Gwen's words. Gwen continued, eyes blazing. "You call my brother a freak. Yet you abuse that poor girl each night, using her like a toy for your own pleasure. She can never have your love, your kiss. You use your virtue as an excuse to be a selfish lover. What a sick, perverted, loveless relationship you have." I'm not a selfish lover, she wanted to say, I've always wanted to give back. But that would imply Adriana wanted Jenny at all. Which I don't. She only managed to say, "The Book of Saints says that—" Gwen took a breath. "Saints be damned, Adriana. I will not allow a bunch of dry old corpses and their old book tell me whether I can love my brother or not. When she touches you, does the universe come apart? Are you smote by thunder? Do you feel Darkness crawl into your soul? The... the Saints aren't real, Adriana..." Adriana stiffened like a nun. "You can't mean that. The Saints gave us Light and Civilization, they set the rules by which we must live, or else Darkness and Chaos would return—" "Fairy tales, all of it," laughed Gwen, "something to keep peasants from killing and raping each other. But we don't need those ideas any more. This is the dawn of the Age of Reason. Science will be our new religion." Atheism... Adriana recalled. A fashion spreading across Artisia like a rising tide, she'd heard. "I had heard that Artisia was becoming a debauched, immoral society," said Adriana calmly, "but I never imagined it would infect my own family." Gwen did not take that well. A purple vein popped on her neck and temples for a brief moment, and after some labored breaths she managed, "I see the Light of Reason hasn't quite pierced the smog here. Good day, cousin." She stood up, and strode angrily from Adriana's presence. Adriana remained seated, a queer feeling of shame soaking through her. Perhaps I should not have been so obstinate... Rulership had made her headstrong and proud sometimes, though she endeavored not to be. But Jenny, sweet Jenny... the girl forswore all men for her so that she could please her. No husband nor sweet kisses for her, her existence permitted by a loophole in the Divine Laws. No acts of passion were to pass between those of the same sex, unmarried women were forbidden physical contact with men, and self-pleasure was sinful. But an unmarried woman could provide service to another without breaking the Divine Laws. It was, as the street preachers crooned, against the spirit of the Divine Laws if not their word. Adriana puzzled it out. But if that's true, then the only virtuous act would be to dismiss Jenny... so why do I feel so loathe to do that? That left a strikingly uncomfortable feeling inside. When Count Ferdinand comes, I will be courteous to him. That much I owe Gwen. ### When Adriana grasped a sword, her worries usually evaporated, but Gwen's words had robbed it of that power. As she thrust the rapier into the training dummy repeatedly she tried to imagine her insecurities into it, but they remained firmly locked inside her mind. I'm not selfish, she stabbed and stabbed, I've sacrificed so much for this city, more than anyone knows... "Your stance is bad," observed Sara. Sara Sunderland often watched students with a frown, but in a way that did not necessarily mean displeasure. Adriana sometimes thought that fencing instructor was an odd fit for her; she was a specimen of Solissian womanhood. Her flesh was the golden color of sultanas, a ponytail dyed royal purple descending down her back. She wore a plain bolero the color of sand, unfastened at the front to allow her weighty breasts to press against a tight white shirt. Her pants matched the bolero. Sara had her arms wrapped tight around her chest, fingers tapping her sleeve. Adriana swallowed her embarrassment as she shifted her feet. "Your stance is still bad." Sara shook her head. "Your shoulders are lopsided. That's why you aren't thrusting straight." Sara used the pommel of her sword to lift the Duchess's back. Adriana usually recoiled at such contact, but she took it this time with silent dignity. But when she was was done she found Sara to be right, she stood an inch taller, and the blade pointed straighter. Sara nodded, pleased. "Good... now you look presentable to my handsome brother." Adriana felt like throwing her sword down and walking out the school, but when Sara's lips turned to a faint smile her frustration evaporated immediately. "We all have a burden on our shoulders. Yours happens to be a Grand Duchy. The trick is we don't show our opponents that." She understands... marveled Adriana. Sara had turned away from her at the point, attending to a different student. The symbol of Rotham was the peacock. Since the death of her father's male heirs that peacock on her back had grown bloated and foul-tempered. But a peacock can also be made from feathers, she thought. It was just a matter of perspective. It couldn't hurt her if she didn't let it. She made another thrust, and this time it pierced straight through. Sara clapped her hands. "Enough drills. It is time for some demonstration sparring." The academy consisted of about fifty students. They sat in their paddings, forming a circle. Adriana, being a senior cadet, stood on the outside. Sara rubbed her chin, considering who would put on a solid demonstration. "Marcus Challette," said Sara. Marcus raised his head. "...and Tom Hawker," she finished. Tom rose with an arrogant grin. "Madam Sunderland," swallowed Marcus, "I was hoping to spar with someone else, like the Lady Adriana—" "—In your free time. In my class you will spar with Tom Hawker," said Sara. Marcus controlled his voice. "Why must I always fight Tom?" "Because you haven't beaten him yet," said Sara. Tom sauntered into the circle, training rapier drawn. "No worries, Marcus. I shall make it quick." Marcus grunted and reluctantly stepped into the ring, drawing his own sword and slipping on his mask. "Put your mask on, Tom," said Sara boredly. Tom was handsome, a fact Adriana had noted very quickly. But more than that, he was, physically, the utter male analog of Lyza Dunwall. Their hair was the same shade of orange, and the same freckles speckling their noses, and the same ruddy skin. There were but a handful of things Tom could do to look more like her. There was no fixing his broad male features, but he could grow his cropped hair out, and scar his face diagonally, then people could be excused for mistaking one for the other. "Performance duelists never wear masks," he protested. "I'm sure the girls will go wild over the eyepatch you're seeking, but you'll not get it in this class. Put your mask on." "Fine," he sighed. He slipped the visor on and patted it down securely. "En garde, pret, allez!" shouted Sara. They experimentally swatted each other's blade, testing each other, pacing around each other. Then they were at each other, a flurry of attacks and parries exchanged quicker than any words could. Their footworks was phenomenal, each one circling the other without giving ground. The room was filled with the sound of clashing steel. "This isn't a ballroom dance, Tom," said Sara, "Your fancy footwork is wasted here." Tom had made an absurd spinning attack. The boy was prone to flourishes, something which irked Sara immensely, made worse by how often he got away with it. But Tom wanted to be a performer more than he wanted to be a swordmaster. It would be his bread to be fancy. Sara commented on the fight. "Good lunge, Marcus... Clumsy parry, though... Watch your feet... You left yourself open there, Tom..." They were huffing after several minutes of exchanges. The blades danced up and down, low attacks answered with low blocks and high ones answered with high. They were even. Then... Tom spoke from under the mask. "You've really been studying up, Marcus. You'll need to be a good swordsman to impress the Duchess." "Nothing about the Duchess, Tom," warned Sara. Marcus's blade had shivered at his words though, and he made a heroic effort to keep it steady. Adriana almost thought it wouldn't, like the blade would come shrieking out from his hand to off Tom's head. It could have happened, sensing the rage seethed behind Marcus's mask. But it didn't, to Adriana's great respect. After a momentary lapse Marcus was back up to form. "...At least, that's what she told me last night..." It was pandemonium. Adriana's cheeks burned. Marcus cried out, lifting his sword for a killing a blow. Sara screamed, "TOM!" The musketeers were at attention. Everyone else gasped. And it ended in such silence. Tom's sword whipped out and struck Marcus in the chest, who was frozen with his blade still far in the air. He ripped off his mask, Tom's face glowing in pride. "Didja see that Lyza?" he asked eagerly. Marcus ripped off his mask next, his face having turned to the color of prunes and just as wrinkled with rage. He bellowed: "TOM HAWKER, I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL TO THE DE—" His words were declared slowly and deliberately. With each syllable, Adriana was more certain of what she needed to do. At the start of the last word she bounded over to Marcus and slammed her fist into his jaw. She heard and felt a snap. The next she knew, he was on the ground, and looking up at her, a hand nursing his jaw and his eyes brimming with betrayal. A total silence compounded the dark, uncomfortable feeling that invaded the room. Even Tom Hawker was at a loss for words. It was though plumes of Marcus's trauma escaped into hall, thickening the air. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone to do something. Thoughts returned to Adriana. I suppose I am the Duchess, so I should— "Guards," said Sara softly, "escort Marcus Challette to an infirmary." Two musketeers nodded and helped Marcus to his feet. But they could not turn his head away from her, and close those shocked, accusatory eyes. The squeal of Marcus's shiftless gait on the hardwood floor was the only sound. But with Marcus gone a weight was lifted. Sound returned to the hall. Sara patted Adriana on the shoulder and bid her to return to the circle. Then she turned her attention to Tom Hawker. The boy went cold when he saw her expression was Not Happy. "I told you not to speak of the Duchess," said Sara. She let the words hang a bit. Tom opened his mouth but no words came out. "...Taunts and bluffs are all fair game," continued Sara, "but make sure it doesn't cost your head. Adriana saved your life twice over." I did? thought Adriana, I thought I had saved Marcus's... "I would've been able to kill Marcus," muttered Tom. "Marcus is a better duelist than you," Sara put it bluntly, "If you can't catch him off guard with that tongue of yours, he'll beat you. That's what I've been trying to teach Marcus: to focus on the fight. You need to learn to fight, period. That fancy footwork will get you killed." It was Tom's pride which was wounded now. He made a face as he shuffled back into the circle. Sara paced around the inside of the circle. She gazed at all of their faces, as if she was looking for something in each of them. "Let's see... let's see..." Sara stared at Adriana. "We'll have the Grand Duchess Adriana Challette..." Adriana stepped inside. Sara clucked her tongue, taking another long, laborious rotation around the circle. "...and Lyza Dunwall." Lyza's scar went crooked as she stepped into the circle. She still looks at me with those same angry eyes, thought Adriana. "Yes," said Sara, "it will be just like when you two met. Though I'll hope you'll fight a bit better than that day two years ago, Lyza." Yes, remembered Adriana, Lyza and I crossed swords for the first time those two years ago. She couldn't forget that fight. She had put on her best impression of the calm, collected Duchess. In truth, she had been terrified. Lyza had glowered at her with such hatred before she slipped on the mask, and when they fought she swung her sword with such ferocity and speed she had feared counterattacking. That day, Lyza seemed less a girl of Adriana's age, but a wild animal. Adriana thought she would lose to the beast within Lyza, who had only so recently slain the storied swordswoman Margaret Fey. But she had won. She had won because she collected herself. She remembered how to redirect a lion's wrath, how to tire them, how to be patient, how to strike a killing blow. She had hit Lyza hard that day, not once but many, many times, so many times that the blunted sword left purpling bruises all over her. Fencing Academy Pt. 02 But she had to, because Lyza wasn't training, she was actually fighting. That was the only time Adriana had truly been in battle. She could tell the instant they crossed swords Lyza didn't know how to not fight. All around her, her classmates had sparred oblivious to the mortal combat that was going on. And they never had a chance to know, because Lyza could not land a single strike. She remembered most clearly the first words they'd exchanged. Lyza was struggling to get on her feet, her whole body shivering under the blows that had repeatedly stricken her. She could no longer use her sword as it now took her weight. Adriana still had her own sword pointed at her, prepared for a sudden lunge from Lyza. Then she asked Lyza: "Are you done?" Lyza had taken several long, labored breaths, before she said: "Aye, for today." They had crossed swords since then, but never again like that. Lyza had become a much more disciplined fighter, and in some ways, that made her much more frightening. The girl, quite famously, couldn't count past the number of fingers on her hands, and until recently couldn't read, but she had instead a deeper, primal intelligence, a cunning no books could teach. When their eyes met, Adriana knew Lyza was no fool. I hope you have learned to respect me, thought Adriana as she faced Lyza now, just like how I respect you. They donned the masks. "En garde," commanded Sara. They lifted their swords. "...pret..." Adriana shifted her weight to her front foot. "...allez!" The dance began. Swords struck between them. Lyza was a familiar opponent, and the opening of this game she knew by heart. Lyza would be the aggressor in this movement, then allow the favor to be returned. The dance would go back and forth, the clash of metal would sing for them their song. Lyza advanced boldly, but Adriana's retort stung back hard. Lyza had to retreat, and now it was time for Adriana to push forward. There were parries and thrusts and ripostes aplenty, but the real game was behind the masks. They were guessing and second-guessing each other, minds working as furiously as their feet, arms and wrists. The point of the sword hardly seemed less important. Lyza's mask was a veil from which no expression escaped. Adriana wondered how she looked. Would she be in pleasure or pain? Would a drop of sweat drip from her forehead and curve around her eyebrow? Would she be gritting her teeth, or would her lips be parted in an invitation? The swords sung as they scraped together, urgent and undulating, sparks summoned from the heat of contact. Adriana sensed she was not fighting, but playing an instrument, one sword the ribbon, the other the strings, each parry a pluck. The tempo changed but the rhythm never did. The entire world around them darkened and faded. The music they made was sweeter than anything conjured by the lotus. To be challenged by my peer, to anticipate each of their moves and have them anticipate yours, to know each other in such deep intimacy, to give and take from an equal... is this what sex is? Is this the manner of intercourse I crave? Gwen's words echoed into her. You are selfish lover. But that was not true. I can give and take. The only reason I don't is because the Saints tell me not to. Adriana's heart seized. What did I just admit to myself? "Stop," said Sara. Adriana felt the energy leave her as the swords disconnected. She looked upon a mesmerized audience... their faces dizzied by the performance. Tom seemed to have gone a new shade of red. The fencing instructor was unreadable, though. She contemplated what she had witnessed, her lips pursed. A verdict was heavy in her throat. "Sloppy," Sara said finally. Adriana had heard the word, and saw Sara's lips move, but she could scarcely put the two together. As did much of the class, judging from the faces they made. It was only when Lyza spoke that the word registered. Lyza tore off the mask, her green eyes shining furiously. "How was that sloppy?" "But... my footwork, my bladework, they were perfect..." said Adriana, genuinely confused. Sara shook her head. "Yes, perfect, for a ballroom dance. I hadn't realized I had made such a fine ballet instructor. I thought I was teaching you how to fight." Sara sighed and walked over to the two girls, drawing her own sword. "First you, Adriana. You were like a child learning his first melody on a piano: you repeated the same five notes over and over again." Sara replicated Adriana's cuts in the air. "See? Predictable. And even worse, on your fifth strike, you over commit and leave your arm open, allowing Lyza to strike in quartata... which leads to Lyza's sloppiness..." Lyza bristled as Sara turned to her. "...Yours is much worse, Lyza. You had half a hundred time to strike Adriana's obvious opening. At first I had thought you were trying to lull Adriana into a sense of false security, but after the sixth blunder I lost hope in you. The question is, why didn't you take it?" "It wouldn't have been a killing blow," Lyza answered plainly. Sara shook her head. "What is it with you and killing blows, Lyza? In a battle to first blood, all you need is to strike at the first opening..." Lyza lifted her chin. "Shouldn't we be learnin' how to fight to the death, then? All you teach us is this 'first blood' tripe." Sara made half a sneer. "Very well." She turned to the class. "Your first lesson in a fight to the death: never be as stupid as Lyza Dunwall, waiting for killing blows when opportunities to wound your opponent present themselves." Lyza stared at Sara as she traced her bleached scar across her face. It was a statement; I killed in battle, you haven't, what do you know? Sara flinched. "Sometimes, Lyza, I wonder whether I like you at all." Sara turned to the students. "Class is dismissed," she growled. The entire student body rose and began to file out from the classroom. Before Lyza could leave Adriana grabbed her by the hand. Lyza twitched in annoyance. "Lyza, I was wondering if we could talk... in private." Lyza searched Adriana's face for misdirection or nervousness. "What does the Duchess want with a low-life like me?" "I don't see a low-life. I see a friend, and I want your counsel," said Adriana. Adriana didn't understand Lyza oftentimes, especially when she was like this, and how she flinched at the word, "friend". "Alright," she said, reluctantly. After they had put themselves into their normal clothes they walked over behind the school. There were tall hedges here, a small garden in riotous flowering. They sat on a marble bench. In the two years that Adriana had known Lyza, the swordswoman had matured from pretty to something beautiful. She had been a rake when they'd met, thin with sallow cheeks and tired eyes, but good nutrition and exercise had filled out where she was lacking. It brought out a magnetic radiance in her, like she glowed from deep within. Her scar, long, thin and clean, only served to make her look exotic and dangerous. The cavalier's cap that normally covered her vibrant ginger hair was at her side. Adriana put a friendly hand on Lyza's thigh. Lyza frowned at the touch, but didn't push her away. "What do you think about Marcus?" asked Adriana. Lyza gritted her teeth as she thought over the question. "There have been worse men." Lyza had been couching her opinions, but they were shockingly close to her own. "My feelings exactly," said Adriana. Beneath the breeches she could sense her knotted muscles pounding with energy, lean, strong but still womanly. "I'm going to marry him, I think." Lyza looked very uncomfortable. "Why tell me that? I could be a spy." "You're not a spy," laughed Adriana. She sidled to Lyza, so that their thighs touched. A peculiar heat arose between them. "You did very well in our fight. You know, despite what Sara said." "Aye," said Lyza. She shifted a bit closer to the edge of the marble bench, away from Adriana. "My champion will be retiring," mentioned Adriana. Lyza was surprised. "The cyclops woman?" "That's the one. So I was wondering if... if... you'd be my new champion," said Adriana. "I—" the words dropped out of Lyza's mouth. Her head turned to the school, agape. Adriana felt like she should say something. "I'm not ordering you to do it. It is your choice. If you take the job, you'll live in the palace. You'll be taken care of. But... my choice of Marcus will generate many envious suitors. You'll be expected to protect him and me. It will be very dangerous... you might be killed." Lyza was blinking in shock, like she wasn't taking in what she was hearing. Adriana laughed uncomfortably. "Well... say something..." "Don't you hold a tournament for that?" Lyza's usual grumbling misanthropy was absent. Thoughts roiled behind her green eyes. "That was my father's way of doing things. He thought that a champion needed to be the best. I think a champion should be someone I trust." Again, Lyza bristled at the word 'trust'. Adriana wanted to giggle at her discomfort, but she knew it would have wounded her. She knew those with difficult childhoods were not used to intimacy, or even friendship. Lyza's had it worst than anyone, and Adriana didn't need to ask to know it. "I need to think on it," Lyza said curtly. "Don't think too long," said Adriana, "I need someone, and I need them soon." Lyza stood up from the bench hastily. "Wait," commanded the Duchess. Lyza turned slowly and strangely towards her. Adriana hugged her, a long, deep hug, her head buried into the pillows of her breasts, even as Lyza got so stiff her arms glued to her hips. Lyza was not well endowed, but all the same they felt pleasing as breasts do. Wafting from her was a fragrance that was sweet and musky. She smells of leather, she noted, of barley wine and moss. With her ear against her ribcage, Adriana could feel her heart pounding. "Wot... wot was that for?" said Lyza as Adriana let her go. "There are few people in this world that I can touch like that," intimated Adriana. "I hope you'll become one of them." Lyza flushed a beet red. "I've... I've got to go..." Lyza rushed, leaving Adriana blinking and wondering if she hadn't spoken too plainly. There was nothing unusual about the way she touched her, she often hugged her female companions. Lyza's an odd girl, she thought. Perhaps a life at the palace would do good for her. She could find a husband worthy of her beauty and skill. She would want for nothing. A curious thought struck her: she could see Lyza and Marcus together, fitting like puzzle pieces from two different sets, yet flush. They were both awkward and uncomfortable people, after all, and what better way to be that than with someone else? A comedy could be written of their bed talk: "I approve of that," Marcus would say, nodding naked beneath sheets but frown still set on his face. "Aye, 'twas good," Lyza would respond, still reeling from the trauma of having enjoyed herself. Adriana giggled at the thought. It was too bad she was going to marry Marcus. If she hadn't, she might tried to have made it happen. ### Adriana only lived in a small section of the Ducal palace, much of it devoted to administration, records, armories and barracks. In her circular bedchamber, large, arching windows occupied much of the southern wall, set between colonnades of marble. They faced a view of the churning oceans, too dark to reflect the star-pocked sky, the horizon line burning with the day of a different part of the world. When the windows open, the bite of warm salt air would fill the room. The harsh electric lamps had been turned off for the night. Instead, candelabras provided a softer, warmer light. Adriana sat at her vanity, watching one of candle flames dance and pucker uncertainly as a servant put a brush through her hair. When the light flickered out of its own accord, the servant cursed, saying "Damn cheap candles" and busied herself relighting it. The vanity's mirror reflected an image of her bed, luxuriant and much too large for the girl who lay waiting in it. Jenny Stirling had donned glasses and curled like a cat over an open book. Smooth blond hair tumbled from behind her, her stomach and hips curved deeply. Long, gentle fingers touched the ivory paper with their tips, melding into a slender arm which almost concealed a pair of plum breasts. A mole kissed the underside of her belly, just above her golden fruff. The soft radiance of candlelight brought out a warmth to the girl's skin. Adriana swallowed. She experienced a sudden, brief, loathing for the girl. Inexplicably, like the candle, it flickered out. It turned into something else... fear. There was no mistaking it. Adriana's lips peeled for air, her heart was pounding a soft rhythm, her palms became numb and fingers useless. To enter with that girl was her desire and doom. It was so deep Adriana want to push her back into the soft breasts of the lady-in-waiting attending to her hair. But she remained still as stone. Across from the bed, her other two ladies-in-waiting were already sitting, to be witness to the ritual about to take place. An idle thought during the fencing match with Lyza had evoked an extraordinary admission inside her. I can't show how I feel. These girls were new and fresh, and she did not know if they could be trusted. Adriana didn't even know their names. The hair brushing was done. The girl joined her companions on the seats by the bed. Adriana rose from the vanity, and glanced at her own, naked body. Her nerves made her look wild, black hair draped across her breasts with a fringe that covered her forehead, just over sky-blue eyes which were wide and full of doubt. With her cosmetics washed off, her face was little different from a that of a pretty peasant. It carried discolorations, small scars and little moles like any other. The rest of her body was not that special. Her breasts were of average size, without the attractive plump, rounded shape, nipples more red than pink. A slender, subtle curve traced around her belly and hips, the consequence of a diet "good for the skin". This is who I am... she thought, this is how Jenny sees me each night. Except even that wasn't true. The amber bottle was on her nightstand, a pair of tweezers and a cotton ball beside it. Each night Jenny would pleasure her as she writhed beneath the influence of the lotus, transported to a realm of timeless heaven ringing with the clash of steel. Adriana's bare feet took her across the cold tile floor. The journey to the threshold of her bed seemed a long and slow one, like she was walking through a sweet, warm, pink tar, with Jenny making a clam-like indent in the sheets. As Adriana approached, Jenny smiled, closed her book, and took off her glasses. "Do you need release, milady?" she said softly as she did each night. Jenny's eyes flickered in candlelight. Jenny, however, would be surprised. Instead of lying back on the pillow as Adriana usually did, she took the patch of bed next to Jenny, her legs curling beside her. It was Jenny's time to feel nervous. "My lady, what are you—" "I need to tell you something, Jenny," said Adriana, taking a lock of Jenny's golden hair around her finger. Jenny eyebrows shifted in concern. "I will be getting married soon," continued Adriana, "I suppose you know what that means." Jenny's eyes dropped. "I suppose so, my lady." She must have known this day would come, thought Adriana. "...I will find a place for you," said Adriana softly, still twirling Jenny's hair, "There are many in the palace who need help. Handsome, powerful men who need wives." "I will be where you need me to be, Your Grace. I will marry who you wish me to marry." Jenny said it as though she were an obedient animal being dismissed from the presence of a beloved master. This isn't easy for me, either, thought Adriana. "...What do you want, Jenny?" asked Adriana. "I have no ambitions, Your Grace." A man who wants for nothing can never be hurt, an old proverb went, so why does Jenny seem to be in such pain? "There must be something you want in life. Do you not dream of a handsome husband?" asked Adriana. Jenny swallowed nervously. "If truth is told, I do not dream of men at all, Your Grace." Are you so devoted to me that you have never imagined a life beyond this bed? Do you not want something more than a life of selfless service? What is it to serve and give? On a whim, Adriana put her nose to her shoulder and took a deep, sensuous sniff. Her lips grazed the servant's skin without puckering... something ever so close to that forbidden kiss... "Citrus," sighed Adriana, her hand stroking Jenny's bare shoulder, "mint... perhaps black currant, too." Jenny couldn't move. "You— you have a keen nose, milady..." Jenny's skin was smooth and pale. Adriana enjoyed running her hand over it, like velvet. Gently, Adriana turned Jenny's face toward her, with the tips of her fingers. Her wet lips had a glow in the candlelight, but her brown doe eyes glittered with an apprehension. Our lips have never been so close, thought Adriana. "Why would you perfume yourself, if you had not expected to be touched?" asked Adriana. "I thought that you would like it," Jenny stuttered, "I did not mean to offend you, or try and seduce you into breaking one of the Divine Laws—" "Tell me how you apply it to your skin," asked Adriana, lifting Jenny's hair to sniff down the ridge of her spine. "I— I— I squeeze a lemon into some water," she said, "with some mint tea, and some dried currants, and then I soak into it..." Adriana held out her arm. "Tell me how I smell," she commanded. Nervously, Jenny took a sniff. "You smell nice, milady..." "It is a scent you are familiar with, am I wrong?" asked Adriana. Jenny blushed to a pink color. "Oh yes... I suppose..." Adriana grasped her by the sides of her neck, her thumbs in the ridges of her cheeks. Their eyes were fixed on the other. Jenny's lips were parted ever so slightly, as though expecting a kiss. "Get me the essence of lotus," she commanded her. A disappointment betrayed itself on her lips and eyes. "As you wish," Jenny obeyed, prying herself reluctantly from Adriana's grasp and crawling across the bed to get the amber bottle with the tweezers and cotton. Jenny had her ass to Adriana, her most vulgar parts exposed, her hole dark and star-like, her vulva wet and swollen beneath. These lips do not lie. Jenny returned to Adriana's side. Before she could open the bottle, Adriana gently took it from her. Confusion returned to Jenny's face. "We will be doing things differently tonight," Adriana explained. I want to know how it is to serve. "Different?" Jenny's voice trembled. Adriana unscrewed the top and dipped the cotton into the essence of lotus. She held the soaked ball to Jenny's face, dangerously close to the underside of her nose. Jenny resisted, her head reeling back, nose shriveling. "Take it in," she commanded, pushing it closer to Jenny's nose. "This is wrong..." Jenny muttered. "I am the Duchess of Rotham," she said, "I command you: take in the essence of lotus..." Jenny could not disobey a direct command. She put her nose to it, and after a moment of hesitation, sniffed it in deeply. Her eyes dilated to big, black disks, her mouth suddenly gaping open with the rush of sensation. She went limp, and fell into Adriana's arms. Adriana could almost feel the high through her, so familiar she was with the essence. Adriana set aside the bottle and allowed Jenny to fall on her breast. Fencing Academy Pt. 03 Author's Notes WARNING: You might find this chapter depressing. I wanted to talk briefly about my schedule for writing these. Chapters of Fencing Academy are quite large, about 10,000-15,000 words apiece. This is because I envisage them more like "episodes" than "chapters", each one being more-or-less a complete story with a discrete arc that relates to the larger arc within the series. I also happen to be a perfectionist, so I spend a considerable amount of time in revision. One chapter every two weeks is very optimistic, but it is my goal, but understand that one chapter every month is probably more likely. When I'm ready to post, it will be posted to my blog (check my profile for URL) and to Literotica at the same time, but because Literotica takes some time to process you can read it first if you visit my blog. I also write a lot about erotica and Adult Interactive Fiction so that might be of interest to you. Content: This series' sexual content will be mostly dictated by the story, and so you'll get a mix of b/g, g/g and occasional b/b stuff as is necessary for the plot (but, because I'm mostly straight, there will not be much of the latter). I hope that you enjoy most of it and, if something doesn't appeal, you can glaze over it and enjoy the story instead. Edited by Redscaledknight, who invokes the eternal question: is he a red knight with scales, or a knight with red scales? ### All day Lyza had complained vaguely of "problems", and she begged them to go out drinking with her. But, as soon as the first sip of barley wine passed Lyza's lips, it seemed she'd forgotten what it was she wanted to say. And late into the night, as Scarlett and Donovan shared bawdy stories of sex and battle, they realized that Lyza had collapsed. They could be forgiven of that. She may have been face-first on table and snoring, but the Drowning Elephant was loud and she was hidden behind a shocking number of empty flagons. Scarlett had a puckered smile as she and Donovan looked at each other. Their companion had a strong tolerance for liquid barley, but she often pushed even those limits. Scarlett lowered her lips to Lyza's ear. "Lyza... honey..." she whispered. Lyza didn't stir, even as Scarlett's brown hair grazed her neck. Donovan hid his amusement behind a long sip of alcohol. With a cruel smile, as Scarlett pounced on Lyza's stomach. "Tickle, tickle, tickle!" Lyza was so startled by Scarlett's hand spidering across her tummy that she bolted upright, with such force that her chair creaked backwards. Lyza tumbled from her chair, her feathered cap lofting away from her. Scarlett and Donovan were buckling with laughter, even as Lyza struggled to her feet. "Whasssh funny?" she said, putting the cap back on so it tilted over one of her eyes. "Where am I? Whassh happening?" Donovan rubbed his bald scalp. "Saints, Lyza, you don't have to get stinking drunk." Lyza pushed herself back on her chair. "I can't count," Lyza reported through slurred speech, "but I do know what one more meansh." "No no no no!" Scarlett and Donovan laughed together. Scarlett even clamped her hand down on Lyza's raised finger. When they let Lyza go, her eyes unfocused and head lolled unevenly, before she flopped on the wood table. She repeated softly, "Brassh pig, brassh pig..." Donovan and Scarlett looked at each other with concern. "We're taking you home," said Donovan. Lyza belched, and grimaced with the bile that came with it. He eyes traced the deep, cracked woodgrain of the table. "Okay." They put one arm around each of their shoulders and dragged her from the bar, Scarlett shouting a few promises at the barkeep for payment. Lyza was aware of her toes skinning the floor, the muted sounds of laughter fading, leaving light and warmth for cold, wet darkness. "Fucking rain," cursed Donovan. Her two best friends in the world were beneath both her arms. They were united by Madam Picot's employ... they were brothel bouncers and guards and killers three. Just by drinking and drawing swords together, their bond had become something Lyza could not quite express. They were her comrades. Lyza smiled at the memory of their first time they drank together. She had been appalled. She couldn't quite remember how it went, but the bald, mildly attractive Donovan was talking animatedly with Scarlett about sucking another man's cock. Lyza sat in a deep, apprehensive silence, trying to decide if Donovan was telling an elaborate, off-color joke. The story progressed, and Donovan was soon giving a vivid description of being buggered in his arse, while Scarlett chipped in little teases and observations. Finally, Lyza asked, "Is this a joke?" Donovan looked at Lyza with bemused brown eyes. "No." "So you were really doing all that stuff?" Donovan's expression didn't change. But he did glance into his cup. "Yes." Lyza was confused. "Isn't that wrong?" There was a silence for a while, soon shattered by laughter, but they didn't give her an answer. Donovan simply continued his story with no lost enthusiasm, leaving Lyza with questions. As it turned out, Donovan was what they called a "boy prince", a man who let other men bugger them. What surprised her most was Donovan's pride. She had always imagined such men to live in shame and shadow, but this one wore the name "Prince Donovan" like it was his real title. When Lyza had finally gathered the courage to ask, he laughed and responded: "You think the Saints care about an old prince like me? The deepest, darkest secret is that the Saints put a kernel of princedom in all men, and they're tortured by it. I'm different, because I love it. Plus," he sidled closer to Lyza, "I know which nobs are princes are which aren't. They know if they try and get me, I'll put out all their nasty little secrets." Scarlett had been wordless, but her smiling eyes told her all Lyza needed to know. She was once one of Picot's girls, it was said, and was certainly pretty enough, but Picot found her better at fighting than bedding. She had the nasty habit of taking care of unruly customers herself than summoning a guard, and from her chambers came a steady stream of old and rotted men with open throats. As a brothel guard, Scarlett was loose with her sword and her morals; she had men almost as often as when she was paid for it. Once, when the three of them were drinking, when Lyza had become their friend, Scarlett and Donovan were giggling amongst themselves, like they had shared a joke in secret. Lyza had begged them to tell it. Scarlett finally relented. "We blew the same man," said Scarlett, blushing for the first time ever. Lyza was confused. "You do that all the time." "Yes, but not together." Donovan laughed uncomfortably, he took a timely sip of foamy beer. Mixed feelings seeped into Lyza. It was confusion for the scene she could not conjure, a jolt of excitement for the madness of it, and a lingering envy that they had not included her in this strange new activity. She would have at least liked to have been offered. It was true Donovan and Scarlett had at least ten years over her, but she didn't like this treating her as a child. They thought her innocent and helpless. She was not. But, in times like this, when they each shouldered her, and kept her upright in the driving rain to her kipping, when she appreciated them for that. I'm one of you, she thought as the rain drizzled off her hat, I'm an adult, I'm a killer. The world had lost it dimensions. It stretched in contracted in confusing ways, and Lyza could barely make sense of it. Her friends helped her negotiate up the steps to her kip. "What was it you wanted to tell us, Lyza?" asked Scarlett. There had been some deep dilemma Lyza was pondering over, but it had been lost in the tide of laughter and barley wine. Lyza supposed that was what she was trying for all along. If she could not remember what had bothered her so, it was clearly not a dilemma anymore. Problem solved. In any case, her head was swimming in drink, and even if she could remember, she wouldn't be able to summon the words to explain it. She did manage to say: "Booooby trap," she slurred, with a playful emphasis on 'booby', "Doorsh boooby trapped..." Lyza lived in a ramshackle wooden extension in the rear of an alley, serviced by a set of rough-hewn, uneven steps. Her front door was so warped that, if one were to put their eye to it, it was possible to see through the gaps. Still, Donovan was tentative as he pushed the door firmly in. Some caltrops skittered to the floor. Donovan kicked them aside with his boot. "I gotta teach you about trapping," muttered Donovan as they entered small room. Lyza's bed was a straw-filled burlap mattress, raised from the ground with a squat table. Carefully they lay Lyza on it, then pulled a linen blanket over her. A gentle snore was already issuing from her parted mouth when they were done. Donovan shook his head. "That girl..." Scarlet became expressionless. "I wonder what's her story." Donovan looked at Scarlet. The only light in the room was emitted by a moon-like lamp that hung out in the alley. It tinted their skins ice-blue. "What do you mean by that?" She raised an eyebrow. "Do you really believe she's the daughter of a potato farmer?" Donovan sniffed. "No," he said, looking at Lyza's scar, which was a dark, deep line in that light, "but whatever it is, it's gotta be interesting." Scarlet nodded silently, without much to say. That was when Donovan decided it was time to go. He spun on his feet. "Come on. The night is young, and I've got some princing to do." ### None of the noises of the city awoke Lyza, neither the screaming of merchants nor the wail of housewives. It was someone pounding on the door. It matched the rhythm in her head, like hooked pans banging in the wind. She swore and grasped her forehead and slipped out of the covers. She felt awful: her insides were leaden and churned slowly. It was like they were being roasted over a low burning fire. Still, she opened the door. "Tom," she said. Hawker leaned against the door frame, wearing knee boots and a black-blue doublet. He cut a dapper silhouette against the glaring sunlight. Tom looked her up and down. "You look like shit," he observed. "I was out drinkin'," Lyza explained, blinking painfully at the sun behind Tom. Tom laughed. He popped onto his feet and sauntered inside. He had to kick aside some of the caltrops, which he didn't pay heed. "Smells like it too. Did you fill a rain barrel with mead?" "Liquid barley," she corrected, closing the door. "I'm gonna fix up some breakfast, if you don't mind." Tom snorted. "Lunch you mean. And thanks, I've already eaten." Lyza glared at him. "I didn't ask." Tom looked at her with a sharp smile. "I know." As Lyza gathered her breakfast, a couple of eggs suspended in a jar of waterglass, and some rashers of bacon from her icebox, her headache finally began to subside. She wondered if it was the distraction posed by Tom. "Who were you drinking with?" asked Tom, taking a creaking seat and throwing his legs on the table. "My lover," she answered as she struck up the hearth, "one of my many actually. 'Twas the primer before the beastly fucking we all did. It was a good thing you weren't there, you would have gone mad with jealousy." Tom sniffed nonchalantly. "I would have waited patiently for my turn." The hearth began to spark and burn. Lyza turned and said, "You'd have me as I am right now? Still hanging over, unwashed and smelling of retchings?" Tom gave her a glittering smile. "Is that an offer?" Lyza shook her head in disbelief. You're a true letch. The rashers sizzled temptingly as they hit the pan. Lyza began to break the eggs when Tom cooed, "Ah, that sound made me hungry again." "I'll put some on for ye," said Lyza. "Thanks. You'd make a great housewife yet." Lyza grasped the iron fry pan and gestured at Tom with it. Bacon fat jumped and skittered angrily inside. "I'll force you some hot grease if you're not careful." Tom raised his hands and pushed himself against the wall, laughing, as though to escape the wild bubbling grease. "Okay, okay! Sorry, you'd make an awful housewife." Lyza slid the pan into the hearth. "That's better." She did, however, put in some more eggs and bacon for Tom. The smoky smell of cooked bacon replaced the lingering scent of alcohol. It brought both their appetites up, and when Lyza pulled the pan from the hearth it was brimming with meat and eggs, plumes of fragrant steam cleansing the room. Just the hit of it across Lyza's face made her feel fresher. Lyza had no plates, so they ate directly from the pan, digging into it with spoons and cautious fingers. Lyza had some hard, dark rye bread they sopped up the bacon grease with. The resulting spongy wet mass had a smoky, sweet flavor to it. They washed it down with some heavily watered barley wine. Tom searched for errant pools of grease with which to finish the remainder of his bread. "That was good," he remarked. Lyza shrugged as she swallowed the last scrape from the pan. "It was just bacon and eggs." Tom tipped the pan to make a little grease pool. He gingerly sopped it with the bread. "Do you want to go see a play with me?" "Depends. Is it a soppy, kissy one?" asked Lyza. "No," said Tom, popping the last piece of bread into his mouth and swallowing. "It's funny, and full of violence. You'd love it." "Wot's it called?" Tom wiped his mouth. "It's called The Assassin." "Wot's it about?" Tom shrugged. "It's about an assassin. I don't know. It's supposed to be funny." "How long is it?" Tom rolled his eyes and sighed. "By the Saints, Lyza, if you don't feel like it, just tell me." "I'll go," said Lyza, "but I'm working this evening." Tom's smile was full of bemused befuddlement. "Well, sure. Great. But you might want to wash up. You reek." The chair creaked as Lyza stood up. She threw the pan into basin of milky cleaning water. "That's what you get when you show up at my place unannounced. If ye excuse me, I'm gonna take your advice." Tom nodded. "Go right ahead." Lyza turned to him annoyance. "I mean, I'm gonna wash up." He was non-plussed. "Yes, I know. I won't say anything." "Get out," Lyza commanded. Tom huffed and rocked back on the seat. "I'd like to but y'see, I've gotten quite comfortable here. It might take me a bit." His grin was broad and lecherous. Lyza gave up. "Then turn around." There was no way Tom could squirm out of that one. He frowned and shifted the seat so that it faced the plastered wall, the legs squealing against the wood floor. Lyza watched him, waiting for him to try to peek, but he was untwitching, his hands in his lap. She started with her linen shirt. She wore it baggy, it being fitted for a man, and as she worked each button it slid further and further down her shoulders. As she undid the last few the fabric finally fell off her breasts. A breath caught in her throat. Tom had his back turned from her, solid and unmoving, but she could sense, somehow, the will it took him not to turn around. If he resisted, if he turned his head a little, if his eyes rolled slightly to the side, he'd see her freckled chest, each apple-shaped breast, crowned by a stiffening, pink nipple. She realized suddenly, she'd never been naked before, not with a man in the same room. A blush of shame rolled over her. She wanted to bark at Tom, blame and berate him, but he had not flinched at all, not even to turn and mock her. It would, she admitted, have been a great relief if he had. The shirt slid off her arms. She kept her eyes fixed on Tom, who still faced the wall. She daren't look away, or else the letch might take a peek. But the feeling evolved. As she began to finger the laces on her breeches, loosening them with a gentle tug of her finger, she almost began to feel she was undoing them for him, so that he could watch her with his hungry, lustful eyes. A crop of orange pubic hair slowly emerged from the hem of her pants, and she eased them downward with the hooks of her thumbs. When the pants were to her thighs, to her embarrassment, she began to swell and wet. Sexual arousal and embarrassment rolled over her, mingling. She felt exposed even as his back was turned, an image of him flashed in her eyes, looming over her shirtless, a dirty smile full of mischief, an erect cock popping from unlaced britches. Lyza took in an unsteady breath. Tom was not a large man, but he was solid, wiry, and unashamed. He wasted little time in trying to get her into bed with him, and there innumerable reasons why she didn't want that. Not the least of which was that Tom was her male doppelganger, looking more akin than even brothers and sisters, which made finding him attractive all the more queer. But, she knew one day, her resistance might break, then he might finally succeed. If he touched her now, she knew he would. Liam was the last to kiss me, she realized. It frustrated her that she still had quite a way to go. She had a soapy bucket of cold water she had drawn the day before from the public font. She dipped a sponge into it, and began to rinse herself. Itchy residue washed from her body. She ran the sponge across her breasts and stomach, the suds frothed over it. She had long, taut legs, which she scrubbed gently. Soon, all that was left was her groin. Again, she looked at Tom. As she thought about him being so close, her blood pumped harder into her lips. That made her light-headed. Her hand animated itself. She reached down and pressed a finger against her hard clit. She had done it softly and silently, she had not wanted Tom to know. Even so, the sensation almost made her moan, and instead she buckled, grimacing, the strength leaving her legs. It felt too good to stop, too dirty, too hot... and so, full of shame and need, she began to masturbate. She had to bite down on her lip to keep herself from making noise, and she rubbed herself so gently that the soft sopping sound could barely be heard, drowned out with the sounds of the city. She massaged the length of the hood, then made little circles around the button itself. Her chest rose and fell. Redness crept across her chest and face, moisture beading on her brow. She did not need to touch herself long. She had become so worked up that orgasm came quickly. Her mouth wrenched open and her eyes shut so tightly she thought she might bruise her lids... but for all it was it was completely silent. The energy that would be made into sound became movement and expression instead. But no amount of care could silence her falling backwards. Tom's head twitched imperceptibly to her left. "Are you alright? Do you need help?" Did he know? she wondered. "No, I'm fine," she panted, "keep your filthy eyes on the wall." Tom didn't say anything. Her arousal faded, she found it easy to rinse her crotch. It was a relief, actually. Once she dried off, she slipped on a white cotton shirt with loose, puffy sleeves, and a black vest over that. Her fresh britches were black and flared out at her thighs. Finally, she slipped on her favorite hat, making sure the feather was prominent and brim folded back. And, of course, she put on her sword. "I'm done," she declared. Tom stood and looked down at her body, laughing and giving a little whistle. "Woo. What is it about you and men's clothes?" Lyza sighed playfully. "Perhaps you are a prince and don't know it." Fencing Academy Pt. 03 "Maybe you're a prince..." said Tom. What's that supposed to mean? wondered Lyza. But she just said, "Stop it, let's go." They wandered out of the alley into the streets. It was a busy day, the streets were full of bustle, merchants and women in afternoon garments. In the distance the chimneys of Rotham's arms factories churned with smoke and fire. Tom lead her. He talked animatedly about stupid things: the foul taste of a meat pie he had, a time he vomited into the Blackwater, a pretty nob girl who looked at him with googly eyes once. He spoke enough for the both of them... which was good for her. Lyza preferred her own company, and if he expected a response from her she'd be forced to tell him that she found his conversation boring. If she had learned one thing about the man, it was that Tom was not a person of big, profound ideas. Lyza envied that he was so untroubled by existential problems. "Weepin' Maiden masks! Weepin' Maiden masks!" hawked a street merchant, dragging a display of morbid leather masks behind him. They were hauntingly feminine, white, like chalk, and on their left cheeks were painted a little blue teardrop. Each mouth was curved in a dark, painful grimace. The smile faded from Tom's face. "It's a bit tasteless isn't? Selling the memorabilia of a serial killer?" She pretended not to notice the merchant. "Perhaps," muttered Lyza. The theater was tall and cramped, and throngs of the vulgar and lowborn crowded around it trying to get in. Tom and Lyza's swords became a boon here, as everyone kept their distance. Entry cost a few pennies, though it would have been easy enough for Lyza and Tom to simply walk through. They entered a crowded pit in front of the stage, the pauper's seats. The ground here was packed with dried rushes and the husks of nut shells. Lyza leaned over to Tom. "I hope it's not boring." "Have I ever taken you to something bad?" said Tom. Lyza sniffed. "It better not be a tragedy. I hate tragedies." "It's not a tragedy!" Tom hissed. They hushed as an actor ventured on the stage. He wore a black doublet, a dagger sheathed on his belt, and a dark goatee around his lips. He gave his opening monologue. "Dark deeds are my trade, confident in my work, That the kings and dukes with whom I make Deals of death, darkness and deceit, verily, To remove their enemies, and for their sake, I have never displeased once, for with these tools; Swords, knives, bullets, venomous unguents, mandrake; Problems resolve, kingdoms secured, secrets kept. This day, like any day, whose destiny I take Without remorse, for this course I set, Will lead to another's death, to my greed it slakes." Tom cooed. "Oooh, this'll be good." In act one, the assassin, Crispini, is told to kill an Artisian nobleman by the name of Montaug, for reasons unrevealed. Crispini infiltrates Montaug's manor by pretending to be a long-lost friend of the noble, regaling him with absurd stories of valor that Montaug has somehow forgotten over the years. He shares the time they both saved maidens from a horde of Hetmantate pirates and Svandian berserkers, and how they sailed to the Icemarch, and how, when their ship had been wrecked, Montaug had built an ingenious salt-water purification device from his boot, which he had curiously forgotten to patent. Tom was giggling ferociously. The play was witty, but somehow Lyza couldn't find it in herself to laugh. "What's wrong? Still hanging over?" asked Tom. "Nah. Just not funny," said Lyza. Later, the love interest was introduced. Montaug's sister, the Lady Belladonna, proves herself irresistible to Crispini who immediately falls in love. Even though the Lady Belladonna was merely a heavily made-up teenage boy with coconut tits, the audience still unleashed a torrent of wolf whistles, even Tom. There is a dinner scene, where Crispini attempts to poison Montaug with some wine. As Crispini eagerly watches Montaug put the cup to his lips, a rival assassin leaps out with a dagger and Montaug throws the wine in his face. The assassin immediately drops dead. Tom was in hysterics, as was much of the crowd, especially as Crispini awkwardly explains that he poisoned the wine to, of course, give Montaug a lesson in personal security. Montaug seems leery at first, but at the last minute he is overcome with emotion and says he'd always wished for a brother like Crispini, and asks him to teach him to defend himself. Crispini, proudly, takes Montaug on his offer. It was then that Sona the Spider-Eater walked into Lyza and Tom. Sona was a strange sight. There were dark-skinned folk who resided in Rotham, but she was dark-skinned even to them. It was so black it actually shone in sunlight. Her hair grew in strange tangled cords, and her body was tall and thin, as tall as most men. Her presence was usually an intense curiosity, but somewhere in a strange part of the world, everyone looked as she did. What made it even odder was her Zachonian dress. Her britches and plain linen shirt were extraordinarily normal. She smiled, her teeth like pieces of polished ivory. She embraced Tom and Lyza in turn. "I did not expect you here," she said, with her oddly-rolled vowels. Tom smiled. "Would you care to join us?" "Most certainly," said Sona, taking a place beside Lyza. Sona had a swaddle of roasted chestnuts, which she passed to Lyza and Tom. Lyza removed the shell and popped one in her mouth. It had been cooked perfectly, with a moist and creamy texture, but Lyza did not feel hungry. The set was cleared for the next scene. It was supposed to be a training hall, with some dummies set in the background. Crispini and Montaug entered from opposite ends of the stage, wielding foils. Crispini boasted: "Montaug, today you shall cease being a boy; Today I teach you to bear the arms of a man, And on this subject, you could pick no one wiser As many enemies I have fought in my lifespan, Men do not rue they day they chose me to fight, Who're witness to my skill, in spite of death delight Knowing they spent their last moments with me, The heavenly sword knows to set souls afree." Crispini then turns to the audience, and whispers: "He shall cease being a boy, but be a corpse laid, He knows not, I hold no foil but a blade Do not tell him, not that it will spoil this deed, I shall watch his face as he sees himself bleed." A strange shame seeped into Lyza as she watched the scene unfold. Crispini made absurd, clumsy attacks clearly designed to kill, while Montaug naively compliments his skill even as he expertly ducks and dodges out of the way. At one point, Crispini attempts to stab Montaug in the back, when Montaug simply pushes him away and laughs, "Crispini, stop it." Lyza gritted her teeth. She, too, had tried to kill someone in a training fight, but her victim was not a character in a play, she was a real person... and a Duchess. Tom and Sona were laughing so hard they were on the verge of tears. Lyza couldn't even feign amusement. The scene had driven her heart cold, and kicked up bitter thoughts like dry dust. Lyza frowned reflexively. She tilted her head down, hoping to disguise it from Tom and Sona. The crowd was in hysterics as Crispini made an especially clumsy attempt. Montaug responded by saying, "Please, Crispini, do not be so easy on me." Lyza blushed. It was something the Duchess could have said when they sparred. The tone of the scene changed suddenly. In a touching monologue, Montaug revealed he knew Crispini was love with his sister, and he told him that, should they choose to marry, Montaug would give his blessing, exhorting how much he trusted Crispini and how had begun to think of him as a brother. Crispini's sword went limp in his hands. He walked to the audience, and declared mournfully: "He calls me a brother, and I find myself ill, He offers his sister, the lovely Belladonna... I am troubled, can I find it in myself to kill And finish my dark contract? Perhaps, it is this, I fail, because, for but once, I lack the will." She flashed back to yesterday, when Adriana offered her a place of honor in her palace. It was now clear: she was Crispini, and Adriana was Montaug, and this where she was in her own performance. After her first failed attempt to kill the Duchess, Lyza promised herself she would try again tomorrow. Tomorrow became next week, next week became next month, next month became next year. The excuses were endless: I haven't trained enough, she once told herself, or I need to observe the Duchess more. Her most recent plan had been to kill the Duchess in a duel to first blood, hoping that Adriana's death could be passed off as an accident. But her scheme evaporated when Sara Sunderland noticed she was passing up easy openings for more lethal ones. Evidently, even a poorly trained swordsman could see through that ruse. In truth, she had been relieved. The web of lies were heavy, and for what? To kill a girl she couldn't hate? She was angry, yes. Angry at the world, angry at herself, and angry at her father, but she did not hate her. When she had vowed to kill her, she was but an orphan in Arbalea, and it was more to her an exciting way to fill her imagination than it was a deep need for vengeance. Hatred is like love, she thought, it takes maturity to recognize it. Besides, Adriana did not kill my father. Her father killed my father. And in that respect, nature was already extracting vengeance for her. She didn't want to hear what would happen next. "I've got work to do," she muttered, girding herself to leave. Tom and Sona looked at her. "How could you not think that was funny?" asked Tom. "I'm going, I've got work to do," she repeated, then rushed out of the theater, shouldering her way past throngs of townsfolk. When she was out on the street Tom chased up behind her. She asked him brusquely: "Did you take me here on purpose?" Tom was befuddled. "Uh... yes." "That's not what I meant," she sighed. "I've got work. I'm going." As she turned to leave, Tom nabbed her by her shoulder. "When are we going to get together?" he asked. His green eyes shone seriously, his mouth flat for once. Lyza laughed scornfully and shook her head. "You are unbelievable. You think your cock is the only thing with problems?" "It does, and I do too," he said. "We all have problems. We can help each other." "By fucking?" said Lyza with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, why not?" he said, taking a step forward. Lyza had expected him to break a smile, but he didn't. Lyza prodded him in the chest. "You can't imagine what problems I have. You can't imagine the counsel I need. You think your dick is some magic healing stick, and it's not. You're just a man." He did it fast. Tom grasped her by the nape of her neck and forced his lips onto hers. Lyza couldn't react quickly enough to resist... she let his lips ply against hers, even as her mouth stayed firmly shut and eyes wide open. When Tom stopped kissing her, his taste and smell lingered beneath her nose. Tom searched her face for an emotion. "Did that do anything for you?" he asked hopefully. Lyza narrowed her eyes. "If you ever do that again, I'll scream rape." Tom was taken aback. "I..." I'll forgive you, but "Don't do it again." Lyza turned and left Tom outside the theater. ### Lyza wasn't proud of what she told Tom. She wasn't the sort to threaten to call rape... she preferred to settle things herself. Still, she needed to be firm, to where Tom wouldn't confuse her intentions. There was an alley that Lyza used to get into Picot's place. The Madam owned many whorehouses, but The Lonely Widow was the only one she managed herself, as it was where the gentle nobs went to get their dicks wet. As Lyza opened the door, she was blasted by music and laughter and fragrant, humid air. The halls were carpeted a sensuous red, even in the back rooms where customers would never venture. Here, the support staff lurked, and where whores came to be away from work. She climbed a set of spiral steps up to Madam Picot's office. Picot's personal guard was a Hetmantate eunuch called Berker, fat but stronger than his poor muscle tone would suggest. The eunuch nodded at her. "I need to see the Madam." Berker grumbled. "Mistress is busy." Berker's beady eyes glanced at an open newspaper on the chair across from the door. With comprehension, Lyza took the seat, flicked on the electric wall light, and found a circled article in the open page. The headline read: "THREE PROSTITUTES STRANGLED; BELIEVED CONNECTED". Lyza swallowed and, slowly, went over each word. Lyza was still unused to reading... it did not feel natural to her. It was made harder by a story that was far too familiar. She didn't need to be explained that the slain were Picot's girls. It was then a man took the seat next to her. Lyza shifted her eyes towards him. He wore a guard's armor: a steel cuirass, his half-helm on his lap. His sleeves were a royal purple and his breeches were slashed gold and lilac. He bore a badge with a peacock on his chest. His hair was cropped and wild and black. His face was not as fancy as his clothes: rough-hewn and lined, but not by age, it was exposure to sun and the strength of his features. Some men seemed sculpted, but this was like an artist had cut a rough approximation of a handsome man. "The famous Lyza Dunwall," he said in a deep, calm voice. "Some have called me that," she sniffed, burying her head in the paper, "but I didn't mean to be famous." "You killed Margaret Fey." "Aye." The man rubbed his rough chin. "She was one of the Three Furies, you know. Rotham's greatest female warriors. Sara Sunderland, Fiona Nyvall... Margaret Fey. That's quite an accomplishment." "I suppose." "...And yet, you have not taken Margaret's place as one of the Three Furies. Why?" Lyza was annoyed by this man. She reburied her face in the paper. "The papers tell us who the Furies are. 'Sides, I've got no interest in it." The man seemed to lean towards her. "Why not?" "I don't need anyone to tell me I'm good, I know it." She briskly turned a page and pretended to read. "Wrong," declared the man, "The reason you're not a Fury is because some think your victory was a fluke... or that you cheated." Lyza sniffed angrily. "'Twas a fair fight. Mayhap she was not as good as people say." "...Or maybe you're just that good," said the man, cocking his neck, "and people can't accept that." "What do you want?" asked Lyza finally, flattening the paper on her lap. "Do you not know who I am?" asked the man with a knowing smile. Lyza looked him up and down, narrowing her eyes. "No." "My name is John Clay. I'm captain of the city guard." Lyza twisted toward him. "You're king of the peacocks, then?" "I am. I'm also a cousin to your friend, Duchess Adriana." Lyza raised an eyebrow. "You're a Cha-let?" John Clay blinked thoughtfully. "It's pronounced 'KA-LAY'. And no, not technically." He made a sad sigh. "Do you know woman named Charlotte Moires?" "Never heard of her," said Lyza. "You might know her better as 'Scarlett'." Lyza said nothing, but she could not hide her frown. John Clay moved on. "What do you do for Madam Picot?" "I deal with unruly customers," said Lyza. "When Charlotte Moires was employed as a prostitute by the Madam Picot, many deaths were associated with her. Do you know anything about that?" "You should ask, instead, why Charlotte draws the most foul and violent of men... if you ask me, 'tis her sweet smile." "Foul and violent men... who die? Do you draw foul and violent men too?" asked Clay. "Aye. Even now." That amused the captain, but he continued: "The guard has composed a list of thirty suspects, and on the very top of that list is the woman who we most suspect to be the Weeping Maiden. That person is your friend Scarlett." "No. Really? Scarlett? The girl could barely hurt a fly. I have to slap them off her all the time." The captain leaned into her ear. "I wonder who the second name is?" Lyza's mouth twisted. John shifted his weight back on his chair, his armor creaking. "Now, hypothetically, if I were the Weeping Maiden, I would quit while I'm ahead. While I'm unsuspected. I'd figure, I've had a better-than-average career as a serial killer, why not retire?" His eyes flashed. "That's what I would tell the Weeping Maiden... if I knew who she was." Lyza nodded, but her heart was cold and pounding. "If I see her I'll pass on the message," she said. John stood up. The man was broad and tall... Lyza would be impressed by him, if his gaze wasn't so dangerous. The captain slipped on his helm and walked away, the peacock feathers which were attached to it bounced on each stride. Lyza tore out the circled page and left. Her home was not far away, and it was early in the night. When she arrived, she pulled a seat, took out an inkwell and several scraps of parchment, and began to write. Liam, How's it going? It is good here. Lyza spoke the words out loud, and she cursed and ripped the letter up. She dipped her quill into fresh ink and started again on a fresh sheet. Liam, My heart burns The words felt false. She crossed them out angrily, and this time, she refocused. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When her mind was clear, she started again. Liam, Would you laugh at me to know I still think of you? I laugh at myself sometimes. We had a few bonny moments, in that week which we shared the world, when the same sun and stars shone on us both. But in my head it has grown to be more than that. I am learning new words all the time, one of them is "tumor". It is an ugly word but it is the only way I can think of to say how you stick to me. Tumor, ha! No one ever called me a poet. I do not know how it is in heaven, but I will write to you of earth. That's right, I can write, like you can now. I am reading lots too. A few months ago I bought my first book, one about fencing. It is a timeworn thing, the person who owned it last earmarked it and scribbled in it bad, in ways I can't read. But when I put my nose to the page it smelled of knowledge. Sometimes, when I spend a night reading, I go out to the streets afterward ablinking and brushing dust off me like I was a spectacled librarian. I must be getting very smart. Ha! I work for Madam Picot now. I can't say she keeps me on the straight and narrow, but fed and warm more like. She has me taking over your job, quite an interesting one you had. Picot talks of you all the time so I think she misses you. I hope you didn't bugger her. If you did I might vomit in the Blackwater. I thought life would get less confusing for me, but I am filled with more doubts than ever before. I wish I could share them with you. There was so much I never told you. My life is one of dark secrets. If you watch over me, you know how I crave blood. I share this with you because you were a killer as I am, though if Picot's stories are told true one more noble. In time, I will tell you all, but it will have to be in person. I am sure heaven is full of pretty angels, but I hope you still have the sweetest kisses for me. I feel ill saying that, but I also feel it. This world is a cold place but your arms were warm. When I was in them you actually made me feel a girl, your lost touches will not leave me, when I think of them I get hot and sad for you. You, who still makes my heart go aflutter, save something special for me. Fencing Academy Pt. 03 The pen had drifted so easily across the paper, it seemed odd that she hesitated at the last line. Finally, after a nervous swallow, she concluded her piece. Even if it is a hard buggering. Love always, Lyza Lyza looked at the parchment with satisfaction, before suddenly remembering she forgot to add something. She scribbled hastily, P.S. I'll start sending you these letters from now on. If you happen upon an idjit bragging about being done in by me, check their throat or arsehole. I'll have stuck it in there. She folded up the piece of paper and slipped it in her pocket. Now it was just a matter of waiting. ### It was time to work. Carefully, Lyza lifted a plank from the floor. The tools of her trade; a sword, a hirschfanger, a brace of pistols, a cloak blacker than the night sky, and beneath it all, the mask. She put that on last. The mask of that of a ghost woman, in pain and grief, with a single teardrop painted on the left cheek. With that, she became the Weeping Maiden. Pulling her hood to darken her visage, she ventured out. The Weeping Maiden could easily scale the crumbling brick walls, clamber onto the tile roofs, and navigate across the cityscape. From this angle, the city became a jagged plain with a treacherous labyrinth beneath. The smokestacks of the factories cut a dark shape in the night sky. In the gaps between buildings there were power lines suspended, thick and strong, that she traipsed over like a cat. The folk who still stalked the streets at this hour would not notice her. She made her way to the docks. Somewhere a gramophone played a mournful song with a strange and broken melody. Lights flickered from the street as a lamp went out. A tavern released a steady stream of desperate, drunken laughter. The Weeping Maiden was clear-headed and sharp-eyed. She could leap like an animal, and tumble into alleys without injuring herself. She could sneak behind a group of chattering whores, and be noticed when she wanted to be. When they did, they fell silent and their laughter faded. "I have a quarry," said the Weeping Maiden, "A strangler. Three girls: Sara Beecher, Gretchen Hirsch, Fernanda West." One of the prostitutes stroked her mustache. "Aye," she muttered, "I know the feller. He likes the young'uns, I know that. A nob in a dark suit, in his forties, cane with a silver snake head, handsome in a dangerous sort o' way." The woman laughed. "O' course that's true." "How do you know this?" asked the Maiden. The prostitute's jowls shook as she nodded. "Gretch and I shared the same corner, we did. That was the man who picked her up last." "Did you get his name?" asked the Maiden. The prostitute shrugged. "Where did you see him?" The prostitute sniffed in a direction. "Thataway. He comes in the direction of the Golden Gate when he's hungry for a bit of blood." A piece of silver flicked from the darkness of the Maiden's cloak, but she spared no time to receive thanks. She scaled the wall and scrambled across the rooftops. The Golden Gate divided the nobs from the rest of the city. It was gold for the people who lived behind it: in reality, it was just bleached and ornamented stone. It bristled with guards at all hours, but it was closed at nightfall, creeping open only at dusk. However, there was a side door of reinforced wood and steel which would allow a trickle of traffic through. It all depended whether the strangler chose to hunt tonight. If he didn't, she would waste a night. If he did... The side door opened. Soon after, a man strode towards the dock with a dark purpose. A stick in his hand glinted under the harsh city lights. It looked to be silver. She would need to be closer to know for sure. Her soft boots made only the slightest sound as she clambered over the tile roofs and leaped over alleyways. Even above the street as she was she found it hard to keep up. He seemed to secret himself around corners, and made sudden turns, and went in circles around blocks sometimes. Once the Maiden needed to leap across the street when the man spun around on his feet. His randomness felt deliberate; he meant to foil shadowers. As the man moved down a dark, unlit alley, the Maiden was forced to jump to street level. She looked around. The roads were empty, but the contours of the buildings provided many murky black crooks. She padded cautiously into the alley, watching the silhouette of the figure wander deep inside. The man seemed to slow. She weaved between the crates and barrels that cramped the narrow alley. Soon the man was totally still, simply standing. Then he shot at her. The gunshot came as such a shock to Lyza that she let out a yelp. She flinched so hard that she didn't get a good look at the muzzle flash... she realized that the man used the darkness to conceal his gun from her. She pulled one of the pistols on her brace and fired back blind. It was thunderous, and echoed loud against the stone walls. Somewhere a crate fell and splintered on the ground. She cursed. I shoulda played dead, she thought to herself, Now I wasted a shot. She had lost more than that. When the echoing gunshot finally died she heard the faint patter of feet on stone, getting further and further away. She cursed again and shimmied up onto the roof, using the gaps in the stones as footholds. When she made it she put her ear to the sky, trying to pick up the same sound. It was still there. And the direction she needed to move in was clear. She ran across the tiles, not bothering to disguise the noise, and leaped over an alleyway, forcing her to tumble on the other side. She pulled the second gun from her brace, leaned over the side, and shot at the paralyzed shadow. He scrambled, pulling his own gun and firing back. Plumes of gray smoke lingered and disguised another retreat. But the Maiden had familiarized herself with the sound of his boots. She followed him easily, this time her third pistol already drawn. The man unleashed another shot behind him, but it was clumsily fired and the Maiden only flinched. Lyza was no good at counting coins, but she knew how to count bullets, and at this point her target would be short of guns. At the very least, she was. She followed the man out of the smog, and she saw him running from her. It would be as clear a shot as she could want. She lifted the pistol to line up with her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The gun fizzed and popped, a gout of flame coughed out. But the man continued to run. She holstered the pistol and wasted little more time. She sprinted across the slanted roof and tumbled into the alley in front of the man. She drew her sword. "You face the Weeping Maiden," declared Lyza, spinning the sword in her hand. The man didn't respond, his face shadowed but for a pair of evil, glinting eyes. Instead, he produced a small, murderous pistol and shot it at her. The bullet whistled past her ear and Lyza was left stunned. Lyza looked behind her. "Hoo... that was close. I didn't think ye had four guns." Again, the man was silent. He held out his cane, and in one smooth motion, pulled a short, cruel sword from it. Lyza went into a guard position, holding out Liam's steel sword in front of her. "I'd like to introduce you to me friend. I call him Ghost on the Blackwater. He will be taking your life shortly, aye." They stood before each other, the points of their swords making smooth, hypnotic circles in front of them. Lyza did not recognize his style: he was to his side, his arm coiled for a thrust, his other hand in a fist on his breast. In the narrow alley they could not circle one another, there was only attack and retreat. In the darkness the only thing clearly visible was the glow of the swords. She noted the sword had no guard. If she could sidestep the thrust he was preparing for, a hand shot would likely cost him a few fingers. That would be risky in the confines of the alley, with so little area to dodge but it would be devastating if it hit. Lyza edged toward him. She wanted to touch swords, to see his reaction. She hovered her tip temptingly, at arms length. But he remained stone still, his arm coiled. Impatiently, Lyza swatted his blade. He was like a spring. His sword propelled forward, waving unpredictably in the air. At the last moment, Lyza had to suck in her stomach and stand on her tiptoes to avoid getting stabbed. When she returned to a defensive position, huffing with exertion, he was already prepared for a second strike, his arm coiled as it was before. "That is a neat trick," Lyza admitted. His arm shot out suddenly, the sword springing out. It veered high when it was close, forcing Lyza to sidestep to prevent the thrust from sticking her neck... and she hit the wall. She had no time to swear. Her opponent saw an opening, and another thrust came for her, which she tried to bat away. The swords locked, in the confines of the alley there was no way to regain control, and they crashed into one another, body to body. There was a chaos of fumbling. One of his gloved hands went for her throat to throttle her. As he choked her, she reached inside his cloak and found a knife, which she flicked out of the sheath and shanked him with. Trickles of hot blood traced down her glove and onto the flesh of her arm, the knife having bitten deep. She used her knees to lever him off the blade. The man stumbled away, the only sound a deep, wounded breathing, looking at the knife still in his belly. "Now I got—" Lyza was interrupted by the feeling of something alien jarring in her own belly. She looked down, and saw the hilt of her own hirschfanger sticking out unnaturally from her stomach. She became aware of the sticky wetness that spread all around it. She suddenly felt sick. "It... it really is painless..." The man wasn't going anywhere, so she carefully leaned forward and gently touched the wound. Her finger caused more pain than the knife had... she shivered, and hissed, and took in shallow breaths. Meanwhile, the man slowly rose to his feet, dragging his sword up with him. She tried to get up, but the cold steel stopped her. Twitching caused it to dig deeper. She squirmed on her elbows, trying to crawl away from the silvery steel of the cane sword. I don't need to get up... I just need to get to my boot. The man loomed over her, his sword was drawn back for a finishing thrust. She made one, great, wrenching twist, so that she could grasp the pistol handle at her boot. As the sword point flew towards her, she drew and fired. Smoke flared out, she heard the grotesque sound of lead plunging into flesh and breaking bone. The weight of the bullet flung him backwards and had him flat on the ground. "Now... now I got you," she smiled. ### When the man awoke again, he felt afloat in a dark, silent void, but he found to his chagrin he was not dead. The Weeping Maiden, wounded, could only manage one oar at a time, and clearly she was laboring even with that, flinching after each stroke, switching to one side when she was going too far in one direction. They cut a zig-zag pattern through the dark waters. He tried to move, but he found himself to be blanketed in old chains. "No use," she muttered, "I've already padlocked ye, and the key was the first thing I flung into the river." The Weeping Maiden was a strange figure. She was wrapped in a black cloak, but wore a mask of bleached clay in the twisted visage of a mourning woman. A blue tear was painted to one of her cheeks. Beneath the mask, she had bright green eyes, untouched by the crow, but, at least right now, full of pain. The man said nothing, even if he wanted to he couldn't. He was gagged. She seemed satisfied with where they were in the river. After some effort she stood up, an impressive act for a woman so wounded. His things were in a pile in front of him: his cane, his gun, his purse, a gold stopwatch, so close but far from arm's reach. She drew up the oar leaned toward him. "You were a tough one. I haven't had a tough one in a while," she said. She leaned over and took the butt of his gun. "Three barrels. No wonder you seemed to have so many bullets. Too bad none of them were of any help, ha!" Her breathing was deep between pauses. She turned the gun around. "Nice handle though. 'Tis ivory methinks, and carved nicely too." She threw it like a piece of junk over her shoulder, and the gun splashed and sank beneath the waves. She picked up the cane sword. "Snake's head cane, silver. Just like the whore said. Looks like I got meself the right one." She drew the sword and flipped it in her hand. "Hand-forged. Very nice. I prefer rapiers meself, but 'tis a personal preference. Y'beat me in that sword fight, after all." One after the other, she threw the cane and its sword into the water. They hardly even splashed as they sank. The Maiden didn't even look at the stopwatch. She threw it overboard immediately. "Now, this purse here," she poked at the heavy pouch, "Quite nice. Lots of coins, a good mix of silver and gold aye. This I'll be keeping." She pushed it aside with her boot, and then knelt in front of him. She said: "It may seem odd, but I need your help." The man didn't react. He continued to look up at her with cold, unmoved eyes. The girl fiddled by twisting a the point of a dagger into one of her fingers. "It's not often I get meet another killer, y'see, like meself. And sometimes, who better to give advice on killing then a fellow killer. I figure you'd know this sort of stuff." "Y'see, I came to this town with vengeance in me mind. There's this girl... I vowed to kill her, for what her dad did to my dad, y'see. I thought she'd be some pompous nob with her head up her arse, so I was thinking it would be as easy as pissing. But it's not. She's actually not a bad person, as far as nobs go anyway." "And now something new has come up," she sighed, "she offered me a place in her palace, as a champion. And... that's a pretty good offer by anyone's measure. In any other circumstance, I'd be crazy to turn it down." She snatch a copper from the purse, and skipped it on the water. It managed several jumps before it sank with a final plop. "How many chances for a good life does a girl like me get? That doesn't involving getting married to a rich, old, crooked man like you? No offense." She sighed, looking out on the putrid waters. "Maybe this is what my dad would've wanted," she contemplated, "For me to live a good life. He liked nobs less than I do, from what I hear of it. But... I dunno." She took another coin, not even looking at it, and tossed it angrily. This time it sank as it hit the water. "Everything was so damn easy back then. I thought killing one person would be as simple as killing another. Once I broke meself in, I wouldn't need to think about it. I've killed lots of people. Lots." She sighed, putting her hand on her cheek. "I've killed lots people, easy as pie. I don't even think about it anymore. But I can't kill one damn girl. That's a bit unfair on those I did in, don't you think?" Seemingly expecting an answer, the girl looked at him through the holes in her mask. The mood they held matched the mask's expression. The girl laughed joylessly. "Ha, what am I saying? I'm talking to a man who can't talk back... I wonder if I should cut that gag off?" The man didn't react, his eyes had neither fear nor hatred, they simply stared right at her with the cloth in his mouth. With some effort, the girl leaned forward and sliced the gag at his cheek. Once it was loose and off, the man stretched his mouth and jaw. "So, what do you think?" the girl tried again. The man didn't respond. The mustachioed whore said he was handsome, though Lyza didn't see it. Perhaps anyone would be handsome by measure of that woman. His cheeks were shaven and sallow, eyes sunken into the skull. His silver hair was short and swept back. He wore black, except for a silk undershirt. His finery was barely visible under the heavy chains. "Is that how it is, aye?" pondered the girl, "The silent treatment. Of course. Why would you rattle bones with your killer?" "You're not a killer," hissed the man. His voice was soft but menacing. The girl raised an eyebrow. "He speaks," she said, "and I am a killer. I've killed—" The man shook his head. "No, no you're not. I have no conception of anything you've just talked about. Your dilemmas are alien to me, and listening to you bleat on was insufferable. I've never considered such a question as should I kill someone. My only questions are: when should I kill, and how?" "You're full of it," said the girl. The man snarled. "No, you are. You want to be me, you want to be as at peace as I am, you want to drown your... daddy issues under a tide of blood. But it doesn't work like that. We are born either predators or prey. You want to imagine yourself the predator, to make yourself into something special, into something invincible, immune to your petty problems. But you were not born me. Everything you said, it is meaningless to a true killer." "Shut up," hissed the girl. "So this is the legendary Weeping Maiden? Weeping is right. How did a pathetic little girl like you acquire such a fearsome reputation?" The Maiden pulled herself to her feet, using her sword to balance her. "Shut... UP!" "You're nothing like me. You never will be. You—" "SHUT UP!" She stabbed him, hard, right between the gap in the chains into his belly. He screamed out, and with an enraged snarl she twisted the sword to cause maximum pain. "I hope you enjoy choking on the Blackwater, you evil cunt!" she said. The man's cries morphed eerily into laughter. The Maiden was taken aback. "Wot's so funny?" He didn't stop laughing, even as blood pooled into the grains of the rowboat. Crimson oozed from his mouth. "Wot's so funny?" "You... you drown your victims in the river?" "Yeah..." "How many?" he asked. "I can't count..." she said. He laughed even harder this time. His body was so wracked that he began to do more damage to himself than the sword. "I made that error once, with my sweet young sister. I've never done that mistake again." "Wot mistake?" He looked up her and smiled a bloody smile, his eyes wild. "The river is cursed. Anyone who drowns in the river rises again." The Maiden spat derisively. "That stupid story? 'Tis false. I've drowned many an idjit in the river. None of them came back." "Oh, I am not a believer in much, but I am a believer in that. That's why I strangle them before I throw them in." The man laughed and laughed, and the Maiden grew tired of it. She put her boot to the man's body and gave it a firm shove. He laughed as he rolled, even and until he sank beneath the water. The man disappeared under the filmy, oily surface with a surprisingly dull splash. "Come back from that, ye damn idjit," she said, following the rippling waters with a wad of phlegmy spit. ### As Lyza finally stumbled back into her room, she felt sore in innumerable way. A physical, mental and emotional exhaustion drained her. She couldn't make it to her bed. She had only the energy to go to her icebox, and pull out a large bottle of barley wine. She stared at it. The bottle was large and cheap, but it was potent and still safely corked. She negotiated with herself for a long time, her head shifting back and forth to no will of her own, as if she needed to look at every angle of it. I don't want to be the sort that drinks alone, she said, grasping the bottle by its nose, her thumb resting on the cork. Fencing Academy Pt. 04 A VERY IMPORTANT Author's Note First of all, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me so far. This story has a rather high story/sex ratio, so I'm gratified that, so far, the response has been extremely positive. I don't typically respond to comments, but believe me I read them and appreciate them greatly. It has been a lifelong dream of mine to write professionally, and I've often fantasized about publishing. Normally, with just a few stories such talk of "e-books" would be extremely premature. However, an opportunity has come up, something I can't just ignore, and basically, I need to make a decision on what I want to do with FA sooner than expected. I've decided, in one way or another, I'd like to publish Fencing Academy. I've talked to both my previous volunteer editors about this and they're both supportive. However, I want to be fair to you guys. The last thing I want to do is disrespect you but cutting you guys out, leaving you wondering what's going on, feeling like your wishes have been ignored. I hate it when authors do this to their base and I don't plan on doing it myself. So, I want to talk to you plainly what this will entail. While your feedback is invaluable and will be taken into account, ultimately, the decision is my own and I have to do what's best for me. If I didn't, Fencing Academy will never finish anyway and that's bad for everyone. I won't lie, there is some self-interest at stake here. At this stage of my life, I could really use the money. More intangibly, this is an opportunity to break into a career I love, something I can't easily pass up. But, it is important to me that I write the best story I can possibly write, and I believe that this is the best way to do that. Publishing will allow me to make a far more cohesive work than I could possibly put together simply posting piecemeal to Literotica. A disadvantage of writing serially like this is that whatever you've written previously is set in stone. If I want to take the story in a more interesting direction, or perhaps alter something that isn't working, I can't. The whole story is weaker. And I must say: personally, I'm really excited about this. I'm eager to revisit my earlier chapters and really revise them to make a strong story. I'm excited about seeing my work finally make the jump to book form. To craft a story that excites people is everything I have worked my life for. In any case, I hope, when these stories come to a close, there will several books worth of erotic and character-based storytelling with intricate plotting. But you should know the implication of this decision would be that I could no longer post new chapters to Literotica. Fencing Academy is something of an experiment. I wanted to see if I could write an erotic fantasy where the sexual elements were integral to the story, a plot which could have appeal to both men and women, a work that could not only stand as a good piece of erotica but as good piece of fantasy, and have neither of those things detract from one another. No matter what happens, I'm committed to that vision and I only hope you enjoy Fencing Academy in whatever form it takes in the future. Anyways, please leave a comment. I'll take into consideration all your feedback, I hope for your blessing in this but again, ultimately the decision is my own. I hope, even if I didn't take the option you most wanted, we can still respect each other. Edited by Redscaledknight. Lock your doors. Hide your daughters. P.S. If I decide to publish FA, I will let you know in my Author's profile and my blog. ### In her nightly walks Sara found herself wandering far from her school. At this time, even the boulevards behind the Golden Gate were dangerous, but the vagabonds took up a decidedly rakish flavor. Lounging about were gangs composed of bored nobles, ruffians of a more professional sort, streetwalkers clinking with steel beneath their dresses. But Sara's reputation was well known. She was rarely accosted. Night guardsmen patrolled All Saints Square, their boots echoing on the cobble road. The cathedral loomed like a gothic mountain, casting a black moonshadow. Some ways south the ring wall stood, and behind that the Ducal Palace, with all of its proud ministries dormant and dark. The gate guardsmen halted Sara. "Papers?" he said from beneath a droopy mustache. You know me, Tom, she thought to herself as she obediently fished her vest for a sheaf of crumpled documents. Tom gave them a cursory look, his mustache twitching. "Looks good. How your students doing?" Tom had a strange habit of pretending all passing were strangers until the proper documents were shown in full. It would be more annoying if he wasn't so endearing afterward. "Still cutting themselves on their own swords," smiled Sara. "That's a relief to 'ear. So's my son, y'see, and it makes me hope 'e isn't as stupid as 'e seems." "I'm sure that's not true. If you send him over to the school, I'll give him a free lesson. One free lesson." "'e'll be 'appy with that, though it don't make a dumb boy smart in a day methinks. Well, enough mouthboxing, off with ye." She knew Fiona had a private studio in the palace grounds. It was, in theory, a training hall to teach the Ducal family the martial arts, but Adriana had elected to attend a school instead: her school. Since then Fiona went there when she had nothing else to do. Fiona once told her she used it to meditate on her swordsmanship. The air had the bite of salt and dew as always, and as she passed the tree-filled planters and tended curbs erupted a riot of cricket chirps. She strode past the barracks and entered the palace proper by a servant's entrance. She knocked on the studio door "Who's that?" said Fiona beyond the door, in a huff of annoyance. "It's me," said Sara to the door. Sara heard Fiona shuffling stiffly. She had been perhaps kneeling, or reclining on the ground. "Hold on a second." Fiona opened the door after dragging her feet. Her eyepatch seemed a little crooked, and her remaining eye was crumpled as if it had recently been closed. The silver streak in her hair fell unfashionably across her brow. "Got through the guards again?" she said blearily. Sara brushed her nails on her bolero. "Didn't need to. You were the one who was unwise enough to sponsor my security clearance." Fiona nodded, arms folded. "I suppose you'd like to spar." Sara wandered in the room. Sara at one point would have once been envious of Fiona's studio, with the waxy hardwood floors on which her boot clicked pleasantly, to the high ceilings and broad archways. Now, Sunderland had the greatest fencing studio in Rotham, perhaps the world. Royalty would have little finer. "You supposed right." It took a few moments for Fiona to set up the chess set. It was a checkered table with folding legs, beneath it two drawers with pieces. Both the women set their ranks. Sara happened to have white. She arrayed the marble pieces in front of her. Fiona's pieces were of a veiny red color. Sara pushed her queen's pawn up two spaces. Fiona met her piece in the center with her own pawn. Sara played her second pawn. "Queen's gambit," said Fiona. Sara raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?" Fiona sniffed, appraising the move while tugging on her eyepatch. "You're very predictable." "It is a good opening," said Sara. "It is a boring opening." Fiona captured the bishop's pawn, pushing it dismissively on its side. Sara pushed her king's pawn forward one space. "Perhaps you are predictable, in your unpredictable way." Fiona cocked an eyebrow, her chin resting on her knitted hands. "Hmm?" "Your defiance for conventions means you make 'interesting' moves in favor of tried, tested one. It is a weakness." Fiona's gaze returned to the board. "In war equal sides are rare." Sara smirked. "Chess is not war." Fiona pushed a pawn up to defend her attacking pawn. "That's a bad move," remarked Sara with a frown. Fiona winked with her remaining eye. "It is, but it's an interesting one. Let's see how what happens when you can't rely on memorizing your precious openings." There was a flurry of exchanges, and Fiona used her lack of pawns to develop her minor pieces quickly. Sara was ahead in material, but Fiona controlled more of the board. Fiona look pleased with herself. "Your problem, if I might say Sara, is that you've no real world experience. Only one of us has been an actual battlefield commander." Sara moved her bishop up. It positioned itself temptingly diagonal to a pawn, in capture range. "This is a game." "I can tell," said Fiona, capturing the bishop with pawn, "For one, your bishop isn't writhing on the ground, screaming for his mother." Sara's fingers dangled over her knight, before electing to capture the pawn with the swoop of her queen. "You're too focused on what you think you know, Fiona." Fiona smirked, and captured the queen with a leaping knight. "Some general principles apply to all games of strategy." "You don't like to sacrifice your pieces, do you? You like to bring them all home, to their wives and children." Sara pushed her remaining bishop up. "Check." Fiona frowned. "Even pawns deserve that." She moved her king out of check, before tapping on the piece's crown dismissively. "Why is the king the weakest piece? What sort of king is it that expects their queen to do the fighting for them?" "A smart king, perhaps." Fiona moved her bishop again. "Check. And checkmate in three." Fiona moved a pawn to block the bishop. Sara move a knight up to take advantage of the newly undefended space. "Checkmate in two." Fiona pushed her rook forward. "Checkmate in—" Sara's mouth suddenly twisted as she took in the move Fiona had just made. "That was a good move. I didn't see that." Fiona leaned back in her chair, a triumphant grin on her face. "And you're the one with two eyes, Sara." "This will be a long game," muttered Sara, looking at the board with renewed interest. "We will need some wine," said Fiona As Fiona produced two wine glasses and a bowl of olives, Sara did a close examination of the board. By the time she came back, Sara seemed to have decided on a move, but she seemed less certain than normal as she retreated her bishop behind a line of pawns. Fiona crunched on an olive as she made her next move. "Is there something on your mind?" Sara looked up at her from the board. "What do you mean?" "You seem pensive." Sara laughed and took a sip of wine. "I would hope so, I'm playing chess." Fiona rolled her eyes, and said, "Don't get smart." Sara's smile faded and she seemed to accept the distraction from the game. It still took her a while to respond. "In the past five years, I've had a very good record." "Of?" "Of students not killing each other," said Sara, quickly moving a piece. "Before then, it seemed like every year, there'd be one, or several, death-duels." "That's the nature of young people," observed Fiona, no longer paying any attention to the game, "They're impatient. They don't understand anything." Sara nodded. "It is a sad thing, when there can only be one graduation each year, but no limit to the number of funerals... By the way, has Adriana considered my proposal to ban death-duels?" "She's looking at the edict," shrugged Fiona, "but men do love their fighting." Sara continued after a sip of wine. "Anyway, five years ago, I undertook a new policy. A successful policy, I might add, that has reduced the number killings each year. My new policy is this: if two of my male students challenge each other to combat..." Sara popped an olive in her mouth, noisily chewed on it, then swallowed. "...I fuck them." Fiona raised an eyebrow. "There's your Solissian morals, there." Sara might have been offended if Fiona had been Zachonian herself. But she is Svandian by blood, and a religious minority: a Martellian. In a land surrounded by strange foreigners with odd beliefs, it came to be a relief to be around non-Zachonians, even if they weren't Solissian. "They're better than Zachonian morals," said Sara bluntly, "In any case, you wouldn't believe how amenable men become after they're properly sexed." "Oh no, I definitely know that," laughed Fiona. "An unsexed man is an angry one, I've found," continued Sara. Fiona lifted an eyebrow. "Are you worried about this class?" Sara's mouth twisted. She made a quick sip of her wine and put it down. "Marcus almost challenged another student, Tom Hawker." Fiona's face didn't twitch, but it darkened all the same. "I see. What stopped him?" "Adriana's fist." "Whoa," breathed Fiona. Just imagining the impressive wound to Marcus's pride caused her to sit straight. Sara nodded with a lifted eyebrow. "I know." Fiona finally made a move on the chessboard. "Who is this Tom Hawker? And why shouldn't I kick the shit out of him?" "Tom is a commoner. A performance duelist with a sharp tongue. I've paired him with Marcus to get him to grow a thicker skin." "And it was this sharp tongue that almost got him in trouble?" asked Fiona. Sara nodded. "And Marcus's sensitivity. And unimpeachable pride. And his prudish morals. And everything else wrong with Marcus." "Marcus is a sweet boy, though," said Fiona. "I know. It is the sweet ones always die," sighed Sara, putting her knight in a defensive position. Fiona's attention drifted back to the game for while, and it took her a long time to make a move. When she did, it was an aggressive one. "Will you try and bed Marcus?" asked Fiona. It seemed like she had been thinking about the question for a while. Sara seemed very uncertain, but Fiona couldn't tell if it was about the game or the question. "I don't think so. Marcus is not that sort of person." "What about this Hawker fellow?" "Already done." Sara made her move. Another defensive one. "The Hawker boy wants to impress Lyza Dunwall, though. He fancies her. Even though they look very alike, it sends me shivers." Fiona looked at the board. "Does Lyza like him back?" Sara shrugged. "Who knows. They deserve each other..." Sara considered something, and added: "I worry about Lyza too." Fiona looked at Sara with interest. "Hmm?" "Lyza has a black heart," said Sara. Fiona made a move. "She is a worthy successor to Margaret Fey, then." Sara considered Fiona's statement. "I can see that, but there are some differences. Danger made Margaret hot, she went off pursuing it so she could diddle herself afterward. Lyza, on the other hand, is full of murderous hatred, always obsessed with... killing. The other day I had Lyza and Adriana sparring. They were, on a technical level, quite good. But they weren't fighting. Adriana just enjoyed swinging a sword. Lyza, on the other hand, she was practicing for a different sort of bout." Fiona lifted an eyebrow, and Sara explained: "At any time, Lyza could have struck Adriana in quartata from an obvious opening, but she didn't." Fiona leaned back and looked at Sara with interest. "Really." Sara looked out on the darkness outside the studio. She discovered herself biting her thumbnail. When she looked at it, it was jagged and deformed from teethmarks. "She told me later she was waiting for a killing blow." "She does know she only needs to bleed them, right?" "Exactly," said Sara. "It's almost as if she's an..." ....assassin. That was the magic word. The word that would set Fiona off into Lyza's path, and most likely into one or the other's death. But the gravity of it made it heavy in her throat; Sara couldn't say it. Instead, the thumbnail returned to her teeth. "...a what?" asked Fiona. "A fool," finished Sara, angrily moving a piece. "You're the fool if you continue playing like this," sighed Fiona, immediately capturing it. Sara's heart was no longer in the game. She didn't even look down to see Fiona's capture. Instead, she looked pensively out the window. Fiona frowned, noting Sara's lack of interest, and with a playful push knocked down her king. "I forfeit," said Fiona. "Let's sit back, pour ourselves another bottle, and chat." Sara nodded. She still had a concerned look on her face, but she had brightened somewhat. "That sounds fun. What are you thinking about?" Fiona lifted her glass, and declared, slowly and dramatically, "I am thinking about how we became the sexiest women in Rotham. To the two Furies." Sara finally broke a smile, and took her glass. "To the two remaining Furies." They both took great mouthfuls of wine, and winced as they swallowed. Fiona rose her glass again, declaring, "To Margaret Fey. May she finally find the fight she was looking for." Sara followed Fiona's toast with a bemused smile. "To Margaret Fey!" They took another deep drink. The two empty wine glasses were set on the chessboard hard enough to knock some of the pieces over, pawns made circular orbits around the battlefield. A warmth began to permeate Sara's insides. Fiona poured herself a third glass. "Forty-four years old, Sara. Unmarried, no children, amazing career. And paradoxically, thoroughly fucked. My mother's worst nightmare is come true." Sara smiled as she watched Fiona sip at the wine. "Funny. That's was my mother's dream for me." Fiona suddenly looked guilty. "Ah. I'm sorry I brought that up." Sara had a thin smile. "I was making a joke. Relax." When it was clear Fiona was not getting more comfortable, she asked, "If you could change one thing, Fiona, what would it be?" Fiona looked thoughtful as she took a mouthful of wine. "You'd think me selfish if I said it." Sara laughed. "This is a selfish topic." "True, true..." she repeated, looking down. She seemed to debate herself whether she should say what was on her mind, when she suddenly confided, "I guess... I guess I would have liked to have fought in a bigger war." Sara was surprised. "I never thought of you as someone who relished that sort of thing." Fiona waved her hand defensively. "No... no. I should say, I wish I fought a better war. I mean... I suppose trade routes are important to any empire. But... I don't know." Fiona suddenly became quite expressive, gesturing with enthusiasm. "OK, so, think of it this way. Artisia's first female officer was against in their war against us— Lady... Dolese... I believe. What a hero she was, holding off the hordes of Zachonian scum and what not. But me..." she prodded herself insistently, "I'm Zachon's Lady Dolese. I'm the first female officer we've ever had. But what do I get? A squabble over some icebergs with Sladost." Sara nodded. "A very bloody squabble over icebergs." "Aye," agreed Fiona, her eyes drifting, "bloody indeed." Sara leaned back, recovering from the ingestion of so much wine. "Do you think Margaret could have beaten you?" she asked. Fiona leaned down and picked up the second bottle off the floor. "You're sounding like the newspapers, Sara." "You can't say you're not curious." Fiona nodded absently. She plunged the corkscrew into the bottle's neck and began to work the cork out. "I am, I suppose. But I would never do anything to please those bloodthirsty columnists." Sara looked at the dregs at the bottom of her glass as she thought. Most papers had a page devoted to duels: schedules of upcoming fights, descriptions of battles won and lost, but most annoyingly, endless speculation on who would win a particular bout. Several years ago, a writer with the unfortunate name Anselmo Pottage began to write obsessively about female duelists. He identified Fiona Nyvall, Sara Sunderland and Margaret Fey as the best female fencers in Rotham, and nicknamed the three of them "the Furies". The title itself annoyed Sara, but what incensed her was when Anselmo began to write vividly of vicious rivalry between them. Sunderland called Nyvall this, Nyvall named Sunderland a that, and a duel between them would be inevitable. Fencing Academy Pt. 04 Of course, Sara and Fiona had never been anything except friends. Defiantly, the two of them refused to fight, not even to train. But Margaret Fey... she took it seriously. The young, impetuous woman emerged from the Great Unrest soaked, in head to toe, with blood. She had a death wish, and was drawn to danger like a fly on a corpse. In its pursuit she had challenged some very competent duelists and had emerged victorious, some of her opponents as storied as Fiona and Sara, slain. She paired with an insufferable noble, Victoria Knightling, known for challenging others to duels on reflex... always electing to use a champion, of course. The two of them became notorious. Victoria used Margaret's fearsome reputation to bully her way into the elite social circles, and Margaret got into more death-duels than she could have gotten into alone. Occasionally, when reporters crowded around her, Margaret would make it clear: she intended to best Sara and Fiona, and she would always challenge them to meet her on the Field of Honor. That was until that orphan arrived. It was a joke at first. Lyza Dunwall was cast as the foolish young girl with a suicidal pride, untested and literally unwashed. Margaret Fey at least had enough shame to feel bad about challenging such an obviously outmatched girl, but not enough to back down. Fey deserved everything that happened afterward. She got herself killed in a fight she should have won in every analysis. Sara had been watching the fight from atop the roofs, crowded as it was with onlookers. When the final blow was struck, a wave of deep shock and silence went over them. But Sara had been impassive. She had always guessed that someone would one day get the better of Margaret Fey. That day had finally come. As Margaret lay dying, Sara could not find it within herself to feel sorry for her. The cork popped off the wine bottle, and Fiona refilled both their glasses with a greedy look in her eyes. Fiona was curious. "What do you think of Dunwall? Is she good?" "Middling," said Sara. "Her control with the blade is impeccable. But she's full of instinct. Thoughtless. No strategy." Fiona nodded. "What of Adriana?" Sara would need to be more careful here. "She is technically excellent." Fiona looked at her. "And...?" "...She fights like she dances," said Sara. Fiona huffed. "She doesn't quite understand she might need to defend herself one day." "I know," said Sara, sipping the wine and looking absently out the window. "I should get going." Fiona seemed bothered by that. "Why, is there a duel at dawn you have to go to?" she asked. Sara drained her cup. "Actually, yes." ### Overnight a light rain had poured over the city, and from it a fog had cast the morning into a pallor. Sara found it cloying to her skin. She had to wear a hooded cloak to keep herself dry. Crowds were already gathering on the outskirts of the city, men and women silent and grim. Sara glanced briefly at a man she recognized. Though he wore a townsman's outfit of raw linens, his square face and serious demeanor struck her as immediately out of place. She knew she was looking at one of Adriana's bodyguards, but in plainclothes instead of the purples and yellows of Rotham. She jerked her head away before he noticed her looking at him. A ladder was set leaning against a building. A line of people circled it, and in front of the line a boy shouted in a cracking voice: "Good seats, a good view! Two coppers! Two coppers!" Sara cut in line, behind a short girl with a black cloak. She leaned toward the girl, mouth to her ear. "I didn't know you came out to watch the duels, Addy." The girl spun around, the black hood almost falling from her head. "Mrs. Sara..." The Duchess, without makeup and finery, looked to be a common, if pretty, peasant girl. Little moles dotted her slender neck and her eyes seemed more innocent than piercing. Many envious Rotham girls would love to see the Duchess as she was now. In truth, Sara thought her prettier this way. "How... did you know it was me?" "I guessed," said Sara, "You were about... Addy's height. And I recognized one of your friends. So I thought it might be you." Adriana said nothing. Perhaps she was impressed. Perhaps she knew not what to say. Sara nodded. "Still... what are you doing here?" "Same as you, Miss. I've come to see the duel." "I assumed that, but for what purpose? For entertainment, or..." The Duchess coughed lightly, her hand covering her mouth to disguise it. The ill air was getting to her. "I believe it is important to understand my providence. That means being on the streets, seeing things as my lessers do." Lessers. Only the Duchess could be condescending and wise, humane and dehumanizing all in the same breath. Adriana's upbringing was not conducive to a self-reflective, insightful human being, but it seemed that the girl always put a tragic yet heroic effort into not being the arrogant, proud person it would be so easy to be. It said much good about her, at the least. Sara took a quick glance at Adriana's bodyguard. He was looking back at her, his face stony, eyes full of warning. His hand rested on something beneath his cloak. Sara looked forward and swallowed nervously. She could not get up the ladder fast enough. "Two coppers," the boy said, holding out a grubby hand. Sara stepped in front of Adriana and paid for the both of them. As they mounted the ladder, Adriana seemed angry. She hissed quietly, "Why did you pay for me? I've got more money than you." Sara nodded. "True. But the boy doesn't know that." Adriana seemed to accept that. They climbed the ladder. The roof was almost full. It could barely be called safe, rainslick as it was, but the enterprising owner had installed footholds to keep customers from slipping. Both women had to unbuckle their swords to give them room to sit down. The two coppers were well spent. They had an excellent view of the Field of Honor, the two duelists and their parties already gathered. They were prim and straight in their black clothes. Standing beneath an umbrella, a woman in pink watched in enigmatic interest. Sara just wondered where their swords were. "Why did you come to this? I thought you hated these sorts of fights," asked Adriana. Sara sighed. She was still searching for where the swords were being kept. "I feel like I have a duty to." "A duty?" "Yeah." She sniffed. "Someone needs to remember how these men fought." In truth, Sara wasn't sure why she felt she needed to come. Every time she saw a fight she felt sick for the rest of the evening. But she did it anyway. A sense of duty pulled at her annoyingly. The men began to take positions on either side of the field, still without their swords. Something clawed at Sara's heart. Two other men walked up to their respective partners with slim, wooden boxes. They pulled back the lids. "Fuck," growled Sara, "It's a pistol duel." Both men took their respective guns. The woman in pink, large brimmed hat sitting inclined across her head, looked impassive. When Sara turned to Adriana, she found her looking at her. "It's the... the damn woman," she spat. "They're going to shoot each other for a woman." Adriana was bewildered by Sara's anger. "What do you mean?" Sara was fuming, she could barely control the tone of her voice. "She could have chosen one. Or neither. Or both. It's because of her indecisiveness that these men will be killing each other. And... and in a pistol duel... of all..." Sara was out of words. She bit her lip instead, and cursed silently for the mood had been spoiled for the day. Adriana said nothing. Her eyes went back to the approaching fight. Meanwhile, Sara boiled quietly, her face curled in a snarl even as her eyes affixed on the scene. As the men prepared themselves, Sara couldn't help herself. "Pistols take no skill," she raved as quietly as possible, "it is random, whether you get shot or not. So there's no victory to the most skilled. It's all about rolling the dice. Men love rolling dice." Adriana stared ahead; clearly she didn't want to say anything. Sara got the message, so she put her thumbnail between her teeth and angrily bit down on it. It was still a jagged mess from what she did to it yesterday, but the feel of the serration against her tongue distracted her. She stared at the lady in pink, her face hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat, looking so demure beneath the umbrella, so innocent, so guilty. When the lady in pink turned suddenly, Sara thought she saw herself for a brief moment. That feeling soured her. I live in a glass house. I throw stones. Sara suddenly realized the duel was on. They faced each other proudly on that hill, turned to their sides with the backs straight. The challenger lifted the large pistol and fired the first shot. The gun gouted and rang. There was a collective wince. The defendant still stood. He lifted the pistol and took his shot. The challenger didn't move. From this distance, no emotion could be discerned on the men's faces. Sara found herself detached from the outcome... it was a selfish thought, but Sara wanted them to shoot each other quickly. The display had become both tedious and heart-wrenching. But they were far from their next shot. The challenger busied himself plunging a ramrod into the pistol. The defender was measuring powder from a horn. Both men lost their proud composure completely. And who wouldn't, when in mortal combat you are expected to do alchemy? thought Sara. The challenger lifted his pistol, aimed carefully at the sweating opponent, and fired. The opponent twisted a bit... Sara thought he had been hit, but in truth it was just a flinch. The challenger turned a different shade as the defending party lifted his pistol. He fired. There was no doubt about the result of this shot: the challenger twisted in the air as if punched in the stomach by a titanic fist. There was a wail from the women on the challenger's side... mothers and sisters rushed to him, fathers and brothers stepped forward in disbelief, but the lady in pink did and said nothing, her hands weaved piously together. Sara had seen enough of the farce. "Come, Addy, we are leaving." The show having finished, a line already formed to descend from the roof. It annoyed Sara that she would have to watch a little longer, as the priest came forward and said a few prayers over the fallen one. The defender did not seem overly pleased with his victory, his head hung low and moodily. A friend of his put his hand on his shoulder and whispered something comforting into his ear. When the opportunity came, Sara clambered down the ladder as quickly as possible. On the street again, Sara turned to Adriana. "You see why I want death duels banned, Addy?" Adriana said nothing, and simply cast her gaze down the street. That pestered Sara. "Did you hear what I said?" Adriana glared at Sara, lifting her nose proudly. "Do not use that tone with me. I'm your Duchess." "So you're a Duchess now that it's convenient for you?" Sara shook her head in disgust. "What a way to rough it, Your Highness." Adriana's mouth twisted in anger. Sara was about to say something, but she noticed two things. First, Adriana's bodyguard gave her a murderous gaze. And behind him, up the street, a knot of journalists and cameramen began to form. If one of them spotted her, they would ask for her opinion of this travesty. That would be a true waste of time. Sara twisted her head in a direction. "Come. I want to show you how your subjects eat." Adriana's anger faded. She followed Sara down the street, Adriana's bodyguards stalking behind. It was a ten minute walk to a street corner far from the commotion, Leper's Bridge in sight. A street stall stood there, seven empty stools in front a long, uneven counter. Adriana wrinkled her nose from the acrid smell wafting from the inside; she hoped it wasn't the food. Sara rapped her knuckles against the counter. A large, hideous man with fat, sausage fingers waddled out from the back. His skin was jaundiced to the color of old parchment, covered with rough spots and greenish miscolorations. The bags beneath his eyes were deep and dark, and seemed to sink into his cheeks. He slowly rubbed his frayed, unevenly balding head. He seemed to be trying to recall Sara. Adriana wrinkled her nose again. It wasn't the stall that stunk. It was the man. "Oi. Sara," the yellow man laughed. He spoke slowly. "How good id is to see you. Long time, long time." Sara nodded with an uncomfortable smile. "You too, Guille. You look... great." "Don't lie, Sara. I look like a living boil wid legs 'n arms. I caughd liver worms from the river." As if to prove his point, Guille made an impressive phlegmy cough into a handkerchief. "I'm dying," he said glumly. Sara laughed. "Don't say that." "'Tis true, though. Two munds, the doctor says." Guille scratched his chin "How's id going wid you?" "I run a fencing school now," said Sara. Guille's eyes brightened with a memory. "Aye, aye you told me that. I'm glad you got your dream. Id does me heart good, id does me heart good." "I don't know what I'll do without your meat pies," said Sara. Guille nodded slowly. "You want to buy this place? For you, half a pound." Sara was surprised "You're not leaving it to your son?" Guille shook his head. "No, he was never one for charcuderie. He preferred butchery of a different sord." Sara looked confused, so Guille clarified, "Donovan works for the Lady Picod now." Sara remember Donovan as an eager and innocent youth, whose eyes went starry upon seeing Sara's sword. When she drew it for him, he would ask desperately if he could touch it. It was a sad thing the boy had fallen with a bad crowd. "I'm sorry Guille, I have no use for a street stall. I'm sure you'll find someone though." Guille nodded sadly, before saying, "I 'spose you wouldn'd wand a dying man to serve you, then." Sara knew that liver worms were passed through stool. "It shouldn't be a problem. I'll have beef stew with rye and headcheese. My friend will have the same." Guille leaned forward to look at Adriana's face, blinking at her with custard eyes. Adriana tried to pull the hood further over her head, but after a moment he suddenly jolted back, his chin jiggling and eyes wide. "My Saints, I would have never thoughd the Duchess herself would grace me stall." Guille reached to doff his hat that wasn't there. Adriana blushed hard, and Sara stepped in. "It's alright, Guille. She's just a customer." Guille gazed at the armed men loitering around the stall with fresh understanding. "Alrighd." He turned to the Duchess with a flash of pride. "I may be dying, poor and old, but I will make you the best beef stew that your fancy cooks would never dream up." If Adriana feared for her hygiene, it was misplaced. Guille dipped his meaty, yellow arms into a soapy basin and tenderly washed his forearms. Then he set to work, first vigorously scrubbing his counter, then plopping a heaping of vegetables and expertly chopping at them with a cleaver. Sara leaned to Adriana and whispered, "Guille was my favorite vendor when I first arrived in Rotham. He used to serve me free food when I had no money." Adriana nodded. "He seems a good man." "He is," agreed Sara. "It is a shame about his son, though. Street dueling is a deadly lifestyle." Adriana said nothing. Her silence began to grate on Sara's nerves. Sara spoke calmly, but she could not completely suppress her impertinence. "Are you aware, Your Grace, of the number of men who die in duels each year? Dozens, in good times. Men who could have been productive citizens, who could have taken care of wives and children. Dead. And for what? A little honor?" Again, she said nothing. Sara cleared her throat. "You seem to have little to say on this subject. Have you not read my—" "Yes, I've read your petition," said Adriana. She seemed transfixed by Guille's expert knifework. "It is not as simple as issuing an edict." "Then enlighten me," said Sara, a little more brusquely than she'd intended. "You seem to forget often you can only speak to me like that in the classroom, in your capacity as my fencing instructor," said Adriana curtly, "but I shall ignore it for right now. As for how my power works, I cannot simply issue edicts. I have a council of nobles. I have a legal responsibility to take counsel from them before I create new law. And that council would oppose such a ban." "But... Your Grace," Sara added 'Your Grace' quickly, "you could persuade them." Adriana nodded. "I could try." "But you won't." Adriana looked uncomfortable. "No, I won't." Sara sighed. "...Because you support death duels." Adriana turned to face Sara. "I respect your opinions, Sara, I really do. But this is a position I cannot hold." Sara spun in her seat. She couldn't disguise her passion any more. "Why not?" Adriana narrowed her eyes. "Tone," she quietly reminded her, before continuing. "Because in Rotham, two men are free to fight, to the death if they wish, if they both agree to do so. It is one of Zachon's treasured rights. For me to intercede in that would be tyrannical." Sara's face twisted, and she slammed her fist against the counter. "How... how dare you speak of tyranny, when my homeland of Soliss is a slave to Zachon!" Adriana didn't raise her voice. "The people of Soliss are as free as they ever were. Freer. You, of all people, should appreciate that." Sara went pale. She knows. Had Fiona told her? An indecipherable feeling pervaded her. Shame, anger, a lingering indignity over Adriana's obstinacy, mingling together, marring her mouth in a tight twist. How long had she known? If it had been for a while, then it was clear Adriana looked at her, not as a woman soiled, but as her instructor, with respect and an appreciation for her knowledge. Even as she had every reason to treat her with pity and discomfort, as Fiona herself sometimes did when it was brought up. By the Saints, the food was finished with perfect timing. The man served two plates with some great bowls of beef broth with sides of rye bread smothered with chunky head cheese. Adriana looked at the head cheese with apprehension. It was not something nobles often ate. In any case, the tension seemed to break with the bread. Guille watched Adriana with bated breath as she bit into the black bread. Adriana chewed it over a few times, before a pleasant expression passed over her face. "It pleases Your Grace?" asked Guille hopefully. "It does," said the Duchess, "It is an odd texture, but the flavor is excellent." Guille bowed his head multiple times. He was so appreciative he began to trip over his words. "Oh, Your Grace— I am— overjoyed!" Sara quickly scarfed down the bread. The head cheese had a jelly texture with meaty chunks in it. Sara chased it by sipping directly from the beef broth. Adriana mimicked her, also putting the bowl to her lips and slurping it up. The broth was pleasant and hot, meaty with the sweetness of the vegetables. "This is delicious," commented Adriana as she wiped her mouth. It was not so much praise as it was an observation. "You honor me," said Guille. He seemed to hesitate, and then he said, "You probably don'd remember me, Your Grace, bud I was there when ye was made Duchess. That was three years ago, methinks." "Yes... yes I do seem to recall you," Adriana said diplomatically, "Were you in the crowd?" "Aye. And ye was... fifteen, methinks. I always thoughd you'd make a fine Duchess, if ye don'd mind me saying. I weeped with ye family when ye brothers passed, aye." Fencing Academy Pt. 04 "Your sympathy is appreciated," said Adriana. Sara idly turned her head towards the street, and almost threw herself over the counter over what she saw. It was Massimo Ferrone, in his bloomy silks and greasiest smile, a muckraker and gossiper armed with a pen and printing press. His columns were often alongside luminaries such as Anselmo Pottage, giving gruesome details of human combat in sensual detail. Sara pulled her purple ponytail over her shoulder to make it less noticeable from a distance, and stooped over her soup. Adriana seemed to sense something was wrong, and she suddenly went quiet, and she adjusted the hood over her face. It was too late. Massimo glided over to Sara's side and pulled a stool. "Sara, my friend," he bleated nasally, "I was surprised I didn't see you." Sara sighed and swallowed a mouthful of soup. "That was because I saw you first." She tried very hard not to look at Massimo. Massimo looked as though he was about to order something, but stopped himself as he looked at Guille's skin tone. Instead Massimo sneered and preened his greasy black hair back and wiggled his cratered nose. "Sara, all these years and I still do not know what I've done to offend you." "You make money off human carnage," said Sara, "and you don't even kill anybody." "What does that make you, then?" said Massimo, his hands wriggling together. The humid day had given him a sheen of sweat. The sound of his palms squeezing wetly sent a gross feeling in Sara. "I teach people a honorable and challenging sport," said Sara. "Ha! You sound as the Humberts do," said Massimo. He moved on. "Do you think Lyza Dunwall should be a Fury?" Sara gave Massimo a sidelong glance. "I don't know about Lyza, but I nominate the Weeping Maiden." Sara added quickly, "That was a joke. Don't write it down." Massimo looked disappointed. "And the duel today? What do you think of that?" "Pistol duels are a little out of my sphere," said Sara. "They say in ten years most duels will be fought with pistols..." Sara knew Massimo was trying to bait her into saying something interesting. And Sara knew he had succeeded. Sara twisted in her stool, fully facing Massimo. "In ten years there will be no dueling. I will put an end to it." "How?" "I will convince the Duchess to pass a ban on death-duels." Sara faced away from Adriana, though she became acutely aware of a pair of eyes drilling into her back. "You intend to use your position as her fencing instructor... for political purposes?" asked Massimo. "Do I intend to do it? No, I already have," she said. "I've already drafted an edict to the Duchess... She told me she shares my position on this. It is only a matter of time." Adriana would not like that in the least. But the flash of fear on Massimo's face was worth it. Massimo quickly disguised it with a smile and a mocking whistle. "Oh my. Perhaps I should be worried?" "You should be, especially since it also says the last death duel will be between you and me. I've already written the column for it. Sara Sunderland, legendary fencer, penetrates Massimo's heart with a forceful thrust. Massimo gargles on his own blood, his eyes wide and full of fear. Before he dies, he tells the world, 'I must make my confession before I die: I'm a huge cunt.'" Massimo was laughing now, revealing a set of crooked teeth. "That would be something. I think I have enough from you now to write a nice, long piece. If you excuse me..." He pushed the stool back into the stall and sauntered down the street. Sara watched him go down the street, partly out of hatred, and partly from dread at seeing Adriana's face. When she could no longer wait, she turned. She got the look she feared from her. Adriana's eye were pure ice, her eyebrows curled sharply. "You've put me in a very awkward position," she said, "and not just me, you. What do you think they'll write of you when they find you've been lying?" It had been an impulse. No matter who died on the Field of Honor, Massimo was always emerged victorious. His career was built squeezing shillings and pence from the corpses of young men. For once, she wanted to win. If only for a moment. It was her stomach, now, that felt heavy. She might have ruined her career for but a moment of emotional satisfaction. I do not normally act this way, Sara thought to herself. Adriana told Guille, "We're done here. Thank you very much." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pound note. Guille was shocked. "Your Grace... I couldn't..." "Take it," insisted Adriana. With a guilty expression, Guille swept up the money. He gave them both steaming meat pies to take home and thanked them profusely. ### It was a minor miracle that Lyza was absent that day. Sara was drained, and had no energy to deal with the rebellious, violent eighteen year-old. More worryingly, Marcus was absent too. Adriana striking him was an unimaginable insult, particularly for such a sensitive, idealistic youth. Sara imagined him curled up somewhere dark, unable to face the day. Adriana's performance in class was purely perfunctory. She performed well, but Sara couldn't help but think it was to avoid comment from her. Without a Lyza to impress or a Marcus to embarrass, Tom was lazy. Only Sona the Spider-Eater seemed to have her heart in the class. The exotic girl's height and long arms made her a intimidating fencer, but she was used to the fighting styles of her home, making cuts typical of a falchion that didn't quite work with the rapier. The class dragged on unmercifully long. Things after that were hazy. Sara didn't even remember how she ended up in her study, head lolling strangely on her armchair, eye blinking heavily and tiredly. Her eyes traced a shelf along the wall. She pulled one of the books at random. It was The Manual of Practical Fencing: A Survey and Assessment of Styles Common and Exotic, and below it, it read in elegant gold lettering: By Sara Sunderland. She opened in the middle of the book and began to read aloud. "Around the year 100 the art of fencing was largely influenced by military applications. Hacking weapons were more prominent in this period as it was necessary to pulverize shields. Civilian dueling was largely performed with the ax. Even as swords became more prominent there was much emphasis on parrying with heavy counter-cuts and disabling opponents with singular blows, in stark contrast to the lighter, faster styles of the east." Her throat was getting dry. She paused to pour herself a goblet of wine. She swallowed it, unconcerned about the flavor, and continued. "There is a second reason for the persistence of heavy weapons in civilian battle. The warrior culture peculiar to that era of Zachonian history eschewed inflicting unnecessary pain against honorable opponents. The more swift and painless a kill, the more honor to both the slayer and slain, it was said. This persistent belief led to a period of Zachonian military weakness from a growing rival Artisian kingdom in the east, who had no such particular compunctions." "That changed with the invention of the Hirschfanger, a Wellenstien innovation readily adopted in Zachon. The Hirschfanger gave Zachonian knights and soldiers the ability to euthanize a dying opponent painlessly in combat, and thus Zachonians finally felt able to adopt Artisian military tactics and weapons without compromising their honor. The code, while no longer influential in the Zachonian military, is very much alive in Rotham's dueling culture. The Hirschfanger has raised the art of death-dueling to something civil and honorable. Concerns about the prolonged and torturous death of an opponent no longer apply. The duelist need only concern themselves with one thing: winning the duel, and slaying their opponent." When Sara reached the last few lines, her voice trailed off. It had felt like another hand entirely had penned it, but as her fingers traced the words she knew they were hers. The black ink was indelible. Did I write this before Yohn and Richard, or... It was so long ago, long enough where memories jumbled and it was difficult to discern which order events occurred. She couldn't remember how she met Yohn and Richard. As far as she could recall, they had simply apparated from Rotham's mists. They were both handsome, each in their own way. Yohn was dapper and charming, lithe and musical. Hawker reminder her of him. Richard was more morose, larger, and bearded. In the good times they were all friends. But new feelings smoldered slowly and unexpectedly. Sara found herself simmering at night with the thought of either of them in her bed. They had come under a similar spell for her. Men do not share well, she heard often from many, and their friendship turned inexorably into rivalry. She did as any young woman wanting for sex and attention from men would: she juggled them both. She flirted with each of them as the other looked away, made them both feel special, as if they were the only one. But she wanted didn't want to choose, she never intended to: she wanted them both. And she did, if for but one night. They had finished a night of drinking. Sara had let her hair down that night, her purple locks spilling over her shoulders. Her cheeks were reddened and body hot with the intoxicants that coursed through her. She had been entirely charmed by the two men sitting in front of her, and she was ready invite either of them to her bedroom for the night. Which one, she cared little. Except as the night wore on it became clearer things would be more complicated than that. Richard didn't want to leave Yohn alone with her, and the feeling was mutual for Yohn. They chose to wait it out, a decision Sara found immensely boring. She had given up. She stood up from her seat and said, "Well, I don't know about you boys, but I'm off to bed." "Let me escort you," said Richard quickly, in his low, quiet voice. Yohn was irritated that Richard had beaten him to it. "I'll come with you," he said, glaring at Richard. They left the tavern, and only Sara was happy. As she hooked her arms around the two men's waists, she wondered how she would lure one into bed without invoking the envy of the other. There was something about having the two men compete over her that aroused her immensely. She often indulged in a sexual fantasy that involved Yohn and Richard wrestling each other on the ground, barechested and sweating, bruises spotting their muscular backs, their abdominals squeezing together almost sensuously... Another memory intruded on her. She was transfixed to a piece of yellow parchment, like an aged newspaper clipping. She couldn't seem to look away. She read it against her will. The title read: YOHN TRAVERS VS. RICHARD GREY By Massimo Ferrone She returned to her home. The three of them had walked silently, but Sara had used the opportunity to feel the muscular clefts in their stomachs. In Yohn it was smoother, more shallow and wiry. In Richard it was deeper and hard, like rocks with just a little pleasant give. They both had a musky, manly scent, when mingled, evoked something animal in her. The journey was over, they stood by her front door facing each other, like two battalions of pikemen squaring off. Sara rationally knew she should send them both home. She hadn't planned on saying it. It just sort of came out... she huskily said, "Why don't you guys come in?" ...Travers and Grey, both esteemed duelists, met of the Field of Honor. Their motivation, to win the heart of fellow fencer Sara Sunderland. The young beauty, already known for her encyclopedic knowledge of the deadly art, is the object of many a man's fancy, though only the most talented fencer will conquer her heart. Her face was inscrutable as both men drew their swords for battle... The steps that lead up to it were lost to her. The three of them were simply crushed together by the bed. Sara's fingers began to tug and pull at Richard's breeches, her finger coming into electric contact with the hardness just beneath the cloth. At the same time, she leaned her head back to accept Yohn's tongue in her mouth. Their chests were squeezed against hers from either side, both hard as washboards... she could barely remember to breath, she sniffed up as much air as she could, taking in the intoxicating scent of male arousal. Richard's thin beard and lips tickled her neck. His cock, finally freed, hit insistently against her still clothed belly. Two sets of hands, from both the men, eased the bolero off her shoulders. She loved how smoothly they did it, how Richard's heavy hands pushed beneath the leather, gliding over her breasts, and how Yohn helpfully tugged each sleeve out. Richard's lips were deliciously unoccupied. She pressed her mouth against his, lips easing each other open. Her fingers skinned Richard's chest hair, traveling further and further down, until she could playfully tug his hardness. He was already hot and wet, the skin moved over cockhead easily. As she kissed Richard, Yohn's long-fingered hands slid up and down her stomach, grasping at her tunic so that her breasts could spill out from the top. Two fingers pinched a nipple. The sensation made Sara groan and smile into Richard's kiss. ...As the bout started, the two men paced back and forth, the main-gauche at the ready to intercept any sudden lunges. Tension hung thick in the air, their breath even and steady, determination to win deep in their eyes. At this point, all knew only one of the men would leave the duel alive... Their clothes were finally discarded. She leaned against Richard, pressing and grinding her back into this hard cock and heavy balls. He held her shoulders as, by her feet, Yohn knelt, his fingers sliding and preparing her netherlips, his own cock so stiff it practically reached his bellybutton. When he was satisfied by her wetness, he gave her a broad, seductive smile. She did nothing but watch with anticipation as he knelt into her, the knob of his dick descending beneath the curly pubic hairs of her pussy. A jolt shivered through her as she felt herself peel open. She gasped and undulated against Richard, whose heavy hand continued to pin her. When Yohn was fully inside, he gave her another, teasing smile, almost as boyish as it was roguish, and he started to pump. His dick was narrow but long, it reached deep inside, almost enough to press against her womb. The sensation was extraordinary... but it was not the size, nor Yohn's thrusting, nor Richard's tender, brown eyes looking down at her, but the two men she was with. The two men that had meant the most to her in the world, that had been her rock as she endured the dark city of Rotham. Yohn was reaching a pitch, his crotch now making a slapping sound with each thrust. Her legs tightened around him. She pressed her hand against Richard's cock, the tip slick with precum. Knowing that his cock would soon be in her too made her feverish with excitement. She was no longer aware of her gasps and moans. It was the scents and feelings that gripped her now. She would not let him cum though. Not yet. The night was too young. There were too many things she wanted to do, and have done to her. ...It was Yohn who lunged first. A twist from Richard turned what should have been lethal blow into a minor scratch. Richard's riposte was equally skillful, but anticipated. Yohn dodged out of the way, his wiry, agile body serving him well. The fight went back and forth for quite some time, with neither opponent dominant. It seemed the air had left the world... Richard had her on her hands and knees, his fingers delicately stroking where Yohn had just penetrated her, heat radiating from his erection. Occasionally, it would prod into the flesh of her ass, sending a jolt of arousal as she nuzzled against Yohn's cock. She didn't have it in her mouth, she simply held her lips against its base, her nose buried in Yohn's curled pubic hairs. His hand came to press her deeper into his chest, into the trail across his stomach. His chest was smooth and knotted, his muskiness overrode any senses she might have. Even before she was penetrated, her body began to undulate in anticipation, her wetness grinding against Richard's muscular thighs. Richard got the message, he stooped forward, and with a thrust pushed a thick cockhead into her. His deep groan made Sara's mouth water. Sucking Yohn's cock became an expression of how she felt as Richard fucked her. With hard thrusts her lips would tighten around it, in an effort not to bite down, and when he slowed she would lick at it sensuously, admiring the taste of sex. It was difficult to blow Yohn and get fucked by Richard at the same time. But, it would be such a waste if she didn't give it her best effort. ...Richard was breathing hoarsely. The larger man who moved with surprising alacrity had used all his energy in the first half of the fight. He found himself too slow to evade Yohn's rapid, lightning attacks... They now squeezed her between them, her breasts crushed against Richard's chest, Yohn's pecs and cock at her naked back. It was beyond her wildest imagination that she'd be like this, between two of her favorite men, Yohn pressing against her ass, Richard her pussy. Amazingly, there had been no negotiation, no begging on her part. She wasn't even aware of the name for the act they were about to do. Yohn and Richard lifted her, adjusted her, and lowered her onto them. Both of their members slid into her front and rear entrance. The sensation was exquisite and thunderous, she threw her head back and screamed her approval. As she was, she was too jammed up to even move... the men had to do the work. They undulated experimentally... she felt movement in her ass and pussy. She was open now, completely exposed and split from every angle. Her emotions and senses became one: she was vulnerable, in pain and pleasure, and yet so safe and warm. She wondered how she could have normal sex after this. They were awkward at first. Despite that, Sara enjoyed the fruits of their experimentation, even as it stung, unpredictable thrusts and pullings as they adjusted themselves inside her. The men quickly got the hang of it. They had to work together, thrust together. At peak entrance only a thin layer of flesh prevented the cocks from touching. It would be exciting to imagine how close their dicks were to one another, but sensation occupied every part of Sara's mind. All she could manage was to hold on. She wrapped both her arms around Richard's back, and gripped tightly... ...In a daring strike, Yohn sidestepped Richard and struck him in his back. Steel sank into his flesh, and he twisted before it could go deeper... The men continued to pump into her. Their rhythm had almost completely matched, and it was as though a great weight drove in and out of her with every thrust. She was entirely insensible, she sweated and groaned and clawed, she allowed Richard to suck the dew forming on her nipples, his beard tickling her. Tears stung her eyes. ...Richard slowed, stumbling back. Yohn saw his opportunity, and pushed forward. He took every cut he could, and all Richard could do was minimize the damage... Her body would give out eventually, but she wanted to stay like this for as long as she could. She wanted to feel them both inside her, as if they had both meant to be there. She held on to Richard's head possessively, her arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing him against her. Their cocks throbbed inside. Were they close? She hoped not. She wanted this a little longer. Just a little longer. ...Suddenly, a lunge from Yohn plunged into Richard's stomach. Blood dripped down the edge of the blade, splattering in the grass. As Yohn looked into Richard's eyes, he saw not anguish but determination. Richard grasped the sword in his belly and held it tight...