Hadrian walked over to where the boys were fighting and sat on the grass near Denek to watch. Denek, who was only twelve years old, glanced at him curiously. “Who are you?”
“My name is Hadrian,” he replied as he extended his hand. The boy shook it, squeezing harder than was necessary. “You’re Denek, right? The Pickerings’ third son? Perhaps you should speak with my friend Myron, seeing as how I hear you are monastery-bound.”
“Am not!” he shouted. “Going to the monastery, I mean. I can fight as well as Fanen.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hadrian said. “Fanen is flat-footed, and his balance is off. He’s not going to improve much either, because Mauvin is teaching him, and Mauvin is favoring his right and rocks back on his left too much.”
Denek grinned at Hadrian and then turned to his brothers. “Hadrian says you both fight like girls!”
“What’s that?” Mauvin said, whacking aside Fanen’s loose attack once more.
“Oh, ah, nothing,” Hadrian said, trying to recant, and glared at Denek, who just kept grinning. “Thanks a lot,” he told the boy.
“So, you think you can beat me in a duel?” Mauvin asked.
“No, it’s not that. I was just explaining I didn’t think Denek here would have to go to the monastery.”
“Because we fight like girls,” Fanen added.
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Give him your sword,” Mauvin told Fanen.
Fanen threw his sword at Hadrian. It dove point down in the sod not more than a foot before his feet. The hilt swayed back and forth like a rocking horse.
“You’re one of the thieves Alric told us about, aren’t you?” Mauvin swiped his sword deftly through the air in a skillful manner that he had not used in his mock battles with his brother. “Despite this great adventure you all have been on, I don’t recall Alric mentioning your great prowess with a blade.”
“Well, he probably just forgot,” Hadrian joked.
“Are you aware of the legend of the Pickerings?”
“Your family is known to be skillful with swords.”
“So you have heard? My father is the second-best swordsman in Avryn.”
“He’s the best,” Denek snapped. “He would have beaten the archduke if he had his sword, but he had to use a substitute, which was too heavy and awkward.”
“Denek, how many times do I have to tell you, when speaking of one’s reputation, it does not boost your position to make excuses when you lose a contest. The archduke won the match. You need to face that fact,” Mauvin admonished. Turning his attention back to Hadrian, he said, “Speaking of contests, why don’t you pick up that blade, and I’ll demonstrate the Tek’chin for you.”
Hadrian picked up the sword and stepped into the dirt ring where the boys had been fighting. He made a feint, followed by a stab, which Mauvin easily deflected.
“Try again,” Mauvin said.
Hadrian tried a slightly more sophisticated move. This time he swung right and then pivoted left and cut upward toward Mauvin’s thigh. Mauvin moved with keen precision. He anticipated the feint and knocked the blade away once more.
“You fight like a street thug,” Mauvin commented.
“Because that’s what he is,” Royce assured them as he approached from the direction of the keep, “a big, dumb street thug. I once saw an old woman batter him senseless with a butter churn.” He shifted his attention to Hadrian. “Now what have you gotten yourself into? Looks like this kid will hand you a beating.”
Mauvin stiffened and glared at Royce. “I would remind you that I’m a count’s son, and as such, you will refer to me as lord, or at least master, but not kid.”
“Better watch out, Royce, or he’ll be after you next,” Hadrian said, moving around the circle, looking for an opening. He tried another attack but that, too, was blocked.
Mauvin moved in now with a rapid step. He caught Hadrian’s sword hilt-to-hilt, placed a leg behind him, and threw Hadrian to the ground.
“You’re too good for me,” Hadrian conceded as Mauvin held out a hand to help him to his feet.
“Try him again,” Royce shouted.
Hadrian gave him an irritated look and then noticed a young woman entering the courtyard. It was Lenare. She wore a long gown of soft gold, which nearly matched her hair. She was as lovely as her mother and walked over to join the group.
“Who is this?” she asked, motioning at Hadrian.
“Hadrian Blackwater,” he said with a bow.
“Well, Mr. Blackwater, it appears my brother has beaten you.”
“It would appear so,” Hadrian acknowledged, still dusting himself off.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My brother is a very accomplished swordsman—too accomplished, in fact. He has a nasty tendency to chase away any would-be suitors.”
“They are not worthy of you, Lenare,” Mauvin said.
“Try him again,” Royce repeated. There was a perceptible note of mischief in his voice.
“Shall we?” Mauvin asked politely with a bow.