It hurt. A lot. In fact, after about ten of those, Claire was gasping for breath and sweating; in about fifteen, she was ready to cry. Eve stopped after twenty, but it seemed like she could have gone all day.

“I had to put all this on for that?” Claire muttered, as she pulled off her helmet. Her hair was soaked with sweat and sticking to her face. “Seriously? Nobody even waved a sword at me!”

“You have to get used to the weight and moving in it,” Eve said. “Suck it up, newbie.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah, well, a lot. I had to do it. You should, too.” Eve winked. She moved off to a padded pole that had a red circle marked on it, and practiced some lunges on her own. Her sword point landed in the circle every time.

Claire spun around at the dry sound of hands clapping. She hadn’t heard anybody come into the room, but there he was, dressed in white fencing gear, with a sword in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm. Oliver. He looked leaner and harder in the uniform.

Next to him, also dressed in white, was another figure. Amelie. The Founder of Morganville had never seemed so small before; the clothes she wore tended to enhance her height, as did the high heels. But like this, Claire realized that Amelie wasn’t much taller than she was, and was very slender. In the fencing clothes, she could have passed for a boy, except for the feminine curves of her face.

“You’re coming along, Eve,” Amelie said. Eve broke off her lunges and stood very straight, sword point down. “I remember when you first began your lessons. I had to give personal approval for anyone who practiced those types of martial arts.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I was competitive,” Eve said. “Hey, Ollie.”

“For that,” Oliver said, “you may step onto the piste.”

“I didn’t come to fight.”

“You’re dressed for it. What is that—a foil? Nonsense. You’re more suited to an épée.” Oliver snorted and took another weapon from the wall, which he threw in Eve’s direction. She grabbed it out of the air with her left hand. It had a deadlier look to it, Claire realized; more like a triangular blade than the square base of the foil. Still had a tip on it, but it looked like a tougher thing to master.

Eve shrugged and tossed the foil back to Oliver, who put it on the rack. “All right,” she said, and cut the weapon—the épée—through the air with a hissing sound. “Your funeral, dude.”

Oliver bared his teeth in a grim smile and put on his helmet. “I doubt it,” he said.

Eve put on her helmet, too, and stepped into the narrow path marked on the floor. Claire moved back to stand by Amelie, who watched with an intense, focused expression on her pale face. As Eve and Oliver raised their swords in salute, she nodded and said, “Go.”

It was literally over in seconds. Claire was used to the kind of fighting from the movies—long, clanging duels with lots of moving around and occasional cape swirling. This was fast and incredibly deadly. She didn’t even see what happened, only that there was a blur of motion, some metallic clangs that came too fast to register, and suddenly Eve was standing there with Oliver’s sword tip tenting the fabric of her pirate-skull emblem, right over her heart. “Well, crap,” Eve said, and took a step back. “No fair using vampy speed.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I don’t need to. Fencing was a survival skill in my day. Again?”

“Sure.” Eve backed up to the far end of the marked-off strip—the piste?—and settled into a low crouch that somehow didn’t look at all awkward.

“Go,” Amelie said, and there was another blur of motion. This time, Claire made out a couple of things—one, that Eve seemed to lunge for Oliver’s chest and then dropped way down, and her point took him in the lunging leg. His slid over her shoulder. Eve hit the ground and rolled up to her feet, raising her épée in triumph.

“Dude, gotcha!” she said. “Mortal wound, right there. Femoral artery. You are so dead.”

He didn’t respond at all, just walked back to his spot on the other side of the strip.

“Seriously? You can’t walk away with a tie?” Eve asked. She’d pulled off her helmet, and her black eyes were wicked bright. “Can’t we all just get along?”

“Fence,” he barked. “Don’t talk.”

Eve popped her helmet back on and took her place on the strip. Amelie drew in a breath, and instead of giving the signal, said, “Oliver, perhaps you should let it go.”

His helmeted face turned toward her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it, and then focused back on Eve, who was taking the en garde stance. “Start us,” he said. “Two out of three.”

“He doesn’t like to lose,” Amelie said to Claire, and shrugged. “Very well. Go!”

Claire focused, and managed to see exactly what happened this time. Oliver lunged. Eve parried, but he was ready for it, and got his blade back in line by knocking hers out of line. She tried for another thigh wound, but that didn’t work this time.

Oliver slammed the point of his épée into her chest so powerfully, it drove her back a step and made her drop her sword.

“Oliver!” Amelie snapped, and he backed off. Eve staggered backward, lost her footing, and fell on her butt. Her épée clattered away across the floor as she put both hands to her chest, then reached up to rip her helmet off. Her face had gone chalk white, and her eyes were huge.

“Ow,” she said. “Damn. That’s going to leave a mark.”

Oliver walked away, circling restlessly, turning his épée around and around in his gloved hand. “You asked for it,” he said. “Now get off the piste if you’re going to complain about a bruise.”

Eve slowly rolled up to her knees, collected her helmet and sword, and stood up. She didn’t seem too steady.

“Help her out,” Amelie said. “Make sure she’s not broken a rib. Oliver, that was unnecessary.”

“What was unnecessary was her gloating,” he replied. “I didn’t come here to fight children, and she needs to learn the same harsh lesson I did: taunting those who are stronger has consequences.”

“The stronger have a responsibility to the weaker,” Amelie said. “As you very well know.”

“I’ve had quite enough responsibility. And I thought we came here to fight, woman. If all you want is to hold philosophical discussions while attractively dressed, surely we can do that elsewhere.”

Eve looked better now, with the color coming back to her face—coming back too fast for Claire’s comfort, because there was an angry, frightened glitter in her eyes. “Bully,” she muttered.

Oliver took off his helmet and stared at her. He looked as solid as bone, and like someone nobody wanted to mess with. “I don’t allow people to mock me,” he said. “And the next time you presume to call me by a pet name, I’ll do worse than crack a rib for you on the piste. Now get out of the way. The adults require space.”

Amelie cocked her head to one side, studying him, and said, “I’m bored with all these rules. Shall we dispense with the conventions, then?”

“By all means,” Oliver said, and tossed his helmet into the corner. She put hers safely out of the way. “Weapons?”

“I prefer the épée,” she said. “Two of them.”

“Ah. Florentine. That suits me well enough.”

They each took two swords, and as Claire and Eve retreated back to a bench in the rear of the room, Amelie and Oliver faced off. Amelie crossed her two swords in front of her face, and Oliver followed suit; the sound of four blades cutting the air in salute made Claire shiver. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

“Free fighting,” Eve answered, keeping it quiet. “No rules. More like the old-style duels.”

“Not quite,” Amelie said. She was almost smiling. “This likely won’t end in death.”

“But no guarantees,” Oliver said. He was smiling, and not his usual eviler-than-you sort of twisted lips, either. He almost looked happy. “Ready?”