The very ordinariness of the movement did much to dispel the haze of ritual. This was something he knew, weapons and their use, and Eslingen scanned the racked blades with growing confidence. “May I try them?”

“Go ahead.” It was Duca who answered, no surprise there, and Eslingen drew the first sword that looked suitable. It was good in the hand, heavy but well balanced and a little longer than he liked, and he slid it back in the rack to see if he could find a better. Its neighbor, a slightly lighter blade with the traces of silver inlay in the guard, was almost as good, but after a moment’s hesitation, Eslingen went back to the heavier blade. Siredy looked like a finesse fighter; the weight could be an advantage. He chose a dagger as well, and then Siredy stepped up to the rack, pulling sword and dagger from among the ranked blades. De Vicheau came forward to take both sets of weapons, and Siredy quickly stripped off his coat, hanging it carefully over the shoulders of a target dummy. He removed his long bronze wig as well, placing it on the dummy’s head, and in spite of everything Eslingen had to suppress a smile. For all his paint and vanity, Siredy’s own hair was hopeless, far too red to hope that lemon‑water would bleach it gold.

“Plastrons,” Rieux said, and Eslingen stripped off his own coat to accept the padded jacket, let the woman fasten the straps at waist and shoulder. Duca did the same for Siredy, then motioned the two men into the center of the floor. Eslingen obeyed, swinging his arms to get the feel of the plastron and the weight of the weapons. The sun had vanished, but enough light streamed through the enormous windows that they would have no fear of shadows. Across the hall, Siredy stretched easily, and met his eye with a quick, almost conspiratorial smile.

“The bout is to three,” Duca said, “unless the sergeant or I see a killing blow.”

Behind him, Soumet made a face, but said nothing.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Siredy said, and Eslingen echoed him.

“Commence.”

Siredy lifted his sword in a salute that swept instantly into a running attack. Eslingen had seen the move before, and swayed easily out of the slighter man’s way. He parried the return stroke, and let himself wait to find the rhythm of the match. As he’d expected, Siredy fought with finesse, all quick strokes and clever bladework, but he lacked the raw strength that would allow him to bull his way through Eslingen’s defenses. Eslingen let that guide him, let his own style shift to match the other’s, meeting delicacy with strength, abandoning all his own favored moves for sheer brute force. Siredy won the first touch, and the second, but Eslingen took the next one with the return stroke, and took the next two in quick succession.

“Halt!”

Eslingen instantly grounded his blade, but Siredy flourished a salute. He wasn’t really breathing hard, Eslingen realized, and felt the sweat running under his own plastron. So much for the cool air.

“Creditable,” Rieux said, and Duca lifted a hand.

“Who’s next?”

“I am.” That was the ox, and Eslingen suppressed a groan, already guessing the other man’s choice of weapon.

“What weapon?”

“Sword and roundshield.” Soumet folded his arms across his chest.

“Lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, then spread his hands. “I’m allowed a refusal?”

“One refusal,” Duca said. He paused. “Do you refuse?”

I haven’t fought with those weapons in– oh, it must be ten years, not since I was a common pikeman. One of us would get hurt, and that is certainly not the point today. Eslingen tried a polite smile, searching for the right words, and Soumet snorted.

“Even soldiers know sword and roundshield. Or don’t you think you can win?”

I could take you. Eslingen swallowed the words, recognizing folly when he heard it, looked at Duca instead. “I haven’t used sword and roundshield since I left the pike line. If this is a test and not a blood match, I must refuse. I can’t promise your man’s safety.”

Rieux nodded, almost approvingly, but Duca’s expression didn’t change. “That is your one refusal, Lieutenant. Be certain.”

Eslingen bowed, guessing the formality wouldn’t hurt him. “I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Duca said. “Master Soumet, the candidate has refused your weapon. Choose another.”

“Halberds,” Soumet said, and behind him de Vicheau rolled his eyes. Duca frowned ponderously, and Soumet met his glare squarely. “It’s a fair weapon–a listed weapon, and one we’re actually going to use in this foolish play. I stand by my choice.”

Duca’s look did not bode well for the younger man’s future career, but he turned to face Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”

“Halberds, then.” Eslingen did his best to suppress a smirk. He’d been a sergeant far longer than he’d been a lieutenant, and the halberd was a line sergeant’s weapon: this was a fight he knew he could handle. Apparently Soumet had been misled by the gentleman’s name.

“Padding,” Rieux said, and Siredy and de Vicheau brought out thickly quilted coats, the stuffing so thick from neck to groin that they looked liked oversized, swaddled infants. Eslingen let Siredy help him into the coat–the man had retrieved his wig, if not his coat, Eslingen saw with amusement–and secure the straps that would keep it in place. There were padded gauntlets as well, ungainly things like stiff mittens, and a padded hood, but all in all, Eslingen thought, one good blow from a regulation halberd could still break bones, even through the layers of felt and wadding. Then Siredy handed him the tasseled weapon, and Eslingen understood. It was only a stage copy of a halberd; the shaft was lighter, and the tiny ax‑head at the peak–he tapped it to be sure–was only painted wood.

“Don’t break it,” Siredy said softly, and stepped away.

And that, Eslingen thought, might be harder than it looked. He was used to the real thing, a heavy oak shaft as thick as his wrist, with an iron sheathing running from the ax almost down to the grip. He swung it once, then again, trying to get the balance, and Duca said, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Soumet answered promptly, and Eslingen nodded.

“Ready.”

Soumet came at him in a rush, using the halberd like a quarter‑staff, feinting low and then high before landing a solid blow in Eslingen’s ribs. Even through the padding, and even with the lighter weapon, it hurt, and Eslingen danced back, struggling to block the other man’s blows while he caught his breath. He was looking bad, he knew, and failed to block a second painful strike. One more, he thought, one more and I’ve lost, but he couldn’t seem to get the feel of the too‑light weapon. He struck once, missed, landed a glancing blow off the block, and saw Rieux lift a hand, giving him the point. Soumet turned away, swearing under his breath, and Eslingen backed away, hardly able to blame the man. He needed a flashy way out, either by winning–not likely, not with Soumet outfighting him at every step–or by losing well. The halberd was light in his hands, too light, and he danced away from another rush, stumbling on the even floor. And then, suddenly, he knew, and shifted his grip on the shaft, sliding his hands apart as he lifted it to block another attack. Soumet’s stick crashed between them, and the wood splintered under the blow. Eslingen dodged back, throwing away the pieces, and Soumet checked his follow‑through barely in time.

“Halt!”

“A killing blow,” Soumet cried, turning to Duca, but the big man shook his head.

“No. To the body only, if it had landed–”

“Which it didn’t,” Siredy said, to no one in particular, and Duca glared at him.

“The third hit, and the end of the bout. That’s all.”

“Sergeant–Master Rieux,” Soumet said. “You can’t stand by this.”

“I can and I do,” Rieux answered. Soumet looked as though he would have said more, but the woman drew herself up to her full height. “Enough! The match is ended. Be content with your victory. Though I for one will have words with you about weapons later.”