Some guests, Frank thought. He’d got the stopper out, poured a half inch of wine into one glass and gravely passed it to Orcrist. This may not be correct, he thought, but at least it’s formal.
Orcrist raised his eyebrows, but took the glass. He sipped it and nodded. Frank filled the glass, and then proceeded to fill all the glasses, moving clockwise around the table. When he had finished he set the decanter in the middle of the table, bowed, and fled into the kitchen.
“How’d it go?” asked Pons.
“Not bad. What’s next?”
“Salad. In five minutes. Put the dressing on it in four and a half minutes.”
As Frank strode out carrying the salad bowl five minutes later, he felt a premonition of disaster. Pons had thrown a handful of garbanzo beans on top of the salad at the last minute, and Frank, foreseeing them rolling all over the table, thought it an unwise move.
I’ll serve the pretty girl first, he thought. He walked smiling to her place and holding the bowl in one hand, reached for the salad tongs with the other. Smooth, he told himself.
Pons had, earlier, set the bowl down in a puddle of salad oil, and now Frank’s grip on the bowl slipped an inch. A garbanzo bean rolled off the mound of lettuce and plunked into the girl’s wine. She squealed. Her escort turned a face of outrage on Frank, who tried to back away and perhaps get a new wine glass.
“Idiot!” barked the escort as he stood up, shoving his chair violently backward against Frank’s leg. The greased salad bowl left Frank’s hand, rolled over in the air, and landed on the brown-eyed girl’s chest, from there sliding down into her lap. Covered with gleaming lettuce, carrots and garbanzo beans, the surprised girl looked like a tropical hillside.
“For God’s sake, Frank!” boomed Orcrist after a stunned pause. “Go get Pons!”
Frank hurried into the kitchen. “You take over,” he told Pons, and then went to his room, feeling monumentally inadequate.
AFTER the guests had left, Orcrist asked Frank to accompany him on a walk. Frank nodded and fetched a coat. They walked for two blocks along an empty stretch of Sheol before Orcrist spoke.
“Bad show, there, Frank.”
“That’s true, sir.”
They walked on, past another block.
“I am not going to relieve you of your kitchen duties, though. Oh, I know it was an accident! That’s not what I mean. I think you should continue to work in the kitchen, under Pons’s direction, for the same reason I’d tell you to keep trying to ride a horse that had thrown you, or to keep practicing fencing after you’d taken a bad cut. Don’t let these things defeat you, eh?”
“Right,” agreed Frank without much enthusiasm. “Good. Kathrin Figaro’s boyfriend wanted to cut your throat, by the way. I told him he’d probably need a bit of help, and he stormed out. Next time, spill the salad on him.”
Frank laughed weakly.
“A penny to see a dancing dog?” came a plaintive cry from the alleymouth they were passing. Orcrist stepped aside and handed the old woman some coins before he and Frank continued their walk.
“That was Beardo’s mother,” Orcrist remarked: “They don’t get along real well.”
Frank didn’t say anything.
THE next time he saw Kathrin Figaro he was relaxing in Orcrist’s sitting room, having finished his forgery of the difficult Monet canvas. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over which he had thrown the white silk smoking jacket Beardo had given him.
The front door opened just as Frank was pouring himself a well deserved (he told himself) glass of scotch. Assuming that it was Orcrist, he spoke casually over his shoulder. “I figured you wouldn’t mind my taking a glass, sir,” he said, and turned around to see Orcrist standing in the doorway with Miss Figaro on his arm.
“You’ve grown lax in your treatment of kitchen boys, Sam,” said Miss Figaro sharply. She stepped forward and slapped the glass out of Frank’s hand. It bounced on the carpet, splashing scotch on the bookshelves.
“I hate this sort of thing,” declared Orcrist. “Kathrin, he isn't a kitchen boy. He’s an apprenticed thief, and a junior partner of mine. Frank, pour yourself another glass. Pour me one too. Will you join us, Kathrin?”
“No,” she said icily. “Why is he dressed like a hobo mandarin? And why do you have him serve dinner if he’s a junior partner?” Plainly, she thought Orcrist was having a joke at her expense.
“I was doing that because we felt I’d be better off for some kitchen experience,” explained Frank, who was beginning to enjoy this. “And I’m dressed in my painting clothes. This is a smoking jacket.”
“He paints as well, does he?”
“Yes,” Orcrist answered. “It’s a hobby of his. Still lifes, puppies, sad children with big eyes—you know.”
Kathrin looked close to tears. “Sam, if you and this horrible boy are making fun of me, I’ll....”
“We’re not, I swear,” said Orcrist placatingly as he put his arm around her shoulders. “Frank, draw something, show her we’re not kidding.”
“All right.” There was a salt shaker on the coffee table, a relic of a bout of tequila drinking the night before, and Frank shook salt onto the dark tabletop until it had a uniformly frosted look. Then, with his left forefinger, he drew a quick picture of Kathrin. It caught a likeness, and even conveyed some of her apparently habitual irritability.
“There, you see?” said Orcrist. “I wasn’t kidding.”
“You aren’t a kitchen boy?”
“Not basically, no,” Frank answered.
“Oh. Well then, I’m sorry I spilled your drink. No, I’m not! You ruined my dress.”
“Let’s forget all of it,” said Orcrist, “and be friends.”
“Okay,” said Frank agreeably.
“All right.” Kathrin still seemed sulky.
The afternoon progressed civilly, and once, when Orcrist left the room, Kathrin turned to Frank with a hesitant smile.
“Could you ... teach me how to draw, sometime?” She looks much younger when she smiles, he thought. I’ll bet she’s about my age.
“Sure,” he said.
RAIN was somehow falling down the sunlight shaft onto Orcrist’s breakfast table. Frank sat watching it drip onto the remains of his scrambled eggs; he was puffing at a pipe and wondering how the devil pipe smokers kept the things lit. Across the table George Tyler was slumped dejectedly in a chair, his blond hair sticking out at odd angles from his head.
Orcrist walked in, carrying a plate of fried eggs and bacon and potatoes. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding at the growing puddle of rain water.
“It’s raining on the surface,” said Frank. “I suppose we ought to put a pan under it.” He resumed puffing on the pipe.
“Oh, your plate will do for now,” Orcrist said. “What are you trying to smoke?”
Frank waved at a pack of tobacco lying on the table. Orcrist picked it up and stared at it. “ ‘Cherry Brandy Flavored.’ Frank, you can’t smoke that." He tossed it down. “Let me get you some real tobacco.”
“And what’s real tobacco?” asked Tyler irritably. It had been he who’d recommended the Cherry Brandy blend to Frank.
“Something with latakia in it,” Orcrist said. “This fruit syrup stuff is no good for smoking; it’s only fit for impressing ignorant girls.”
Tyler shrugged, as if to say that that was reason enough to smoke it right there.
“Anyway, I have better things to talk about than bad tobacco,” Orcrist went on. “Tomorrow night I’m giving a dinner for ten of the High Lords of the Subterranean Companions. I’m hiring three guys to help out in the kitchen; you and Pons will be in charge, Frank. We’re going to have Giant Tacos, Beans Jaime, and dark beer—I’ve got Pons out buying supplies now. I think you ought to be the beer steward, Frank; you simply stand by with a pitcher of it and refill any glasses that become less than half full.”
“Doesn’t sound bad,” Frank said. “Will anyone I know be there?”
??
?No, she won’t,” said Orcrist.
THE next afternoon Frank strolled into the kitchen, where Pons and the three new cooks were already at work. One of the new men was chopping bell peppers on a wooden board; another was stirring a pot of hot sauce; and the third was grating block after block of cheese. On a stool to one side sat Pons, criticizing their work and telling them what needed doing afterward.
“It’s about time you got here,” Pons said. “Keep an eye on these dopes for a while.” He got up and strode out, shaking his head contemptuously.
“Oh, man,” said one of the cooks. “Who was that guy?”
“His name’s Pons,” said Frank. “I don’t like him either. Do you guys know how to do all this? Because I sure can’t tell you.”
“Oh, hell yes,” said another. “We work in a restaurant together. We’ve been making this stuff since we were kids. And then old Bon-Bon comes in here and wants to tell me how to cut bell peppers.”
“Well, cut them any way you want,” said Frank.
The big oven was turned on, and the room heated up pretty quickly, especially when one of the cooks began frying the ground beef in two huge pans. Frank was only doing peripheral jobs, chopping onions and fetching tomatoes, but he soon found himself sweating like a long-distance runner.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m ready for a beer. Who’ll join me?”
They all assented, and Frank opened four bottles of Orcrist’s favorite light beer. He passed these around, and then was amazed at how much more smoothly the kitchen ran when the cooks had bottles of beer beside them. There’s some principle at work there, he thought.
The door was kicked open and Pons entered.
“You’re letting them drink?" he gasped. He snatched all the bottles, which were empty now anyway, and flung them into a trash can. “Sam will hear about this,” he snarled at Frank. “You’ll be out of a job.”
“I don’t think so,” Frank said.
“Clear out, Bon-Bon,” said one of the cooks.
“You’ve gone too far,” Pons whispered. “You can’t undermine me. Tomorrow you’ll be out on the street.”
“Time will tell,” smiled Frank.
“The guests are here,” said Pons in a strangled voice. “Take out fifteen glasses and two pitchers of beer. Now!”
Frank did so, and managed without mishap to present each guest with a glass of the dark beer. There were ten, all older men, and they were dressed in fine clothes and wore decorated swords. When Frank had filled their glasses he stepped back from the table, but Orcrist beckoned him forward.
“Gentlemen,” Orcrist said, “I’d like you to meet Francisco de Goya Rovzar, my junior partner.” Orcrist introduced Frank to each lord in turn. Frank bowed respectfully to each, and then resumed his stewardship. The lords and Orcrist chatted and laughed among themselves, and Frank listened in from time to time, but found their talk either boring or incomprehensible.
Eventually Pons appeared, pushing a cart on which were set ten plates, each with a huge taco resting on it like a giant, lettuce-choked clam. The assembled lords exclaimed delightedly at the spectacle. Pons served them, and the guests began hesitantly prodding their tacos with forks. Frank was kept busy seeing that the glasses were filled and frequently had to dash to the kitchen for a fresh pitcher.
“Damn fine dinner, Sam,” said Lord Tolley Christensen as he threw down his fork for the last time. The other lords all nodded agreement. “And I hope such dinners never become a thing of the past.” Again they all nodded.
“Do you know, Tolley,” spoke up Lord Rutledge, “I was walking alone the other day or night and an armed policeman, in the Transport uniform, tried to arrest me?”
“Times are worse than I thought,” said Orcrist. “What did you do?”
“Oh, he drew his sword on me, so I killed him.”
“How?” asked Tolley. “As one craftsman to another.”
“He took my blade on the outside of his, in the high line, so I did a non-resisting parry and then just spiralled in over his bell guard, then under it, and nailed him.”
“He must not have been real sharp,” put in Orcrist. “I’d never have given you time to do all that.”
“Well, I am fairly fast,” Rutledge said. “Besides, that’s the only move you can make if the other guy takes your blade that way.”
“Well,” spoke Frank, “you could parry and riposte in prime.”
“What?” growled Rutledge, shifting around in his chair.
“I said you could have parried him in prime. One, you know.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
Frank was beginning to suspect that he shouldn’t have spoken. “Never mind, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“Wait a minute,” said Orcrist. “Here, Frank, use my sword. Rutledge, will you let me borrow yours for a moment? Thank you. Now, Frank, slowly, show me what you mean.”
Frank put the pitcher of beer down on a side table, took the sword in his left hand, and crouched into the on guard position. “All right,” he said. “Take my blade in sixte—come in over my sword arm.”
Orcrist extended his blade as he was told. When the point was within a foot of Frank’s chest, Frank suddenly inverted his sword by flipping his elbow up and deflected Orcrist’s blade to the side; then he riposted, thrusting at Orcrist’s chest with his arm twisted around so that his thumb and fingers were uppermost.
“That’s parrying in prime,” he said, holding the position with his point an inch or two away from Orcrist’s chest. “It’s a bit awkward, but if you use it at the right moment it’s unanswerable.”
“The boy’s making fun of us,” growled Rutledge. “Maybe not,” said Orcrist. “Let’s try a few thrusts, Frank. Gently.”
For the first minute Frank let Orcrist do all the work, and simply parried every thrust without even stepping back. Orcrist’s thrusts became faster and stronger, but Frank was able to hold him off effortlessly. He can’t really be trying, Frank thought. These attacks are fairly quick, but there’s almost no strategy. “Shall I begin replying?” asked Frank.
“Any time you like,” panted Orcrist.
Frank parried the next attack and feinted in quarte, then riposted in sixte to Orcrist’s chest, poking him lightly with the point. He then tapped Orcrist’s elbow twice in a row, and then did a faultless bind-eight culminating in a full-extension lunge. He held the position for a moment; his rear leg straight out behind him, lead leg bent in a ninety-degree angle, weapon arm straight and his sword point pressing a button on Orcrist’s coat. Then he relaxed back into the on guard posture. It felt good to get back into the disciplines of fencing—it reminded him of the old days with Tom in the Strand Fencing Academy.
“There is ... no end to your talents, Frank,” Orcrist panted. “Where did you study? Who taught you all this?”
“Jacob Strand, in a fencing school about twenty miles north and ten miles west.”
“Hmm.” Orcrist sat down and finished his beer. “Do you remember the words of our old friend Aurelius, Frank?”
“Yes, I do. ‘The universe is change.’ Might he have added ‘and talented lads are soon promoted out of the kitchen’?”
“Consider it added,” said Orcrist.
BOOK TWO: The Swordsman
Chapter 1
Frank delivered a final poke to the man-shaped rubber pad that was nailed to the wall—got him right in the throat!—and put down his sword. He unbuttoned his fencing jacket and sat down in a nearby canvas chair. Now where the hell is old Rutledge? Frank glanced at the clock on the wall. He’s ten minutes late.
Frank stood up, crossed to the open window, and leaned on the sill. He watched the littered tide of the Leethee flow past, its blackness highlighted by dancing glints of light cast by the lamps that hung from the tunnel roof. The river was wide through here, and he sometimes saw festive barges and solitary canoes wend their way up or downstream.
The Rovzar Fencing School had been open for almost six weeks. The
location was good (Orcrist had helped him find a good river-view building to rent in a respectable neighborhood), and he already had enough students to pay the rent and keep him busy.
Without exception, his students were ranking members of the Subterranean Companions; Orcrist pointed out that there was no reason to teach fencing secrets to strangers.
A chittering screech sounded in the adjoining room, and Frank turned around with a smile as Rutledge entered, carrying his pet monkey on his shoulder.
“Down, Bones!” Rutledge commanded. Bones, a wild-eyed spider monkey, leaped from the lord’s shoulder onto a chair and began gnawing the fabric.
“Damn all monkeys,” growled Rutledge. He shrugged off his velvet coat and took a fencing jacket out of a closet. “You must have washed these, Rovzar! This one seems to have shrunk.”
“It’s possible,” Frank said. It’s not the jacket’s fault, he thought. It’s beer and pork pie that have tightened the fit. “Have you been practicing your on guard?”
“Yes, yes. It’s invincible.” Rutledge flipped a wire-mesh fencing mask over his face and selected one of the practice épées hanging on a wall rack. He flexed the blade a few times and then crouched, the blade held forward and ready. “How’s that?” he asked.
Frank put on a mask and picked up his own épée.
“Not bad,” he said, critically examining Rutledge’s posture. “Let’s see if you can maintain it.”
He saluted, and they began to bout, starting slow and relaxed. Each point hovered around the other man’s bell guard, never getting a clear shot at a wrist or forearm. After a minute, Frank began to let his elbows show beneath, apparently unguarded. He saw Rutledge tense with preparation, and then the lord’s blade flashed out at Frank’s elbow. Just as he saw him extend, though, Frank went up on his toes and straightened his sword arm, catching Rutledge in the biceps with the sword’s covered tip. Rutledge’s sword wavered in empty air.