"Two of them down." Parley‟s satisfied smile took on a sheen of smug superiority. The gold shimmers, the ostentatious glittering, reflected off his normally dull brown eyes.
Sebastien narrowed his eyes. A game within a game. And the favor of this one to the legitimate progeny at four to two.
Sebastien reached into the remixed chalice and saw the scripted P along the edge of one folded piece. He drew the paper, handing it to Cheevers without opening it, his eyes seeking his prey.
"Deville versus Parley."
His eyes never left Parley as he smiled, the flattened, dead smile of a reaper simply doing his duty. Parley fumbled his priggish grip for a second, and Sebastien‟s smile grew.
"One to go, eh, Parley?" Sebastien whispered as he clasped the other man‟s hand in a too-tight grip. He abruptly let go and signaled with his blade. Parley held him at ready, only a small tremor showing his nerves.
Parley was a decent swordsman, but with none of the flair of Everly or the outright technique or skill of Sloane. He relied too much on fundamental postures, stances, and basic attacks, showing no individual style. Although his footwork showed adequate speed, he often moved forward without extending.
Parry, parry, thrust, thrust. Sebastien started toying with him, darkly amused by the anxiety in Parley‟s eyes as it became more apparent that he would be the loser. Perhaps next time the man would think before he spoke.
Sebastien changed rhythm, moving forward on attack and catching Parley off guard. A flash of light suddenly caught the edge of his awareness. He parried Parley and made to thrust when the light caught him dead in the eye, momentarily blinding him. He could feel Parley step closer, could sense the crowd tipped in anticipation of a score, but the movement in front created a starburst of color surrounding a circle of white.
Something split the air, the blade slicing through the corona, and Sebastien feinted left, Parley‟s blade an inch from sliding along his stomach, hitting the air where he had just been.
He pulled his epee up and tagged Parley, the movement sending him out of the beam of light. A trick of tilted glass from the window, or something more sinister? He stepped back, allowing Parley to advance upon his seeming retreat.
He allowed Parley to continually thrust him back, until the light hit Parley‟s face. The light was yanked away. Something more sinister than.
Sebastien stepped in for the kill, tagging him a final time, wishing, just a little, that the blades were untipped.
Parley ripped off his gloves at the sidelines as the next two took their positions.
"It wasn‟t fair. Something tried to blind me."
"Something did blind me, Parley. Get past it."
"You pushed me in the direction of the light then," Parley said, accusation and defiance dripping from his words.
"Of course I did," Sebastien explained in a way that a two-year-old might understand. "When you fight you use every tactic to your advantage. Someone deliberately reflected the light onto me. You simply moved into the path that was already there, just like a window‟s light. Your inattention was your disadvantage."
Parley‟s face turned even more mottled.
"What did you see?" one of the women asked the prig.
"White. Like a mirror."
"The ghost," she whispered. Another woman tittered.
Ghost? Women were such odd creatures sometimes. "It wasn‟t a ghost," Sebastien said. "It was treachery."
"The ghost was trying to disorient him," one woman said to the other.
Sebastien clenched his fists, his patience nearly evaporated. He turned his attention to the pair dueling as the women whispered about spirits.
The competition continued on, weeding through the brackets, and in the second to last round, he finally met Sloane, who scored a preponderance of hits, and bowed out to him. Benedict was beaten by Everly on the other side of the draw, as expected. Benedict eyed him in mutual dislike. He and Benedict would be declared third and fourth depending on which man won the last bout.
The match wore on for what seemed like hours, Sloane gaining a single point while Everly claimed none. Sloane was clearly toying with Everly, evaluating his strengths and weaknesses. Sebastien leaned against the wall waiting for Sloane to win so that he could collect third. Another win to a bastard son. Another small victory, even if he wasn‟t the one to gain it. He saw the reflections on the other faces. The eagerness versus the tight-lipped disgust.
His eyes shifted to the blonde, watching with Lady Sarah in the corner. Her face held a look of fierce concentration as she watched.
All of a sudden a crack sounded, and Sloane‟s blade separated from its guard, clattering to the floor.
Everly attacked with hot greed, plunging in and striking Sloane for the point, taking advantage of his opponent‟s misfortune.
Sloane looked down at the broken epee in amazement. People began murmuring on the sidelines. Some argued that Everly shouldn‟t be rewarded the point, others saying whatever it took to win was acceptable. Most seemed to agree with the latter.
"He‟s a cheat," Bateman slurred.
"He‟s the son of an earl!"
"Sloane is the son of a marquess. That trumps an earl."
"He‟s a bastard. And if there is any cheating going on, then it is on your side.
Bastards all cheat," Parley proclaimed.
"Bastards all cheat? What is this? Wisdom from a third son, no better than a dog," one of the lesser-known contestants said.
Parley shook his fist. "Better than you, you mangy bastard."
"And what is this about „our side‟? The thirds and fourths trying to stake a „better than thou‟ claim on the competition?" Timtree cocked his head.
"Better than you," Parley said, looking ready to draw blood.
"How tiring you‟ve become."
The fathers watched avariciously, which did little to improve Sebastien‟s mood over the ire already incurred by the legitimate sons‟ taunting.
"Everly won," yelled a contestant Sebastien had barely spared any mind.
"Everly scored a point, you dilettante , he didn‟t win," Timtree countered.
Irritated and annoyed by it all, Sebastien stepped in and handed his blade to Sloane. "Here. I‟ve checked mine; it seems to be fine."
"Maybe you were the one who weakened his blade," Benedict said.
"Don‟t be an ass. As if I would sabotage Sloane instead of Everly, some cock-kissing third." He looked directly at Benedict, who went puce.
Voices erupted again, chaos embracing the room.
Caroline walked down the steps of the squire‟s house, a basket full of lemons in her arms, plans for the village celebration in her head, and sketches for the final two games dropped off with the assignments. There was extensive planning needed for both.
They had successfully scheduled the village festivities to take place during the two-week break in the tournament. Cheevers had assured her that most of the guests would leave then. She hoped so, otherwise their small village celebration would be overrun with society guests, who had no business being there.
The party tonight would be overflowing with such people.
She grimaced. More and more she could see how the notoriety would help Sarah‟s social status in the future, but the idea that she could be saddled with someone like Deville for a husband didn‟t sit well.
No, she‟d not argue the tournament outright, but she would continue with her plans. First the saddles, then the blades, then the mirrors, then the ghost, then the trousers, then the…
She kept up a steady stream of planning as she walked through the valley and up the hill, looking at the ground in front of her without really paying attention. The well-traveled path from the village to her cottage was automatic.
Her feet knew the path without her having to think about it.
It was a dangerous road she trod by altering the games. The first game had been a lark, a test. The earl hadn‟t so much as looked at her strangely when he‟d talked about pranks or the switched items—he sometimes terribly underestimated women, which was to her advantage.
And with others sabotaging as well, and in more evil ways than she could ever dream, the culpability and guilt was spread.
She approached the Roman ruins near the top of the hill, tripping slightly over a small stone, her mind not on the path in front of her. A lemon rolled from her basket and hit the ground with a plop, a spurt of juice indicating a tear in the rind. She sighed and bent down to pick it up.
"A lovely view, but you‟ll lose them all, if you aren‟t careful."