James McGee - Rapscallion

"Sarazin was at Millbay for a time, too. They used compass points there instead of blades, but we found they're not quite as effective. Not so readily available, either. I put it down to your friend Fouchet's geometry and navigation classes." The Corsican gave a dry chuckle.

Hawkwood stared at the blade then at Matisse. "And if I choose not to fight?" he asked.

"Then you forfeit. The boy remains with us. His future's in your hands, Captain."

"And if I win, you'll give the boy up?"

"I told you: in the event of that happening, the boy will be set free. You have my word."

"What are the rules?"

"There are no rules," Matisse said.

Several of the men laughed.

Lasseur frowned. "Then what determines the outcome of the contest? Is it the first to draw blood?"

"No, it's when one of them stops breathing."

The interior of the hold went still. Only the creaking of the hulk's timbers broke the silence.

The blood drained from Lasseur's face. "This is madness!"

"No, it's how we maintain order. There has to be order. You see that, don't you? You're military men. You understand the need for discipline. Without it, there'd be anarchy. Can't have that. It would upset the balance."

"No!" Lasseur said. "You cannot do this!" He threw Hawkwood a despairing look.

"Oh, but I can. Down here I can do anything I like."

He stared at Hawkwood. It was a blatant challenge.

A voice spoke softly inside Hawkwood's head. Walk away now!

"At least take the boy outside," Hawkwood said. "He doesn't need to see this."

Matisse shook his head. "On the contrary, I think it will do him the world of good. His first blooding. It could be the making of him. If Kemel Bey does his work, it might even be his first time for experiencing other pleasures, too." Matisse chuckled softly and squeezed the boy's shoulders. "How's your Latin,

Captain? You strike me as an educated man. Do you know the phrase: Jus primae noctis? It means the law of the first night. We call it the lord's right in French. My right. I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to it. Our evening entertainments have been lamentably dull of late. It's why we look forward to fresh arrivals. It gives us a chance to meet new… friends."

There was movement behind Dupin. The putrid air prickled with tension as the Mameluke emerged from the ring of men and stepped into the light. He'd removed his jacket. His torso was bare. Dressed only in the pantaloons, he stood as still and as silent as a statue, arms loose by his sides, looking neither right nor left.

Lasseur leant close and whispered nervously. "Please tell me you can best him."

Hawkwood studied the Mameluke. He wondered what was going through the man's mind. There was no change of expression, no show of concern in the eyes or anything in the face to imply that the man had heard or understood any of the conversation. Hawkwood had been shown an automaton once, a wondrous mechanical device that had consisted of a small, perfectly made manikin in the figure of a Turk. By a remarkable system of levers, rods and pulleys, the automaton had sprung to life, folding its arms and bowing its head, even smoking a tiny hookah pipe. Kemel Bey looked like a life-sized version of the toy; a mechanical man awaiting instructions.

"I was hoping for a quicker response," Lasseur murmured.

Hawkwood wasn't listening. He was looking at the Mameluke's scars. Back on the orlop, they had been concealed by the darkness and the prison coat. Now, with coat discarded, they were plainly visible within the ring of lantern light. There was no symmetry to them. They formed a tapestry up his right arm from wrist to shoulder like a pattern of twigs cast haphazardly on to the ground. There were more scars across the firm flesh of his abdomen and along the ridges of his upper chest. The latter, however, looked quite old and showed as pale, raised streaks against his dark skin. The ones along his arm appeared more recent.

Matisse's voice broke into his thoughts. "Don't let the scars fool you, Captain Hooper. Kemel Bey's quite an expert with the razor, but then he's had the practice. How many have there been, Dupin? Is it four or five?"

"Six," Dupin muttered. "You're forgetting the Swiss."

"Ah, yes, the Swiss. I always forget the Swiss. Mind you, it's easily done. They're a forgettable race, like their tedious little country. It's so small I'm surprised anyone knows where it is from one day to the next."

Hawkwood presumed the most recent scars were from previous razor duels and the remainder legacies of the Mameluke's skirmishes on the battlefield. Whatever their cause, it was clear that Kemel Bey's expertise with weapons had not been achieved without personal cost and, presumably, a good deal of pain. Hawkwood had more than enough scars of his own, but they were few in number compared to Matisse's champion.

Matisse snapped his fingers. Hawkwood removed his jacket and passed it to Lasseur, who received it half-heartedly. The men backed away, pulling Lasseur with them, extending the radius. Some took up positions between the deck struts. Others found seats on the tops of barrels. A small amphitheatre formed in the centre of the hold.

Hawkwood could feel warm beads of moisture gathering uncomfortably in the small of his back. Strange, he thought, considering the back of his throat was as dry as sand. He glanced towards Lasseur. Even in the half-light he could see that the privateer's face was pale.

Dupin tossed the Mameluke the second razor stick.

"Begin," Matisse said.

The Mameluke attacked.

Hawkwood sucked in air as the razor curved towards his belly, brought his own stick down against the outside of the Mameluke's stave and exhaled as he parried the blade away. The thwack of wood on wood was as loud as a pistol shot.

Hawkwood had seen the attack coming. The microscopic widening of the eyes, the tensing of the shoulders and the subtle shifting of weight on to the right leg had telegraphed his opponent's intention. Even so, the Mameluke's speed was impressive. So, too, was his strength. The shock from the collision shuddered through Hawkwood's arm, jarring nerve endings from wrist to shoulder.

Then the Mameluke was turning, bringing his blade around in a reverse strike towards the back of Hawkwood's sword hand. Hawkwood rotated his wrist, slanted away, and felt the bite of the Mameluke's blade as it scored across his knuckles.

Hawkwood stepped back quickly, adjusting his hold on the stick, extending his thumb in a rapier grip, testing the balance and the flexibility in the shaft. It wasn't a lot different to a duelling foil; slightly thicker but the length was about the same. The main difference was the sharp blade instead of a point. This was a weapon meant to sever and cleave, not pierce. There was no guard to protect the hand either. It explained the scarring across the Mameluke's wrist and forearm, and the cut in Hawkwood's flesh that was already welling blood.

The Mameluke advanced again, the thin blade swooping in from on high, cutting down and across. Hawkwood brought his stick round to block the stroke, anticipated and absorbed the impact, transferred his weight and aimed a backhand slash towards the Mameluke's throat. The Mameluke twisted violently and Hawkwood felt the almost imperceptible tug as his blade ripped across his opponent's ribcage. There was a collective intake of breath from the men watching.

"Bravo, Captain!" Matisse's voice, lightly taunting.

But the move had left Hawkwood exposed. The Mameluke grunted, checked, and whipped his blade towards Hawkwood's left flank. Hawkwood jerked back, but he was too late. There was no pain; not at first. Only when he straightened did he feel the tightening of skin at the point of the incision. There was no time to check for blood, because the Mameluke was coming in again.