Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Detective

Marechal watched him with curiosity. “You seem to be taking this very well.”

“Not at all,” replied Cabal. He picked up the cane, twisted the head, and drew three feet of razor-sharp steel from it. Before Marechal’s bemused eyes, he placed the cane body on top of his jacket, presented himself to Marechal as a fencer, and saluted him with the sword cane.

Marechal laughed. “You simply cannot be serious, Cabal! Are you challenging me?”

“I appreciate that it is customary to slap you with a glove or some such, but I think you would shoot me long before I got near you.” He studied his stance and corrected the position of his feet slightly. “You must forgive me, I’m rather rusty.”

“Don’t be a fool and think I’m a fool. Why should I waste any more time with you?” He levelled the gun. “You don’t deserve a chance.”

Cabal flicked the tip of his sword through the four quarters. “ Sixte. Quarte. Septime. Octave . It’s got nothing to do with chances, Count. At least not from your perspective. You’re a petty little man. You could just shoot me. Indeed, the probability is that you will just shoot me. And you will spit upon my corpse and walk away. And in a week or so the situation outside these walls will probably have deteriorated to the point where controlling your unimpressed civilians will be taking up much of your time. You will curse my name and wish me dead a dozen more times. But, in truth, you will not have killed me even once. That, Count, will gall you more than you can bear.”

“A student of human nature, are you now?” The count drew back the hammer of the revolver. “You will die and I will be the one to kill you, make no mistake.”

“No, Count. You won’t have killed me. Several grains of lead will have killed me while you stayed snug and safe on the other side of a large hall. That gun will have killed me. You won’t have the satisfaction. You’re a soldier, Count; that I don’t dispute. But I also believed you to be a warrior. There I was wrong. You’re no more interested in the martial art of it than a conscripted peasant with a musket shoved into his hands.”

“You cannot goad me, Cabal. I’m past that stage.”

“A drunken grognard of the levy.”

“It would be a shame to lose your dignity in your final seconds.”

“An artillery officer.”

Marechal’s skull tightened with rage. “ What did you just call me?”

“An artillery officer. Safe behind the lines.” Cabal lowered his sword and gestured at the gun. “A mechanic .”

Marechal knew that it was sheer foolishness to throw away a great advantage for a slightly smaller one. Madness. But there are only so many slurs a cavalryman can countenance. When Cabal died, when his face took on that delicious expression of mortal surprise, Marechal wanted it to be because there was a sabre through his heart. More than anything, Marechal wanted to feel Cabal’s ribs grating on the edges of his blade as he twisted it in the hated necromancer’s chest. That would be a thought to keep him warm in the difficult times that were surely ahead. His rage settled and became cold and hard. With economical movements, he opened his revolver and ejected the cartridges. They bounced sharply, sending echoes around the hall. Then he threw the gun to one side. The next sound was the hiss of his sabre leaving its scabbard.

“What have you got there, Cabal? A foil? A rapier? A sword for boys. This” — his sabre whirled in a vicious figure of eight — “is a man’s weapon.” His free hand fisted on his hip, he advanced. “En garde.”

Cabal’s blade flicked up to quarte. “I’m always on guard, Marechal, one way or the other.” He watched the count advance for a moment more before adding, “You’re sure you’re up to this? I fenced for very nearly a year in my youth. I was considered quite competent.”

“Don’t patronise me, Cabal.”

“It’s just that I wonder how much technique a man can learn, cutting down unarmed yokels from horseback?”

Marechal stopped just before the blades crossed. “This isn’t one of those effeminate fencing sabres the Italians came up with. It is a real weapon and it really kills, and it shall be my very real pleasure to hack you into pieces with it, Cabal.”

Before Cabal had a chance to reply, Marechal launched into a progressive attack. Cabal fell back immediately under the ferocity of the advance. Marechal was a strong man, stronger than Cabal, and the beats that rained down upon his rapier struck sparks and generated vibrations to his wrist that felt as if they might numb it, given enough time. If he lived that long.

Cabal considered his options. Marechal was no sporting fencer. He fought to kill. The strength of his attack was clearly intended to destroy Cabal quickly, and the physical power of the heavy horse sabre might do it, too. Fortunately, his sword cane was designed for practical combat, being far more forte than foible but without brittleness. Still, he was already running out of room into which he could retreat. He needed to make Marechal think again if he were to stop this dreadful hail of steel. A poor feint, followed by a quick step back to give him the room for a stop hit with rassemblement , allowed him to pink the top of Marechal’s wrist. Cabal used the moment of surprise to run past the head of the table and gain more space.

The count didn’t follow him at first, but paused to pull up his cuff and check his wrist. “First blood, Count Marechal?” called Cabal as he returned to his guard position.

“Touché, Herr Cabal. A scratch,” he said, and Cabal could see that it was no understatement. “I can see that I’ve underestimated you again.” He saluted and allowed the wry smile to evaporate from his face. “But now I have your measure.”

“Really? Tell me, Count, how did you learn to fence? Correspondence course?”

Marechal said nothing, but moved to reengage, his face like thunder. This time, there was none of the brutal slashing that had accompanied the first attack. Cabal suspected that had as much to do with the count’s regaining his strength as anything else. He would certainly employ it again should he spy an advantage in doing so.

They traded attacks and parries for a few moments, the count clearly probing Cabal’s defences. Although he didn’t show it, Cabal was getting more worried with each clash of steel. His sword cane was outweighed by the sabre, his experience was outweighed by the count’s, and his aggression was a pale shadow in comparison. He was defending, Marechal was getting all the information he needed for a telling attack, and there was always the chance of guards wandering in at any moment. Cabal needed a way out of this situation quickly, and he doubted that it would hinge on his skill on the piste. He needed to look at the whole picture and find an escape. For the moment, however, it eluded him, and then Marechal launched an attack and Cabal didn’t have time to think about anything else.

It ended with a cutting blow that Cabal parried with difficulty, although he made it look easy — half the psychological game in fencing. He countered with a type of sabre riposte he’d seen the count make, from tierce to the head. Marechal parried it easily but made it look difficult — the other half of the psychological game.

Cabal had looked death in the face on numerous occasions, but he had always been careful to give himself some chance of survival. There were very few grounds for hope here, though.

“You look worried, Herr Cabal,” said Marechal. “Something on your mind?”

“There is, since you ask. I was just thinking that this is all a dreadful waste of resources. I appreciate that you intended to kill me whether I succeeded or not, but that was politics. But think! Nobody else knows about me. Wouldn’t it make sense for you to supply me with a laboratory and I work for you? I’m sure I could be of use.”