probably more in finding you! And what do you do? You come straight to me!”
Sir Henry was about to continue when he caught sight of the very man they had been discussing. Stephano de Guichen, accompanied by Rodrigo de Villeneuve, entered the Four Clovers.
Not unnaturally, Sir Henry leaped to the conclusion that Stephano was on the trail of Harrington and that Harrington had led the captain to him. Henry was somewhat comforted by the fact that the captain and his friend appeared astonished to see Harrington. Rodrigo de Villeneuve gaped at Harrington in astonishment and went quite pale. Stephano de Guichen flushed an angry red.
Harrington was sitting with his back to the door and had not seen the two come in. Sir Henry rose to his feet and began hastily gathering up the papers on the table.
“God has an amazing sense of irony, my son,” said the elderly priest.
He thrust the papers into the satchel and pushed back his chair. Bending over Harrington, Henry whispered, “If you survive, you know how to reach me.”
Stephano and Rodrigo had entered the cafe when Stephano saw the three naval officers he’d previously avoided enjoying their after-dinner port. He made a face and started to leave.
“We’ll eat somewhere else,” he said and then he saw Rodrigo’s eyes widen, his face go white. “Rigo! What’s wrong?”
“It’s… him,” said Rodrigo in a strangled voice. “Piefer.”
The patio was filled with people, but Stephano saw only one-the man he knew as Sir Richard Piefer. He was seated at a table with an elderly priest, who was shoving papers into a satchel. The priest had apparently observed the fact that Rodrigo was staring fixedly at his dinner companion, for he said something to him which caused Harrington to shift in his chair.
Harrington saw Stephano and rose to his feet.
The patio was crowded with tables and chairs, some empty, others occupied. A table occupied by several ladies and gentlemen was between Stephano and Sir Richard. The three naval officers were to his right. A group of students was seated at a table near the back and to his left. A fellow who looked like a clerk was seated in the shadows of a hibiscus.
Stephano laid his hand on the hilt of his rapier.
“You, sir! I promised we would meet again!” cried Stephano.
“Are you mad?” Rodrigo gasped. He seized hold of his friend’s arm, trying to prevent him from drawing his weapon. “Leave him alone! They’ll send for the constables-”
“Let them!” Stephano said grimly.
James Harrington cast Stephano a glance of contempt. He began to adjust the lace at his cuffs. “If you have a quarrel with me, sir, let us settle the matter in some less public place.”
Stephano did not see Harrington. He saw young Valazquez, missing his face, lying in a pool of blood. He relived that nightmarish chase through the streets, a bullet in his shoulder. He remembered how near he and his friends had come to sinking into the Breath.
“Stay out of this, Rigo,” said Stephano harshly and he took off his coat, tossed it to the ground, and drew his rapier.
By now, of course, everyone in the cafe was watching. The ladies were whispering in thrilled horror behind their fans. Their gentlemen stood up, looking uncertain. The naval officers had all lowered their glasses of port. One of them tried to intervene.
“Gentlemen, please-”
“This son of a bitch is no gentleman, sir,” Stephano said. “He is an assassin who murdered a man in Evreux and tried to murder me. If one of you will oblige me by calling the constables, I will see to it that he does not escape justice.”
Harrington had been keeping his own hand near his sleeve, smoothing the long lace that fell over his wrist. His hand darted swiftly into the cuff of his coat and came out holding a small pistol.
Stephano saw the flash of sunlight off metal. He stiff-armed Rodrigo, giving him a shove that sent him reeling backward into one of the serving girls. They both went down together with a crash of crockery.
Harrington fired. Stephano ducked. The bullet whistled harmlessly over Stephano’s head and smashed into a post.
The cafe was in an uproar. One of the women fainted. Her companion cried out that she had been shot and then she fainted. The third woman screamed and went into hysterics. The two gentlemen had taken cover under the table, where they were endeavoring to assist the ladies. A serving girl ran to the aid of the elderly priest, who seemed on the verge of collapse, while the other patrons made a mad scramble, overturning chairs and upending tables. The clerk tried to leave, but found his way blocked by an upended table to his right and the naval officers on his left.
The owner of the cafe dodged around Rodrigo, who was floundering amidst broken crockery, and ran into the street, shouting for the constables. People in the street, attracted by the commotion, hurried over to see what was happening, adding to the confusion. The students, having taken cover, were exchanging bets.
Harrington threw down the useless pistol and reached for his sword. Stephano jumped onto a chair, from the chair to a table, and back to the ground, landing in front of Sir Richard. The naval officers had all drawn their weapons and advanced with the intention of trying to stop the fight.
“Stay out of this, gentlemen!” Stephano cried. “This bastard murdered a young nobleman in cold blood and he tried to kill me and my friend in the same cowardly manner. He is mine!”
The naval officers glanced at each other. If Harrington had been a Rosian, they might have stayed to try to prevent bloodshed, but he was a Freyan, and therefore not worth their trouble. The officers thrust their swords back into their sheaths. One of them saluted Stephano, and then they hurriedly left the cafe, well aware that the Constabulary was probably already on the way. Now that the officers were gone, the clerk made his way out from behind the overturned table.
“Sir!” the clerk called to Stephano. “For the love of God, don’t kill him! Wait for the constables!”
Stephano paid no heed, but drove the point of his rapier at Harrington’s throat. Harrington parried, and Stephano managed to nick the man’s chin. Stephano followed with a series of attacks-slash and thrust, moving rapidly, his blade darting and jabbing, trying to force Harrington onto the defensive.
Harrington was a skilled swordsman, however, and all Stephano managed to do was slice open his shoulder. He pressed Harrington, who had the garden wall behind him. Harrington leaped lightly up onto the wall and ran along it, keeping the tables between him and Stephano.
Stephano took hold of a table, pitched it over, and lunged at Harrington, who jumped down off the wall and seized hold of one of the serving girls and flung her into Stephano’s arms. Stephano tried to sidestep in order to miss hitting her, but he was not quick enough. He collided with the girl. Harrington used the advantage to drive his blade through the girl’s upper arm and into Stephano’s left shoulder-the same shoulder that was still stiff and sore from Harrington’s bullet. Pain shot through Stephano’s arm and his hand tingled.
Harrington yanked out his sword and made ready for another strike. The girl collapsed at Stephano’s feet, screaming in pain and terror and further impeding his ability to reach Harrington, who scored a bloody gash down Stephano’s side.
Stephano grabbed a wine glass from a table and flung the contents into Harrington’s eyes, half-blinding him. While Harrington tried to wipe away the stinging wine, Stephano hurled the glass at him. Harrington lifted his arm to block the blow and managed at the same time to parry Stephano’s vicious stab. Stephano sliced through the cloth and into Harrington’s left forearm. The lace at the man’s wrist was immediately drenched in blood. Harrington feinted to the right, fell back, and seized a knife that had been left in a saddle of beef. He threw the knife at Stephano, hitting him in the thigh.
Stephano yanked out the knife and backed up. Blood oozed from the wound, and he flung the bloody knife back at Harrington, more out of rage than with the hope of hitting him. Harrington had to dodge the knife, however, and that gave Stephano a moment’s respite. For a moment, both men stood staring, each calculating the next move.
Blood trickled down Stephano’s leg. His shirt was wet with blood and sticking to his ribs. Harrington was bleeding, too, but only from a few gashes here and there. He smiled. He must think Stephano was nearly finished. He came at him.
Stephano cast what he hoped looked like a panicked glance behind him, as though judging the distance
