as to pose no threat,” he said with a laugh. “We are as safe as we can be—”
“—locked in a compound with nearly a hundred angry prisoners we’ve allowed to be tortured,” the Tester added.
Stevenson blanched. “Not tortured. Made. We have the Wraiths. Wardens. And the town watch. And the Maker.”
“The Maker would only buy us time if we tossed him to the magickers he’s Made. They’d rip him apart.”
“At least we know he serves multiple purposes…” Stevenson glanced about and shouted to one of the watchmen. “You there! Escort those to be Made to Processing.”
A large man shuffled forward, propped his rifle against the nearest wall, and removed the sword from his belt. “Now, none of you’s gonna try ’en give me any trouble, right? Y’hear?”
The occupants of the wagon nodded dully, grunting as they watched the Tester hand the key to the watchman. Only a few minutes within Holgate’s walls and already they were damp and dreary, more ragged than their time on the roads had made them.
They faced the main building as the key turned in the lock. Over his shoulder he said, “Tether them. I want no trouble.” Two other watchmen stepped up and nearly stepped back when the Wraiths came forward to assist. “I’ll root out this new trouble,” the Tester muttered. “I’ll have no bread of mine soggy, no toast points limp with damp…”
Stevenson nodded. “An odd set of priorities you have, but understandable. Do you think it’s one freshly Made?”
“Does it matter?” the Tester asked. “It’s a Witch that is testing its bounds. I’ll have none of it.”
“I did not expect—”
“—so many people, young sir?” Jonathan asked, eyeing the crowd that had gathered on the edge of the meadow. “You are quite the curiosity. You have always been more focused on friends than fighting.”
A touch of fog still crawled along their ankles, swirling away to create a far stranger atmosphere than Rowen had hoped for.
“I do have a reputation for throwing parties more frequently than punches…”
Men raised their arms when they saw him—and a few aimed rude gestures in his direction, too. “Seems like a nearly fair mix,” Rowen muttered, pushing his heels in the horse’s sides to urge it forward onto the site of the duel.
Edward stood across the meadow with a few of his closest followers, watching Rowen and Jonathan ride in. He nodded sharply at his fellow duelist, his eyes sharp and hard as flint.
“He wants to kill me,” Rowen noted, returning the nod.
“I daresay that is the goal of this particular exercise, sir.”
“Thank you, Jonathan, very reassuring. May we yet recall I suggested
“Sir. Do remember that shooting a man is a reasonably simple act merely requiring a steady hand, a clear eye, and—in most cases—some premeditation. You are quite capable in this regard. You are also no slouch with a sword. I have seen you fence quite well.”
“You have also seen me fence quite poorly.”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “This too is true. But I feel that today your skill and luck will meet and yield the opportunity you so need. Be steady, be strong. Be brave. And kill the obnoxious prick for what he said about Miss Jordan’s parentage and morality.”
Rowen blinked at him and nodded, smiling grimly. “I shall endeavor to do just that.”
Rowen slid from his saddle and grabbed both sets of reins as Jonathan dismounted more carefully, his hands quickly going to the saddlebags. He withdrew the pistol box and looked at Rowen, his eyes bright. “We will wait until the last moment possible to load. The air is quite sticky and we do not want a misfire.”
Kenneth appeared, a bit worse for wear as a result of the wildness of the night before. “I shall wish you good luck and sharp aim now, Rowen,” he said, reaching out to shake his friend’s hand. He paused, though, switching something from one hand to the other.
Rowen raised an eyebrow.
“Oh. Yes. I have been asked to hold the money,” Kenneth explained.
“The money?”
“Yes.” Kenneth cleared his throat and looked away a moment. “Yes, it seems this is quite the event to place a wager on.”
“Indeed?”
Kenneth nodded.
“And how are the odds?” Rowen asked, the words coming slowly.
“Nearly equal,” Kenneth assured.
“Nearly?”
Kenneth’s gaze flicked to Rowen’s and then away again. “A few more betting against you than for you, but that is how these things go…” Before Rowen could say another word Kenneth flung up his hand and, waving to someone across the meadow whom Rowen had not seen wave first, jogged away.
Jonathan was beside him. “They are betting on you,” he said.
“And betting against me,” Rowen added.
“Do not worry about your naysayers—or your supporters. Now is not the time for worry at all,” Jonathan said, brushing Rowen’s shoulders as if he were brushing them clean before a grand entrance to a ball.
Rowen took the pistol, a grave look on his face. “Remember what I asked. If I need to be finished—”
“I will not hesitate if the time comes,” Jonathan assured.
“Excellent.” Rowen walked to the meadow’s center, boots rustling through the small blue flowers. “Forget- me-nots,” he muttered. The dew slicked his boots, bringing them to a gloss so high the sun sparked across their detailing and glittered across his belt and buckle. The scabbard whispered against his hip, flashing like an automaton’s tail, flicking back and forth with each stride he took.
He paused before his opponent, his pistol’s muzzle in the air, and they both weighed each other: their manner and motivation, the sharpness of their eyes and attitudes.
A third man joined them, by his outfit a judge of one of the outlying circuit courts. “I am Lord Michaelson. I will tell you when to stop, when to turn, and when to shoot. And if there is a need, I will tell you when to switch to sabers.” He glanced at them both solemnly. “I will be the sole determiner of the match’s outcome and my word will be taken as law. Are we quite clear?”
“Quite,” Rowen agreed.
“As clear as a stormlight crystal,” Lord Edward added.
“Then turn your backs to each other and prepare to pace off. You will stride in time to my count. You will go to a distance of ten paces and await the command to turn and fire. At that point, turn, take aim, and discharge your weapon.” He paused briefly before saying, “You may pace off.”
They measured the distance stride by stride and when Rowen heard the count of ten, he stopped in the dewy grass and waited for the next command.
“You may turn and—”
BOOM!
Rowen felt the ball cut past him, his hair stirring in its wake as he brought down his pistol’s muzzle and fired. The blast rocked the pistol in his hand and he stood, silent and awash in the blowback of gunpowder and spark, stunned as the other man dropped to the ground.
Rowen stared, his jaw hanging loose, as men scrambled to kneel or crouch beside his fallen opponent. Rowen was already stumbling back as the judge crossed the distance to Lord Edward, leaned over, and reached out a tentative hand to touch the fallen man’s neck.
Jonathan was beside Rowen. “Sir, it is time to depart.” He took Rowen’s hand in his to gently remove the pistol from his grasp.
Rowen nodded dully as the judge rose and announced, “We have a victor—Rowen Burchette.”