to his elf heritage (the legacy of a scandalous, hypocritical indiscretion on the part of his elf supremacist father, Onstal Stareyes, with a serving lass in Dock Ward). The men circled each other, stripped to the waist and sweaty, padded swords swishing.
They sparred under the unimpressed eye of Vigilant Bleys Treth, whom Kalen had done his best to avoid these last days. He didn't much like the man (the feeling was mutual), and Treth had seen Shadowbane on the night Talanna had been hurt. He mighr recognize Kalen.
The other guard who might have known him-Gordil Turnstone-was there, too, sitting on a bench. Though he was ostensibly watching the sparring, Turnstone was dozing.
Bront cut over and high and Stareyes replied with a plunging block. It could have become a counter to the belly, but the half-elf held the parry too long. Finally, Stareyes broke the parry and cut in from the opposite line, then reversed again, striking from both directions in sequence. He feinted right and attacked left. In rhythm, Bront tried ro parry right, and the half-elf dealt him a sharp rap on the left side with his blunted blade.
The watchers clapped and Stareyes flashed his winning smile. Bront cradled his bruised side and gave Stareyes a rueful grin.
Kalen watched them surreptitiously over his spectacles. A part of him wished he could lord his prowess before an audience, but the needs of his disguise prevented it. He'd learned that lesson in a harsh manner during his time as an armar, before Araezra.
He thought about the flaws in Bront's style, and it must have shown on his face. Treth was watching him with a sneer. Kalen averted his eyes.
'Dren,' Treth called. 'Care to teach us aught?'
The congratulatory chatter in the courtyard fell silent, replaced by whispers.
Kalen said nothing, only looked at his parchment and quill. He had paused before telling Araezra the truth. He could see the unwritten sentence: 'I lied to you, Rayse.'
Did he dare? Would she understand? Or would she continue to hate him, not only for humiliating her but for lying to her as well? Not to mention that Araezra would be honor-bound to arrest him as a dangerous vigilante-or would she keep his secret?
He shook his head. He hadn't given her any reason to trust him.
A gloved hand seized his book of notes-with it the letter-and tore it from his hands. He looked up, calmly, to see Bleys Treth gazing down at him with that same cocky smile.
'Come, Dren,' he said. 'You've not graced the yard in some time.
Spar with Stareyes, and show us your style.' He winked lewdly. 'Now that Rayse's attentions are elsewhere, you've the chance, aye?'
Though Treth was older, almost twenty winters over Kalen, they were the same rank in the Guard: vigilant. But Treth had been a master swordsman for hire, a sellsword for nobles, and he bore an aura around him that had made him quite popular. 'The Dashing Jack,' the older Watchmen called him-a name he hated. His looks had faded little with the years, but his smile still melted hearts.
He took pride in his charms, and in his skill. And like many warriors past their prime, Treth saw the need to assert his dominance among the 'young pups,' as it were.
Kalen saw no reason to stand in his way.
'I've work to attend.' He refused to meet Treth's eye. 'Perhaps when I am at leisure-'
'I'm sure'-Treth dropped the ledger in the dirt-'this can wait.'
Kalen looked up at him and around at the silent training yard. The folk-Guard and Watch alike-watched the confrontation intently.
'Vigilant Treth,' Kalen said. He coughed. 'You know I can't-'
'Fleeing behind your weakness of the flesh, eh?' Kalen looked around once more, seeing uncertain, expectant faces.
The Watch and Guard knew of his illness only in part. Certainly none knew he pretended it had grown worse than it truly had. Ir had been months since he had wielded a sword while wearing a uniform. But when he had… Those who had served with him knew of his ferocity, and he saw in the eyes of those gathered that tales had spread.
'I must decline,' Kalen said.
'Then Rayse told true,' Treth whispered in his ear. 'And you are a coward.'
That stabbed into Kalen's chest like a searing knife. It struck not because of his own ego-though he confessed there was some-but because of the truth in Treth's words.
He shouldn't do anything to risk revealing himself, but everything was going so very wrong. And Kalen was angry.
'Very well, Dashing Jack,' said Kalen, invoking the man's hated moniker.
Treth sneered.
Kalen rose, stiffly, and stepped to the center of the yard. He heard gasps at first, then applause. Rhagaster Stareyes saluted and took a high guard with his padded blade.
Kalen took the weapon handed him by Bront, who smiled. Kalen shrugged.
'Tymora's luck on you,' said Treth-mostly to Kalen. 'Begin!'
They circled each other slowly, the ring of Watchmen backing away to give them room. The half-elf skipped from foot to foot, keeping himself loose. Kalen flexed his legs. The front of his thighs felt as if they bore heavy pads, but the sensation was merely his numb flesh.
Stareyes came at him with a plunging cut that Kalen knocked aside easily. He coughed and sidestepped, not holding the parry or countering.
Stareyes turned back toward him. 'To you, sir,' he said. Kalen shrugged-and attacked high. He didn't move fast-he didn't have to.
From his hanging guard, Stareyes parried high. He could have countered, but as Kalen had expected, he didn't. Rather than pull back, Kalen ran a hand along the length of his own sword, caught the end of his blade, and twisted to set the edge near the hilt at the half-elps throat.
A gasp passed through the yard.
'You hesitated to reply,' Kalen said. 'You don't need speed-just readiness.' He pulled back a step and set his sword against Stareyes's raised blade. 'You just parried. Now stab.'
Stareyes, blinking, pushed forward, and the padded blade punched into Kalen's belly.
'A counter in every parry,' he said. 'Do not hesitate, but commit yourself.'
The half-elf shook his head. 'But my parry needs to be-'
'Firm, I know,' Kalen said. 'Trusr yourself to set a strong position, and there is no way the other blade can hit you.'
He demonstrated, slapping his blade against Stareyes's parry. With the guard wide enough, his blade could nor reach Stareyes's arm.
The gathered watchers-who had grown in number, Kalen saw- murmured agreement.
Treth laughed. 'Try a master, Sir Dren.' He tossed his hat and black watchcoat to a junior Watchman, then unbuttoned his uniform and unlaced his white undertunic to the belly.
'The winner goes with Rayse to the ball tonight at the Temple of Beauty,' said Treth.
Coughing, Kalen nodded grimly. He'd known it would come to this.
Treth sneered. Gray-black hairs bristled along his chin and neck. Kalen shrugged. He handed the sword ro Stareyes with a nod, then brought his fingers up to the buttons of his uniform.
Apparently, an attractive form-such as the one she had donned in the Skewered Dragon-was more a hindrance than a help in a barracks filled with wandering eyes.
Fayne had arrived at the barracks earlier, and now wore the illusory form of a junior Watchman whose name she hadn't asked. She could have done so, but why bother? The boy, who had been only too eager ro follow her into the stuffy Room of Records, now slumped senselessly under a desk, trapped by magic that bound his mind into a relentless nightmare. Fayne had invoked the power in her wand, taken his face, and gone out into the warm sunshine. She found Kalen in the courtyard, just in time to see him handily defeat a rather handsome half-elf with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes.
Fayne made a mental note to visit the barracks more often.
Then a good-looking man of middling years-Vigilant Treth, she heard a Watchman whisper-challenged Kalen,
