Springboard

other fencers and history buffs. I’ve said most of this at one time or another over the years, putting on fencing demos and such. I don’t swear that everything I’m going to say is one-hundred-percent accurate, but it’s how I see it.”

She nodded again.

“I have also found that I can go on at length about this, so let me know if your eyes start to glaze.”

She grinned at that. He smiled, too, and began. “Fencing goes back pretty much to when they first outlawed dueling as a sport — if you could say that it ever was a sport. A lot of people don’t know it, but most duels were not to the death; they were to first blood: Whoever drew blood from his opponent, no matter how much or where the wound occurred, satisfied his honor and won the duel.”

She frowned. “They didn’t have much in the way of medicine back then. Was infection much of a problem?”

He raised an eyebrow. Few people thought of that. “Yes. In fact, most sword-related battle casualties were from infection, not from the actual sword cuts.”

Thorn picked up the foil. “This was the first practice weapon they came up with. They wanted a system to teach people to parry, to respect their opponent’s attacks. After all, it might settle honor for you to prick your opponent first, but if you nicked him on his wrist and, a moment later, he stabbed you through the heart, you would have won the duel but lost your life.”

“Not much of a trade-off,” she said.

“Exactly. So, they came up with the foil. A lighter weapon, with a smaller bell guard than the epee, but the biggest difference was that this weapon had restrictions.”

“Restrictions?”

He nodded. “Yep. Two kinds. One was the target area. In epee, the entire body — your head, the little finger on your off hand, your back, even your toes — are all valid targets. With the foil — which, remember, was designed as a practice weapon, not as a simulation of the real thing — the target area is the jacket”—he gestured to the one he was wearing—“excluding the sleeves. Everything else on the jacket — the back, the groin flap, the sides — is all valid. When you fence competitively — or even in practice, in many clubs — you wear a vest made of metal mesh, called a lame, that exactly covers your target area.”

She reached out and touched his foil. “And how do you score?”

He moved the blade to show her the tip. “The foil, like the epee, is a point weapon. See this button here at the end of the blade? It takes five hundred grams of pressure to set that point. Fencing electrically, that opens a circuit through a wire embedded in this groove in the top of the blade, which connects to a body cord running through your sleeve and out the bottom of your jacket, to a floor reel and then to a scoring machine. Pressing the button against your opponent’s lame sets off your colored light, usually green or red. Hitting him off-target — like on the leg, say — sets off a white one. Hitting him flat, with the side of the blade, or having your point slide along the target area, does not depress the point, and so those count as misses.”

She nodded. “Interesting,” she said. “But you said there were two differences. Target area is one. What’s the other?”

He grinned. “Rules,” he said. “Specifically, something called right-of-way. In epee, whoever hits first wins the touch — and bouts used to be to one touch only, just like real duels. In foil, if your opponent has right-of-way, defined as his elbow straight or in the process of coming straight, and his point on line with your target or in the process of coming on line, then you have to respond to his attack before you can claim right-of-way and make an attack of your own. You can parry it, or evade it, or retreat out of distance, or do something to make him break the definition of right-of-way — pumping his arm, for example, so his elbow is no longer straight or coming straight. If you do that, you can counterattack and, if you both hit each other, you win the point. If you don’t deal with his attack first, however, and simply counter into it, you would lose the touch if you both hit.”

“And epee?”

He replaced the foil and brought out an epee. “This is the closest to a ‘real’ weapon in Western fencing. Note how much heavier the blade is than the foil. That’s to make it more like the rapier, which it’s modeled on. A larger bell guard protects the hand and wrist because, unlike foil, those are valid touches. Also, it takes a heavier touch to score — seven hundred fifty grams instead of five hundred to depress the point. No rules. Whoever touches his opponent first wins the point. If you both hit within a twentieth of a second, you both lose a touch. Used to be, back when a bout only had one touch, you could both lose the bout on a double touch.”

He paused. “The epee is my weapon of choice, by the way.”

“Mine’s a handgun,” she said with a smile, “but to each his own, I guess.”

He grinned. “The last weapon is the saber, and it’s not much like the other two. Patterned after the cavalry saber, it’s an edge weapon. You can use the point, and do, sometimes, in a bout, but mostly for a change of pace or a surprise move. Historically, the valid parts of the blade were the entire front edge and the top third of the back edge. The flat of the blade was not legal, and hitting your opponent with that did not score a touch. That changed a couple of decades ago when they electrified the saber, and now the entire blade is valid. Personally, I prefer the old way.”

He pulled a saber out and made a couple of quick cuts with it, whipping the air. “It has essentially the same right-of-way rules as foil but, since it’s designed to replicate a cavalry weapon, and assumes that the combatants are on horseback, the target area is everything from the waist up.”

“Wouldn’t do much good to hit your opponent in the thigh if he’s riding a horse.”

“Exactly,” he said. “He might die later, of infection, but that wouldn’t stop him from taking your head off with his counterattack.”

She touched his saber, then looked over at the foil and epee he’d pulled out. “So,” she said, “feel like giving a girl some lessons?”

He smiled. “Absolutely.”

Washington, D.C.

There was nothing he had to do at the office he couldn’t do from his home system, and Jay was rattled enough by his meeting with Kent that he wanted to go home. More than that, he needed to go home.

When he got there Saji was sitting seiza on the floor, just finishing her meditation. She looked up at him and smiled.

“How’s the boy?” Jay asked. He was still shaken, both from being spotted when he had been sure he’d been invisible, and from the idea of being “disappeared.” That somebody could do that. That they would.

“Fine,” Saji said. “Been alert, smiling, perky all day. No fever, ate like a pig. Sleeping like a rock at the moment.”

That was what he wanted to hear, of course, but the serpent was in the garden, and things were never going to be the same. Before, he had known it intellectually, but now, he knew it in his soul: His son would always be at risk. Worse, past a certain point of prevention and basic first aid, there was nothing Jay could do about that. It was an awful feeling.

The baby monitor on the coffee table was quiet, the viewscreen showing Mark asleep in his crib, so everything was all right, but…

Jay smiled. “I’m going to go check on him.”

He walked down the hall and crept into Mark’s room. There he was, an angel, out like a light. Jay leaned down and made sure he was breathing. The boy had that healthy, clean-baby smell. Later, when they went to bed, Mark would sleep with them. If he woke up in the middle of the night, they’d both be with him. They had been doing that since he’d been born.

The thought of something happening to his son, or that he wouldn’t be here to see him grow up? Bad juju.

Jay moved quietly out of the room and back to where Saji now sat on the couch. He sat next to her.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She smiled. “I’m fine. It was unexpected, all that happened, but it brought home what I already believed.”

“Which is?”

“The Four Noble Truths,” she said.