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eveglassLet it never be said I only write for one character. Here's a short story for my 7th Sea game, which takes place a week or two after last session.
A Drink and a Duel
Among the aristocracy of Charouse, the Chuchote d’Or was widely known for two things: the very best drinking chocolate in the city, and the very best gossip. Even as the situation in Charouse became tenser and the nobility more tight-lipped, the green-and-gold upholstery of the Chuchote d’Or’s main salon played silent witness to rumors, negotiations, and illicit love affairs.
In her time since leaving Valentino’s service, Marietta had become a regular, making a point to visit every few days to catch up with acquaintances. And now that Breanan had suggested they leave Charouse for a time to escape the increasing violence and pursue other goals, Marietta found herself once more before the bay window, staring out at the foot-traffic on the street, a cup of chocolate cradled lightly in her hands.
She sat alone. None of her new friends were about, but Marietta was not bothered. The thought that Sir Breanan allowed her to wander the streets of Charouse alone, without even a maid or chaperone, was still a novelty. He seemed to think that now that he owned her contract – or had torn it up, if you asked him – she was a free woman, able to do whatever she wanted. Marietta allowed herself a small smile. The man was so ridiculously naïve. He had absolutely no concept of what it meant to hold a courtesan’s contract, though the nobles of Vodacce did, and no doubt quite a number of their Montaignais counterparts as well. Still, if Breanan wanted her to be more independent, if it pleased him to see her walking alone without asking him for permission, then she would do it. A courtesan was trained to please, whatever form that pleasure took.
There was a small cough from behind her, and Marietta turned. Blond hair cascaded over the red uniform of a Lightening Guard. “Mademoiselle,” he said, pressing his hand against his heart, “your beauty shone through the window like a second sun, and I could do nothing but stop and see if it was real, or a mirage of such convincing likeness that I would drink of it until I died of thirst.”
Marietta was getting used to the elaborate wordplay of the Montaignais. Whereas once such a speech would have confounded her, now she merely extended her hand, which her would-be suitor kissed. “There are better things here to drink than my essence, I should think,” Marietta answered. “Have you tried the drinking chocolate?”
The Lightening Guard waved a hand. “Pah! Chocolate cannot compete with the sweetness of your visage!”
Marietta smiled. “I wouldn’t say that until you’ve tried it.” She waved over a waiter and ordered another cup, then turned back. “Will you join me long enough to sample?”
“Mademoiselle,” he said earnestly, “every moment I spend with you is a moment I can sit in the perfection of your beauty. You honor me.”
He held the seat for her as she sat, and then took the chair opposite. The polished wood of the table reflected the gold accents of his uniform, clearly embellished with the trappings of his family’s wealth. She caught a few glances from other tables and ignored them.
“Will Monsieur do me the kindness of telling me who it is that has joined me?”
Her companion bowed his head. “A million pardons, Mademoiselle. Your beauty so overcame me that I forgot all niceties. I am Phillipe Bisset du Verre, of l’Empreur’s service.”
She had heard enough from Gérard recently regarding his opinions of l’Empreur’s Lightening Guard “servants” to fill a full-hour conversation with vitriol, but was spared answering by the arrival of Phillipe’s drinking chocolate. She held forward her own cup. “L’Empreur,” she suggested. There were few enough who would toast l’Empreur in private nowadays, but appearances needed to be maintained in public.
“L’Empreur,” Phillipe agreed enthusiastically. He drank, then sighed. “Ah, Mademoiselle, it is as you say, nearly as divine as you.”
Marietta smiled and drank her own toast. “Have you never been here before?” she asked.
“Rarely,” replied Bisset, “and never with company so radiant. Now that you know who I am, might you honor me with the knowledge of your name? I hear the tones of Vodacce in your voice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” said Marietta, leaning forward to place her cup on the table. “Marietta, of Fontaine.”
She glanced up, looking for the tell-tale sign in Phillipe’s eye that he had noticed the maneuvering of her bodice as she straightened, but was surprised to see a cloud pass across his face. “Marietta?” he said quietly, searching for a memory to associate it with. The corners of his lips turned down. “Marietta Vestello? You’re… you’re Valentino Vestini’s whore!”
Her hand was flying faster than thought, and even gloved, the sound it made when it hit Phillipe’s face was enough to echo through the entire salon. “First, it is Marietta only. Second, I no longer serve Signore Vestini. And third, no one calls a courtesan of Fontaine a whore.”
Bisset’s eyes narrowed. He dabbed at the side of his mouth with a napkin, checked to see if it was red-stained, put it down. “I say only the truth. What whores wish to call themselves in private, to make themselves feel better when they spread their legs for every man with a few spare guilder, is no business of mine. And yours is no business for this salon. You cheapen it with your presence.”
Marietta glared. “That’s twice you’ve insulted my honor. You will leave my table this instant.”
Bisset lounged back in his chair. “On the contrary. I think I should call the gendarmes and have you thrown out.” He lowered his voice. “Do the proprietors know that they’re hosting a jenny? Did they pay you to come entertain their clients?”
She slapped him again. “Would that I were a man, Monsieur. I would duel you in an instant.”
Bisset shrugged. “But yet you’re not. Which is why you will always be the inferior sex. I suggest you leave before I make you regret staying.”
Marietta stood and smoothed her skirt. “I will do nothing of the sort,” she said.
She eyed the patrons of the Chuchote d’Or’s main salon. The clientele was rich enough to indulge their passions, whether that was for wine, for gold... or for swordplay. The glimmer of Swordsman Guild pins shone from no small number of chests, mostly bronze, but a few silver, and on the far side of the room, one gold. She looked down at Phillipe Bisset. “Soon it will be you who will regret staying,” she said softly.
The bearer of the gold pin was sitting with two friends next to the window. Good, thought Marietta. It would be more difficult if he were here with a wife or a paramour. With friends, she could entice all three at once. She walked directly over to their table, feeling the eyes of the other patrons on her and ignoring them. Her face was a textbook example of a wounded lady; her hands trembled ever so slightly. She fell to her knees before the young noble with the golden pin. “Monsieur,” she implored him, and her voice shook. “Please, I beg you to help me.”
For a moment, he was confused. But within seconds, his Montaignais nature shone through, and he took her hands in his own. “Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice full of concern, “what troubles you?”
“That man,” Marietta said, pointing a finger back at the table she had just vacated and the Lightening Guard who still occupied it. Her voice caught in her throat. “That man called me a whore.”
The gold pin was out of his chair in an instant. “He dares! Mademoiselle, have no fear! No one shall insult you in this way!”
He strode across the salon, his hand already on the pommel of his rapier. One of his friends helped Marietta to her feet, and she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he led her across the room and back to her table. Bisset and the gold pin were both standing, already in heated discussion.
“Do you have any idea what she is?” hissed Bisset, glaring at the intruder.
“I know what you are,” rejoined her champion. “An oaf with no manners, and no business to be seated at the same table as a lady!”
“A lady? Do you delude yourself?” replied Bisset. “This ‘lady’ came with Valentino Vestini from Vodacce for the sole purpose of finding someone to buy her!”
The gold pin glared a moment longer, then turned and took Marietta’s hands in his, tenderly. “Tell me true, Mademoiselle. What does he mean by these accusations?”
Marietta studied him for a moment, trying to take his measure. He was fair, with black ringlets and intense blue eyes, his hands calloused from swordplay. He looked at her with concern. Marietta drew a breath and straightened her back. “My name is Marietta, Monsieur. I am a courtesan of Fontaine. And while it is true that I came with Signore Valentino, it was to introduce me to the Montaignais court. I have studied dance, philosophy, etiquette, and mathematics, and I am a match for any lady at any ball you would care to bring me to.” It was bolder than she’d intended, and she wondered whether Breanan was having more of an effect on her than she’d anticipated.
Bisset waved a hand. “Yes, yes. So she’s a well-trained whore. She’ll fetch a fine price as a circus side-show.”
This time it was the young noble’s hand who flew. “I have been to Fontaine,” he said, turning back to face Marietta’s accuser. “The lady has the right of it, and you will apologize to her.”
Bisset glared, sparing only the corner of his eye for Marietta. “I’ll do no such thing.”
The swordsman’s hand was on his pommel. “Then you will taste my steel, cur! Outside with you, this instant!”
The two men practically leapt out the door. Marietta followed, beside the young noble’s friend. She leaned into him. “What is the name of the man who champions my cause?” she asked him, watching the retreating forms.
“Louis Duboise,” he said. “He will whip the red-clad fool until he crawls back to his mother.”
Marietta smiled a grim smile. “I certainly hope so.”
He held the door for her. “And I am Réné. I will second for Louis.”
Marietta squeezed his hand. “You do me honor,” she said, stepping out into the street.
“Not at all,” Réné said quietly, below the din of the street traffic, “Any day I get to watch a Lightening Guard being put through his paces is a good day.” He held out an arm just in time for Louis Douboise’s coat to land on it.
Marietta took in the scene. Bisset had managed to procure another member of his order to second for him, and both duelists had shed their coats and were holding naked steel. Passers-by had formed a loose circle around the two, no one willing to get between the two men, regardless of how urgent their errands might be. Marietta stood beside Réné, watching her champion.
“To first blood?” suggested Duboise, slashing the air a few times to loosen his arm.
“To submission,” replied Bisset. “Until you say from your own lips how idiotic it is to be protecting the virtue of a woman who clearly has none.”
“It is you who lacks virtue,” said Louis. “Still, I accept your terms. To submission.”
There was a pause as the two men came to position and saluted each other. Bisset charged forward first, aiming a strike at Duboise’s sword-arm, only to find himself moving past his target and the epaulette of his uniform sailing through the air. He turned and attacked again, and this time found that two buttons had popped off his chest and onto the cobblestones. “Shall I undress him one thread at a time?” asked Louis, sparing a glance towards Marietta, “Or all at once?”
Marietta glanced at the Lightening Guard, the sneer still plastered on his face as he charged again and was deflected. “Slowly,” she replied. “To humiliate him as he humiliated me.”
“As you say, Mademoiselle,” he said, and what Marietta took to be a salute to her in fact turned out to be Louis slicing off a chunk of Bisset’s lace ruff, which landed directly in Marietta’s hands. “Dry your tears on this oaf’s lace. He does not need it!”
Bisset lunged forward and pinked Duboise’s left arm, but it was a short-lived victory. As Marietta watched the two men circle, their swords moving faster than she could follow, it occurred to her that she had seen this fight before, only with different actors. Louis Duboise fought as Albion Riché had done, taunting Bisset into overextending himself as Riché had done with Sir Breanan. She hoped that it would not have as unfortunate an outcome.
Bits of Bisset’s clothing fell off his body, until finally Louis cut the straps that held up his pants, and they fell in a heap around his ankles. As Bisset reached down to pull them up, Louis struck him with the flat of his blade on the back of his head, sending the Lightening Guard sprawling into a pile of manure.
“Enough!” he shouted from the ground. “I yield!”
Louis Duboise stepped back and raised his sword, waiting for Bisset to regain his feet. “You will apologize to the Mademoiselle,” he said, gazing at his opponent evenly.
Bisset turned to face her. His shirt was covered in dung, and even a master tailor would have had trouble putting his uniform back together from the various bits that lay scattered the street. Despite everything, he was completely unwounded. He straightened and faced Marietta. “Mademoiselle,” he said through a tight jaw, casting an occasional backwards glance at Duboise, “I offended you with my speech. I apologize and ask your forgiveness.”
Marietta watched him. She could tell that many of the spectators who had watched the fight were eager to hear what she would say to finally resolve it. “I will overlook your insult,” she said at last, “and accept your apology. And I wish never to see you again.”
She could tell the feeling was mutual as Bisset stormed off and the crowd scattered. Marietta approached her champion. “You have done me a great service,” she said, and she meant it.
“I have done what every well-born man would have,” replied Louis. “That cur is not fit for polite society.”
“Still,” Marietta pressed. “I know the services of a master swordsman do not come for nothing.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I am no longer with Signore Valentino, but travel with Sir Breanan Allistair of Avalon. He will pay whatever fee you ask.”
Louis looked at her reprovingly. “Mademoiselle Marietta, you wound me. To think that I would ask payment for defending your honor!”
Marietta fluttered her eyes. “Is there nothing I can do to show my gratitude?”
Louis paused, emotions playing over his face. Finally, he held out his arm and Marietta took it. “You can allow me to walk you home,” he said, “and later, you can join me for dinner, at which you will tell me everything you know about the dog who just ran back to his master, so that I might be better prepared to taunt him the next time I see him.”
Marietta grinned. “I know little enough,” she said as they walked, “but I can tell you of a wonderful duel I just witnessed in which the dog was sent scampering home without any dinner.”
“Ah!” replied Louis, smiling, “my favorite kind of fight!”
It was only a few blocks back to Sir Breanan’s apartments, and Louis left her at the door with a promise that he would be back at 7:30. She watched him leave, black ringlets bobbing in pace with his step. When he had turned a corner and disappeared from sight, she entered and climbed the stairs.
Sir Breanan was busy overseeing the packing. “Marietta!” he cried in his usual enthusiastic way. “Did you have a good afternoon?”
Marietta smiled calmly. “I did,” she said. “Would you object if I met someone for dinner?”
Breanan turned and sighed. “Marietta, how many times do I have to tell you? You’re a free woman, you can do what you want. You don’t need to ask me.”
Marietta leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I know,” she said. Had they been in Vodacce, he would have been disowned from his family for that simple statement, and she would have been thrown out of the academy for encouraging it. Thankfully, they were not in Vodacce. “I think I’ll go read,” she said, picking up one of Breanan’s books and moving into the next room.
“Good!” he called after her. “You don’t want to tire yourself!”
Marietta smiled to herself. “No,” she said quietly, “I certainly wouldn’t want that.”
Among the aristocracy of Charouse, the Chuchote d’Or was widely known for two things: the very best drinking chocolate in the city, and the very best gossip. Even as the situation in Charouse became tenser and the nobility more tight-lipped, the green-and-gold upholstery of the Chuchote d’Or’s main salon played silent witness to rumors, negotiations, and illicit love affairs.
In her time since leaving Valentino’s service, Marietta had become a regular, making a point to visit every few days to catch up with acquaintances. And now that Breanan had suggested they leave Charouse for a time to escape the increasing violence and pursue other goals, Marietta found herself once more before the bay window, staring out at the foot-traffic on the street, a cup of chocolate cradled lightly in her hands.
She sat alone. None of her new friends were about, but Marietta was not bothered. The thought that Sir Breanan allowed her to wander the streets of Charouse alone, without even a maid or chaperone, was still a novelty. He seemed to think that now that he owned her contract – or had torn it up, if you asked him – she was a free woman, able to do whatever she wanted. Marietta allowed herself a small smile. The man was so ridiculously naïve. He had absolutely no concept of what it meant to hold a courtesan’s contract, though the nobles of Vodacce did, and no doubt quite a number of their Montaignais counterparts as well. Still, if Breanan wanted her to be more independent, if it pleased him to see her walking alone without asking him for permission, then she would do it. A courtesan was trained to please, whatever form that pleasure took.
There was a small cough from behind her, and Marietta turned. Blond hair cascaded over the red uniform of a Lightening Guard. “Mademoiselle,” he said, pressing his hand against his heart, “your beauty shone through the window like a second sun, and I could do nothing but stop and see if it was real, or a mirage of such convincing likeness that I would drink of it until I died of thirst.”
Marietta was getting used to the elaborate wordplay of the Montaignais. Whereas once such a speech would have confounded her, now she merely extended her hand, which her would-be suitor kissed. “There are better things here to drink than my essence, I should think,” Marietta answered. “Have you tried the drinking chocolate?”
The Lightening Guard waved a hand. “Pah! Chocolate cannot compete with the sweetness of your visage!”
Marietta smiled. “I wouldn’t say that until you’ve tried it.” She waved over a waiter and ordered another cup, then turned back. “Will you join me long enough to sample?”
“Mademoiselle,” he said earnestly, “every moment I spend with you is a moment I can sit in the perfection of your beauty. You honor me.”
He held the seat for her as she sat, and then took the chair opposite. The polished wood of the table reflected the gold accents of his uniform, clearly embellished with the trappings of his family’s wealth. She caught a few glances from other tables and ignored them.
“Will Monsieur do me the kindness of telling me who it is that has joined me?”
Her companion bowed his head. “A million pardons, Mademoiselle. Your beauty so overcame me that I forgot all niceties. I am Phillipe Bisset du Verre, of l’Empreur’s service.”
She had heard enough from Gérard recently regarding his opinions of l’Empreur’s Lightening Guard “servants” to fill a full-hour conversation with vitriol, but was spared answering by the arrival of Phillipe’s drinking chocolate. She held forward her own cup. “L’Empreur,” she suggested. There were few enough who would toast l’Empreur in private nowadays, but appearances needed to be maintained in public.
“L’Empreur,” Phillipe agreed enthusiastically. He drank, then sighed. “Ah, Mademoiselle, it is as you say, nearly as divine as you.”
Marietta smiled and drank her own toast. “Have you never been here before?” she asked.
“Rarely,” replied Bisset, “and never with company so radiant. Now that you know who I am, might you honor me with the knowledge of your name? I hear the tones of Vodacce in your voice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” said Marietta, leaning forward to place her cup on the table. “Marietta, of Fontaine.”
She glanced up, looking for the tell-tale sign in Phillipe’s eye that he had noticed the maneuvering of her bodice as she straightened, but was surprised to see a cloud pass across his face. “Marietta?” he said quietly, searching for a memory to associate it with. The corners of his lips turned down. “Marietta Vestello? You’re… you’re Valentino Vestini’s whore!”
Her hand was flying faster than thought, and even gloved, the sound it made when it hit Phillipe’s face was enough to echo through the entire salon. “First, it is Marietta only. Second, I no longer serve Signore Vestini. And third, no one calls a courtesan of Fontaine a whore.”
Bisset’s eyes narrowed. He dabbed at the side of his mouth with a napkin, checked to see if it was red-stained, put it down. “I say only the truth. What whores wish to call themselves in private, to make themselves feel better when they spread their legs for every man with a few spare guilder, is no business of mine. And yours is no business for this salon. You cheapen it with your presence.”
Marietta glared. “That’s twice you’ve insulted my honor. You will leave my table this instant.”
Bisset lounged back in his chair. “On the contrary. I think I should call the gendarmes and have you thrown out.” He lowered his voice. “Do the proprietors know that they’re hosting a jenny? Did they pay you to come entertain their clients?”
She slapped him again. “Would that I were a man, Monsieur. I would duel you in an instant.”
Bisset shrugged. “But yet you’re not. Which is why you will always be the inferior sex. I suggest you leave before I make you regret staying.”
Marietta stood and smoothed her skirt. “I will do nothing of the sort,” she said.
She eyed the patrons of the Chuchote d’Or’s main salon. The clientele was rich enough to indulge their passions, whether that was for wine, for gold... or for swordplay. The glimmer of Swordsman Guild pins shone from no small number of chests, mostly bronze, but a few silver, and on the far side of the room, one gold. She looked down at Phillipe Bisset. “Soon it will be you who will regret staying,” she said softly.
The bearer of the gold pin was sitting with two friends next to the window. Good, thought Marietta. It would be more difficult if he were here with a wife or a paramour. With friends, she could entice all three at once. She walked directly over to their table, feeling the eyes of the other patrons on her and ignoring them. Her face was a textbook example of a wounded lady; her hands trembled ever so slightly. She fell to her knees before the young noble with the golden pin. “Monsieur,” she implored him, and her voice shook. “Please, I beg you to help me.”
For a moment, he was confused. But within seconds, his Montaignais nature shone through, and he took her hands in his own. “Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice full of concern, “what troubles you?”
“That man,” Marietta said, pointing a finger back at the table she had just vacated and the Lightening Guard who still occupied it. Her voice caught in her throat. “That man called me a whore.”
The gold pin was out of his chair in an instant. “He dares! Mademoiselle, have no fear! No one shall insult you in this way!”
He strode across the salon, his hand already on the pommel of his rapier. One of his friends helped Marietta to her feet, and she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he led her across the room and back to her table. Bisset and the gold pin were both standing, already in heated discussion.
“Do you have any idea what she is?” hissed Bisset, glaring at the intruder.
“I know what you are,” rejoined her champion. “An oaf with no manners, and no business to be seated at the same table as a lady!”
“A lady? Do you delude yourself?” replied Bisset. “This ‘lady’ came with Valentino Vestini from Vodacce for the sole purpose of finding someone to buy her!”
The gold pin glared a moment longer, then turned and took Marietta’s hands in his, tenderly. “Tell me true, Mademoiselle. What does he mean by these accusations?”
Marietta studied him for a moment, trying to take his measure. He was fair, with black ringlets and intense blue eyes, his hands calloused from swordplay. He looked at her with concern. Marietta drew a breath and straightened her back. “My name is Marietta, Monsieur. I am a courtesan of Fontaine. And while it is true that I came with Signore Valentino, it was to introduce me to the Montaignais court. I have studied dance, philosophy, etiquette, and mathematics, and I am a match for any lady at any ball you would care to bring me to.” It was bolder than she’d intended, and she wondered whether Breanan was having more of an effect on her than she’d anticipated.
Bisset waved a hand. “Yes, yes. So she’s a well-trained whore. She’ll fetch a fine price as a circus side-show.”
This time it was the young noble’s hand who flew. “I have been to Fontaine,” he said, turning back to face Marietta’s accuser. “The lady has the right of it, and you will apologize to her.”
Bisset glared, sparing only the corner of his eye for Marietta. “I’ll do no such thing.”
The swordsman’s hand was on his pommel. “Then you will taste my steel, cur! Outside with you, this instant!”
The two men practically leapt out the door. Marietta followed, beside the young noble’s friend. She leaned into him. “What is the name of the man who champions my cause?” she asked him, watching the retreating forms.
“Louis Duboise,” he said. “He will whip the red-clad fool until he crawls back to his mother.”
Marietta smiled a grim smile. “I certainly hope so.”
He held the door for her. “And I am Réné. I will second for Louis.”
Marietta squeezed his hand. “You do me honor,” she said, stepping out into the street.
“Not at all,” Réné said quietly, below the din of the street traffic, “Any day I get to watch a Lightening Guard being put through his paces is a good day.” He held out an arm just in time for Louis Douboise’s coat to land on it.
Marietta took in the scene. Bisset had managed to procure another member of his order to second for him, and both duelists had shed their coats and were holding naked steel. Passers-by had formed a loose circle around the two, no one willing to get between the two men, regardless of how urgent their errands might be. Marietta stood beside Réné, watching her champion.
“To first blood?” suggested Duboise, slashing the air a few times to loosen his arm.
“To submission,” replied Bisset. “Until you say from your own lips how idiotic it is to be protecting the virtue of a woman who clearly has none.”
“It is you who lacks virtue,” said Louis. “Still, I accept your terms. To submission.”
There was a pause as the two men came to position and saluted each other. Bisset charged forward first, aiming a strike at Duboise’s sword-arm, only to find himself moving past his target and the epaulette of his uniform sailing through the air. He turned and attacked again, and this time found that two buttons had popped off his chest and onto the cobblestones. “Shall I undress him one thread at a time?” asked Louis, sparing a glance towards Marietta, “Or all at once?”
Marietta glanced at the Lightening Guard, the sneer still plastered on his face as he charged again and was deflected. “Slowly,” she replied. “To humiliate him as he humiliated me.”
“As you say, Mademoiselle,” he said, and what Marietta took to be a salute to her in fact turned out to be Louis slicing off a chunk of Bisset’s lace ruff, which landed directly in Marietta’s hands. “Dry your tears on this oaf’s lace. He does not need it!”
Bisset lunged forward and pinked Duboise’s left arm, but it was a short-lived victory. As Marietta watched the two men circle, their swords moving faster than she could follow, it occurred to her that she had seen this fight before, only with different actors. Louis Duboise fought as Albion Riché had done, taunting Bisset into overextending himself as Riché had done with Sir Breanan. She hoped that it would not have as unfortunate an outcome.
Bits of Bisset’s clothing fell off his body, until finally Louis cut the straps that held up his pants, and they fell in a heap around his ankles. As Bisset reached down to pull them up, Louis struck him with the flat of his blade on the back of his head, sending the Lightening Guard sprawling into a pile of manure.
“Enough!” he shouted from the ground. “I yield!”
Louis Duboise stepped back and raised his sword, waiting for Bisset to regain his feet. “You will apologize to the Mademoiselle,” he said, gazing at his opponent evenly.
Bisset turned to face her. His shirt was covered in dung, and even a master tailor would have had trouble putting his uniform back together from the various bits that lay scattered the street. Despite everything, he was completely unwounded. He straightened and faced Marietta. “Mademoiselle,” he said through a tight jaw, casting an occasional backwards glance at Duboise, “I offended you with my speech. I apologize and ask your forgiveness.”
Marietta watched him. She could tell that many of the spectators who had watched the fight were eager to hear what she would say to finally resolve it. “I will overlook your insult,” she said at last, “and accept your apology. And I wish never to see you again.”
She could tell the feeling was mutual as Bisset stormed off and the crowd scattered. Marietta approached her champion. “You have done me a great service,” she said, and she meant it.
“I have done what every well-born man would have,” replied Louis. “That cur is not fit for polite society.”
“Still,” Marietta pressed. “I know the services of a master swordsman do not come for nothing.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I am no longer with Signore Valentino, but travel with Sir Breanan Allistair of Avalon. He will pay whatever fee you ask.”
Louis looked at her reprovingly. “Mademoiselle Marietta, you wound me. To think that I would ask payment for defending your honor!”
Marietta fluttered her eyes. “Is there nothing I can do to show my gratitude?”
Louis paused, emotions playing over his face. Finally, he held out his arm and Marietta took it. “You can allow me to walk you home,” he said, “and later, you can join me for dinner, at which you will tell me everything you know about the dog who just ran back to his master, so that I might be better prepared to taunt him the next time I see him.”
Marietta grinned. “I know little enough,” she said as they walked, “but I can tell you of a wonderful duel I just witnessed in which the dog was sent scampering home without any dinner.”
“Ah!” replied Louis, smiling, “my favorite kind of fight!”
It was only a few blocks back to Sir Breanan’s apartments, and Louis left her at the door with a promise that he would be back at 7:30. She watched him leave, black ringlets bobbing in pace with his step. When he had turned a corner and disappeared from sight, she entered and climbed the stairs.
Sir Breanan was busy overseeing the packing. “Marietta!” he cried in his usual enthusiastic way. “Did you have a good afternoon?”
Marietta smiled calmly. “I did,” she said. “Would you object if I met someone for dinner?”
Breanan turned and sighed. “Marietta, how many times do I have to tell you? You’re a free woman, you can do what you want. You don’t need to ask me.”
Marietta leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I know,” she said. Had they been in Vodacce, he would have been disowned from his family for that simple statement, and she would have been thrown out of the academy for encouraging it. Thankfully, they were not in Vodacce. “I think I’ll go read,” she said, picking up one of Breanan’s books and moving into the next room.
“Good!” he called after her. “You don’t want to tire yourself!”
Marietta smiled to herself. “No,” she said quietly, “I certainly wouldn’t want that.”
