Two Cats

Chapter 9

I took the proffered seat with a nod of thanks, grabbing one of the stoneware mugs that rested on the table beside the pitcher of warmed beer they were in the process of enjoying. It's vile, bitter stuff, and my cheekbones always seem to hurt when I first taste it, or even when recalling the taste. It was, however, what most everyone drank while down there in the Stables, and it had a knack for taking the edge off tired, aching muscles. I think they also use it to remove rust from swords, to be honest.

“Well, I'm assuming that thrusting the point of your sword in the ground would do it,” I said, bringing the cup towards my lips and bracing myself for a mouthful of the sour, metallic-tasting beverage. “It would stop him in mid-spin, I would guess.”

“Bah, you're always trying to be too dramatic, Lord Tucat,” Ashkin snorted, “Sticking your sword in the ground is a terribly awkward position to put yourself in, something I'd never do. For one thing, when-”

And we were off. I was at ease and enjoying myself, talking shop with the boys. I found myself listening, talking, arguing, laughing ... an hour eaten away by conversation. Ashkin, with his deep booming voice, would describe some strategic situation in terms of cause and effect, and sly Ismir with his Vereetian accent would interject from time to time to point out some exception to a rule Ashkin was quoting.

Mouser, still in the throes of excitement, demonstrated his move a few times for me. It looked silly and awkward, like a completely inept shoulder roll ... right up to the point where his sword was forced to whip around with enough force to cut the legs out from under you. I was impressed despite myself.

It was interesting, if not surprising, that Mouser had come up with something new completely by accident. The other two larger swordsmen were quite expert - you knew what to expect. They practiced form, perfected lunges, and critiqued each other's footwork. When Ismir was focusing on practicing Western-style fencing (much different than his own, native style of swordplay) you could watch the two figures move in almost perfect unison.

Mouser was not like that at all. Erratic is simply not a strong enough word to describe it. Watching him, there were days that you seriously doubted he'd ever manage a proper lunge. Practicing would be a waste of time for him, had it not the added benefit of a workout.

The instant he took up arms against an opponent though...

Amazing.

There was no difference in how terribly he performed during a match - he was just as awful inside a dueling circle as he was outside of one. However, the effect that these terribly executed and seemingly haphazard moves had on his opponents was remarkable. It threw their timing off completely.

Combine this with an incredible clarity of mind during fights and a bafflingly strong defense, and you end up with a small fellow who has turned his own ineptness into a unique and dangerous talent. It was uncanny, and left many a duelist filled with self-doubt.

Other swordsmen either embraced his chaotic nature and loved the wide-eyed little guy, or they hated him with an unholy passion. There was no middle ground.

Despite his placement among the ranks of swordsmen, however, his services were hardly ever secured professionally. People with upcoming duels just weren't very keen on the idea of spending hundreds of gold marks on a duelist who looked as though he were a complete duffer.

Speaking of upcoming duels...

“By the by,” I interjected when an opportune moment presented itself, “have you all heard the details concerning my upcoming altercation? Duel,” I added hastily for Ismir’s benefit.

“You mean besides the fact that you're fighting a duel against some kid for Lord Greybridge for free,” Ashkin said blandly, “presumably robbing an honest swordsman of the opportunity to earn a half year's wages in a single bout?”