Capric stared back at him. He wore no expression, made no sound. His arms hung limply at his sides, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly.
“If this is all a mistake,” Demir continued loudly, “if this missive is a forgery, then I will embrace you as a friend and kiss your feet, begging for your forgiveness. I hope that is the case. I pray that is the case. So tell me, Capric. Did you order the sack of Holikan and falsely blame me for it?”
No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe. Demir wondered how many people in the crowd of pedestrians knew what the piss he was talking about. Most of them had probably heard of the sack of Holikan. Most wouldn’t have associated his name with it. The elites that had poured out with Capric and Sibrial, though? They definitely knew, and most were taking Veterixi’s cue and shuffling away from Capric. Only his brother remained next to him, glaring at Demir with the kind of arrogance only a guild-family heir would summon in the face of a glassdancer.
Capric lifted one hand, touching the shackleglass at his ear. He looked … oddly relieved? He said, “Yes. Yes, I did it.”
“Louder,” Demir said. Despite expecting this exact answer, he felt his jaw tighten and his eyes begin to cloud.
“Yes!” Capric declared. “I did. Damn you, I did!” He removed the shackle-glass and flung it back at Demir.
Demir caught it in one outstretched hand and put it in his pocket. His sword remained half raised, pointing at the ground before Capric. “Borrow your brother’s sword, Capric. We duel here. Now.” He raised his voice. “My name is Demir Grappo, and two days ago I won a great victory against Grent’s mercenary lapdog, the supposedly invincible Devia Kerite. Who will be my second?”
No one from the High Vorcien Club came forward. Why would they? Seconding him would only get them a lifetime ban from the club and the enmity of the Vorcien. Several offers came from the watching pedestrians, however, and soon a well-dressed young woman with a sword at her hip and expensive forgeglass buttons on her travel coat came forward. She introduced herself as Lazza, and gave a brief oath on Demir’s shackleglass to serve as his second. Sibrial, of course, seconded his younger brother.
The formalities were quick and cold. The seconds searched their opponents for hidden godglass, checked the dueling swords for the same. “If you live to see tomorrow,” Sibrial hissed in his ear as he checked beneath Demir’s armpits and groin, “you will regret it.”
“I’ve regretted living for a new sunrise for nine years. Why should tomorrow be any different?” Demir stepped away from Sibrial and gave his sword an experimental swing. Duels were not technically legal within the Empire, but they happened all the time. The rules were simple: Two willing participants. No godglass. No glassdancer sorcery. No interference. Capric certainly didn’t look willing, but he took up his brother’s sword nonetheless. A formal cordon was made by the club bouncers, keeping the onlookers at a distance.
Demir tested his footing on the cobbles. Smooth dirt would be better, but he felt confident in his movement. Capric did the same, the two men staring at each other until their seconds joined them. Sibrial wore a deep scowl, directing it first at Demir and then at Lazza. The young woman didn’t seem to notice. She was, if Demir had to guess, cut out of the same cloth as Tirana: a soldier, or soldier of fortune, not easily cowed by guild-family politics. She probably wouldn’t even be in Ossa come tomorrow.
“What are the terms of the duel?” Sibrial asked Demir.
Demir nodded at Capric. “What do you think they should be, my old friend?”
“To the death,” Capric responded in a monotone. He sniffed. “What point is there in first blood?”
“Do you agree?” Lazza asked.
“I do,” Demir answered. He was surprised. He’d expected Capric to take the easy way – to first blood – and live to fight another day. Demir had even hoped it. He didn’t necessarily want to kill his onetime friend. He would far rather grind him to dust over many years. Perhaps that was exactly what Capric hoped to avoid. This would be a decisive ending. If Capric won, no one would ever mention Holikan to him again. If Demir won … well, it wouldn’t matter.
“Then,” Sibrial proclaimed, “the duel begins when both fighters are ready!”
“Make your peace with whatever god you wish,” Lazza said quietly, and then followed Sibrial to the other side of the cordon.
Demir and Capric faced each other at sword length, smallswords raised. Demir dug inside himself to try and feel something. Regret. Anger. There was nothing in the pit of his stomach but cold, dead fury. “You caused the death of tens of thousands of people,” Demir said.
Capric shrugged.
“You destroyed me.”
“I didn’t mean to, if it’s any consolation,” Capric said. “It was just politics. To put you in your place.”
“Putting me in my place at the expense of so many lives?” Demir asked, tapping the tip of his sword against Capric’s.
Capric shrugged again, and Demir suddenly felt like he was looking at a stranger. They’d known each other since they were children, yet how could he not see the typical guild-family callousness? Capric seemed like he might regret breaking Demir’s mind. He did not regret murdering a city. “I had a heavy lunch,” he said, tapping Demir’s sword back.
“I haven’t eaten for days,” Demir answered.
“Then this will be interesting.” Capric turned, presenting a smaller target to Demir and raising his sword parallel to the ground. Demir mimicked the move, lifting his sword slightly higher and then fending off a sudden lunge from Capric. The duel was then engaged, their swords sliding up and down the lengths of each other’s blades. The contact allowed them both to feel the other’s movements, and they remained that way, edging back and forth, before Demir felt Capric push slightly on his sword and attempt a thrust.
Demir parried with his open hand, pushing Capric’s blade off to one side with a quick movement and coming in with a riposte aimed at Capric’s heart. Capric slid to the right and Demir’s blade caught his shirt, slicing just below Capric’s ear, his sword coming back with blood.
Capric disengaged quickly, and the two were once again at length. Demir watched his opponent carefully, resisting his urges. He wanted to be reckless. He wanted to attack with the fury of a whole brigade. But a formal duel like this could not be won with fury. Capric might not be the best duelist in the Empire, but he was too well-trained to be overwhelmed in such a manner.
“You’re better than you were,” Capric said. “I did not expect that. You learn this out in the provinces?”
Demir did not answer. He’d said his piece already. There was nothing more but blood, and he scored it three more times before Capric managed to return the favor, slicing a painful furrow across the outside of Demir’s right thigh. Demir took another cut across his left arm using an open-handed parry, and then a nick on his right shoulder. Capric, he realized, was drawing his measure and adjusting after his earlier surprise. It was Demir’s turn to disengage.
He could hear little but his own ragged breaths now, his heart beating hard, and he wondered whether he’d be dead in a few moments. It was certainly possible.
They reengaged, and their swords crossed six times before Capric suddenly went for a low lunge, his entire body uncoiling into a long, powerful thrust made even deadlier by his greater height – and range. Demir felt the blade score across his belly and snatched Capric’s sword by the guard with his off hand. He followed the grapple smoothly, stabbing downward at an angle for Capric’s exposed collarbone.