Harrington saw Stephano and rose to his feet.
The patio was crowded with tables and chairs, some empty, others occupied. A table occupied by several ladies and gentlemen was between Stephano and Sir Richard. The three naval officers were to his right. A group of students was seated at a table near the back and to his left. A fellow who looked like a clerk was seated in the shadows of a hibiscus.
Stephano laid his hand on the hilt of his rapier.
“You, sir! I promised we would meet again!” cried Stephano.
“Are you mad?” Rodrigo gasped. He seized hold of his friend’s arm, trying to prevent him from drawing his weapon. “Leave him alone! They’ll send for the constables-”
“Let them!” Stephano said grimly.
James Harrington cast Stephano a glance of contempt. He began to adjust the lace at his cuffs. “If you have a quarrel with me, sir, let us settle the matter in some less public place.”
Stephano did not see Harrington. He saw young Valazquez, missing his face, lying in a pool of blood. He relived that nightmarish chase through the streets, a bullet in his shoulder. He remembered how near he and his friends had come to sinking into the Breath.
“Stay out of this, Rigo,” said Stephano harshly and he took off his coat, tossed it to the ground, and drew his rapier.
By now, of course, everyone in the cafe was watching. The ladies were whispering in thrilled horror behind their fans. Their gentlemen stood up, looking uncertain. The naval officers had all lowered their glasses of port. One of them tried to intervene.
“Gentlemen, please-”
“This son of a bitch is no gentleman, sir,” Stephano said. “He is an assassin who murdered a man in Evreux and tried to murder me. If one of you will oblige me by calling the constables, I will see to it that he does not escape justice.”
Harrington had been keeping his own hand near his sleeve, smoothing the long lace that fell over his wrist. His hand darted swiftly into the cuff of his coat and came out holding a small pistol.
Stephano saw the flash of sunlight off metal. He stiff-armed Rodrigo, giving him a shove that sent him reeling backward into one of the serving girls. They both went down together with a crash of crockery.
Harrington fired. Stephano ducked. The bullet whistled harmlessly over Stephano’s head and smashed into a post.
The cafe was in an uproar. One of the women fainted. Her companion cried out that she had been shot and then she fainted. The third woman screamed and went into hysterics. The two gentlemen had taken cover under the table, where they were endeavoring to assist the ladies. A serving girl ran to the aid of the elderly priest, who seemed on the verge of collapse, while the other patrons made a mad scramble, overturning chairs and upending tables. The clerk tried to leave, but found his way blocked by an upended table to his right and the naval officers on his left.
The owner of the cafe dodged around Rodrigo, who was floundering amidst broken crockery, and ran into the street, shouting for the constables. People in the street, attracted by the commotion, hurried over to see what was happening, adding to the confusion. The students, having taken cover, were exchanging bets.
Harrington threw down the useless pistol and reached for his sword. Stephano jumped onto a chair, from the chair to a table, and back to the ground, landing in front of Sir Richard. The naval officers had all drawn their weapons and advanced with the intention of trying to stop the fight.
“Stay out of this, gentlemen!” Stephano cried. “This bastard murdered a young nobleman in cold blood and he tried to kill me and my friend in the same cowardly manner. He is mine!”
The naval officers glanced at each other. If Harrington had been a Rosian, they might have stayed to try to prevent bloodshed, but he was a Freyan, and therefore not worth their trouble. The officers thrust their swords back into their sheaths. One of them saluted Stephano, and then they hurriedly left the cafe, well aware that the Constabulary was probably already on the way. Now that the officers were gone, the clerk made his way out from behind the overturned table.
“Sir!” the clerk called to Stephano. “For the love of God, don’t kill him! Wait for the constables!”
Stephano paid no heed, but drove the point of his rapier at Harrington’s throat. Harrington parried, and Stephano managed to nick the man’s chin. Stephano followed with a series of attacks-slash and thrust, moving rapidly, his blade darting and jabbing, trying to force Harrington onto the defensive.
Harrington was a skilled swordsman, however, and all Stephano managed to do was slice open his shoulder. He pressed Harrington, who had the garden wall behind him. Harrington leaped lightly up onto the wall and ran along it, keeping the tables between him and Stephano.
Stephano took hold of a table, pitched it over, and lunged at Harrington, who jumped down off the wall and seized hold of one of the serving girls and flung her into Stephano’s arms. Stephano tried to sidestep in order to miss hitting her, but he was not quick enough. He collided with the girl. Harrington used the advantage to drive his blade through the girl’s upper arm and into Stephano’s left shoulder-the same shoulder that was still stiff and sore from Harrington’s bullet. Pain shot through Stephano’s arm and his hand tingled.
Harrington yanked out his sword and made ready for another strike. The girl collapsed at Stephano’s feet, screaming in pain and terror and further impeding his ability to reach Harrington, who scored a bloody gash down Stephano’s side.
Stephano grabbed a wine glass from a table and flung the contents into Harrington’s eyes, half-blinding him. While Harrington tried to wipe away the stinging wine, Stephano hurled the glass at him. Harrington lifted his arm to block the blow and managed at the same time to parry Stephano’s vicious stab. Stephano sliced through the cloth and into Harrington’s left forearm. The lace at the man’s wrist was immediately drenched in blood. Harrington feinted to the right, fell back, and seized a knife that had been left in a saddle of beef. He threw the knife at Stephano, hitting him in the thigh.
Stephano yanked out the knife and backed up. Blood oozed from the wound, and he flung the bloody knife back at Harrington, more out of rage than with the hope of hitting him. Harrington had to dodge the knife, however, and that gave Stephano a moment’s respite. For a moment, both men stood staring, each calculating the next move.
Blood trickled down Stephano’s leg. His shirt was wet with blood and sticking to his ribs. Harrington was bleeding, too, but only from a few gashes here and there. He smiled. He must think Stephano was nearly finished. He came at him.
Stephano cast what he hoped looked like a panicked glance behind him, as though judging the distance between himself and the exit. He began to retreat, gasping for air, moving slowly, limping heavily. He kept his rapier raised, defending against Harrington’s quick jabs. Stephano, appearing to weaken, let the tip of his blade waver and drop.
Harrington had been waiting for this. His blade slid over Stephano’s, aiming for his heart. Stephano hooked his foot under a fallen stool and kicked it, sending it rolling into his foe. The stool struck Harrington in the shins. He stumbled and fought to keep his balance, but his feet were entangled with the legs of the stool and he fell to his knees.
Stephano attacked while the Freyan was on the ground, hoping to end the fight. Harrington fended off the attack with his sword as he twisted back to his feet with the same feline grace and athleticism that had caused Stephano to place him as the man in the slouch hat. Again, Harrington drove the tip of his blade at Stephano’s heart, turning his wrist so the flat of the blade would slide between his ribs.
Stephano sidestepped and Harrington’s momentum carried him past Stephano, who jabbed his rapier into Harrington’s back. Harrington gasped in shock. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of his breast.