Edmund Blane was using a handkerchief to wipe blood off his sword. He stepped slowly around her; she moved to keep him in view. Holding her sword at him, she stared at him down its length. The tip of the sword shook because her arm was trembling.
“How do you like it? It’s got a good weight to it, doesn’t it?” he said casually, unconcerned. “Now that you’ve got it in one piece, do you know what to do with it?”
She remained silent, repeating old fencing lessons in her mind. Point your toe, keep your knees bent, keep the blade on line, never attack on a bent arm. Advance, retreat, lunge, recover. She liked to think she knew what to do with a rapier.
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” Blane said, stuffing the bloodied handkerchief up one sleeve. He kept his rapier out and ready. “Give me my sword, and the Diana and all her crew can go free. You can tend to Marjory—it isn’t a deep wound, I’ll wager. If you can stop the bleeding, she should live. You can all live—if you give me my sword.” He spoke this loud enough to carry to the crew of the Diana who were watching.
Jill didn’t know what to do. Her first impulse, her first instinct, was to toss the sword at his feet and run back to her friends. This shocked her. That shouldn’t have been what she wanted to do at all. After everything she’d done to get it, after all the worry she’d spent over it, she’d get rid of it so easily, without a fight? She’d give up her way home without a fight? And she realized if she had to choose between going home and the lives of her friends, she couldn’t. If she could save them, she had to.
She looked over her shoulder. Cooper was propped against the side. Abe was with her, and Emory had arrived. The surgeon was packing a bandage into the wound at her side. Henry and Tennant stood guard, even though Tennant only had a dagger with him. They were all watching her.
Marjory Cooper shook her head. No, don’t do it. And Henry shook his head. Abe smiled. She knew they were right because Blane would never keep his word. They would all back her up, whatever happened.
Jill looked at Edmund Blane and shook her head.
His lip curled in a sneer. Then he struck.
It was a textbook feint—straight arm, forward thrust. He expected to catch her off guard, expected her to parry wide, flailing, leaving her defenseless while he disengaged to another line of attack and skewered her. Her fencer’s brain mapped it out a quarter of a second before it happened because she’d seen it before, she’d practiced against a move like that a million times. And lately, she’d been practicing with pirates. When he attacked, she didn’t have to stand there waiting for him.
She sidestepped out of his way and beat his blade off line, giving him nothing to counterattack against and no opening. But he was fast and smart and recovered quickly, attacking again.
She let her fears go, her anxieties fade, bringing all her attention to the flashing steel before her. Her body knew what to do, and the rapier fit neatly in her hand, comfortable and deadly. The world focused in on his blade and her own, and how the two interacted. He didn’t let her rest; every moment was taken up with attack and counterattack, parries and ripostes, trying to hit while avoiding getting hit herself. Sweat gathered in her hair and trickled down her back, under her shirt. An annoyance she could do nothing about, it made her aware of her whole body and how close the edged steel was coming to it.
He flicked his weapon at her, she parried—and was striking at an opening before her higher brain even knew it was there. A length of forearm behind his glove. She thrust at it, heard ripping as the point caught the shirt, felt resistance of flesh. He shouted, and she scurried back as his sword swung toward her again.
Blood stained the sleeve of his right arm. Not a lot. But enough to show the man was mortal.
And she remained standing, sword in her hand, watching him. So it would take more than a little blood for the power of the sword to send her home. They’d have to finish this, and she frowned, daunted.
His fury was controlled as he came at her again, his attacks even more powerful, so that each parry she made rattled her arm. Her muscles were turning to rubber. If he was at all tired after fighting Cooper, he hid it well.
On the other hand, Jill wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. In competition, a tournament might last all day, but a single bout might last only a few minutes. Even with dozens of bouts in a day, she’d have lots of rests in between. She was missing the rests, now. She only wanted a chance to catch her breath. But she had to keep going. If she slowed, Blane would see it and cut her down.
Her heart was beating in her throat, her temples were pounding. If she could only cut him again, and then a dozen more times—
With a renewed bout of strength, he pressed, and she retreated, hoping for a spare breath and a chance to recover. She felt the cut on her left arm without seeing exactly how he had made it—he growled, frowning, which made her think that he’d missed and meant to hit something more vital. The stinging wound seemed distant.
Instead of pulling back a moment and reassessing—as she had done after she struck him—he drove even harder. She couldn’t even counter now, only move her sword in a constant parry and hope her defensive wall was enough to keep him out. She jumped sideways, hoping to duck out from under his onslaught, but he stayed right with her.
All she needed was an opening, a moment when he let his guard down, a chance for her to strike. But then, that was all he needed, too.
She gathered another burst of strength, hoping to make one last attack, a last concerted exchange that would give her the opening she needed and finish this. She beat his blade, attacked. He made a hurried retreat, and she thought, This is it.
Then Blane fell.
His feet slipped out from under him and he toppled like a cartoon character. But I didn’t do anything, came Jill’s first thought.
Then she saw the hook and rope tangled around his legs. And Henry crouched nearby, holding the other end of the line.
Jill marched forward and lay the point of her rapier on Blane’s neck, like it was the most natural, normal thing to do.
The captain of the Heart’s Revenge had been struggling to sit up, but confronted by Jill’s steel he simply lay there, breathing hard, sweating, craning his head up to try to see her without impaling himself. His expression was an ugly sneer. Jill didn’t dare look away from him.
“Finish him off!” Henry called.
She knew what he meant—a slice across his throat, a stab through his neck and spinal cord. An ugly, messy death. He’d twitch on her sword like a bug on a pin. It’d be easy to do, with him lying there. The sword itself seemed to yearn toward him, eager to slice into him. She felt the power of it in her fingers, wrist, and arm. And if she was right, this would send her home—feed the sword Blane’s life in exchange for the child’s life he’d taken with it. It ought to be easy, with so much at stake.
And she realized she couldn’t. Not even to send herself home.
“You cheated,” Jill said to Henry.
“Course I did, you weren’t going to beat him,” he said.
Henry didn’t know that. Anything could have happened. That last attack might have worked. But part of her was just as glad not to have to find out. Blane was beaten, and it didn’t matter who gave the final blow.
“I’m not going to kill dead a man who’s flat on his back,” Jill said. “That’s the kind of thing he would do.”
“A woman of honor,” Blane said with contempt. “Nice.”
Yes, she thought. I am.
“Drop your sword,” she said, flicking the point against his skin. It scraped but didn’t cut. But just a little more pressure…
Blane let go of his weapon. Jill kicked it away, and it rattled across the wooden deck.