‘Hey, Ruskin, why are you dragging things out over there?’ Bullcox shouted irritably.
‘I have been informed that your friend recently suffered a fracture of the right wrist,’ Fandorin told the second hastily, starting to feel anxious. ‘If that is so, a duel with swords cannot take place. That is actually what I intended…’
The Englishman interrupted disdainfully:
‘Rubbish. Algernon has never broken his arm. That trick won’t work. I’d been told there were not many gentlemen among the Russians, but everything has its limits!’
‘After Bullcox, I’ll deal with you,’ the titular counsellor promised. ‘And I’ll hammer those words back into your cast-iron head.’
This shameful outburst by Fandorin can only be explained by his annoyance with himself – Erast Petrovich was already beginning to realise that nothing would come of his plan. He only had to look at Tsurumaki, who was making no attempt to conceal his smirk of triumph. Could he have guessed about the plan? And now, of course, he was quite sure that the Russian had lost.
But there was still one hope left – to tell Bullcox everything when they stood face to face. Without looking, the vice-consul took hold of one of the swords by its leather-covered hilt. He dropped his cloak on the ground, leaving himself in just his shirt.
The major drew his sabre.
‘Assume your positions. Cross swords. Commence at my blow. The conditions state that fighting continues as long as one of the opponents is capable of holding a weapon. Go!’
He rapped his sabre against the crossed swords with a clang and jumped aside.
‘I have something I must tell you.’ Fandorin began rapidly in a low voice, so that the seconds would not overhear and interfere.
‘Hah!’ the Right Honourable gasped instead of answering, and launched a furious barrage of blows at his opponent.
Barely able to defend himself, the vice-consul was obliged to retreat.
There were exclamations above his head, the sound of applause; a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Bravo!’
‘Just wait, will you! We’ll have plenty of time to fight! You and I have been the victims of a political intrigue.’
‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! Only not straight away. First I’ll neuter you, like a ram,’ Bullcox wheezed, then slid his blade along Fandorin’s sword and made a thrust straight for his crotch.
By some miracle Erast Petrovich managed to dodge. He fell, jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive stance again.
‘You idiot!’ he hissed. ‘This concerns the honour of Britain.’
But looking into the Right Honourable’s bloodshot eyes, he realised that the other man simply couldn’t hear him, and just at this moment he couldn’t care less for the honour of Britain, or for any matters of state importance. What did Okubo and devious plots have to do with this? This was an event as old as the world itself, a battle between two males over a female, there was nothing in the world more urgent and remorseless than this battle. The clever Don had understood that from the beginning. He knew there was no power capable of placating the bloodlust that seizes the abandoned lover.
And the titular counsellor felt afraid.
From the way Bullcox attacked and the assuredness with which he parried the clumsy thrusts of the former provincial grammar-school champion, the outcome of the duel was clearly a foregone conclusion. The Englishman could have killed his opponent many times over, there was only one thing stopping him: he was absolutely determined to carry out his threat and kept directing all his attacks exclusively at Fandorin’s loins. To some degree this simplified the task of his weaker opponent, who only had to concentrate on defending one area of his body, but the resistance could not continue for long. His wrist, unaccustomed to swordplay, turned numb, and parrying blows became harder and harder. Erast Petrovich repeatedly fell, unable to retain his balance, and Bullcox waited for him to get up. Twice he had to beat off a thrust that had pierced his defences with his bare left hand, and once the tip of the blade furrowed his thigh as Fandorin barely managed to wrench himself out of the way.
His shirt was black from dirt and green from grass stains, there were red blotches spreading on his sleeves and blood was flowing down one of his legs.
In his despair the titular counsellor was struck by a comforting idea – since all was lost, why not run over to the Don and slash his fat belly open in farewell?
The vice-consul had long ago abandoned his attempts to bring Bullcox to his senses. He was saving his breath, his eyes fixed on only one point – his opponent’s slashing sword. He didn’t try to counter-attack, there was no question of that. He could only fend off steel with steel and, if that didn’t work, with his arm.
It was becoming clear, however, that the Englishman did not run in circles round the cricket field every morning, or stretch a chest-expander, or raise heavy weights. For all his subtle skill and dexterity, Bullcox was beginning to tire. The sweat was streaming down his crimson face, his fiery curls were glued together, his movements were becoming more economical.
And then he stopped and wiped his sweat away with his sleeve in a most unaristocratic manner. He hissed:
‘All right, damn you. Die as a man.’
This was followed by a furious onslaught that drove Erast Petrovich into a corner of the open area, right up against the bushes. A series of lunges was followed by a mighty, slashing blow. This time too, Fandorin managed to jump back in time, but that was what the attacker was counting on; the vice-consul’s heel struck a projecting root and he fell flat on his back. The audience on high gasped, seeing that this time the Right Honourable was not going to allow his opponent to get up – the performance had reached its climax.
Bullcox had already pressed Fandorin’s right hand down with his foot and raised his sword to pin the Russian to the ground, when he suddenly started pondering, or perhaps even daydreaming; his eyelids closed halfway, while his mouth, on the contrary, fell half open. With this strange expression on his face the Right Honourable swayed to and fro for a second or two, them went limp and collapsed directly on to the panting Erast Petrovich.
A startled dragonfly soared up out of the grass in a flutter of little rainbow wings.
They are just the same
As those of angels and elves -
A dragonfly’s wings
A BLUE STAR
How greatly everything had changed compared with the night before! The world had not ceased to be dangerous. On the contrary, it had become even more unpredictable and predatory. From somewhere out there in the gloom – Fandorin knew this for certain – the keen eyes of a man with cold serpent’s blood were watching him relentlessly. But even so, life was beautiful.
Erast Petrovich sat in the darkness, with the peak of his uniform cap pulled down over his eyes, waiting for the agreed signal. The tip of his cigar glowed brightly in the dark – it must be visible from any of the roofs nearby.
The titular counsellor was in a state of bliss that flooded body, heart and mind.
His body – because the migraine had passed off and his cuts and bruises were not aching or stinging at all. When the bleeding duellist was brought home, the first to run out to meet him had been O-Yumi. She wouldn’t allow Doronin to call a doctor and dealt with the injured man herself. She smeared something smelly on the slashes on his arms and thigh – and the bleeding instantly stopped. Then she gave Erast Petrovich a herbal infusion to drink – and a tight steel band seemed to fall away from round his head. Fandorin shook his head and batted his eyelids and even smacked himself on the temple, but there was no nausea, or pain, or dizziness at all. And what was more, the tiredness had also disappeared. His muscles were supple and taut, rippling with strength, he could have taken up his sword again – and who could tell who would have come off best this time? This magical new-found lightness in all his limbs had not faded during the day; in fact the feeling had grown stronger. And that was very apropos – the night ahead promised to be stormy.