"Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself," the noble said to the crowd.
Inigo ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman's horse, blocking the nobleman's path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, "I, Inigo Montoya, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle."
"Get him out of my way. Move the infant."
"The infant is ten and he stays," Inigo said.
"Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content," said the noble.
"When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Now dismount! "
The nobleman dismounted.
"Draw your sword."
The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.
"I dedicate your death to my father," Inigo said. "Begin."
They began.
It was no match, of course. Inigo was disarmed in less than a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of ten, Inigo's genius was there.
Disarmed, Inigo stood very straight. He said not a word, begged nothing.
"I'm not going to kill you," the nobleman said. "Because you have talent and you're brave. But you're also lacking in manners, and that's going to get you in trouble if you're not careful. So I shall help you as you go through life, by leaving you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided." And with that his blade flashed. Two times.
And Inigo's face began to bleed. Two rivers of blood poured from his forehead to his chin, one crossing each cheek. Everyone watching knew it then: the boy was scarred for life.
Inigo would not fall. The world went white behind his eyes but he would not go to ground. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman replaced his sword, remounted, rode on.
It was only then that Inigo allowed the darkness to claim him.
He awoke to Yeste's face.
"I was beaten," Inigo whispered. "I failed him."
Yeste could only say, "Sleep."
Inigo slept. The bleeding stopped after a day and the pain stopped after a week. They buried Domingo, and for the first and last time Inigo left Arabella. His face bandaged, he rode in Yeste's carriage to Madrid, where he lived in Yeste's house, obeyed Yeste's commands. After a month, the bandages were removed, but the scars were still deep red. Eventually, they softened some, but they always remained the chief features of Inigo's face: the giant parallel scars running one on each side, from temple to chin. For two years, Yeste cared for him.
Then one morning, Inigo was gone. In his place were three words: "I must learn" on a note pinned to his pillow.
Learn? Learn what? What existed beyond Madrid that the child had to commit to memory? Yeste shrugged and sighed. It was beyond him. There was no understanding children anymore. Everything was changing too fast and the young were different. Beyond him, beyond him, life was beyond him, the world was beyond him, you name it, it was beyond him. He was a fat man who made swords. That much he knew.
So he made more swords and he grew fatter and the years went by. As his figure spread, so did his fame. From all across the world they came, begging him for weapons, so he doubled his prices because he didn't want to work too hard anymore, he was getting old, but when he doubled his prices, when the news spread from duke to prince to king, they only wanted him the more desperately. Now the wait was two years for a sword and the line-up of royalty was unending and Yeste was growing tired, so he doubled his prices again, and when that didn't stop them, he decided to triple his already doubled and redoubled prices and besides that, all work had to be paid for in jewels in advance and the wait was up to three years, but nothing would stop them. They had to have swords by Yeste or nothing, and even though the work on the finest was nowhere what it once was (Domingo, after all, no longer could save him) the silly rich men didn't notice. All they wanted was his weapons and they fell over each other with jewels for him.
Yeste grew very rich.
And very heavy.
Every part of his body sagged. He had the only fat thumbs in Madrid. Dressing took an hour, breakfast the same, everything went slowly.
But he could still make swords. And people still craved them. "I'm sorry," he said to the young Spaniard who entered his shop one particular morning. "The wait is up to four years and even I am embarrassed to mention the price. Have your weapon made by another."
"I have my weapon," the Spaniard said.
And he threw the six-fingered sword across Yeste's workbench.
Such embraces.
"Never leave again," Yeste said. "I eat too much when I'm lonely."
"I cannot stay," Inigo told him. "I'm only here to ask you one question. As you know, I have spent the last ten years learning. Now I have come for you to tell me if I'm ready."
"Ready? For what? What in the world have you been learning?"
"The sword."
"Madness," said Yeste. "You have spent ten entire years just learning to fence?"
"No, not just learning to fence," Inigo answered. "I did many other things as well."
"Tell me."
"Well," Inigo began, "ten years is what? About thirty-six hundred days. And that's about—I figured this out once, so I remember pretty well—about eighty-six thousand hours. Well, I always made it a point to get four hours sleep per night. That's fourteen thousand hours right there, leaving me perhaps seventy-two thousand hours to account for."
"You slept. I'm with you. What else?"
"Well, I squeezed rocks."
"I'm sorry, my hearing sometimes fails me; it sounded like you said you squeezed rocks."
"To make my wrists strong. So I could control the sword. Rocks like apples. That size. I would squeeze them in each hand for perhaps two hours a day. And I would spend another two hours a day in skipping and dodging and moving quickly, so that my feet would be able to get me into position to deliver properly the thrust of the sword. That's another fourteen thousand hours. I'm down to fifty-eight thousand now. Well, I always sprinted two hours each day as fast as I could, so my legs, as well as being quick, would also be strong. And that gets me down to about fifty thousand hours."
Yeste examined the young man before him. Blade thin, six feet in height, straight as a sapling, bright eyed, taut; even motionless he seemed whippet quick. "And these last fifty thousand hours? These have been spent studying the sword?"
Inigo nodded.
"Where?"
"Wherever I could find a master. Venice, Bruges, Budapest."
"I could have taught you here?"
"True. But you care for me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, 'Excellent parry, Inigo, now that's enough for one day; let's have supper.'"
"That does sound like me," Yeste admitted. "But why was it so important? Why was it worth so much of your life?"
"Because I could not fail him again."
"Fail who?"
"My father. I have spent all these years preparing to find the six-fingered man and kill him in a duel. But he is a master, Yeste. He said as much and I saw the way his sword flew at Domingo. I must not lose that duel when I find him, so now I have come to you. You know swords and swordsmen. You must not lie. Am I ready? If you say I am, I will seek him through the world. If you say no, I will spend another ten years and another ten after that, if that is needed."
So they went to Yeste's courtyard. It was late morning. Hot. Yeste put his body in a chair and the chair in the shade. Inigo stood waiting in the sunshine. "We need not test desire and we know you have sufficient motive to deliver the death blow," Yeste said. "Therefore we need only probe your knowledge and speed and stamina. We need no enemy for this. The enemy is always in the mind. Visualize him."
Inigo drew his sword.
"The six-fingered man taunts you," Yeste called. "Do what you can."