The Swordsman of Tanosa: A Short Tale of the Middle Sea Read Free Page B

entirely convinced of the contrary.
    Bafion said nothing.
    ‘Ah,’ Nicolo said. ‘The gambling?’
    Bafion nodded. He had no idea if it was or not, but it seemed as likely a reason for him to be there as any.
    ‘Can I persuade you to go and say that you couldn’t find me? For Caroline’s sake? I’ve taken good care of her, you know.’
    Bafion shook his head. That had been the wrong thing to say. He wanted to kill Nicolo for that alone.
    ‘I see.’ Without further thought, Nicolo drew his sword and in the same movement slashed at Bafion. Bafion took two quick steps back and drew. He hadn’t been expecting such a swift attack, but he never discounted the possibility and had remained on the balls of his feet during their brief conversation.
    Behind the walls and bushes of the property, they were screened from the inquisitive eyes of passers-by. Nicolo had been a decent swordsman in his youth and that stood to him now, but he was older, slower. There had always been a swagger in his style, an element of ostentation that served no purpose other than to impress the impressionable. It was wasted on Bafion.
    Bafion allowed Nicolo to press him back across the lawn. They had shared this dance countless times in the past but with blunt blades and no anger. One of them would die on this occasion, but the old familiarity made it difficult to absorb that fact.
    Bafion was still stiff from his journey, despite the hot bath he had treated himself to. His knees ached, but they always did, and his shoulder throbbed in the spot where he had taken a spear that day at Dorry’s Ford. The pain was his constant companion, but like any companion that speaks too much, Bafion had learned to ignore it.
    He parried two quick thrusts, first to the right, then to the left; Nicolo still had some speed hidden behind his paunch, but it was not enough. Bafion stepped forward and forced Nicolo’s sword down with his own as he went. The pressure pulled Nicolo forward and allowed Bafion to smash his elbow into Nicolo’s face. He stumbled back stunned, not only by the blow but also by the ungracious attack. He didn’t seem to fully appreciate that this was a killing, not a duel.
    Bafion didn’t want to be about it any longer than was necessary. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed Nicolo’s sword out of the way and before he could recover from the elbow to his face, Bafion finished him with a thrust through the chest. He couldn’t help but think that the fight had been some of the best swordplay he had produced in some time. Clean, precise, lethal. It gave him hope for the arena.
    Nicolo’s mouth moved. Despite himself, Bafion strained to hear. It sounded like he was saying ‘the letter’. Bafion felt oddly disappointed. Part of him wanted to believe that it had never reached its destination, that they had genuinely thought him dead.
    Nicolo’s mouth continued to move, but there was no more sound. He was as good as dead, he just hadn’t realised it yet. He had walked out of his house that morning without a care in the world, as was always his way, and now he was drowning in his own blood. Too much for any man to take in, least of all the one dying, Bafion thought. Nicolo took rasping staccato breaths and remained standing until Bafion pulled his sword out. With the support it provided gone, Nicolo fell to the cobbled path.
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    T he fight had attracted attention from within the house. The front door opened and a woman in an elegant pale blue dress walked out. She cried in anguish when she saw Nicolo bleeding on the cobbles. She rushed down the steps to where he lay, oblivious to Bafion. He recognised her and his heart jumped in his chest. Caroline. He should not have been surprised, but even when Nicolo had mentioned her he hadn’t expected to see her, nor prepared himself for the effect that it would have on him.
    She knelt beside Nicolo and took his lifeless hand in hers. She looked up at Bafion. Tears streaked her makeup and her eyes