‘Why indeed?’ Sesto smiled.

  There was a knock on the chamber door, and a chamberlain entered.

  ‘His excellency is ready with his answer,’ he announced.

  The grand hall of the palacio had been laid out for a midday feast.

  ‘That’s a good sign,’ Sesto whispered to Luka. ‘It’s a mark of Estalian hospitality to provide a fine luncheon for those they would have terms with.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ Luka whispered back. ‘May I remind you of our last taste of Estalian hospitality? Porto Real?’

  ‘The glass is always half empty for you, isn’t it?’ Sesto sneered.

  ‘Half empty of poison,’ Luka replied quietly. ‘Besides, this may be the celebratory feast they plan to enjoy once they’ve signed our execution warrants.’

  ‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Sesto said. ‘By the way, leave all the talking to me.’

  A fine gathering of nobles and uniformed officers had assembled around the long table. One, Sesto noticed, was a hard-eyed, dark-haired man in beautifully crafted half-armour and puffed crimson sleeves, his skin tanned and prematurely lined by years at sea. His glaring eyes never left Silvaro.

  A band of fifes, guitarras and drums announced the arrival of the Marquis of Aguila.

  Splendid in his gold-thread robes and silver crown, attended by a train of liveried servants, Narciso took his seat at the head of the table. He lifted a goblet in a hand clustered with jewelled rings of dark Lustrian gold.

  Sigmar’s bones, but he wants to impress, Sesto thought.

  ‘Raise your cups and bid our visitors fair welcome,’ Narciso declared.

  The standing courtiers took up their goblets. Silvaro reached for his, but Sesto slapped his hand.

  ‘Not yet!’

  ‘But I’m thirsty…’ Silvaro whispered back.

  ‘Luka Silvaro, sometimes called The Hawk. And… Sesto Sciortini, noble cousin. To both of you, we utter our welcome.’ Narciso sipped, and his courtiers did likewise. Sesto noted that the hard-eyed man in the crimson sleeves simply put his goblet to his lips but did not swallow.

  Now Sesto took up his glass, and nodded to Luka to do likewise.

  ‘Excellency, your greeting humbles us, as does this array of good fellowship,’ Sesto said loudly in Estalian. ‘We accept your welcome, and pledge to your continued health and wise governance.’

  Sesto and Luka drank. Luka finished his cup.

  ‘Now you’re going to have to mime,’ Sesto whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We answer your friendly response with all good humour,’ Narciso called. ‘And we pledge in turn to your health.’

  The lord and his courtiers sipped again.

  ‘And to you, excellency, for this warm companionship, we raise our cups in true fealty,’ Sesto answered, toasting again. Luka awkwardly mimed supping from his empty cup.

  ‘We are gratified by your arrival, and we offer to you all sundry rewards that Aguilas has to offer,’ his lordship toasted again.

  ‘Manann! How long’s this back and forth going to last?’ Luka whispered to Sesto.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ Sesto whispered back. ‘And to you, excellency,’ he declaimed aloud, cup held aloft, ‘we are bowed by your beneficence and your largesse.’

  Silvaro stuck his empty cup out behind him and jiggled it until one of the waiting wine stewards refilled it. He brought it back in front of him.

  ‘All right, I’m good,’ he whispered. ‘Whose turn is it now?’

  Twenty minutes later, they all took their seats. The stewards began to serve the first course of the meal.

  ‘To begin with,’ Narciso said, nibbling at a quail’s drumstick, ‘let us get the greater matter over. We accept the provenance of your letters of marque.’

  Across the table, the man in the crimson sleeves snorted.

  ‘We greet you as brothers,’ Narciso continued, ‘for your aim matches ours. The Butcher Ship is a deadly scourge, and we would see the common seas rid of it as soon as possible.’

  ‘Luccini concurs, my lord marquis,’ Sesto said.

  ‘It is a foul blight on trade,’ Narciso said. ‘A foul, foul blight. Therefore, we have agreed to your requests. Your vessels – the Demiurge and the Rumour – both will be repaired and refitted in our yards. And at no cost. We will supply the materials and the craft, as our contribution to this united cause. Within a fortnight, your ships will be ready to set out to finish this grim task.’

  ‘The generosity of Estalia, and most particularly, Aguilas, is gratefully noted,’ Sesto said.

  Luka mumbled something.

  ‘What was that?’ the man in the crimson sleeves asked.

  ‘My comrade merely suggested that it was good that our nation states should ally themselves against a common foe this way,’ Sesto replied quickly. ‘A joining of forces. After all, in good faith, we sailed our ships into your harbour, under your guns. If we had meant menace, we would have been destroyed.’

  The Marquis of Aquilas nodded. ‘A gesture of trust that convinced me. Pirates always look for the shallow way, in my experience. The callous trick. But you played not false, and submitted your vessels to Aguilas’ harbour guard.’

  ‘As luck would have it…’ Luka muttered under his breath.

  ‘Again!’ said the man in the crimson sleeves, stiffening. ‘Another low dissent!’

  ‘Hernan! Hernan!’ Narciso said. ‘Settle down. My cousin, dear Sesto, these have been hard times. Trade has dried. Ships have been lost, many ships. The once-busy waters of Aguilas harbour are now empty and slow. One ship alone we keep here, the formidable Fuega, Captain Hernan’s vessel. The last of the old war pack. Hernan would have the Fuega set out to stalk this devil ship, wouldn’t you, captain?’

  The man in the crimson sleeves coughed and nodded. ‘Yes, excellency.’

  ‘We can’t have that! We can’t have the last fighting ship in Aguilas gone. Who would protect us then? Of course, the shipyards have laid down the keels of other warships, but it will be a year or more until they are complete. Repairing your vessels arms us much faster.’

  ‘And we will rise to your defence,’ Sesto said.

  ‘You’ll need crew,’ said a courtier nearby.

  ‘Of course,’ said Sesto.

  ‘That won’t be easy,’ the man in the crimson sleeves said bluntly. ‘Able mariners have fled the port. Only rats and rating-dregs remain.’

  ‘My kind of crew,’ Silvaro said, biting the end off a skewer of meat.

  ‘Crew will be found for you,’ Narciso assured smoothly. ‘But what of a commander? Will you captain the Demiurge, Master Silvaro?’

  ‘No, excellency,’ Luka said through his mouthful. ‘The Rumour is mine.’

  ‘Aye, so it is,’ hissed the man in the crimson sleeves.

  ‘But I’ll find a commander to take the Demiurge,’ Luka said breezily.

  ‘Well, sir, if you have a hard time looking,’ Narciso said, ‘you might consider my nephew Sandalio here. He’s an aspiring captain, trained on the sail. Aren’t you, Sandalio?’

  A very plump, pig-eyed boy at the end of the table at the marquis’s right hand belched and grinned. ‘I tho very mutch am,’ he lisped. ‘I thtrive to therve the offith of my uncle.’

  ‘Yes, Sandalio’s your man,’ Narciso said.

  ‘I’ll remember that, lord,’ Silvaro said. ‘And if I don’t find a worthier captain amongst my crew–’

  ‘Then I hope you don’t,’ Narciso said. ‘Sandalio would serve you well.’

  ‘I’d sooner sail into hell than give a ship to that buffoon…’ Silvaro whispered to Sesto.

  ‘Hear him! Another slight.’ The man in the crimson sleeves pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Hernan!’ Narciso said.

  ‘No, lord,’ Hernan said quietly. ‘This man, this pirate, is an affront to our good company here. I know his crimes. I know his ignominy. Five years ago, we clashed in the Straits of the Gorgon and he left me aflame with sixty dead.’

  Silvaro frowned. ‘The Straits of the Gorgon? The Scalabra? Was that you, Hernan?’

  ‘It was, sir.’

  ‘Well, joking apart, I bested you on that fair afternoon and I’ll do it again. Sit down.’

  Captain Hernan did not. He hurled his glove at Silvaro so hard it spilled the dish of food into Silvaro’s lap. Slowly, threateningly, Silvaro rose.

  ‘This is a nothing,’ Sesto cried. ‘We can forget this old animosity!’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Narciso. ‘This is just an aberration.’

  ‘No, it’s not, my lord,’ Hernan said.

  ‘No, it’s really not,’ Silvaro agreed. ‘Our arrangement notwithstanding – and I pray to the gods that it stays in place – Captain Hernan and I have a matter of honour to settle.’

  ‘Oh gods…’ Sesto murmured.

  ‘When?’ asked Narciso, taken aback. ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here, my lord,’ said Hernan.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Silvaro. ‘And right now.’

  XVIII

  The two men strode out through the tall side doors of the grand hall into the walled flower garden outside. The rest of the fine company, bemused for the most part, got up from the table and followed them. Juan Narciso had a troubled frown on his face.

  Sesto ran ahead and caught up with Silvaro.

  ‘In the name of the gods, stop this foolishness!’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘Too late,’ Silvaro replied.

  ‘I’m a prince. I could order you to stop this,’ Sesto said.

  ‘You could try that,’ Silvaro admitted.

  ‘I order you to stop this now!’ Sesto cried.

  ‘Well, look at that,’ Silvaro replied, still walking. ‘It didn’t work.’

  Silvaro and Hernan arrived in the centre of the flower garden, a paved area out in the bright sunshine, with a small hour dial in the centre. The air was warm, and heady with the perfume of the brilliant blooms in the beds around.

  ‘Here suit you?’ Hernan asked.

  ‘Here’s fine,’ Silvaro replied.

  The guests and worthies from the dinner crowded around the outer paths of the garden, beyond the flower beds and the low box hedges. Some had brought their drinks.

  Hernan stripped off his half-armour, tossing the pieces to a waiting soldier. Then he drew his sabre and made a few practice slashes in the air. It was a fine weapon, as fair an Estalian blade as Roque Santiago Della Fortuna’s.

  Silvaro took off his coat, handed it to Sesto, and then looked over at the waiting nobles. ‘Might I trouble one of you good fellows for a sword? I never seem to have one on me when a duel comes along.’

  Captain Duero of the marine guard looked over at the Marquis of Aguilas, who nodded slightly, then drew his own sabre and offered it, grip-first across his arm, to Silvaro.

  Silvaro took it. ‘Thank you, captain,’ he nodded, and tried its weight and balance. A good sword, service-issue. A professional’s weapon. Nothing like as fine as the blade in Hernan’s hand.

  Silvaro stepped carefully across one of the flowerbeds, relieved one of the guests of his wine glass, took a swig, and handed it back.

  ‘Thank you, sir, I was a little dry.’

  He turned to face Hernan, who stood waiting, sword held at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. ‘Ready?’

  Hernan nodded.

  Silvaro looked over at the marquis. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Begin, if you must,’ said Narciso. His excellency glanced at the chamberlain beside him and said, ‘Go fetch a priest.’

  Silvaro cleared his throat, shook out his shoulders, and said to Sesto, ‘Stand back. If I die, the ship’s yours.’

  Shaking his head, Sesto retreated to the other side of the flowerbeds.

  ‘All right then,’ Silvaro said, assuming a ready stance. ‘Take your guard.’

  Hernan lunged forward and the blades struck against each other three times, fast as a snake strikes. Silvaro broke and circled, and they came together again, their swords lashing and parrying so rapidly it was difficult to follow. The chime of metal upon metal rang like a furiously-shaken hand-bell. Such was the speed and expertise displayed by the two men that when they broke to circle for a second time, the onlookers let out a round of applause.

  Keeping a skip in his step, like a dancer, Silvaro circled the little yard, making sure he didn’t box out any route of evasion by getting too close to the sundial. Sweat beaded his brow already. It was hot in the direct noon sunlight. Hernan seemed as cool as ice, following Silvaro step for step.

  Silvaro pressed the attack now, sweeping in at Hernan’s right quarter guard, and the drive led to the longest rally exchange of the duel so far. Seventeen blows traded in four seconds, blade slithering against blade. Silvaro turned his last half-parry into a low lunge that grazed his sabre down the length of Hernan’s blade and in through his half-guard. But at the last second, Hernan brilliantly twitched his wrist out and over and hooked Silvaro’s swordpoint away. Silvaro had to skip backwards to avoid being run through by the riposte.

  They circled again. Silvaro was breathing hard.

  ‘My compliments, captain,’ Silvaro said. ‘Your hand is good and your eye better. You’ve read your Bresallius.’

  ‘From cover to cover.’

  ‘And you’ve studied your De Poelle.’

  ‘I studied under De Poelle,’ Hernan replied.

  ‘Ah. Well, I’m in trouble then, aren’t I?’ Silvaro said.

  ‘Who, might I ask, did you study under?’ Hernan asked.

  ‘Study under?’ Silvaro laughed. ‘Enemy fire, mostly.’

  They closed again, and rang out five, hard chings from high, sweeping cuts, before sliding their blades together until the guards locked and they were pushing and shoving like wrestlers.

  Hernan’s expertise favoured blade-play, but in more physical competition, Silvaro’s size and strength had the advantage. Hernan was shouldered backwards, and found himself forced to break in a clumsy, frantic fashion, almost colliding with the sundial in his haste. Silvaro followed him with a savage slice that lopped the gnomon off the dial.

  Yet again, they circled one another. To Sesto, it looked like Silvaro was slowing down. The Estalian was still tight and quick, energised, but Silvaro looked sluggish. He’d clearly been relying on the fact that if he closed with his adversary and brought it down to brute strength, he would win. Hernan would not be fooled into a wrestling match again.

  ‘You know,’ said Silvaro, wiping the back of his left hand across his dripping brow, ‘I had all but forgotten that day on the Straits until you mentioned it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, pirate,’ Hernan scowled. ‘So many ships you’ve left burning in your wake.’

  Silvaro shrugged. ‘Maybe. But it’s coming back to me now. Quite a scrap, as I recall. The wind was up, a fair westerly snap.’

  ‘South-westerly,’ Hernan corrected.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Ideal for a long run around the Straits. And you in waiting. The Scalabra. A big bastard of a ship, that.’

  ‘She was a sweet engine of war, ready to sink a motherless dog like you.’

  Hernan lunged and forced Silvaro into a double parry that kicked sparks from the blade edges. Silvaro feinted, thrust in at the lower right quarter with a dazzling down-point cut that drew gasps from the crowd, but which was squarely blocked and turned away by Hernan’s nimble hand.

  ‘I suppose then,’ Silvaro said, ‘it rather begs the question… why didn’t you sink a motherless dog like me?’

  Hernan narrowed his eyes, but did not reply.

  Their blades flickered together again, a passing clash as they rotated their circling.

  ‘After all,’ said Silvaro, breathlessly, ‘you had me outgunned, outrun and caught against the wind. But at day’s end, you were the one afire.’

  Hernan growled in barely-contained rage and ran at Silvaro. Their swords rattled against each other, fifteen passes, twenty, Silvaro desperately short-parrying each deadly thrust and lunge. By luck, more than skill, Silvaro kept the Estalian’s blade at bay and his skin intact.

  He broke again, but Hernan kept pressing. Sabre rang off sabre. Hernan pivoted forward, bested Silvaro’s guard with a half-lunge and fast riposte, and sliced round to take Silvaro’s head off.

  Sesto winced. Silvaro back-stepped, ducked like he was bowing to an emperor or a dancing partner, and the stroke missed. He speared his sabre up again, and Hernan had to give ground, fending off the long lunges with three anxious, low chops of his watered steel. For a second, all grace and skill had evaporated and the fighting had become brutal and dirty.

  ‘I had only one chance that afternoon, Captain Hernan,’ Silvaro rumbled, ‘to ram against the wind and then gybe hard behind your stern before your guns could range me. But you knew that. You came in tight, loosing sheets, cutting me off. It was a brilliant move.’

  Sabre glanced off sabre. Hernan made two extended parries to knock Silvaro’s determined swordpoint away.

  ‘But you came in too broad, too early. You were ambitious, reckless. I like that in a man. It was bravura seamanship. Only the very best could have out-guessed you, and only the very best of them out-sailed you too.’

  Silvaro turned again, and sliced at Hernan’s upper right quarter, forcing the Estalian to move to his left, his blade raised to defend.

  ‘But that’s what I am, Captain Hernan.’

  Driven to his left, Hernan suddenly found that he and the sundial wanted to occupy the same place. He crashed into it and fell.

  Silvaro pounced, kicking Hernan’s sword away and placed the tip of his sabre against the sprawled captain’s throat.

  ‘I left you burning, yes, but I could have sunk you to the seabed if I’d had a mind too. I spared you that day, Hernan, because I admired you and your skill.’