Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s saber. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his saber’s blade was raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the quarte basse and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble. A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. He had been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see his taller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. The taller man pressed, swatting the quarte basse aside and lunging so that Willsen skittered backward, his slippers squeaking with a staccato judder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with French chalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic. The sabers clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his full arm, but the saber’s edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he toppled to the floor.

“God’s teeth.” The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.

“I said enough, my lord!” the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.

“How the devil did you do that, Willsen?” Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. “I had you on your damned ass!”