At last the carriage began to slow, cutting away from the main highway and onto a narrow stone road leading between a line of fir trees. Leaning to his left and looking past the hunched figure of the driver, Alterith could see the wrought iron gates that barred the way to the Moidart’s huge country manor. It was here that the Lord of the Highlands spent the winter. Two musketeers stood sentry, the sunlight gleaming on the gold braid and bright brass buttons of their yellow jerkins. The first of them called out for the carriage to stop, and, laying aside his long-barrelled musket, stepped forward to inspect the vehicle. He looked closely at Alterith.
‘Are you carrying any weapons, sir?’ he asked.
‘I am not.’
‘Be so kind as to step down.’
Alterith pushed open the small door and climbed from the carriage. His black greatcoat was tight fitting, but, he supposed, it could still have hidden a small knife. The soldier expertly ran his hands over Alterith’s garments.
‘My apologies to you, sir, for the impertinence,’ said the sentry.
Alterith resumed his seat and the second sentry opened the gates.
The sound of blades clashing was music to the ears of Mulgrave. Such was the skill of the fencing master that he did not even have to see a duel to judge the skill of the fighters. He had but to hear the sweet sword song of kissing steel. Mulgrave loved to fence, and could have made his fortune as a duellist in any one of fifty major cities across the empire. The problem – though Mulgrave did not see it as such – was that he did not like to kill. There were those who thought him squeamish, and others who whispered that the swordsman was a coward. None, however, was sure enough of either view to dare to speak them to his face.
Mulgrave was not only a master swordsman – he looked like a master swordsman, tall, lean, and with reflexes that could make a man believe in magic. His eyes were a pale, metallic blue, deep set and piercing, his features sharp, his mouth unsmiling. His hair, close cropped to his skull, was the silver of polished iron, despite the fact that he was not yet thirty years of age.
Selecting a slender rapier, the point capped by a small wooden ball, he bowed to the golden-haired young noble standing before him. His opponent pulled his face mask into place and took up his position.
‘Are you ready?’ asked the fifteen-year-old Gaise Macon.
‘Always,’ answered Mulgrave, donning his own mask of fine mesh.
The young man darted forward, his rapier lancing towards the chest guard of the older man. Mulgrave side-stepped, avoiding the thrust. Gaise stumbled. Mulgrave’s rapier struck the young man’s leg a stinging blow. ‘A nice idea, but poorly executed, my lord,’ said Mulgrave. Gaise did not reply. Nor did he react to the blow, save to assume once more the fighting stance. This pleased the master. Their blades touched, slid away, and the practice continued. The lad had fine balance and great speed of hand. Already he was more than a match for most men, with rapier or epee. His sabre work was not of a great standard, but then he was of slight build. Maturity would add muscle to his frame and strength to his arm, Mulgrave knew.
Towards the end of the session Mulgrave allowed the young noble to score a partial hit. He did not want the lad to become discouraged.
‘Enough!’ he said, offering a bow to his opponent. Gaise returned it, then swept the mask from his face, tossing it to the grass. His golden hair was sweat-streaked, his face red from his exertions – save for the star-shaped scar upon his cheekbone, which remained bone white. Mulgrave removed his face guard and placed it on the ground.
‘By the Sacrifice, you are not even warm, sir,’ said Gaise, with a sudden smile.
Mulgrave gave the young noble a warning look and the smile faded. Gaise unbuckled his quilted chest guard and glanced up at the house. A silver-haired figure, dressed all in black, was standing at the balcony rail looking down on them. Then he was gone.