The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

The boy cried out at the light kiss of steel. But the swordsman did not stop the movements of the play. “It’s a nick,” he said. “Never mind the blood.”

“Oh. But—”

“You wanted a lesson. Take it. All right, fine, you’re scared now. You can’t let it make a difference.”

But it did make a difference. The boy’s defense turned fierce, began to take on the air of desperate attack. Richard let it. They were fighting silently now, and really fighting, although the swordsman kept himself always from doing real damage. He began to play with the boy, leaving tiny openings just long enough to see if he would take advantage of them. The boy took about half—either his eye missed the others, or his body was too slow to act on them. Whatever he did, Richard parried his attacks, and kept him on the defensive.

“Now—” the swordsman said harshly—“Do you want to kill me, or just take me out?”

“I—don’t know—”

“For death”—Richard’s blade flew in—“straight to the heart. Always the heart. ”

The boy froze. His death was cold against his burning skin. Richard St. Vier dropped the point, raised it to resume the fight. The boy was sweating, panting, from fear as much as exertion. “A good touch—can be anywhere. As light as you like—or as deep. ”

The pug-nosed boy stood still. His nose was running. He still held his sword, while blood welled onto his skin and clothing from five different places.

“You’re good,” Richard St. Vier said, “but you can be better. Now get out of here.”

“Richard, he’s bleeding,” Alec said quietly.

“I know he’s bleeding. People do when they fight.”

“It’s night/’ Alec said, “in Riverside. People are out. You said you didn’t want to kill him.”

“Hand me that sheet.” Sweat was cooling on Richard’s body; he wrapped the linen around himself.

“There’s brandy,” Alec said. “I’ll get it.”

“I’m sorry I’m bleeding on your floor,” the boy said. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I’m crying from shock, that’s all. Not really crying.”

He did not examine his own wounds. Alec did it for him, dabbing them with brandy. “You’re remarkable,” he told the boy. “I’ve been trying to get Richard to lose his temper forever.” He handed the flask to St. Vier. “You can drink the rest. ”

Alec undid what the sword had left of the boy’s jacket, and began pulling out the shirt. “It’s a girl,” he said abruptly, unsuspecting midwife to unnatural birth.

The girl said something rude. She’d stopped crying.

“So are you,” Alec retorted. His hand darted into her breast pocket, pulled out the small book that had rested there, its soft leather cover warm and sweaty. He flipped it open, snapped it shut.

“Don’t you know how to read?” the girl asked nastily.

“I don’t read this kind of trash. The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death. My sister had it; they all do. It’s about some Noble girl who comes home from a ball and finds a swordsman waiting in her room for her. He doesn’t kill her; he fucks her instead. She loves it. The End.”

“No—” she said, her face flushed—“You’ve got it wrong. You’re stupid. You don’t know anything about it.”

“Hey,” said Alec, “you’re cute with your nose running, sweetheart—you know that?”

“You’re stupid!” she said again fiercely. “Stupid bastard.” Harsh and precise, as though the words were new in her mouth. “What do you know about anything?”

“I know more than you think. I may not have your exceptional skill with steel, but I know about your other tricks. I know what works for you.”

“Oh,” she flared, “so it’s come down to that.” Furious, she was starting to cry again, against her will, furious about that, too. “The sword doesn’t matter to you; the book doesn’t matter—that’s all you can understand. You don’t know anything—anything at all!”

“Oh, don’t I?” Alec breathed. His eyes were bright, a spot of color high on each cheek. “You think I don’t know all about it? With my sister, it was horses—both real and imaginary.” He mastered himself enough to assume his usual sneer, passionless and obnoxious. “Mares in the stable, golden stallions in the orchard. She told me their names. I used to eat the apples she picked for them, to make it seem more real. I know about it,” he said bitterly. “My sister’s magic horses were powerful; she rode them across sea and land; she loved them and gave them names. But in the end they failed her, didn’t they? In the end they took her nowhere, brought her nothing at all.”