by Rob J. Hayes
Then Adeline was at Bastien’s side her face a picture of disapproval. “Are you certain about this?” she asked in the voice of Isabel de Rosier.
Bastien gave his wife an arrogant smile. “Of course. It’s just a duel and by no means my first.” He could tell by the look in her eyes that she saw right through his bravado and impotently hoped she had some idea to pull him out of the situation.
She stepped close enough to whisper in his ear. “What did he say?” Isabel asked.
Jacques gave her a sad look. “He said he knows I’m a fraud and he’s going to prove it,” he whispered back.
Before Isabel could say anything else Bastien was pulled away. Joudain de Roe had a meaty hand around his bicep and was guiding him towards the doorway. All around him aristocrats pranced around excitedly and chatted and placed bets on who might be the victor and worse, if anyone might end up dead.
“Sorry about all of this,” Joudain said as he moved Bastien steadily along. “Thibault tends to dislike everyone but I’ve never seen him take it so far before.”
“I…” Bastien began but Joudain cut him off.
“Now I know you’re an experienced duellist and you could probably beat Thibault in your sleep. The man certainly isn’t a bad shot but Maker knows he’s no expert. That being said I hope you don’t mind me asking you not to kill him.”
It was all Jacques could do not to gawp at the man. He recovered just in time to show Joudain Bastien Bonvillain’s look of studious procrastination.
“Now don’t look at me like that, Bastien,” Joudain continued. “It’s not like I’m asking you to let him kill you or some such, just don’t kill him back.”
“Thibault is trying to kill me,” Bastien growled as he shrugged away an unknown hand patting him on the shoulder, “and you would like me to risk my life by not shooting him?”
They got to the top of a set of stairs and Bastien could see a large crowd down below looking up at him expectantly. As they saw him a few ran off to find others, some gave a little cheer and yet more looked on him with cold eyes. Thibault la Fien may be disliked by most of the nobility but at least he was of noble blood; Bastien Bonvillain was common born and raised above his station.
“You could wound him?” Joudain suggested as they started down the stairs.
“Could I?” Bastien asked. “Aiming to wound is a much more difficult shot, Joudain.”
Joudain stopped and manhandled Bastien to face him. “I’m trying to help you here, Bastien. I like you and so does Gaston, truly, but we both have… ties to Thibault and his family that go deeper than simple friendship.” The Marquis sighed a heavy sigh. “I’ve asked you not to kill him, as a friend. Now I’m warning you, Bastien.”
Before Bastien could respond a voice shouted over the crowded mass of nobility waiting to see blood. “This way, de Roe. We’re setting up on the tennis courts.”
Again Joudain started down the stairs, dragging Bastien along by the arm as he went. “The tennis courts? That’s no place for a duel, Paul. There will be blood, you know? Have you any idea how long it will take to clean out of the courts?”
“The King is already there,” the voice shouted back as it moved further away. “He’s going to preside over the duel himself and he has decided he wants it on the tennis courts.”
Joudain shot Bastien a look. “Well if you wanted to make an impression with the King, now is your chance. The best way to do that is to not kill a friend of his.”
Joudain de Roe continued to pull Bastien through the crowd, his hand locked around the Baron’s arm as though he might run off should he let go and, in truth, Jacques was sorely tempted should the opportunity present itself. But Bastien Bonvillain was not the sort to run from a fight and…
Jacques stopped, wrenching his arm from Marquis Joudain de Roe’s meaty grasp. He wasn’t Baron Bastien Bonvillain, he was Jacques Revou; thief, charlatan, and most definitely not a pistol duellist. To even consider going ahead with the duel was to invite suicide and that would leave him just as dead as if he and Isabel simply ran and the Seigneur sent his assassins after them.
“Bastien?” the Marquis asked as Jacques stood motionless in the chaos around him.
Everywhere Jacques could hear voices discussing the likelihood of Baron Bonvillain besting Vicomte la Fien and what that would mean for the Baron’s social standing and whether or not the la Fiens would demand vengeance should the Vicomte perish. None of the voices even seemed to consider that Bastien Bonvillain might lose.
Jacques cast about himself realising he knew none of the faces around him. His was a life of brief relationships with people who knew not the real him but even in that context he knew very few of the people surrounding him and baying for blood.
He caught sight of Isabel. She stood tall and proud and beautiful halfway down the nearby staircase. Her cheeks were flushed and concern was written plain on her face. Jacques saw her hands move, an old signal asking if they should run, escape not only the current scene but also this entire affair they had been caught up in.
“Bastien?” the Marquis asked again but Jacques ignored him.
If they ran they would be hunted, unable to continue living in Sassaille and likely dead within a year. If Jacques went through with the duel he would most likely be dead but Isabel would not, she would survive and live on even without him.
“Bastien?” the Marquis asked for a third time.
“I do not need you dragging me through the halls like some condemned criminal, Joudain,” Bastien said with an edge of alchemical steel in his voice. “Lead the way and I will follow. I will do my best not to kill your friend.”
The Marquis opened his mouth as if to speak but then abruptly closed it again and, with a solemn nod, moved off leading Bastien through the crowd to the tennis courts.
People flocked outside to see the spectacle. Nobility, favoured merchants, servants and, on one sheltered veranda, a small host of armed soldiers. Bastien already knew that would be where the King was watching from and, judging from the crowd surrounding the veranda, so did everyone else.
The entire surrounding area was lit from one of the powerful alchemical lights housed upon an airship up above and it was bathing the tennis courts in a bright white glow and a soft electrical hum. The net that usually separated the two halves of the court was gone and a single table and chair sat at each end of the open area. Joudain led Bastien to the unoccupied table and bid him sit down.
Gaston Lavouré detached himself from Thibault’s side over the other half of the court and sauntered over. His usual laid-back demeanour was long gone.
“I’m afraid I can’t get Thibault to back down on this,” the Duc said by way of an apology. There was a look on the man’s face, almost as if he were saying goodbye.
Bastien plastered a smile he didn’t feel onto his face. “Do not worry about it, Gaston. It will all be over before you know it.”
Gaston shook his head solemnly and walked back to Thibault’s half of the court. “Interesting choice of words,” came a voice from behind. Bastien waved his hand dismissively in the direction and went back to concentrating on trying to focus. A moment later a large hand gripped him tightly by the shoulder and Bastien turned around to see a well-dressed, better-groomed man standing there complete with armed guards flanking his position. There was no doubt in Bastien’s mind that he was currently face to face with the King of Sassaille and in a fit of what could only be described as extreme ill manners he was still sitting down.
Bastien launched from his chair to his feet and into a deep bow in one smooth motion. Thankfully, rather than rude, the King seemed to find it all rather funny and the man let out a good-natured laugh.
“They tell me your name is Bonvillain,” the King said with narrowed eyes, “and that you’ve killed fifty men.”
“Closer to twenty if truth be told, my King,” Bastien said still in his bow.
“All in fair combat?”
Bastien smiled but realised that, still in hi
s bow, the King couldn’t see it. “As fair as combat ever is, my King.”
“Hah!” the King exclaimed loudly. “Quite so, quite so. Good luck, Bonvillain, may the best man win and all that.”
King Félix Sassaille moved off down the tennis court with his personal guards in tow where he no doubt gave similar conversation to Thibault. Bastien turned to look at Joudain who looked caught between joy and confusion.
“It sounds as though the King likes you,” Joudain said slowly.
Bastien took another look towards the King who was wearing a benevolent smile as he spoke to Thibault. “How can you tell?”
“It’s all in the way he stands,” Joudain said knowingly. Bastien couldn’t decide whether the man was being serious or not.
“Where’s Adeline?” Bastien asked casting about for his wife.
“Focus on the duel, Bastien,” Joudain said. “Here, let me take your jacket.”
Bastien slipped out of his jacket and handed it to Joudain. His pistol was now on full display and it garnered a few gesticulations. “I’ll wager some of them have never seen an Avery Verne gun before,” he said with some small amount of pride.
“It’s a shame they will not get to see it in action,” Joudain agreed. “Hand it over then.”
Bastien looked at the man incredulous. “You expect me to go into this duel unarmed?”
The Marquis let out a humourless laugh. “Don’t be a fool, Bastien. That thing on your hip is a custom build pistol designed for your use. It simply wouldn’t be entirely fair if you were allowed to use it. No, here in the capital we do things differently to the border towns. You and Thibault will be given duelling pistols to use, a set of twins as alike as can be to make certain that everything is as fair as can be. The better man not the better weapon and all that.”
Bastien made a show of disagreeing with the practise but deep down Jacques knew it wouldn’t matter either way. Thibault had more chance of dying from a sudden heart attack than from one of his bullets. He drew the pistol from his hip holster and laid it on the table provided for him, making certain to give Joudain the eyeing of a lifetime while he did so.
“Duellists approach,” came the King’s voice from behind. Bastien turned to see the man standing in the centre of the tennis court. Thibault was already there waiting for his opponent.
Bastien looked around, searching the gathered crowd for Adeline but he couldn’t see her. With a determined sigh he turned and approached the King.
The King swept a dramatically grave look over the two duellists, it occurred to Bastien that the man was likely enjoying the night and quite possibly considered it a successful evening so far despite the fact that it was about to involve a man’s death.
“I’m told you two were friends,” King Félix Sassaille said in a mournful tone.
“So I believed,” Bastien said curtly.
Thibault said nothing, only stared at Bastien with cold eyes and a jaw set like steel.
The King nodded solemnly and Jacques found himself impressed at the man’s range of emotion. A foolish thought popped into his head but Jacques couldn’t help but feel that the King of Sassaille would probably make an excellent charlatan.
“It is always a sad state of affairs,” the King said, “when a friendship sours and turns to violence. Oh, but the rules!” In the space of a heartbeat the King went from melancholic to childish excitement. “Do you both know the rules?”
Bastien spotted an opportunity to curry favour and ignored the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t matter. “It would be my pleasure to hear you recount them, my King.”
“Excellent,” the King said happily and waved his hand. A moment later a servant hurried forwards carrying a large wooden box with the King’s own seal embossed upon it.
“My own personal set,” the King affirmed as he opened the lid of the box to reveal a set of stunning twin pistols, each made of alchemically treated silver and gold with the Royal Emblem on the handles and the mark of Avery Verne on the butt. Bastien had traded his own Verne pistol for one of the Kings and he had no doubt that it was an upgrade. “I call them Thunder and Lightning and I assure you they shoot as true as I speak.”
Bastien nodded at the same time as a murmur ran through the crowd. He doubted either weapon had ever been used in aggression and it seemed an odd way to christen the pair. That the names the King had chosen for his weapons were laughable was most certainly not mentioned.
“They are beautiful,” Bastien said with reverence. “I am truly humbled by the honour you do us, my King.”
Again King Félix smiled at the blatant flattery.
“Each man will stand back to back in the centre of the court,” the King said in a voice trained to travel and command silence, “and take ten paces then turn to face the other, pistols held by their sides. I will then fire the signal pistol,” the King let slip a dramatic pause. “And the duellists will raise their pistols and shoot. First man to die loses.”
“Or if one man is injured too badly to go on?” Duc Lavouré asked from the King’s side.
The King turned to give Gaston a frustrated look. “Of course.”
Bastien nodded his agreement and Thibault did the same, never taking his eyes from his opponent. There was a worrying intensity in that gaze and Bastien was fairly certain Thibault would not be content with a simple wounding.
“Baron Bonvillain,” the King said. “As the challenged it is your right to choose your pistol first.”
Bastien peered into the case giving the twin pistols his most intense scrutiny as if he could discern any difference between the two weapons. After a long moment he addressed the King. “Which of the two is Thunder, my King?”
The King smiled and pointed to the weapon housed in the left of the box. Bastien reached in and pulled the pistol from its leather cushioning. Somehow, given the names of the two pistols, he decided Thunder suited him better.
It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship and no mistake. A polished mahogany handgrip. A reduced chamber designed to hold just two bullets instead of the normal six. An eight inch barrel of alchemically hardened silver gilded with gold. Bastien passed the pistol from one hand to the other and gave a flashy show of spinning it around a finger by the trigger guard to the pleasure of the audience. Jacques may not be able to shoot a pistol but he certainly knew how to show off with one. In comparison Thibault took Lightning with neither contemplation nor hesitation.
“Load your pistols,” the King instructed the two duellists.
Thibault was first, taking both rounds at the same time and slotting them quickly into the weapon.
Bastien let the corner of his mouth tug up a little into the slightest of smiles as he took a single round from the case and slotted it into the bottom chamber of Thunder. Then he nodded to the King.
“The rules afford you two rounds, Baron Bonvillain,” the King said.
Again Bastien let slip the slight smile. “Thank you, my King. I will only need the one.”
Another murmur shot through the crowd as word of Bastien’s confidence spread. The King nodded accordingly and Thibault flipped open the chamber of Lightning, pulled one of the rounds out and discarded it back into the case. Jacques congratulated himself on reducing the chance of his own death by half and nodded to his opponent.
“Take your places,” the King said in his raised voice. “Back to back in the centre of the court.”
Bastien extended his hand to Thibault but the man turned and walked away without even the hint of courtesy.
“My King,” Bastien said with a bow. “I would like to thank you for honouring us by personally presiding over this duel.”
The King nodded in a fashion that could only be described as regal. “Good luck, Baron Bonvillain.”
Bastien turned and strode over to the centre of the court hoping and praying that the abject fear that was chilling his blood did not show on his face.
The gathered crowd quieted to a chilly whisper as Bastien took his place back to ba
ck with Thibault. He saw faces but had no names for any of them. “Last chance to back out, la Fien,” he said taking the opportunity to address his opponent alone.
“You are a fraud, Bonvillain,” the man replied in ice cold tones, “and I am going to prove it.”
Bastien let out a soft snort. “All we will prove here tonight is that you bleed red.” He fancied he could feel the rage of the man at his back and wondered whether inciting that anger was really a good idea.
“Combatants,” the King’s voice flowed over the area in a deep base, “take ten paces.”
Bastien put his right foot forward and then followed it with his left, each step seemed to be more leaden than the last and he fought to control the urge to break into a wild run and flee the place once and for all. All too soon he had taken his ten paces and stopped. The gun in his hand felt slick with sweat.
“Turn to face your opponent.”
Bastien turned on his heel and met Thibault’s gaze from twenty paces. He wondered whether the man was as terrified as he but if he was Thibault la Fien showed not an ounce of it, he could have been made from stone for all Bastien could tell.
The King raised his hand into the air, the starting pistol held aloft and ready to fire. Bastien loosed his white-knuckled grip on his own pistol.
He realised then he didn’t know where to look; Roache had never expected him to get into an actual duel so had never imparted that particular item of knowledge. Should he look at the King, or at Thibault or at Thibault’s pistol or should he just close his eyes and hope.
A silly thought entered Bastien’s head. Lightning always strikes before Thunder.
A deafening bang tore at the air as the King’s pistol went off and it was followed by two more in quick succession. Bastien stood stock still, the pistol still held at his side but pivoted to point towards Thibault who collapsed onto the tennis court clutching at his right hand and moaning loudly in pain.
