Rapscallion (18 page)

There
was movement behind Dupin. The putrid air prickled with tension as the Mameluke
emerged from the ring of men and stepped into the light. He'd removed his
jacket. His torso was bare. Dressed only in the pantaloons, he stood as still
and as silent as a statue, arms loose by his sides, looking neither right nor
left.

Lasseur
leant close and whispered nervously. "Please tell me you can best
him."

Hawkwood
studied the Mameluke. He wondered what was going through the man's mind. There
was no change of expression, no show of concern in the eyes or anything in the
face to imply that the man had heard or understood any of the conversation.
Hawkwood had been shown an automaton once, a wondrous mechanical device that
had consisted of a small, perfectly made manikin in the figure of a Turk. By a
remarkable system of levers, rods and pulleys, the automaton had sprung to
life, folding its arms and bowing its head, even smoking a tiny hookah pipe.
Kemel Bey looked like a life-sized version of the toy; a mechanical man
awaiting instructions.

"I
was hoping for a quicker response," Lasseur murmured.

Hawkwood
wasn't listening. He was looking at the Mameluke's scars. Back on the orlop,
they had been concealed by the darkness and the prison coat. Now, with coat
discarded, they were plainly visible within the ring of lantern light. There
was no symmetry to them. They formed a tapestry up his right arm from wrist to
shoulder like a pattern of twigs cast haphazardly on to the ground. There were
more scars across the firm flesh of his abdomen and along the ridges of his
upper chest. The latter, however, looked quite old and showed as pale, raised
streaks against his dark skin. The ones along his arm appeared more recent.

Matisse's
voice broke into his thoughts. "Don't let the scars fool you, Captain
Hooper. Kemel Bey's quite an expert with the razor, but then he's had the
practice. How many have there been, Dupin? Is it four or five?"

"Six,"
Dupin muttered. "You're forgetting the Swiss."

"Ah,
yes, the Swiss. I always forget the Swiss. Mind you, it's easily done. They're
a forgettable race, like their tedious little country. It's so small I'm
surprised anyone knows where it is from one day to the next."

Hawkwood
presumed the most recent scars were from previous razor duels and the remainder
legacies of the Mameluke's skirmishes on the battlefield. Whatever their cause,
it was clear that Kemel Bey's expertise with weapons had not been achieved
without personal cost and, presumably, a good deal of pain. Hawkwood had more
than enough scars of his own, but they were few in number compared to Matisse's
champion.

Matisse
snapped his fingers. Hawkwood removed his jacket and passed it to Lasseur, who
received it half-heartedly. The men backed away, pulling Lasseur with them,
extending the radius. Some took up positions between the deck struts. Others
found seats on the tops of barrels. A small amphitheatre formed in the centre
of the hold.

Hawkwood
could feel warm beads of moisture gathering uncomfortably in the small of his
back. Strange, he thought, considering the back of his throat was as dry as
sand. He glanced towards Lasseur. Even in the half-light he could see that the
privateer's face was pale.

Dupin
tossed the Mameluke the second razor stick.

"Begin,"
Matisse said.

The
Mameluke attacked.

Hawkwood
sucked in air as the razor curved towards his belly, brought his own stick down
against the outside of the Mameluke's stave and exhaled as he parried the blade
away. The thwack of wood on wood was as loud as a pistol shot.

Hawkwood
had seen the attack coming. The microscopic widening of the eyes, the tensing
of the shoulders and the subtle shifting of weight on to the right leg had
telegraphed his opponent's intention. Even so, the Mameluke's speed was impressive.
So, too, was his strength. The shock from the collision shuddered through
Hawkwood's arm, jarring nerve endings from wrist to shoulder.

Then
the Mameluke was turning, bringing his blade around in a reverse strike towards
the back of Hawkwood's sword hand. Hawkwood rotated his wrist, slanted away,
and felt the bite of the Mameluke's blade as it scored across his knuckles.

Hawkwood
stepped back quickly, adjusting his hold on the stick, extending his thumb in a
rapier grip, testing the balance and the flexibility in the shaft. It wasn't a
lot different to a duelling foil; slightly thicker but the length was about the
same. The main difference was the sharp blade instead of a point. This was a
weapon meant to sever and cleave, not pierce. There was no guard to protect the
hand either. It explained the scarring across the Mameluke's wrist and
forearm, and the cut in Hawkwood's flesh that was already welling blood.

The
Mameluke advanced again, the thin blade swooping in from on high, cutting down
and across. Hawkwood brought his stick round to block the stroke, anticipated
and absorbed the impact, transferred his weight and aimed a backhand slash
towards the Mameluke's throat. The Mameluke twisted violently and Hawkwood felt
the almost imperceptible tug as his blade ripped across his opponent's ribcage.
There was a collective intake of breath from the men watching.

"Bravo,
Captain!"
Matisse's voice, lightly taunting.

But
the move had left Hawkwood exposed. The Mameluke grunted, checked, and whipped
his blade towards Hawkwood's left flank. Hawkwood jerked back, but he was too
late. There was no pain; not at first. Only when he straightened did he feel
the tightening of skin at the point of the incision. There was no time to check
for blood, because the Mameluke was coming in again.

The
Turk's movements seemed unhurried; almost nonchalant.

There
was no sign of elation on the ebony face, no quiet smirk of satisfaction at
having drawn blood. Neither did he appear out of breath, despite the bright
sheen of sweat that coated his brow, shoulders and upper chest.

Another
swing, this time towards Hawkwood's undefended left shoulder.
Hawkwood spun towards the attack, slashing down, going for the tendon running
up the inside of the Mameluke's right wrist.

He
felt his heel slip in the shingle and knew he'd missed his target by a mile.
For the first time, he saw the light of opportunity in his opponent's eyes.
Fighting for traction, Hawkwood tried to fling himself aside. The Mameluke's
blade arced towards him.

Had
he found his feet and braced himself, the Turk's razor would have caught him
full square. But Hawkwood was still falling backwards. The blade raked across
his breastbone, paring shirt and skin in equal measure. This time he felt it: a
sharp burning sensation searing across his chest.

He
heard someone swear and thought it must have been Lasseur, and then he was
pushing himself upright, bringing his stick round, more in a wild flail than
any sort of coordinated riposte, but when he felt the steel bite, he knew he'd
made contact.

Hawkwood's
blade had taken the Mameluke across the back of his right forearm two inches
below the elbow, slicing through flesh and clipping bone. The Turk bellowed in
pain and turned. Hawkwood started to scramble clear, saw the threat homing in,
parried the counterstrike more by luck than judgement, and swung his blade at
the Turk's carotid.

It
should have ended there and then. How the Mameluke evaded the cut, Hawkwood
would never know. Whatever the reason, the blade missed by a hair's breadth. In
that split second, Hawkwood tried to pull the strike but he was already
committed. The razor struck the deck support with the full force of Hawkwood's
body behind it, and snapped cleanly in two.

There
was a gasp from the men around.

Blood
dripped down the Mameluke's arm and belly. He was breathing harder now. The
corners of his mouth lifted. He stepped forward eagerly, his blade
raised
.

But
Hawkwood was already moving. His right hand shot out. The fistful of shingle
struck the Mameluke's face like a flurry of hailstones. The Mameluke threw up
his left hand to protect his eyes. Using the floor joist behind him as a
fulcrum, Hawkwood launched himself towards his temporarily unsighted foe.

Hawkwood's
shoulder charge lifted the Mameluke off his feet. Locked together, the two men
crashed through the ring of watchers, who broke apart in alarm.

Hawkwood's
left hand gripped the Mameluke's sword arm. The Turk drove his other fist into
Hawkwood's gut. Air exploded from Hawkwood's lungs. The Turk clamped his left
hand around Hawkwood's neck and began to squeeze.

The
Mameluke's smell was overpowering; a combination of musk, sweat and blood.
Hawkwood felt his throat start to close. A red mist began to descend. He rammed
his knee into the Turk's crotch and brought his free hand up. He heard a brief
exhalation, felt the grip around his neck loosen, bent back the Turk's wrist
and slammed his forehead against the exposed nose. The Mameluke's head rocked
back. Hawkwood side-stepped to his left, transferred his right hand to the
Mameluke's sword arm and as he rotated and locked the Mameluke's wrist, let go
with his left hand and drove the heel of it against the elbow joint. There was
a dull crack. A spasm shook the Turk. His hand opened and the razor fell to the
shingle. Hawkwood increased pressure on the injured arm. The Mameluke dropped
to his knees. A keening wail broke from his lips. Blood from his broken nose
was running down his chin. His face twisted in pain and he sank to the deck.

Hawkwood
straightened and Lasseur yelled a warning.

Hawkwood
turned. The Mameluke had retrieved the fallen razor. He was crouched on one
knee. His right arm hung uselessly by his side. His left hand was drawn back.
The razor blade glinted. There was a renewed look of savagery on his face.

Hawkwood's
right foot lashed out. The edge of his heel caught the Mameluke on the side of
his jaw. The dark eyes rolled back into his skull. His body slumped across the
deck and lay still.

There
was a stunned silence.

Dupin
was the first to break ranks. He bent down and lifted the Mameluke's head.
Letting it fall back, he stared hard at Hawkwood then turned to Matisse.
"His
neck's
broke."

"Satisfied?"
Hawkwood said coldly.

"Very
impressive," Matisse said softly. "Not quite the result I was
expecting. You've done for my champion, and so decisively, too. Who'd have
thought it? You may be an officer, Captain Hooper, but my bones tell me you're
no gentleman." The dark lenses glittered in the lantern light.

"I'll
take that as a compliment," Hawkwood said. He felt suddenly tired and
experienced an overwhelming urge for a strong drink.

Lasseur
broke away from the cordon. "You left it a little late, my friend. You had
me worried."

"You
weren't the only one," Hawkwood said wearily, and winced. He waved away
Lasseur's extended arm and lifted the edge of blood-soaked shirt to examine his
injuries, noting the blood across his knuckles. The gash along his side didn't
look too deep, but it would probably benefit from a stitch or two. As for the
cut across his chest, the resulting scar would more than likely make it appear
worse than it was. More war wounds, Hawkwood thought. He knew he'd been lucky.
He looked down at the Mameluke's corpse. It could so easily have gone the other
way.

Lasseur
followed his gaze and his face clouded. He turned to where Matisse was standing
with his arm around Lucien Ballard's shoulder. "It's over. Your man lost.
Give us the boy."

Matisse
said, "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm not with you. Why should I do that?"

Hawkwood
went cold.

Lasseur
nodded towards the Turk's prostrate body.
"Our
agreement.
You said if Captain Hooper defeated your champion, you'd
hand the boy over."

"You're
mistaken, Captain. I said no such thing."

"What?"
Lasseur said, his voice dripping venom.

A
half smile played across the Corsican's lips. His hand rested lightly across
the back of Lucien Ballard's neck. The boy was staring at the Mameluke's
corpse.

Hawkwood
looked around. Had a pin dropped, the whisper of it hitting the ballast would
have sounded like cannon fire.

"The
thing is, Captain," Matisse said, "the more I think about it, the
more it occurs to me that it wouldn't be right. I've a reputation to maintain.
I can't have newcomers coming down here and dictating terms. If I allow that to
happen, what's to stop every other worm crawling out of the woodwork and questioning
my authority? How would it look if I handed the boy over to you? It would make
me seem weak. It'd give every other poor wretch on
this ship
ideas
above his station. Where would it end? More to the point, where's
the profit?"