I kept my sword in position but stepped back, away from both men, closer to the window.
Pertusa shifted his sword into one hand and held out the hand on his injured arm. “First, I need the seal you stole.”
“How did you—?”
De Ardoino cut me off. “We haven’t forgotten why you came here for Thomas. And the chest is out of position.”
When had de Ardoino noticed that I moved the chest? Had he known I was in the room the whole time, even while I’d hidden behind the curtains? I’d underestimated them. That was one of the first rules Thomas had taught me—never underestimate your enemies. Now I would pay for my error.
I took a ring from where I’d hidden it in my tunica sleeve and cupped it inside my hand. When Pertusa came to retrieve it, I tossed it through the window.
Before I could put my second hand back on my hilt, Pertusa grabbed my blade and yanked it from my grasp. Then he backhanded me across the face. He wore mail mitts. The strike knocked me backward, into the wall, and a stinging sensation suggested he’d drawn blood. He grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind me, where he could snap it in two with only a bit more pressure.
“That was unwise. But mice aren’t always the smartest creatures, are they?”
I’d just come to the same conclusion. My desperate plan had been foolish, and it was going to get me killed.
Pertusa pushed and shoved me toward the door. The pain didn’t ease at all and seemed to flare with each step we took down the stairs and out into the courtyard. He threw me to the ground beside the seal. “Pick it up.”
I crawled to the ring and pressed the seal part into the dirt, obscuring it before I picked it and myself up again.
“Bring it to me,” the deeper voice of de Ardoino said.
I obeyed but not very quickly. I was in no hurry—once they had the ring, there was a good chance they would kill or torture me. Or send me to the slave market again, which might be the worst of the possibilities.
De Ardoino grabbed it from me. He shook his head as he tried to examine the seal through the dirt. “I’ve rarely been inconvenienced so much by someone so insignificant. Clean it. I’ve seven gates to defend, and I can’t be in all places at once. I need my seal. If I can’t see every bit of the carving, I’ll slash your neck and use your heretic blood to clean the dirt and test the print.”
I used my outer tunica to wipe away the grime. “May I spit on it, great verguer? To clean it?”
He huffed. “Great verguer, am I? Your respect is too late to gain you any mercy. But you may use whatever means necessary to clean it.”
“Hurry it up.” Pertusa stood behind me, watching over my shoulder. I didn’t want to hurry, but the threat was real and something I didn’t dare ignore.
When I finished, I handed the cleaned seal to Pertusa, rather than de Ardoino. I doubted he was as familiar with it as de Ardoino was.
I bought myself only moments, because Pertusa handed it to de Ardoino immediately.
“What were you going to do with it?” Pertusa asked, leering at me.
“Sell it.” That sounded more plausible than forging orders for the men defending the gates. After all, I didn’t write Catalan.
De Ardoino grabbed me by the throat and slammed me into the courtyard wall. “Where is the real seal?” He held the decoy seal up to my face. “Where’s the real one?”
“I don’t have it.” He was squeezing my neck so hard I could barely speak.
“Search her!” De Ardoino released my neck so he could gesture to the two guards standing nearby, watching.
I inhaled and rubbed my neck. One of the guards tore off my belt and felt the fabric, making sure it hid no ring. Then he pulled off my veil and grabbed at my sleeves. I wasn’t about to let him tear all my clothes from me, but I had the feeling he would, piece by piece, until they realized I didn’t have it. While the guard focused on finding the ring, I gripped his sword hilt and pulled the weapon free.
“Get back.” I held the sword vertical, ready for a strike. I doubted I’d stand much of a chance against Pertusa or de Ardoino—even with their injuries—but one of the guards . . . maybe they had the sloppy technique or dull wits of which Gil had accused them.
The guard stepped back. His face hardened in anger, then softened in amusement. He held out a hand, and the other guard gave him a sword. He sneered and swung.
I blocked the strike. He was stronger than me, and I could feel it as our swords crossed, but he leaned too far forward. Had he exercised better posture, he could have forced me back. Instead, I held my ground.
I disengaged and then cut toward him. I followed my blade, stepping in a circle. He blocked and followed until his back was against the wall and away from the nearest exit. Then I turned and ran for the street.
Honorable warriors didn’t run from combat. But I was neither honorable, nor a warrior. Later, when the job was finished and Thebes was out of Catalan hands, I would strive to be honorable in my own way. For now, I wanted to escape—escape the courtyard, escape the past, escape the life I’d lived as a thief.
The street was within view when Pertusa and his blade blocked my way. He chuckled. “A little mouse with a stolen sword. I’ll cut you to pieces.”
I took my stance, with my feet a little wider than my shoulders. His shoulder was still bandaged, but he used the arm, so it couldn’t have been too serious an injury. The wound didn’t diminish his confidence, not one iota.
He struck, and I blocked, but the momentum of his cut pushed me back.
“This is indeed a fortunate occurrence.” Pertusa struck again, and I dodged to avoid being skewered. “I got the proceeds of your sale into slavery, and now I get the pleasure of cutting you apart a stroke at a time. Too bad you don’t have a tail, Little Mouse. I’d start with that. Perhaps instead, I’ll start with your ears.”
He struck, and I blocked. This time, he wasn’t as perfectly balanced. Gil had said to step into the bind when I was on the weaker end, so I did and managed to hold my ground and keep my ear.
Gil had also said that anything was allowed. Swords weren’t my strength, but that didn’t mean I had no skills, no advantages. Mice might not be the wisest of creatures, nor the fiercest, but they were good at survival. And I wanted to survive. I wanted to see if the God of second chances would grant me a fresh start.
Pertusa cut again, trying to hew my arm from my torso. I parried but only knocked the sword aside rather than holding his blade and forcing a contest. Even if I had forced a bind, I couldn’t win against him, not consistently, not if I played by his rules.
I twisted past him and stole his purse. I held it up, then threw it at him, then cut toward his neck. I didn’t draw blood, but I came, oh, so close.
His next strike succeeded where I had failed. His blade cut into my left forearm, cleaving skin and causing an explosion of pain.
I stumbled back and made a sloppy counter cut when he followed up on his initial strike. Blood streamed from my wound, but it wasn’t deep—it hadn’t sundered bone, only flesh.
“I’ll kill you bit by bit, if I must.” He held up the hand I’d scarred. “I think I prefer it that way, actually. Not unlike what I’ve done to your friend in the tower. Only I’ve had to keep him alive. The same won’t be true for you.”
Was he playing games with me, trying to distract me with images of Gil being tortured? Or did he speak the truth? I couldn’t focus on Gil, not now, not if I wanted to survive. Despite my pain, I slashed at Pertusa. Our blades struck and held. I twisted around him again and shoved myself against his injured side. As our blades came apart, I took a hand off my hilt and yanked on his cloak, throwing it into his face. It was the scalloped one he’d taken from me in the tower. For an instant, he was distracted. I shoved my blade into his side, but I had only one hand on my sword, and he wore mail, so I drew no blood.
He swung his sword around, and I barely had time to block. He was so much stronger than I was, and the wound on my arm ached and burned. But I noticed a line near his eye that appeared just before he attacked. Pain. He felt his injury with every cut of his blade, and that line was a warning, an advantage I could use.
The line appeared, and I met his cut with a parry. Our blades crossed again, and I noticed his leg rising for a kick. I spun away, leaving him off-balance, and then hewed at his leg, just above the top of his boot.
His grunt echoed through the courtyard, then turned into a curse. He struck back, hard. His technique was no longer so exact, but it didn’t matter. His rage gave him strength that I couldn’t match. His cuts drove me back again and again, farther and farther into the courtyard, away from my escape.
De Ardoino and the two guards still watched. Pertusa held back for a moment, perhaps savoring his impending victory. Then he charged again. His strikes weren’t growing any stronger, but I was growing weaker. The steel blades clashed, and I felt the anger in each of his cuts vibrate from my blade, through my arms, and into my torso.
He drove me into a corner.
I had planned on a great deal when I’d left the safety of the archbishop’s home that morning, but I hadn’t planned on a duel with Pertusa. The rest of the scheme must have failed, and now I would die. Life for me had rarely been sweet enough to make death a bitter contrast, but the promise of a better future was hard to give up.
Pertusa cut toward me, and I blocked. Our blades held, and I stepped in and shoved. Now I had more room to maneuver, but I didn’t think it would make a difference in the outcome that was becoming more and more inevitable.
Church bells rang in the distance, from the north, their peal carrying across the tiled rooftops and sounding in every courtyard. Another set began ringing, then another and another.
Pertusa stood back, confused. “What’s happened?”
I smiled. Maybe our scheme hadn’t failed after all. It had just taken longer than I’d thought it would. “The Navarrese have made it into Thebes.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Unlikely, but not impossible. Imagine what would happen if the guards at the Neistai Gates received an order with de Ardoino’s seal on it, delivered by a trusted Catalan noble, telling them to reinforce the Hypsistai Gates. That would leave one gate vulnerable to a few armed men, who could then throw it open and let in the entire Navarrese Company.”
Pertusa shook his head. “But how—?” His face twisted with rage. “The seal!”
“I tossed it out the window to someone waiting for it. The document was already forged. It needed but a seal mark, a messenger, and a worthless mouse to keep the verguer and his right-hand man distracted while it all unfolded.”
Pertusa swung at me, but anger contorted his movements so much that they weren’t smooth, weren’t threatening. I blocked them with ease.
“You have two choices, all of you.” At my words, Pertusa disengaged, but he stayed within striking distance. De Ardoino and the guards held their ground, still a threat but listening. “You can stay here and try to take your revenge on me. Or you can gather your families and flee before the Navarrese find and massacre all of you.”