It was soothing to be around fencers of his own caliber again. Seiji loved seeing other fencers’ strengths that he could replicate and improve upon. He liked the hard work and intense rhythms of the fencing drills, the sense of pushing himself and his body over and over again. He relished that drills created muscle memory, so that movements could be perfected and then made effortless.
But Seiji was, of course, aware of the looks and stares Kings Row got every time they were singled out and sent to run suicides.
“Sorry,” panted Nicholas.
Seiji blinked. “For what?”
“Because we have to run all these suicides,” said Nicholas.
Seiji didn’t particularly enjoy running suicides, but he saw their value. They improved speed, stamina, and—most important for a fencer—explosiveness, the ability to harness muscle power in a burst, which was essential for lunges. That was what he told himself as he felt Jesse’s eyes on him. He forced his mind back to the task at hand.
The first lap of suicides, on the tracks marked out through the lemon trees, was a race among all the fencers at Camp Menton. To Seiji’s total lack of surprise, Kings Row came last.
Then they had to run more suicides. Their team had a record number of suicides to run. From this day forth, Seiji had the suspicion Kings Row would be considered unforgettable at Camp Menton.
It was better to run suicides at a steady pace and not make them a race, but Nicholas never listened when Seiji told him this.
“I won!” Nicholas panted when they finally finished.
“You can’t win at suicides,” Seiji replied.
“Well, I just did!” Nicholas leaned against a lemon tree and gulped for air.
Seiji regulated his own breathing. “You did not. If anyone won, I won, because I did it correctly and paced myself.”
“I beat you at suicides, and now I’m going to rock this match with Bastien.”
“You did not beat me, and now you must hydrate.”
He produced the extra water he carried for Nicholas and forced it on him, flicking a few drops of water at Nicholas to emphasize his point. Nicholas tipped the water bottle over his own head.
When they headed back toward the salle d’armes, the Exton team was standing outside the chapel door: Jesse; Marcel; and the Leventis twins, Thomas and Aster, who made up the rest of the team. Aster was on the team and Thomas the reserve, which was surprising to Seiji as last year Thomas had been by far the stronger fencer, but Seiji didn’t have much attention to spare for the twins. Jesse was already staring in their direction, and from Jesse’s expression, something had upset him terribly.
Seiji had no idea what that could be. Jesse wasn’t running suicides. Jesse wasn’t about to watch his fencing partner be decimated in front of the entire training camp.
Seiji had to witness Nicholas’s match despite the reluctant feeling in his chest, as if there were a stone inside his rib cage that he had to drag around. Friends had to watch other friends’ matches. Nicholas had taught him that. Even though Jesse would be there.
To Seiji’s relief, Nicholas went through the chapel doors without a word to Jesse. Seiji had noticed Nicholas was strange around Jesse. Perhaps Nicholas was intimidated by him.
Nicholas went to change into his whites, and Seiji went to join the audience. He decided not to sit with the rest of the Kings Row people, because Bobby disliked Seiji and would go all quiet and not enjoy himself. Instead, he stood alone, ready to watch the disaster.
His heart sank as Nicholas and Bastien moved into position on the piste. Jesse entered the salle d’armes without his Exton teammates, making a beeline for Seiji immediately. Seiji stared straight ahead at Nicholas and Bastien. The sky through the stained-glass windows was the same bright, pale blue as the sea past the trees, and the sunlight transformed the steel strips into a molten yellow. Nicholas and Bastien, en garde facing each other, looked like the illustrated tableau from a storybook. Seiji knew how this story would end.
“Care to do some training together later?” Jesse asked carelessly.
“No,” said Seiji.
He didn’t know how Jesse could bear to think of training when they were watching a tragedy unfold before their very eyes. Bastien was being showy to what Seiji considered an unnecessary degree, his flawlessly displayed technique highlighting how rough Nicholas’s technique was in contrast.
There were particular idiosyncrasies displayed in fencing techniques that could be distinguished by nationality, reflecting the prevailing training in those countries. Seiji found this a fascinating area of study. Each strength he observed provided him an opportunity to learn and excel. Italians favored saber work, and Hungarians foils. Korean teams were trained for speed, each move lightning fast, and the generally superb French teams relied on a strong parry.
Seiji recalled that Bastien’s parry was especially strong. That was why Seiji used to train with him.
Seiji had never accepted an inadequate fencing partner until Nicholas.
For Nicholas, whose training was so scanty and whose only chance was to strike fast and get past someone’s guard, fencing someone whose main strategy focused on defending against a strike was a disaster.
Seiji winced as Bastien blocked Nicholas without even having to try.
“Wow,” murmured Jesse, sounding almost awed. “He is terrible.”
“He wasn’t trained!” Seiji snapped.
Jesse’s eyes narrowed, like shutters snapping shut on blue sky. “I don’t care about why he’s terrible. I only care that he’s terrible.”
Nicholas, fearless as usual, tried an attack by disengage. Bastien hesitated for an instant, caught off guard by how quickly Nicholas could move, but it was only an instant. The next moment, Bastien used a parry one, and Nicholas was blocked and blinking as though not sure what Bastien had done.
Nicholas had the nerve and he had the speed, but athletes were made, not born. If he’d had a trainer from the age of seven like Seiji had, it might have been different. But nobody had shaped Nicholas’s potential.
Jesse was right. Facts were facts. You had to accept them, no matter how sad they might be. Seiji was used to accepting Jesse’s evaluation of fencers, and Jesse could see Nicholas’s every weakness in the same way Seiji could.
At that moment, Bastien deflected Nicholas’s blade with a strong, sharp grazing movement along it, beat and pressure at once. Nicholas actually dropped his épée on the ground, totally disarmed. A scandalized, horror-struck murmur rose from the crowd. They’d come to see the American get beaten, but they hadn’t realized he would be destroyed like this.
The memory of losing his final point to Jesse made Seiji close his eyes in a brief cold flash of shame.
“Poor kid,” said Bastien, stopping by Seiji once the match was concluded, and speaking too low for Nicholas to hear. “Nicholas is nowhere near your level.”
“This isn’t like you, Seiji,” added Jesse, loud enough for Nicholas to hear. “You know you’re a better fencer than everyone at Kings Row. You don’t belong there. You belong at Exton. With me.”
His eyes were clear and cool blue, the eyes Seiji had measured himself in all his life. Seiji kept telling himself to endure and win, but what if Jesse was right?
Seiji turned on his heel and left the salle d’armes. He caught up with Nicholas by the door to the armory.
Before Nicholas could speak, Seiji snapped, “You think that you can win just by wanting to. You can’t. The only way to win is to be better than your opponent. If you can’t do that, you’re just embarrassing yourself.”
Under his fading summer tan, Nicholas went pale.