The day of the duel came swiftly, as preparations for the coming spring season left the nascent House of Fallmire in a tizzy of preparation.
Early that morning, Talia was cleaning a brace of dueling pistols in her study, and Lucia wondered at that—perhaps too loudly, for Richmond informed her that Talia wearing a saber when she challenged the Deacon had been a feint. The Deacon likely would not have agreed to a duel with firearms, but Talia had, mercilessly, reserved the right to choose the weapons used.
This did little to assuage Lucia’s anxieties.
Lindell and Deacon Erasmus arrived by the tenth hour, along with another, broad shouldered man in tow who Lucia recognized from that day in Parliament. This was the Commander General of the Commonwealth’s armies, Gregor Hawthorne. Lindell indicated he had come to serve as legal witness.
Behind him was a slight woman Lucia recognized from the local village, Foxbridge; she introduced herself as the village doctor, on hand if things took a turn for the worst.
The gathered party was received in the house’s sitting room for a spell before being led to the field chosen as the dueling ground. The demon followed. She had not intended to watch the duel—there was a real chance her summoner would not see the next dawn, and her contract would die with her—but, unable to find any effective distractions, she found herself only a few paces behind the Duke heading to the appointed place.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Why did she care so much?
She had thrown in her lot with Talia, that was certain. But if it all ended here, she would not have lost much. Little more than a week, at most. Easy come, easy go.
So why did her breath catch in her chest, blush ride her cheeks?
She did not want to know the answer to that question.
“Relax,” Richmond murmured, as he drew up a chair beside the dueling ground for her. His manner did not help. If anything, Lucia felt even worse than before.
She paced as the Duke readied herself. The demon’s head in hands, she wondered how everything had spiraled out of control so quickly. She kicked at the hedge and got a footful of thorns for her trouble.
“It’ll be fine,” Richmond said, as he withdrew to negotiate with the Deacon’s second, Lindell. After a quiet conversation of which Lucia could hear nothing, they paced away from each other, and Richmond stood to address the six gathered here: Lucia, the Duke, Lindell, Commander Hawthorne, the Deacon Erasmus, and the village doctor.
“The challenge has been upheld, as neither party can find resolution in negotiation,” he announced, causing Lucia’s heart to drop right out of her throat. It came to rest somewhere around her knees.
Lucia covered her eyes, wanting to scream. That woman! This mess was the demon’s own fault, but for Talia to escalate things like this? To play with her own life like that?!
That damnable woman! Lucia did care, dammitall, and she did not know why.
Lindell took up the announcement. “As the challenged, the Deacon Erasmus Chase chooses this very spot for the duel, at a time close enough to the present to afford preparations. Thus, we have agreed it will take place within ten minutes, unless either party raises any reasonable objections.”
Holy shit, holy shit, holy—
“And as the challenger,” Richmond continued, “the Duke Talia Fallmire, head of her House, has right to choose the weapons for the duel. As such, she chooses pistols. The Duke will provide these, which shall be presented for inspection by both parties, and the Deacon shall have first pick of the pair. We shall convene the duel in ten minutes from this time, at this very spot.”
Lucia collapsed in a chair. She closed her eyes, just about on the point of weeping—but the tears would not come.
***
The span of ten minutes passed far too quickly. The two duelists inspected the pistols brought out by Richmond. Erasmus, for his part, looked duly spooked; Talia’s gambit in wearing her saber had worked to give him an entirely wrong assumption, as his grip on the pistol looked unsteady and amateur.
But even an amateur could kill with lead and luck.
Richmond had cleared the space. Lucia sat a not-quite-safe-distance away, the drama of it all overriding concerns over the danger of a stray slug.
Then, it came to the moment. They would stand back-to-back, and on Lindell’s careful count, they would walk apart ten paces, turn, and fire. A tradition as old and ugly as the Calamity itself. Talia stood straight, and Lucia saw the rumors of her as a former pirate borne out in her stance, her unflappable expression. The pistol fit her hand as easily as her glove.
Erasmus stumbled to his place, his face white with the fear that had replaced the rumble of his anger.
Lindell began the count, Richmond nodding along in military stance.
Lucia buried her head in her hands, thinking she couldn’t look … but as the count reached five, she peeked out, then let her arms drop to her sides, unable to wrest her eyes away.
They paced eight, nine, and ten, then spun around to face each other. Erasmus held his weapon unsteadily, eyes focused on his target as he sweat. Then, fumbling, the pistol slipped from his grip, landing on the grass unfired.
Talia had turned around, eyes of focus and fury pinning the Deacon fast. She slowly raised her pistol, until it was aimed square at the man’s heart. Her eyes trained directly on her target … but then, for half an instant, Lucia thought she saw the Duke’s eyes shift, pinning Lucia with their righteous anger. In a blink, they were focused again on Erasmus. Perhaps Lucia had imagined it.
Then, slowly, seeing the man’s pistol on the ground and him too fearful to retrieve it, she raised her pistol to the sky.
And fired the single shot within the chamber.
The thunder flashed across the green, echoing against the manor before dying away, leaving only silence. Then, Talia’s voice.
“Does the Deacon retract his foul, unfounded accusation?”
The Deacon cried out, “Yes! Mercy! Yes!”
Talia’s hand dropped to her side. “Then I am satisfied.”