Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“But is our discovery relevant? I still don’t see how. Dromis may possess some form of magic, but if there were no mystical energies in play when Alsagad killed Falnac, how can the one thing pertain to the other?”

“That’s what I have to find out. Now tell me: when was the last time you had a drink in an utterly sordid and disreputable tavern?”

Tregan grinned. “Not since I was a wild young troublemaker myself.”

“Then I’ll stand you one before we go back to Keenspur House.”

Later, it was my turn to don a disguise. Clad in homespun with dirt beneath my nails, I became a prosperous but unsophisticated farmer from Ruvan, dazzled by his first look at Mornedealth and eager for tales of her notorious fencing academies, duels, and blood feuds. Excited enough to buy wine, spirits, and supper for any knowledgeable local willing to regale me.

As I expected, many of Dromis’ students were willing; they were as given to spendthrift habits as the other young rakes of my acquaintance, and thus often out of funds even when their families were wealthy. And once I had them talking and—I hoped—drunk enough to be indiscreet, I steered the conversation to their maestro.

It turned out that before coming to Mornedealth, he’d been a soldier in Brendan, forced to flee after he killed a noble in a duel over a courtesan. Or a slaver in Ceejay, a bandit in Karse, or a zealot who wound up on the losing side in a religious war fought somewhere far to the south. It depended on who was telling the story, or, for all I knew, they could all have been true. It didn’t matter. There was nothing in any of them to account for his students’ extraordinary string of victories.

Nor was their description of their training any more illuminating. Dromis seemed to teach pretty much the same techniques and principles as his rivals. When a student was about to fight a duel, he worked with him intensively, but the rest of us did that, too. If he used magic to enhance the efficacy of his instruction, his pupils didn’t appear to know about it.

In the end, I decided I’d wasted both my money and my time, but I told myself it didn’t matter. I’d find a way to unmask Dromis’ perfidy eventually.

I didn’t realize I was running out of time.

The Silver Trumpet was just downstairs from my own fencing academy, and it served the best trout, perch, and crawfish dishes in Mornedealth. I ate there often, so I don’t suppose it was difficult for Dromis to find me there.

I didn’t know he’d come in until the room fell silent, and Marissa, my companion at my corner table, turned in the direction of the door. “Damn it!” she snarled.

I looked where she was looking. Sneering, Dromis was stalking toward me with half a dozen of his students and Olissimal following after. The cripple smirked.

I realized I’d made an error consulting him; I’d underestimated his capacity for holding a grudge. I’d hoped that by allowing him into my school, I could win back what passed for his good will, and in fact, he had answered my questions. But then he’d plainly hurried to Dromis to tell him I was making inquiries into his affairs.

“Get up and draw!” Marissa said. I’d explained to her how Dromis’ protégés preferred a formal duel to an impromptu fight. Accordingly, she surmised that I’d be better off in the latter, and I suspected the same.

Still, I didn’t move.

“Do it!” she urged. “Lords Pivar and Baltes are your friends! They’ll keep you out of trouble with the law!”

Possibly they would. But several of my pupils were in the room. If I drew, so would they, so too would Dromis’ followers, and the gods only knew who or how many would die in the melee that would follow.

And even if I could prevent such a fracas by commanding my students to keep their seats, I’d labored to teach them that combat was serious business, best avoided whenever possible. If I jumped up and hurled myself at Dromis like a starving wolf, seemingly without provocation, it would make a mockery of all my homilies and admonitions.

So I simply ate another bite of batter-fried perch and waited for the yellow-beard and his companions to reach my table.

Once he arrived, he didn’t waste any time. Glowering down at me, he said, “Olissimal tells me you claim I teach my duelists to cheat.”

I hadn’t, not to the cripple, not in so many words. Olissimal had figured out what I suspected for himself. Still, I saw no reason to deny it. It wouldn’t change what was about to happen. “That’s right,” I said.

Dromis’ students glared and muttered.

“Then I say you’re a liar.” Dromis pulled a daffodil-colored leather gauntlet from his belt and slapped it down on the tabletop. I picked it up and that was that.

“Marissa will act for me,” I said.

“And Olissimal for me,” Dromis replied.

Olissimal’s leer stretched wider. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Later on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should be glad Dromis had challenged me. It gave me what I wanted: a chance to avenge Falnac’s death.