"But this is grave." He stopped his posturing and met her gaze with one of his own. "This is no girlish humor, I think."

She dropped her eyes. "No. It is not."

"Why you no wish fight?"

She turned away. "You wouldn't understand."

"Ha. Girlish humor after all. You are in love?"

She spun in quick riposte. "Certainly not! Love? I shall never be in love, if people always think it makes you stupid! No, I'll tell you what it is-" And it was her turn to lean in to him, her face closer to his than a swordsman would normally allow-"I've seen them. Real ones. Last night, at the party here. Two swordsmen. A duel. It was disgusting."

"Blood. A mess. Now you are afraid-"

"I amnot afraid. I see twice as much blood every month. It was the duel-I told you you wouldn't understand."

"I am not paid to understand you humors." He'd pulled a blade from the rack and began circling her with it. "You not afraid, ha?"

"No, I'm not. But I willnot be made a show of."

"A show, ha?" He jabbed at her with the padded tip, feinted and jabbed again. "Just a show?"

"That's all any of it is, a show for people to laugh at. It was agame to them, that's all, just some stupid game! They placebets -stop that."

"Bets?" He was forcing her back a pace, two paces, now that she had begun to take notice of his blade.

"Bets on the outcome-two perfectly good-Ouch!" Her back was to the rack; he'd jabbed her in the shoulder. "Perfectly good swordsmen, nothing wrong with them, but they were doing it for-"

"Money? You think men should not fight for money, little girl?" He backed off, making midgelike circles with the tip of his blade. "Men without nice dukes should beg they money in streets, before fight they forpay?"

"He's not payingme, " she said tightly. "I don't know whatyour fee is, but he's not paying me. I'm supposed to do it for free, to make a show of myself to amuse-to amuse-" The swordmaster feinted high, low, elaborate little spirals of disengage and riposte up and down his target, annoying as summer flies. "I said, stop that."

"What for? No peoples looking here. Just us, little boy duchess."

The sword was in her hand, and she attacked. Venturus fell back before her. She tried to kill him, despite the blunted tips, and he fought with a grin splitting his beard. She went for the eyes, the throat, but he was quick in his defense. Around and around the room they went, and he let her tire herself out with every trick she knew. He waited until she began to slow, and then Venturus stepped in with one perfect thrust.

She flung her blade into the corner. It rattled and clanged.

"Not too sad a fight," said Master Venturus. "Now we will stop for awhile. Good day, Lady Katherine."

And she was alone, sweating, in the practice room with the wet rabbits on the door.

IWAS AWAKENED EARLY THE NEXT MORNING IN THE COLDgrey light. The fire had not yet warmed the room any. Betty was bustling about, folding clothes and putting them in a trunk. "Come,"

said Betty, "hurry up, dear. My lord says you're to travel. The carriage waits."

There was no point in arguing with her. If he said travel, travel I must. I let her button me into my chilly traveling clothes topped with long boots, hat, heavy cloak. A mist was on the river.

Into the carriage with bread, a hot flask and blankets. Betty waving to me; a cluck of the coachman, a creaking of gates and Tremontaine House was behind me. The city passed away like a series of pictures; then, for the first time in many weeks, I was in the open country. The sun was coming up, a golden haze of warmth. Wrapped in the blankets, I dozed, woke to a stop for the horses, stretched my legs and sat the rest of the afternoon, watching as unfamiliar countrysides of fields of golden wheat gave way to streams and cows and orchards. When the shadows started to stretch across the road, they stopped the coach to consult with me.

"Shall we push on to Highcombe tonight, my lady? It will be dark. But there's a nice little inn not far along, if you'd rather stop for the night."

It was all one to me. But I knew when I was being suggested to. We stopped at the nice little inn, and I got a good dinner and a reasonable bed. I did not ask the coachman or the groom what Highcombe was, could not think of a way to do it that would not betray the fact that I had no idea what was going on.

Until they had named our destination, I had dared to think that perhaps I was going home-a failure, maybe, but going home, still. A trunk of my belongings was lashed up behind us; wherever I was being sent, it was not for a brief visit.

The next morning we rose again early, and by the time the sun shone watery above in a cloudy midmorning, the carriage was rolling through the gates of a lodge and down a graveled alley lined with tall trees. I caught glimpses of a great stone house, three times the size of my old one. But instead of roundingthe drive to its front steps, we suddenly went off the path and began bumping over the grass to the other side of the house. We pulled up before a little cottage tacked onto the wall, with its own wooden door painted a cozy blue.

I stood in the damp grass and smelt earth and apples crossing with hay and horses. It wasn't quite the smell of home, but it wasn't city, either. Stretching away from the blue door across from the lawn (now beribboned with the silver marks of our carriage wheels) was an apple orchard in one direction and fields in another. A stream cut through them both. The fields were silvery with long, wet grass; it had rained here in the night, and clouds still lingered. Coming across the fields I saw a man with a staff, his head uncovered.

"There he is," said the coachman, and hailed him: "Master!"

Fine drops of mist ornamented the man's dark hair. He raised his head and leapt the stream, and came to us.

The footman spoke. "The duke's greetings, Master. He presents his niece, the Lady Katherine. She will be studying with you, he says. And we've brought you some things from the city."

"Thank you," said the man. "You can put them inside."

The blue door was not locked. I stood looking at my new tutor and wondered what I would be studying. He had the earth-caked hands of a gardener, well-shaped fingers squared off at the tips. His face was unshaven but not yet bearded. He did not seem to mind my staring, though his own gaze was less direct. I felt he was looking past me.

"Are you Janine's daughter?" he asked.

"You know my mother!"

"No. But Alec's spoken of her."

"Who's Alec?"

The man smiled. "The duke."

Another name. "You're his friend? Is this Highcombe?"

"Yes, it's his house. One of them. I live here."

The men had finished their deliveries. Even my trunk was stowed inside. "Will that be all, sir? Will you need anything else?"

"Thank you. Nothing else, if you've brought everything I asked for."

"All in the chest, according to my list. The spoons are wrapped in the linen. We can wait if you like, but our orders are to return to town as soon as convenient."

"That's all right, then. Thank you; good-bye."

I did not feel melancholy or afraid as the Tremontaine carriage pulled away, leaving me in a strange placewith a strange man. Indeed, I could hardly wait for them to go, so I could find out what would happen next.

Part II Highcombe

chapter I.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS THAT HE ATTACKEDme. His staff swung up and I ducked, my hands over my head.

The staff hovered in midair, brushing the edge of my cloak.

"You haven't been studying long," he said.

"Not very," I agreed, adding, "You aren't supposed to do that. You didn't call for my guard, or issue a challenge, or anything!"

"Sword against staff is tricky," he observed. "But you didn't even reach for your blade."

"I'm not wearing one."

"Even then. You aren't in the habit, and that's dangerous. Go put one on right now, and then we can get you fed and rested."

None of my baggage was long enough to contain a sword. I followed him through the blue door, into the little cottage.

"Climb that narrow flight of stairs," my host said. "At the top, in the corner of the room, left of the window, you'll find a chest with blades wrapped in oilcloth."

I had to open the shutters before I could see anything. It was a very plain bedroom. The chest was plain as well, but what was inside it made my breath catch. From the protective cloth I unwrapped long gleaming blades of extraordinary beauty, with hilts both plain and intricate. I'd never seen anything like them. Everything about them was sharp, including the tips. One, with a dragon's head on the pommel, looked just like the sort of thing Fabian would carry, or someone inLives of the Heroic Swordsmen .

I called downstairs, "May I choose any one I want?"

"No." His voice was firm but amused. "Try the twisted basket hilt; it's probably closest to the right weight for you."

I stood at the top of the stairs. They were horribly steep, not much more than a pitched ladder, really. IfI slipped or stumbled, the sharp edges in my hand could turn against me.

"Had I better find a scabbard?" I asked nervously.

"Bottom of the same chest. Leather, and not too gaudy, youngling."

Getting the long sword into the soft scabbard was a bit like getting a bootie onto a baby's foot: neither was very interested in helping, though in the end they fit together just fine. I came carefully down the steep stairs.

"Don't I need something to stick it in? I've got a belt, but there's a hanging thing, too, isn't there?"

"Oh, dear," the man sighed. "He wasn't thinking, was he?"

Whether he meant the duke or Venturus was all one to me; I was just glad he didn't think it was my fault. Reaching for his staff, the man rose suddenly, and I jumped, clutching the sword to myself. To my surprise, "I'm sorry," the man said. "I'll try to move more slowly, until you learn me better. I was just going to get you a hanger."

He stood closer to me than Venturus ever had, fitting the sword's hanger on my belt, and the sword in with it. His fingers were steady and sure, like a stableman's harnessing a horse; he didn't even have to look, and I felt his breath warm across my hair. When he moved away, there was a part attached to me that had not been there before. It moved when I moved, like a cat's tail-though without any of its grace!

He put a loaf of bread on the table, and a block of yellow cheese. When I sat on the bench I had to move the sword out of the way to keep from sitting on it, which wasn't as easy as you'd think. I looked to see if the man was laughing at me, but he was cutting bread. It was good bread, and the cheese was good, too.

"What about a knife?" he asked. "Did he give you a knife, at least?"

"I-I have a penknife." It had been a New Year's gift from my brother.

"No sword, no knife...Use this." He handed me his. It was well worn and rather ugly, with a plain wooden handle, but the blade very bright and thin with repeated grinding.

"I couldn't take your knife," I began to demur politely, but he interrupted, "I've got more. One with a dragon's head, one like a falcon...I won't miss this one. Don't lose it, though; wear it on your belt." He caught my moment of hesitation as if it were a ball I'd thrown. "-In a sheath, of course. Oh, dear."

When he got up from the table I jumped and fumbled for my sword, which took the bench up and over with it. This time, he did laugh. He sounded so helpless, as if I'd just crippled him by telling a brilliant joke very well, that I laughed, too.

"Never mind," he said when he could speak again. "You're just going to give yourself a stomachache.

Learn to walk with it, first, and then we'll see about defending yourself."

I was so horribly grateful that I had to stand up for my pride. "I can fight. I fought Master Venturus."

"Did you? Who won?" "He did," I mumbled.

"Good. Then it was a real fight." He put the bread and cheese back in the cupboard. I swept up the crumbs. "There's milk in a pitcher in the stream," he said, "and sometimes beer, when they remember.

Well water's in the courtyard-it's a bit of a haul, so I keep a bucket by the door. Don't drink from the stream; the cows step in it. It's all right for washing. You can go off exploring now if you'd like; you must be cramped from the ride. Just don't go in the field with the bull. Oh, and I'd stay clear of the village; I don't think they're ready for you."

I concluded regretfully that he was right, which was a shame, since they could probably tell me all about him. But I knew our own villagers. They would not warmly receive a girl dressed as a tumbler, and I bet the Highcombe folk wouldn't either. So I followed the stream into the woods instead, and found a little waterfall and a blackberry thicket with plenty of berries left, and an empty bird's nest floating in the water.

I came back as the shadows were long across the fields, my favorite time of day. The man was standing in front of the cottage, wearing nothing but a shirt over his breeches, sword in hand. I waved, but he didn't wave back; instead he turned and did something like a dance that wasn't, because the sword was flashing about in a determined manner, and when he stopped, you had the impression that he had won. I took a deep breath and went forward.

"Are you ready?" the swordsman asked.

"Wait-" I fumbled, and wrestled my sword out of its sheath. I was on guard, and so was he. And then things were happening very fast. He'd move, and I'd find his blade within my guard, and I'd think of the parry I should have made if only I'd seen him coming in time, but by then he'd struck again somewhere else. After a bit of this, at least I was ready to dosomething when he moved, even if half the time it was something that left me poking into thin air while he came at me again. Of course I never came anywhere within his guard; I only had to think about it for him to be right where I wanted to attack. As if he were weaving a fence around himself with his steel.

At last he stepped back and put up his blade, and I saw it just in time to keep from making a fool of myself by trying to skewer him.

"I take it," he said, "you've never killed anyone."

"Oh, dear no!"

"Just checking." He turned and went in the house. He wasn't even panting. I went and washed my face in the stream. And then went in to supper, which was vegetables boiling on the hearth. And bread and cheese.

But on the plain wooden table were a pair of candlesticks, silver dragons supporting the candles with their mouths. At each of our places was a wineglass flecked with gold, whose stem was a twisting dolphin.

"How beautiful!" The words escaped me. He held his glass by the stem, stroking the fragile curves familiarly. I could almost feel the cool, smooth glass just by watching him.

The vegetables needed seasoning, but I was hungry enough not to care. When I finished eating, suddenly I was so tired I could have put my head right in my empty plate. "Sleep upstairs," he said. "I'll help you carry your things."

I wrestled myself and my gear gingerly up the narrow stairs, holding the candle.

"Don't worry," he said. "There's a pot under the bed; you don't have to risk breaking your neck in the dark."

I grinned, then considered that since there seemed to be no house servants I'd have to empty the thing myself. Not down the ladder-stairs, please! Maybe out the window. There were two: a large one with shutters, and a little round one over the bed. It glowed red with sunset, like stained glass.

He reached out and shuttered the window. As with everything else he did, his movements were economical and practiced. Suddenly my heart started to beat very hard. This was his bedroom. Did he know I was not a boy? He did know, didn't he? I could sleep in my clothes. I had a knife, but I'd better not try it. I remembered his hands on my belt, his breath in my hair, the sharp tip of his blade dancing around me. Maybe it would be all right. He was so quiet.