Monza had her breath back now, and her brother’s sword up. “It’s true, cocksucker.”

“I always did admire the subtlety of your rhetoric.” The one Monza had stabbed through the groin was groaning as he tried to drag himself towards the entrance. Ganmark stepped carefully over him on his way towards her, tucking the bloody handkerchief into a pocket and doing his top button up again with his free hand. The crash, scrape, cry of fighting leaked from the halls beyond the colonnades, but for now they were alone in the garden. Unless you counted all the corpses scattered around the entrance. “Just the two of us, then? It’s been a while since I drew steel in earnest, but I’ll endeavour not to disappoint you.”

“Don’t worry about that. Your death will be entirely satisfying.”

He gave his weak smile, and his damp eyes drifted down to her sword. “Fighting left-handed?”

“Thought I’d give you some kind of chance.”

“The least I can do is extend to you the same courtesy.” He flicked his sword smartly from one palm into the other, switched his guard and pointed the blade towards her. “Shall we—”

Monza had never been one to wait for an invitation. She lunged at him but he was ready, sidestepped it, came back at her with a sharp pair of cuts, high and low. Their blades rang together, slid and scraped, darting back and forth, glittering in the strips of sunlight between the trees. Ganmark’s immaculately polished cavalry boots glided across the cobbles as nimbly as a dancer’s. He jabbed at her, lightning fast. She parried once, twice, then nearly got caught and only just twisted away. She had to stumble back a few quick steps, take a breath and set herself afresh.

It is a deplorable thing to run from the enemy, Farans wrote, but often better than the alternative.

She watched Ganmark as he paced forwards, gleaming point of his sword moving in gentle little circles. “You keep your guard too low, I am afraid. You are full of passion, but passion without discipline is no more than a child’s tantrum.”

“Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth and fight?”

“Oh, I can talk and cut pieces from you both at once.” He came at her in earnest, pushing her from one side of the garden to the other, parrying desperately, jabbing weakly back when she could, but not often, and to no effect.

She’d heard it said he was one of the greatest swordsmen in the world, and it wasn’t hard to believe, even with his left hand. A good deal better than she’d been at her best, and her best was squashed under Gobba’s boot and scattered down the mountainside beneath Fontezarmo. Ganmark was quicker, stronger, sharper. Which meant her only chance was to be cleverer, trickier, dirtier. Angrier.

She screeched as she came at him, feinted left, jabbed right. He sprang back, and she pulled her helmet off and flung it in his face. He saw it just in time to duck, it bounced from the top of his head and made him grunt. She came in after it but he twisted sideways and she only nicked the gold braid on the shoulder of his uniform. She jabbed and he parried, well set again.