Arianya expected Sofan to come in fast, but instead he shifted about, watching her reactions to his moves as she watched his. He handled the sword well, but how much experience did he really have with it? Was he able to analyze while moving? She began a slow circle to the left; he turned, balanced and almost in time with her. His previous behavior indicated a hasty man, a man who would want to bring this to a climax quickly. He had expressed contempt—would some instinct now teach him caution?

She closed the distance slowly, two steps on the circle, one diagonal that came closer. Again. Again. When would he notice? She let her gaze soften, and in that instant, as she expected, he charged at her … where he thought she would be with her next step. But she had moved the opposite way. He was not quite in reach, but when he whirled, their blades clashed.

Very fast, he was, and strong, as she expected with those shoulders.

“You’re scared!” he said again, contempt in his voice, but his slightly puzzled expression revealed that she had surprised him. Then it hardened again. He thought he understood her now, Arianya saw. That had been her trick, the spiral in, the reverse, the softened focus of her gaze. His confidence returned, obvious in the way he stood, the way he held the sword.

Arianya said nothing but smiled. She continued circling to her right now, the mirror of what she had done before. This time he moved in first, only one step on the circle before the diagonal. She stayed on the circle, moving a little faster now. He seemed less concerned about his unprotected heart-side than most. Faster yet … but he charged again, his sword’s blade a blur, this time blocking what he thought of as her retreat. And in his heart-hand, the knife he had hidden from everyone, the knife that could cripple her sword arm or kill her. She knew later that she had heard the gasp of shock from the witnesses, that someone started to move, to say something … but at the time she was not aware of these things.

It happened too fast for analysis; only experience saved her. She moved into him, a high sweeping parry that forced his blade down and away, between her and the knife strike, a long stride that took her past him, her blade on reverse drawing a line of blood across his thighs—he staggered—and finally, the stroke to the back of his neck that severed his spine as he fell. The little knife clattered to the boards, skittering almost to the edge.