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soldier in field armor bearing sword and shield in open battle. I say it is romantic folly. What do you say, Messire Verreuil? Shall we put it to the test?”
    “Your grace.” Joscelin’s voice was mild. “I cannot claim that honor. I have been declared anathema by the Cassiline Brotherhood.”
    “Ah, yes.” L’Envers smiled. “The Queen’s Champion, Lady Phèdre’s consort, the eternal apostate. And yet, Messire Verreuil, when people say The Cassiline , they speak of you. Will you not cross swords with me?”
    Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. No words, not even a shrug were needed; we knew each other’s minds, and the decision was his. “As you say, your grace,” he said to L’Envers, “I am Cassiel’s servant still in my own way.” He shook his head. “And as such, I draw my sword only to kill, my lord. I will not draw it on you.”
    “A convenient prohibition,” Barquiel L’Envers observed to his men, who had drawn nigh and watched with interest.
    “My lord L’Envers.” Joscelin dismounted with grace, handing his reins to a startled soldier. Facing Barquiel L’Envers, he bowed with Cassiline precision, daggers ringing free of their sheaths as he straightened. The ghost of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips. “I said I would not draw my sword. I did not say I refused your request.”
    A great cheer arose from the gathered infantrymen, who hastily arrayed themselves in a vast semicircle, clearing space for the combatants. Someone’s squire ran pelting off the field to alert the encampment, and one of the subcommanders pounded another on the shoulder with glee. Barquiel L’Envers’ eyebrows disappeared beneath the edge of his helmet in patent disbelief. “You propose to fight me with your daggers ?”
    “Your grace wished to fight a Cassiline,” Joscelin said. “ The Cassiline?”
    There was a pause, and then L’Envers laughed aloud, slapping a hand on his thigh. “So be it, then! Till first blood, or the other cries yield, whichever comes first. Anton, my shield!” He grinned, showing white teeth, and shook his head. “Naamah’s tits, but you’ve got balls, Cassiline. I almost like you for it.”
    Joscelin smiled politely, crossed daggers at the ready.
    It could have been worse, I will say that much. L’Envers wore a foot-soldier’s training gear of cuirass, greaves and gauntlets, and not full armor. Still, the tall, kite-shaped shield into which he slid his left arm would afford a good measure of protection, and his longsword had three times the reach of Joscelin’s daggers. Cold steel, these weapons were, and honed to a killing edge. I sat my mount in quiet fear, putting a serene face on it as the Duc L’Envers hoisted his shield, testing its weight, and made a few passes with his sword. All over Champs-de-Guerre, shouting echoed, and the sound of running feet and pounding hooves as the ranks of our audience swelled. An impromptu honor guard formed itself around me, soldiers jostling to fend off their comrades. L’Envers’ squire adjusted the cheekplates on his lord’s helmet, tightening the strap beneath his chin.
    “Shall we begin?” Barquiel L’Envers inquired.
    Joscelin merely bowed.
    The fight began slowly, both combatants circling for advantage. For all his arrogance, Barquiel L’Envers was a veteran of countless battles, not to be goaded into rash action. He made a testing thrust with his sword, eyes narrowing as Joscelin deflected it easily, his steel-clad left forearm sending the blow wide as he stepped inward and turned, bringing the right-hand dagger up with deceptive speed. It glanced off L’Envers’ shield, which he swung in to cover his exposed side. Joscelin shifted backward, weight on his rear leg as he brought his daggers back to their crossed defensive pose, turning to meet the next attack.
    I knew by heart the steps he took, the graceful, flowing turns of the Cassiline forms, daggers weaving an intricate pattern of bright steel. I had seen him perform them a thousand times and more, alone in our garden. Barquiel L’Envers sidled warily around him, leading with his shielded left side. Without warning, his sword-arm snaked forward in a low, lateral stroke aimed at Joscelin’s midriff. I gasped out loud ... but Joscelin was already moving, turning to his left, dagger sweeping down to intercept, catching the deadly edge between the curved quillon and the base of the blade, his right elbow rising as he turned to land a jabbing blow at