Part 21 (1/2)

Matthew could only respond instinctively, trying to put order to the collection of bewildering sword-facts that rattled in his brain. He locked his thumb down tight, tighter than tight, breaking-point tight, judged the distance and speed, and deflected the attacking rapier with his own blade. But suddenly Greathouse's sword was coming at him from a lower angle-a silver blur, a murderous comet-and yet once more Matthew turned aside the blow, the noise ringing through the carriage-house and the shock almost loosening his teeth. Greathouse himself seemed to be a distortion of the heated air, a monstrous creature half-human and half-weapon as the rapier flashed and feinted high, feinted low, flicked to left and right, and then struck like a serpent. Again Matthew parried it aside just short of his chest, but when he retreated two more steps his back met a wall.

He had no time to scurry away from this trap, for his enraged teacher was on him as the thunder follows the lightning. Matthew just had an instant to get his sword angled up across his body and then Greathouse's blade slammed into his rapier, locked forte to forte as the man pushed in on him with crus.h.i.+ng strength. Matthew held on to his sword, trying to resist what he knew to be Greathouse's intention to tear it from his hand by brute power alone. The blades made a shrieking sound as they fought each other, steel sliding against steel. Matthew feared his wrist was about to break. Greathouse's face and glaring eyes seemed as big as demonic planets, and it occurred to Matthew at this moment near bone-breakage that the man smelled like a goat.

Abruptly the pressure against his rapier was gone. Greathouse said, ”You are dead.”

Matthew blinked. He felt something sharp jabbing into his stomach and when he looked down he saw the black handle of a six-inch-long dagger gripped in the man's left hand.

”Some hide doc.u.ments,” Greathouse said, with a tight smile. ”Others hide knives. I just sliced your stomach open. Your insides should begin to boil out in a few seconds, depending on how much you scream.”

”Lovely,” Matthew managed to reply.

Greathouse stepped back and lowered both rapier and dagger. ”You never let your opponent get that close to you. Do you understand? You do whatever you have to do to keep a sword's distance. You see my thumb, how it's locked on that handle?” He lifted the dagger to show Matthew his grip. ”Nothing but a broken wrist could stop me from driving that blade all the way through your bread-basket and, believe me, into the stomach is where a knife will go when you're caught at close quarters. The wound is painful and gruesome and puts an end to all arguments.”

Matthew took a deep breath and felt the carriage-house spin around him. If he fell down right now he'd never hear the end of it, so by G.o.d he was not going to fall. One knee may have sagged and his back bent, but he kept on his feet.

”You all right?” Greathouse asked.

”Yes,” Matthew answered, with as much grit as he could muster. He wiped sweat out of his eyebrows with the back of his hand. ”Doesn't seem a very gentlemanly way to kill someone.”

”There is no gentlemanly way to kill.” Greathouse slid the dagger into the sheath at his lower back. ”You see now what a real fight is like. If you can remember your technique and use it, fine. That would put you at an advantage. But a real fight, when it's either kill or be killed, is a nasty, brutish, and usually very quick encounter. Gentlemen may duel to draw blood, but I can promise-warn is the better word, I suppose-that you'll someday cross swords with a villain who'll long to get a short blade in your belly. You'll know him, when the time comes.”

”Speaking of gentlemen and time,” came a quiet voice from the doorway, and Matthew looked over to see Mrs. Herrald standing framed in the sunlight. He had no idea how long she'd been there. ”I believe it's lunchtime for you two gentlemen. By the way, Matthew, your left ear is bleeding.” She turned around and, regal as ever in a dark blue dress with white lace at the collar and cuffs, walked away toward the house.

Greathouse threw a clean cloth to Matthew. ”Just a nick. You dodged the wrong way.”

”But I did do well, didn't I?” Matthew took note of the man's sour expression. ”All right then, fairly well?”

”You only struck one offensive blow. Or attempted to strike one, that is. It was weak and completely undisciplined. You did not keep your form, as your body was too wide a target. You have to remember to keep your body thin. Never once did you step forward to meet an attack, even as a feint. Your footwork was pure panic, and you were always retreating.” He took the rapier from Matthew and wiped it down before placing it in its scabbard.

”So,” Matthew said a little indignantly to hide his disappointment, ”I did nothing right?”

”I didn't say that.” Greathouse put Matthew's rapier on the armory's hooks. ”You met two of my best blows with very well-done parries and you were reading some of my feints. The rest I let you get away with. In fighting even a middling swordsman, you would have been punctured at least six times. On the other hand, I left myself open several times and you did nothing to seize the advantage.” He looked at Matthew as he wiped down his own rapier. ”Don't tell me you didn't see your opportunities.”

”I told you before, I'm not a swordsman.” The more he fiddled with his ear, which was cut near the top, the more it stung so he left it alone. The cloth was marked with a blotch of blood, but the wound was not so large nor as grievous as it felt.

”That may be so.” Greathouse sheathed his sword and put it on the hooks. ”But I intend to make you one, in spite of yourself. You have a natural speed and balance that I find very promising. Also, you have a good sense of measure. I like how you kept your sword up and didn't let it fall. And you're a lot stronger than you look, I'll say that for you. The most important thing is that you didn't let me run over you, and twice I really tried to knock that sword out of your hand.” Greathouse motioned with a lift of his chin. ”Come on, let's get our lunch and we'll return to this in an hour or so.”

This waking nightmare was not yet over, Matthew realized with a sinking heart. He bit his tongue to keep from saying anything he might regret and followed Greathouse out of the humid interior.

It had been an interesting morning. When Matthew had gotten Suvie from the stable, Mr. Winekoop had given him the news of the night. Three tavern owners, including Mother Munthunk, had refused to close up at eight o'clock and had been taken to the gaol by a group of constables headed by Lillehorne himself. A fight had ensued between the lawmen and the Munthunk brothers, who valiantly tried to free their mater and thus joined her behind bars. The festivities had been just beginning, according to Winekoop's ear. Before ten, there were twelve men and two New Jersey prost.i.tutes in the gaol as well as the others, which made that place the scene of a merry crowd. One of the constables, challenging a group of decree-breakers on Bridge Street, had been kicked in the stones and anointed with a p.i.s.s-bucket. Someone had pelted City Hall with rotten tomatoes and after midnight a rock had broken one of the windows in Lord Cornbury's manse. All in all, a fine New York summer's eve.

But, so far as Winekoop had heard, there had been no murder last night. The Masker, it seemed, was after all a man cognizant of official decree and had stayed home from the party.

Lunch was a bowl of corn soup with a slice of ham and a thick piece of rye bread, served not in the house but on a table set up under an oak tree that overlooked the river. A pitcher of water was much appreciated by Matthew, who gulped down two gla.s.ses before Greathouse told him to drink slowly. Matthew had earlier given the man a copy of the Earwig brought from town, primarily to show the announcement on the second page, but it was the article on the Masker's activities that had caught Greathouse's interest.

”So,” Greathouse said as they ate, ”this Masker person. A third murder, you say?”

Matthew nodded, his mouth full of the ham and bread. He'd told Greathouse about the killing of Eben Ausley, but had omitted his own role in that evening's events.

”And no one has a clue as to who this individual might be?”

”No one,” Matthew said after he'd had another drink. ”Well, Mr. McCaggers believes from the skill and quickness of the cutting that the Masker may have had experience in a slaughterhouse.”

”Ah yes, the coroner. I hear some strange stories about him. For instance, he can't abide dead bodies?”

”He does have some difficulties, yes. But he's very good at his job.”

”How does he manage?”

”He has a slave, by the name of Zed, who helps him.” Matthew took a spoonful of the corn soup and then another bite of the ham. ”Lifting the bodies, cleaning up the...um...leavings and so forth. An interesting man, that one. Zed, I mean. He can't speak, as he has no tongue. He has scars or some kind of tattoos all over his face.”

”Really?” There was an odd note of interest in Greathouse's voice.

”I've never seen a slave quite like him,” Matthew continued. ”Very distinctive and not a little unsettling.”

”I would imagine so.” Greathouse sipped from his water gla.s.s and gazed down upon the slowly moving river. He said after a moment, ”I should like to meet that man.”

”Mr. McCaggers?” Matthew asked.

”No. Zed. He might be of use to us.”

”Of use? How?”

”I'll let you know after I've met him,” Greathouse answered, and Matthew knew that was his final word on the subject for now.

”I should tell you,” Matthew ventured after a little time had pa.s.sed and his lunch was almost history, ”that I'm to be paid ten s.h.i.+llings by Deverick's widow if I discover the Masker's ident.i.ty before there's another murder. I had an encounter with her yesterday, and that offer resulted from it.”

”Good for you.” Greathouse sounded indifferent. ”Of course it would be a pity if the Masker murdered you before you could be of value to the agency.”

”I just wanted you and Mrs. Herrald to know. Actually I could put the money to good use.”

”Who couldn't? Well, the only problem I could see is if some official contacted the agency to do the same job. Then we'd have a little conflict of interests, wouldn't we?”

”I seriously doubt if anyone representing the town will ask for help. High Constable Lillehorne wouldn't stand for it.”

Greathouse shrugged and poured himself the last of the water. ”Go on about your little investigation, then. I doubt you're up to that task yet, but at least you'll get some experience.”

The way Greathouse had expressed that rankled Matthew to the marrow of his bones. I doubt you're up to that task yet. This man was becoming insufferable! Your little investigation. He prided himself on his investigative skills, on his ability to ferret out answers to the difficult questions, and this lout sitting here was nearly mocking him. His ear wound was still hurting, he was tired, and his last clean s.h.i.+rt was a sweat-rag. And here this man sat before him all but sneering at him.

Matthew pushed down his anger and said off-handedly, ”I've also gleaned a new item of interest from Mr. McCaggers.”

Greathouse leaned his head back so the sun could s.h.i.+ne into his face through the oak branches. He closed his eyes and appeared to be about to catch a nap.

”The murder of Eben Ausley was not the third here lately. It was the fourth. A body was found in the Hudson River a few days before Dr. G.o.dwin was killed. It washed up on a farm two or three miles north of here, as a matter of fact.”

There was no response from Greathouse. Matthew expected to hear him start snoring at any minute.