Riposte.

"Sounds like Father Superior Bessik performed last rites for the deceased at Hedgerow's little chapel," Pertuli said, sliding a steaming mug across the loose boards of our table. "Thanks to you, Demis isn't among them."

"Hm," I grunted in acknowledgment, then cringed as I caught scent of my drink. "Guess I'd better watch my back, then. Didn't they have anything stronger than cider?"

"I felt I was due an hour of proper conversation at least, before you regressed," he said. He sat astride the bench slowly, and pulled his other leg over it with a groan.

"How's the back?" I sighed, indulging his prohibition for the time being, and taking the cider. It was warm, and perhaps he had earned some attention after that stunt with his coat. Thread of silver in the embroidery—how had he dreamed that would even work? Still, it had saved my life, and I owed him.

"Still smarts," he frowned. "They did what they could, but the surviving healers were pretty flagged by the time they brought us 'round, and Hedgerow didn't have more than a poultice pusher to boast of."

I knew what he meant. I was still feeling the blood loss, and some of the tooth marks at my throat would likely scar. We—Pertuli, Stande, Glassier and I—looked like we'd been in a real battle; a rarity in an age of healing radiance and alchemical advances where only front line soldiers suffered lasting injury.

He put on a brave face, but Pertuli was in mortal fear of getting scars out of the ordeal. I made a mental note to remind him of it every chance I got. In the meantime, on the brighter side, when I did get a proper drink, I should be properly intoxicated within moments.

"I'm sure losing his acolyte has Bessik shaken, too," Stande interjected, and I nodded in agreement. Poor guy. Something like that was enough to try anyone's faith, and no doubt he felt responsible somehow.

"Gentlemen, I must beg your forgiveness," Glassier said, excusing himself, and gave each of us a nod acknowledging the usefulness of our temporary alliance that morning. He clasped Stande's arm. "Now that I have rested, I must go. It falls to me to bring news to the guild and the Faranado clan."

"Of course, of course," Stande nodded, pumping his colleague's arm warmly. "Please convey our condolences to the Faranados, and let the Carving Knives know we will not consider Paolo's dishonor a stain upon their good name."

Glassier, an officer of that guild, gave him a dour nod, his tight lipped expression showing clearly that he credited Stande's offer of forgiveness very little. He was probably right. News travelled fast, and this was exactly the kind of thing that gave a club a bad name. The younger Faranado (whose name I never did learn) had gone immediately after the fight to bring his family news of the sons of Epigonne.

"How do you think they'll take it," I mused aloud once the duelist had gone. "The Faranados, I mean."

"Bad," Stande returned, giving his cider a sour look. "There's no other way. Demis survives in shame, his life saved by the man his brother sought to kill, and the curse..." He trailed off and punctuated his melancholy with a draft of the warm brew.

"This weresaur curse is quite exotic," Pertuli interjected into the silence. "Terrok is a vast place, and I know that anything is possible, but I don't see how I never heard of something like this."

"You would be a true sage in shape shifting curses if you had," I nodded. "Unless you had the misfortune to have met one before."

"And you have, obviously," he observed.

"It was back in the 3100's, in Hamdin," I confirmed. "An Eastern menace, the healers there said, after that one made short work of the twelve hoplites guarding our caravan. A few of them were wealthy enough to own bronzium swords, and they were powerless. I was lucky enough to have an enchanted sword with me; even so only three of us survived."

"I would hate to think of something like that spreading here!" Pertuli said, speaking the concern on every mind. "It seems a very devious curse. Bessik wants us to appear at the cathedral to be looked over properly on the morrow. Especially you." He eyed the bite on my neck, dressed in linen bandages under my tooth and claw ravaged shirt.

"That's enough of that talk," I said, cutting him off. My hand was shaking badly again. "I need something far stronger, if we're going to dwell on this."

I waved for the serving woman, but a portly farmer in a stained burgundy tunic interceded.

"A round of whatever these three gentlemen wish," he proclaimed loudly, and the woman hurried over. He was accompanied by three of his fellows from the neighboring town. "This here is our Lord Riposte Clasicant, the First Wandeer himself!" He told them in boastful tones. "With these brave companions of the Silver Blades, right here in Hedgerow, he defeated a mighty Lizard-Man warrior that had stumbled upon his duel!"

So dwell on the day's events we did, the crowd of townsfolk growing steadily to hear Pertuli's narrative of the battle, which, to Jordan Stande's amusement and my chagrin, waxed in excitement and waned in credibility with each retelling. 'Tuli was happy to take over the entire show, as flamboyant a performer as any bard singing dragon songs.

Once I got my hands on some fairly adequate harvest brandy, I retreated into a corner and worked at making the world a tolerable, spinning blur once again.

"And so, with a flick of the wrist," he exclaimed, making a piece of pewter appear in his hand with the dexterity of a magician. The audience clapped politely. (It had begun materializing at the critical part of the story on the fifth or sixth recital.) "Lord Clasicant presented his weapon, and, heedless of the danger, lunged!"

His words elicited excited gasps from several newcomers. One woman came close to fainting, and fell into the arms of a large, clean-faced young man near her, although she had heard the story six times before. I rolled my eyes and took another sip of brandy.

"The monster's burning, malicious eyes locked on his," Pertuli continued his dramatic narrative, "but the valiant Riposte shrugged off its spell, scowled right back and, with a commanding voice told it, 'Get forked!' And plunged his silvery weapon through the monster's heart!"

The tavern folk broke into riotous applause and laughter, clapping 'Tuli on the back and lifting their tankards to me, thrilled expressions and glassy eyes all around. The grinning, stinking faces swam about me, and I groaned.

I had relied on Stande's support, but before long he had all but surrendered me to the throng. He sat to my left, fending off unconsciousness but staring blankly into his drink, and refusing any more.

" 'Tish unbecoming a gentleman to appear intoxicated in mixed company," he had said, leaving me to drink for the both of us. I'd given up such scruples long ago.

I raised my arm to summon the serving woman. "I'll need another harvest dandy, Miranna, unless you've finally discovered faewine somewhere in that empty tomb of a cellar ..."

My voice drifted off as I paused, perplexed. Why was my voice suddenly so loud?

Perhaps because everyone else in the tavern had fallen silent. They were all looking toward the door.

I sat up, curious. What is momentous enough to freeze a thousand Hedz- ... Hedge-... hedrowans... townsfolk... in mid-celebration?

Okay, a hundred townsfolk, then. Fifty? A bunch, anyhow.

She strode toward me, her figure framed in light by the lamps at the door. She took her time; her hips swayed with a dancer's grace to avoid touching any of the unwashed masses in the crowded tavern. Stepping lightly, she held her skirts just high enough to clear the spilled booze, dog bones, and bodily fluids that covered the common room floor, and made the motion appear dainty and divine.

The crowd parted wordlessly around Maid Balina of House Orluz, but her handmaiden Thamine, nervous as ever, tripped and stumbled in her wake.

I watched her approach for the longest time, but it was the sweet scent of her heady perfume that reached me first. Like a footman rolling out a carpet at the door of an ornate coach, it announced the advent of its illustrious passenger.

She stood over me for a long moment, her dark eyes haughty and unknowable. Pertuli, ever the drama hound, watched, his green eyes darting back and forth between us in anticipation. I believe his mouth actually hung open, although honestly I wasn't paying much attention to him.

"Er... hi," I said awkwardly, starting to rise.

In response, she grabbed handfuls of my torn shirt and pulled me toward her, fairly lifting me from my seat.

My self-preservation reflex was slow just then, or I might have fought her off before she suddenly kissed me, her soft lips pressed to mine.

I couldn't tell if it was her perfume or intoxication that had my head spinning more, but there was something odd about that kiss. She was a complicated woman, but my sodden mind just couldn't process; here was a message of some sort that she wasn't afraid to trot out in front of all Hedgerow.

Just as I determined surrender to be the best course of action, she pulled away, leaving me with lips puckered and eyes half lidded.

"So, the wedding isn't off just yet?" Pertuli asked, too pleased with himself for his own good.

Balina gave him a smirk, then a softer smile to me.

"That," she said, straightening my collar pointlessly. "Is for saving me from that brute as you said you would."

"And this," she said in saccharine frost, her smile tightening into a sneer just before her hand crashed into my cheek. The resounding crack echoed through the room, followed by sympathetic moans from the townsfolk. "Is for dragging my honor through the mud." She pushed me back into my chair forcefully. "I am giving you notice: your days of ease in this town are at an end, my Lord Clasicant."

Without another word she turned, her cute nose in the air, and stomped out, her woman in tow. Her ruddy follower darted concerned looks back at me, then to her mistress as she went. Maid Orluz paused for Thamine to open the door for her, then stepped through, out into the daylight beyond.

The room erupted in gossip and speculation.

"Owwwww," Pertuli groaned in admiration, as he watched her go. "What an arm! I do believe she's my new hero."

"You know," I said, still blinking away stars and rubbing my cheek. Blood was starting to soak through my ruined shirt in a few places where the half-healed weresaur bite had popped open. "I think the wedding might just be off after all 'Tuli."

I resolved to collect the marker on my wager with Pertuli in the morning. He had earned another day's reprieve, and I had one last drink to finish. 

Fin.