He laughs again, the sound ringing out. “This is true. Expertise is the most important part of the art. Not experience, per se. One can be very experienced and still possess no definable skill.”
“Oh, I do know that.” I realize I’ve spoken the words aloud, and my cheeks scorch. I open my mouth to twist my meaning back into the context of sword fighting, but the same inebriation that made me speak so boldly now keeps me from withdrawing the sentiment.
“I am sorry to hear it, crécerelle. That is most unfortunate, but not uncommon, I fear. Men mistake experience for expertise, in all forms of swordplay. I consider myself...” He pauses. “And there I tread into uncouth territory, as if I am petitioning for a post with a letter of reference.”
I sputter a laugh. “Please tell me you carry letters of reference.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I truly have had too much to drink, have I not? Non. There are no letters, though now I cannot help but imagine such a thing.”
“It would be terribly convenient. I shall certainly need to write it into a book. A man who provides letters of reference to his... dueling partners.”
I put out my hand. “Best hand over the sword, Nico, before you dig this particular hole any deeper.”
“Did you call me Nico?”
“I am drunk. Now give me your sw— Argh. The sword. Give methesword.”
“You do not wantmysword?”
“Only if it comes with a letter of recommendation. I believe I shall begin demanding that, now that you have put the idea into my head.”
“As you should. However, as an alternative, perhaps I could offer a written guarantee of satisfaction?”
“Or you will refund my money?”
“Hmm, that does not work as well, does it? If not a letter or guarantee, then perhaps an offer. I will—”
He stops and shakes his head sharply, leaving me hanging, waiting for the rest, conjuring the rest with my excellent imagination.
“Enough of that, Nico,” he says, as if chastising himself. “Swordplay is a dangerous sport to engage in when one or both parties are inebriated and perhaps unable to properly agree to the duel.”
“Agreed. Now,thesword, sir.”
I put out my hand. From behind his back appears a small blade in an elaborate hammered steel sheath. My breath catches.
“Is that...?” I manage.
He twirls the sheath in his fingers. “A very old short sword. It is in need of sharpening, but the scabbard is quite pretty.”
I snatch it from him so fast he laughs.
“It is only an old blade, crécerelle.”
I pull the sword from its sheath with the reverence another might display toward the crown jewels themselves.
“Wh-where did you come upon such a thing?” I ask as I turn it over in my hands.
“A farmer found it in a field. West of here, I believe.”
“By the old Roman road?”
He frowns. “I do not know exactly. Only that the farmer thought it a pretty relic that a nobleman might wish to display, but it was so old, none wanted it, and I bought it. The man was in dire need of the money.”
“This is a Roman gladius,” I say.
“Were they rare?”
“At the time? No. Every soldier had one. Nowadays? They are rare indeed. The sword may seem in poor shape, but the ones I have seen in the museum are little more than rusted remains. This one, as you say, needs only sharpening.”