1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [76]
"Señor Faul!" He was bellowing. "The rapier for honor, the back-sword for duty, your countrymen say! Pray you remember it! If Señor Crombie should open himself to a kick in the crotch as he has just done, you will administer him one, with great force! Duty is to kill the enemy, not treat with him as a gentleman! Now, again! And this time, Crombie, close your stance because if Faul doesn't smash your balls for you, I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, most surely will!"
The two Marines came to guard positions. Frank thought that was the right word, anyway, although what he knew about fencing pretty much stopped at knowing the pointy end went toward your opponent. There was a blur of steel. Clearly Crombie didn't make the same mistake again because the exchange ended with Faul yelping, saying something that was almost certainly filthy in Gaelic, and clutching his forearm.
"Better," Sanchez shouted. Without turning around: "Señor Stone! So good to see you! Will you join us?"
Frank looked around—like there's another Señor Stone in here, dummy, he thought. "I, uh, don't have a sword."
"A lack we can remedy," Sanchez said. "You will find a box of practice sabers to your right, and a jacket which will fit you there also."
Frank began to think he should have hung around for the gynecological exam.
Forty-five minutes later he had a fine set of bruises, was gasping for breath, sweating like a boar hog and knew how to take guard, stand, advance, retreat, sidestep, parry to quarte and sixte and and could perform two simple cuts and a lunge. All of them badly. But Sanchez grudgingly allowed that he might survive as much as thirty seconds of a real fight. On a good day. Against an opponent who was profoundly drunk.
After dismissing the Marines, all of whom seemed indecently fresh after their own training session, Sanchez came over to where Frank was trying to summon the energy to get out of his gear. His thighs were burning, both arms ached, his stomach muscles were just on the good side of a cramp and his entire right side and arm seemed to be one big bruise.
"Thanks, Señor Sanchez," Frank gasped, pulling at the buckles of the one-armed, high-necked leather vest that had saved him from being turned into low-grade hamburger meat, "Maybe I should get me a sword."
"Perhaps, Señor Stone," Sanchez said, "But do you have a gun?"
"Yeah, a revolver, six-shooter. One of the ones they're making in the USE these days. I really should practice with it more, but I just don't get the time."
"Find the time, señor."
"Please, call me Frank."
"Thank you, and, outside the training room, you may also address me with familiarity as a friend of my intended. As I was saying, find the time to practice. You performed well for a first lesson, for you are a sportsman, yes?"
"Soccer. Lot of running in the game, for ninety minutes."
"Indeed. It serves you well, and I worked you harder than I would have otherwise. Harder than I did the Marines, Frank."
"Yeah? You kind of caught me by surprise asking me to join in, actually," Frank was starting to get his breath back, but a couple of gallons of ice-cold water were starting to seem like a really good idea about now. "Why'd you do that?"
"Doña Sharon asked me to. Not the instruction specifically, but among the matters she has tasked me with is the safety of the Committee. The opportunity to instill some rudimentary skills presented itself, and I took it as furthering the desires of the woman I love."
Frank nodded. "Makes sense. By the way, can you teach me to do the thing with the eyes in the back of your head?"
"When you came in to the room?" Sanchez was chuckling. "Frank,