Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [179]
Realising it, for the first time Diniz hesitated. As if in some mirror-reflection, vander Poele’s sword halted, suspended. The slash, the thrust that he had invited did not come. But when, drawing breath, Diniz sprang and brought down his blade, the other parried it with a clang, following with a swing to the left and the right which had nothing subtle about them, and which Diniz blocked, in his turn, with great care.
Both his elation and anger were dying. He saw that despite all the activity, vander Poele’s breathing was hardly disturbed. His hands were firm on the sword, his eyes unexcited. If there was a shadow there somewhere, it owed nothing to present anxiety. Niccolò vander Poele fought with the ease of a highly-trained man of arms who had been further groomed by a master. The man was contemptible. He was also, none the less, a good swordsman who was biding his time. Bartolomeo Zorzi had known that, or suspected it, and was waiting with interest. If Diniz died, Zorzi would lose nothing more than a trainee. If vander Poele, it was different. Then the King would have a new lease to bestow for his dyeworks.
Diniz Vasquez applied his wits to the task. The problem was space, of which there was too much, and which vander Poele was using to exhaust him. Therefore he would confine him. Speed of arm and of eye were greater at seventeen than at twenty-one or twenty-two. Diniz was familiar with the dyeyard, and the Fleming was not. And, as he now had come to realise, there was another, very special advantage. For Bartolomeo Zorzi, either way, would not interfere. For all practical purposes, including killing, he and his uncle Simon’s enemy were alone. Diniz kept his face blank and continued to swing, but now it was in one direction, and now it was with a purpose.
It was not easy to coax the other man between buildings, even though they were here on firmer ground, and their blows connected more often. His wrists and back and shoulders were beginning to ache, but Diniz paid no attention. If the other man noticed, it would merely make him more eager. It seemed unlikely that vander Poele meant to kill him, or he would have done so already. It would be enough, Diniz supposed, to beat him into some sort of weakly surrender by simply protracting the fight. Youth and resilience were unlikely to outlast, he now recognised, this tireless, cynical parrying.
The end of the buildings was in sight, and behind, that part of the yard which had been hidden. Diniz sucked in a breath, tightened his grip and, changing position, began to drive vander Poele backwards, round the building and into that space and all that was in it. For this was where the Venetian renovations had ceased; where the wood-lined tubs remained sunk in the ground with their cargo of dye, fermented fat water, and urine. And beyond was the copper furnace which had been boiling all morning and whose fire, he knew, was not wholly dead. He swung the sword, again and again, and vander Poele moved backwards, swerving, bending, swinging in turn, until the first of the pits stood behind him. Then for the first time, his adversary spoke.
Vander Poele said, ‘No, Diniz. I know the yard too.’ Diniz, frowning, lifted his sword. The Fleming repeated, ‘No,’ in the same unemotional voice and, with a sudden, swift movement, engaged Diniz’s sword, ran one blade down the other in a shuddering scream, and with a wrench that set fire to his shoulders, pulled the sword entirely out of his hands. For a moment vander Poele held them, locked together, and then with a violent gesture, he cast them both away. He said, ‘Enough. You have shown you are a swordsman.’
Diniz took in deep breaths. He said, ‘That is not why I am here.’
The Fleming stood on the edge of a tub. He said, ‘You are here because of your aunt and your father. So why don’t we talk of your aunt and your father?’
Diniz had no weapons left, but there was a wringing-hook on the