The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [137]
“I’d like to see it,” Cazio said.
Malconio smiled. “Go on,” he said. “Azdei, until I see you next.”
Cazio clasped his brother’s hand, then trudged back up from the strand to where the others waited.
There was only one road out of Duvré, and it was really no more than a narrow track. Cazio led the way, leading their newly purchased donkey, sparing one glance back at his brother’s ship before they entered the trees above the village. He saw Malconio, a tiny figure, working with his men.
Then he turned his eyes to the road ahead of him.
The forest soon gave way to rolling fields of wheat. They saw a few distant houses, but no village even the size of Duvré. Dusk found him building a campfire beneath an apple tree so ancient its lower limbs had drooped to the ground.
Anne hadn’t said much since she lost her hair. Cazio had never seen a woman without hair and he didn’t like the look. It was better when she wrapped the scarf on her head.
He tried to start a conversation with her once or twice, but her answers were terse and didn’t go anywhere.
Austra was quiet, too. He gathered the two girls had had some sort of fight on the ship, and both were still sulking about it. He wondered if the fight had been over him. Austra was taking very well to his attentions; if Anne was jealous, she wasn’t showing him, but she could be taking it out on Austra.
Which left z’Acatto, who had grumbled drunkenly at having been roused from his stupor, but who by the time they started setting up camp was getting pretty garrulous. When Cazio drew Caspator and began a few exercises, the old man grunted, came to his feet, and drew his own blade.
“I saw you attack with the z’ostato the other day,” he said.
“I did,” Cazio said.
“That’s a foolish attack,” z’Acatto said. “I never taught you that.”
“No,” Cazio agreed. “It was something one of Estenio’s students tried on me.”
“Uh-huh. Did it work?”
Cazio grinned. “No. I replied with the pero perfo and let him impale himself.”
“Of course. Once your feet leave the ground, you can no longer change direction. You sacrifice all your maneuverability.”
“Yes.”
Z’Acatto made a few passes in the air. “Then why did you do it?” he asked.
Cazio thought back, trying to remember. “The knight almost had Anne,” he said, after a moment. “I might have reached him with a lunge, but my point would not have pierced his armor and the force of the blow wouldn’t have been enough to stop him. But with the whole weight of my body behind my tip, I was able to topple him. I think I crushed his windpipe through his gorget, too, but since he was a devil of some sort, that didn’t matter.”
Z’Acatto nodded. “I never taught you the z’ostato, because it is a foolish move when fencing with rapiers. It is not so foolish when fighting an armored man with a heavy sword.”
Cazio tried to hide his astonishment. “Are you saying I was right to use it?”
“You were right to use it, but you did not use it correctly. Your form was poor.”
“It worked,” Cazio protested.
Z’Acatto wagged a finger at him. “What was the first thing I told you about the art of dessrata?”
Cazio sighed and leaned on his sword. “That dessrata isn’t about speed or strength, but about doing things correctly,” he said.
“Exactly!” z’Acatto cried, flourishing his weapon. “Sometimes speed and strength may allow you to succeed despite poor form, don’t get me wrong. But one day you will not have that speed and strength, either because you are wounded, or sick—or old, like me. Better to prepare for it.”
“Very well,” Cazio conceded. “What did I do wrong?”
Z’Acatto set his guard stance. “It begins thus, with the back foot,” he began. “It must explode forward, and your arm must already be rigid and in line. You should make the attack to the outside line, not the inside, because it’s closer. After you strike, you pass, perhaps