"This?" Miranda laughed, touching the button, and bending the blade with only a little pressure.

"Even if it weren't so whippy, it could hardly kill anyone."

"It's the principle of the thing," Pedar said. "And I've seen you with stiffer blades."

Miranda grimaced. "I was younger, then."

"You were Ladies' Champion in epee . . . I have never forgotten your grace, that day."

"I was lucky. Berenice ran out of breath-I've always suspected she had a cold. Usually she beat me."

"But still-if you had live steel in hand, in the old days, I don't doubt you'd have been a formidable opponent."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Miranda said. "Shall we?"

Still he didn't move. "I was going to ask a favor."

"A favor? What?"

"I see you have Bunny's old collection here-in the hall. I know he never let anyone actually use it, but-do you suppose we could?"

Bait and hook, taken faster than she'd expected. She frowned a little. "The old weapons? But

Pedar-they're old. I don't even know how old, some of them."

"If I could just hold them-just feel them."

"I don't even know if they're really mine to lend," Miranda said. "I mean, they're here because Bunny brought them along, but they are his family's heirlooms. You're the one who said I should be fair to Harlis-"

"Harlis need never know," Pedar said. "It's just-the oldest steel I've ever held was that antique Georgy has-you know."

"Oh, that old thing." Miranda allowed herself a sniff. "It's not a day over two hundred, whatever he says. These are much older-"

"I know, that's why I asked. Please?" He cocked his head and put his hands together like a polite child.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Miranda said. "If we're careful . . ." She could feel her heart speed up, safely hidden under her white jacket, as she led the way back to the hall.

She unlocked the case, and stood back. Pedar reached past her, and took out, as she'd expected, the big saber with the heavy, ornamented hilt. He ran his thumb down the blade, and nodded.

"Still-"

"Bunny said they were still usable," Miranda said. "But he didn't want to take a chance on breakage. They're not replaceable."

"No . . ." Pedar breathed on the blade, then buffed it with his sleeve. "Derrigay work, look at that pattern! And the ring-" He rapped it with his nail, and the blade chimed softly. Miranda shivered, involuntarily. Pedar set the blade back, and took down another. "You have no idea of their age?"

"Bunny always said that one-the epee-was the oldest, and the rapier the next oldest. He said it was just possible those two were from Old Earth from an era when they might have been used." Used to kill, intentionally. Used as she would use a blade today.

"Amazing." Pedar put the rapier back, and took the broad, curved blade for which she had no name.

"And this?"

"I don't know. It looks more like a chopper to me-for very large potatoes."

He chuckled. "Not a blade for artistry, no. An executioner's weapon, perhaps, from a very bloody period." His hand reached again, this time for a foil. "So-this is your weight now?" His hand stroked the blade, bent it. "Not so whippy as the one you were using, but-light enough, I'll warrant."

"Oh, probably. I still practice with heavier blades now and then." She had to be fair. She had to be scrupulously fair, and let his own folly put him in danger.

"Let's fence with these, not the modern ones."

"I don't think it's a good idea . . . I don't know what they would think-"

"They? What 'they'? Who could possibly dispute with you, now that the judgement has gone your way?

What harm could it cause?"

"I don't know," Miranda said again. "What if a blade breaks? What if Harlis appeals, and then finds out I've destroyed a valuable asset?"

"He needn't know. He isn't a fencer; he's probably never paid attention to them. Besides . . .

I'll explain it was all my idea." Pedar nodded at the helms. "Look-let's do it right. Use all the old gear, masks as well. It would be like fancy dress." He had always liked fancy dress; he had worn it to balls where other men wore conventional clothes.

"But-"

"Just this once. There's no one to see. Please?" Again that tip of the head, the pleading expression, then an impish grin. "I'll bet you've always wanted to. Haven't you?"

Miranda smiled. "As a matter of fact . . . I did sneak that one out once-" She nodded at the blade in his hand. "There's something about it-knowing it's old, knowing it was used by people long dead-"

"Yesss." He drew out the syllable, nodding. "I thought so. Just as you enjoy old porcelain, or jewelry. Those who appreciate such things should not be forbidden the use of them. So you will humor me this once, Miranda?"

She glanced around, as if nervous of watchers. "I suppose-and after all, if we do break one, and Harlis finds out-as you said, he's no fencer. He can hardly skewer me."

"Well, my lady-choose your weapon." Pedar set the blade he'd been holding back in the rack and waved her forward with an extravagant gesture.

Miranda reached, pulled back as if unsure, and finally took the blade he had just replaced, the longest of the foils, with a weighted hilt to balance it. He took its partner.

"Let's complete the mischief," Pedar said. "As I said, with such blades as these, our helms too should match. I've long fancied myself in one of these-had my armorer make a replica, but it's not the same." He tried on one, then another, until he found one that fit . . . the others had, as she knew well, inconvenient and uncomfortable lumps beneath the linings.

Miranda raised her brows at him. "It can't be safe, Pedar-blades last, but old metal screening-"

"Pah! It will stand up to a blunted stroke, and if I cannot defend my face at least I'm not much of a fighter. Come, my dear . . . if you are nervous, you must wear your usual mask, but permit me my conceit. The only way you will strike my eye is with your beauty."

It needed only that to erode the last grain of sympathy Miranda felt. She could have shot him where he stood, but she was not going to trial for the murder of a murderer.

Back in the salle, after they had clipped the buttons to the tip of the blades, Pedar moved out of the shadow to stand in one of the bars of sun, a glowing white figure with a shining golden-bronze head; the old helm gleamed in the light. She could not see his face through the pierced metal.

From within her own mask, the world narrowed to the strip itself, and the opponent across from her. Could he see her face? She let herself smile now, with no guarding tension.

She brought her blade up in salute, as did he. Then he advanced.

They began with the formal introduction, the "Fingertips" as advocated by the fencing master Eduardo Callin, two centuries before. This allowed the fencer who wished a match to carry more meanings to suggest them by the quality of his touch, and this first contact, feeble to feeble, set up that possibility. Miranda's blade tapped crisply, to signal no particular intent, but Pedar's drew along hers, or tried to-the signal that for him, this match's metaphor was Courtship.

Miranda could feel her lip curling, within her mask, and fought down the rush of anger. Here, at the ritualized beginning, she must maintain her ruse. At the fourth touch, her tip wavered a little-someone who had recognized his offering, and was not yet rejecting it. Thinking about it perhaps. His fifth touch, the last of the right-hand touches, attempted a spiral along her blade, which she did not allow, but did not bat away. That signified Shyness, not Rejection.

They switched hands for the next five Fingertips. His tip continued its swirl, a stronger plea of Courtship; Miranda allowed hers to droop, on the ninth and next to last. Uncertainty-the last thing she felt, but an emotion she hoped he would have for one last instant. Then the tenth-a clean tap by both to signal the end of that segment. She stepped back, as did he, and switched her blade to her right hand again. Another bow and salute, and they were into the next phase.