Secular Wizard

Chapter 12

Five miles was all it took for the twilight to thicken to the point at which Matt had to call a halt. “If we go any farther tonight, we might as well go wandering among the trees-we won’t be able to see any more out in the open.”

Pascal shuddered. “Not the forest, I pray you, friend Matthew! There are still so many outlaws that one does not ask whether one will be robbed, but when.”

“Doesn’t sound too good,” Matt said. “This road passes through the forest, doesn’t it?”

“Aye, but my relatives have told me that the road itself is safe. The king’s foresters and reeves have seen to it that the trees are cut back for seven yards to either side, and the reeves’ men patrol it frequently.”

“So travelers are never robbed anymore?”

“Almost never.”

Matt didn’t like the sound of “almost,” but reminded himself that they had a backup. “Okay, Manny! You can come out now!”

There was a moment’s pause, during which Pascal sidled around to put Matt between himself and the only nearby outcrop of trees-so of course the manticore stepped out from the boulder behind him. “I thought to accompany you openly on the road, mortals, but there were too many other folk abroad.”

“Yüü!” Pascal’s head seemed to jump a foot, though his shoes stayed on the ground, stretching him out, then snapping him back. “He does move quietly,” Matt agreed. “Yes, Manny, thanks for staying undercover. Half of northern Latruria seems to be hiking south on the highway.”

“The other half are staying at home seducing one another,” Pascal grumbled. Matt could see he was beginning to have doubts about Panegyra’s fidelity-and this before she had even married! But the man was far too old for her, and Matt thought Pascal was right-the little snip would probably be planning her first affair even as she was marching down the aisle! Assuming she wasn’t working on her second. Or third, or fourth. But maybe he was doing her an injustice. He turned to the manticore. “I’ve got a question, Manny.”

“I am hungry.” Both sets of teeth grinned. “I paid a fanner to tie out a brace of goats for you-he seemed to be overstocked, judging by the state of his clothes.”

“Where!”

“Ah, ah!” Matt wagged a forefinger, then pulled it back quickly, just in case. “Answers first, before you get my goat!”

“I thought they were the farmer’s.”

“Mine now-I bought ‘em. When Pascal introduced us, you mentioned that somebody had sicced you on me.”

“I had been commanded to eat you if you crossed the border, aye.” The manticore’s tongue slurped around its lips. “It took little urging to induce my accord.”

“Good thing you didn’t follow through-I’m not a man of good taste.”

Pascal winced. “That was old.”

“That’s why it didn’t taste good anymore. Besides, I believe in recycling. So tell me, Manny-who was it who told you to put the bite on me? Of course, if you can’t say…”

“ ‘Tis simplicity itself!” the manticore assured him. “The man who bade me gobble you was Rrrnimmmmmmmm…” His lips sealed themselves shut and his eyes widened in astonishment. “Mmmm! MM, mm!”

“I was afraid of that,” Matt said unhappily. “What’s your name, manticore? Not your true one-I can see you wouldn’t want to go spreading that around. Just the nickname I’ve given you.”

“Mmmmmanny!” Then the manticore clacked its jaws shut, looking even more surprised. “Easy for you to say. But how about this guy who compelled you to hunt me? What was his name?”

“Mmninmimirürimmmmm…” The manticore stared in outrage. “Mmmmm! Mmm, mmm, mm!”

“Can’t even get his mouth open this time.” Matt sighed. “Okay, what’s the name of my partner, here?”

“Why, he is Pascal!” Then Manny frowned, puzzled, and opened and closed his jaws a couple of times.

“Don’t worry, they work just fine-as long as I don’t ask you to tell me who told you to get me. What was his name, by the way?”

This time the manticore hesitated. “I know, I know, your lips are sealed-or will be, if you try.” Matt held up a hand to forestall the answer. “Don’t blame you for not even wanting to try-the condition might become permanent, and then what would those poor lonely goats do? Not to mention all the spare cattle that are for sale between here and Venarra. Okay, Manny, go find ‘em. They should be staked out in a meadow about a mile back.”

“I go!” the manticore cried with a toothy grin. “Just try to snap ‘em up before they even know what hit them, okay?”

The manticore pouted. “I am a cat, Matthew! A large one, and mixed with a scorpion and a hedgehog, perhaps, but a cat in bulk, and a cat in nature!”

“Yeah, but just feed, okay? No recreation. Okay, go.”

The manticore disappeared in a blur. “Remind me not to get his goat.” Matt turned away. “Well, let’s pitch camp, Pascal.”

“Are you not concerned that the reeve may send his men after you?”

“Not terribly. Nobody seemed to notice my would-be murderer dying, in all the excitement over Perkin and Simnel.” Matt remembered the scene with a shudder. “Besides, out of sight, out of mind.” He only wished they were. “Well, mere living is a hazard, in Latruria,” Pascal sighed as he dropped his pack. “I was mad to come here!”

“Lovers generally are-and you really were mad for a sight of Panegyra. Don’t worry, you weren’t exactly the only mad soul in that house.”

A low moan began all around them. Matt froze. “Speak of the-” He clamped his jaw shut; in Latruria, it probably wasn’t a good idea even to speak about speaking of the Devil. “-of the ghost, and you hear him moaning!” He turned around. “That you, Spiro?”

“How did you know?” A wavering tendril of mist curled up from the ground, thickening and spreading to a little above Matt’s head. The top of it sculpted itself into the rough semblance of a human face. “Deduction,” Matt answered. “A form of reason? Foolish mortal!” The face firmed into Spiro’s countenance, and the body began to define itself into clothing. “When you deal with the supernatural, what good is deduction?”

“If it’s good enough for the tax man, it should be good enough for you,” Matt answered, nettled. “What’s the occasion? Decided it was going to be too long before they gave your room to some other poor sucker, so you might as well track me down and have another try?”

“Nay.” The hollow eyes scowled down at him. “I have come to thank you, if you must know!”

Matt stood frozen in astonishment for a minute, then said slowly, “Well, I guess I must, if you’re going to say it. Uh, you’re welcome, Spiro.”

“I have not even thanked you yet!”

“Okay, so I’m premature. My mother always said I was. Let’s try again. Uh… glad to see you, Spiro.”

“A pleasure, minstrel.” The ghost bowed.

“Say, how’s it been going?”

“Most marvelously well! The current squire has already unearthed my coffin and built another around it. Even as we speak, it trundles through the night toward Genova, where it will take ship for Greece!”

“Hey, congratulations!” Matt grinned and reached out to pat Spiro on the back, then thought better of it. “I never thought he would agree so quickly!” Pascal said, eyes wide. “Who should better know the nature of my descendants?” the ghost said dryly. “Nonetheless, he succumbed to his wife’s pleading-and his own dislike of my claim on the manse, no doubt! I must thank you indeed, minstrel, for I shall soon be all at sea!”

“Must run in the family,” Matt said with a glance at Pascal. ‘Well, I’m really glad for you, Spiro-and glad I could be of service.“ He almost volunteered to help out if the ghost developed any further little problems, but caught himself in time. Besides, Spiro beat him to it. ”I am in your debt, mortal, and I dislike that state. If you need my aid, call upon me.“

Matt stared. Then he recovered and said, “Oh, that’s not necessary! I was just trying to help out a little, that’s all.” As a matter of fact, all Matt had really been doing was trying to get a very intimidating specter out of his room. He felt guilty about taking any kind of payback for it, even gratitude.

But Spiro was determined. “I must repay my debts, mortal! That is the nature of Purgatory!”

“Well, uh, thanks-but you’re going to be in Greece!”

“I shall be farther than that, if I have any choice,” Spiro assured him, “and I have, or I would not be here. Nay, even from Purgatory, I can hear and come to aid you-in whatever manner a soul may, who has Passed Over.”

“I’m sure there’s some medium of communication there,” Matt assured him. “Okay, nice offer! Thanks, Spiro! If I need a friend Over There, I’ll call! Assuming I can find a way to send a message, that is.”

“You have it.” Spiro nodded at Pascal, who instantly did the best he could to become invisible. Unfortunately, there was no cover besides the tent, and he hadn’t even started to pitch it yet. “Pascal?” Matt turned to frown at his friend. “He’s no medium!”

“Nay, but he is of my blood,” Spiro assured him, “and blood speaks to blood; like will to like. Have him call upon me, and I shall hear.”

“C-C-C-Call?” Pascal stammered. “Have you no wits?” Spiro demanded. “My blood has grown weak if it reposes in such as he!”

Pascal stared. Then his face darkened and he stood up straighter, clenching his fists. “Ah, that is better!” Spiro allowed himself a smile. “Never forget that you are the son of a squire, lad-especially if you truly seek knighthood! Stand tall and remember your honor! Even as your friend does.” He turned to Matt with a frown. “I would think you were a knight, if you were not so plainly a minstrel.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Matt just hoped they were. He needed a quick change of topic. “Say, if you founded the whole line, then you must have been the wizard!”

“Nay, he was my son.”

“Then you must have something of his talent for magic.”

“Not ‘must’-but I think I may have a trace.” The hollow eyes creased in a smile. “I shall hear young Pascal call, never fear-and I think I may find a way to answer. Farewell!”

“G’bye.” Matt waved as Spiro’s form blurred into the tendril of mist again and sank into the ground. Matt watched it recede, then gazed at the bare grass. “Well, I always said I needed every friend I could get”

“Then you must have some very odd friends indeed!” Pascal wilted, knees gone rubbery. “I am amazed that you are so undaunted! You truly are a knight!”

“Yeah, well, just don’t noise it around.” Matt turned back to the pile of canvas. “You want to cut the sticks for the tent, or shall I?”

The low whistle brought Matt out of a light sleep. He looked around, but the campsite lay still in the pale light of a quarter moon. There were no trees, just the boulder and a copse across the road. Maybe a night bird? Then the whistle came again, and Matt was sure no bird really sounded like that. He was on his feet with his dagger in his hand in an instant, fumbling for his sword. “Pascal! Visitors!”

His answer was a snore. “Pascal!” Matt hissed. “Wake up!”

“Oh, do not trouble him,” said a deep voice, and harness creaked as mounted figures loomed up out of the night. “It is yourself whom we have come for.”

Well, that let out bandits. Matt brought his sword out slowly, turning it to make sure the moonlight gleamed off its twenty polished inches. “And who might you be?”

“I am Vanni, bailiff to the reeve of this shire-and these are my watchmen.”

“Oh.” Matt lowered his sword. “Well, that’s a relief. What can I do for you?”

Pascal, awake now, stared at him as if he were crazy, but rose to stand at his side. “You can come with us.” Vanni sounded a bit surprised himself. “We have come to arrest you in the king’s name.”

Matt stood still for a few seconds, letting the news soak in-and, oddly, found that he had almost been expecting it. “On what charge?”

“For the murder of a man.”

“I murdered no man.” Matt frowned. “Who is my alleged victim?”

“We do not know his name,” Vanni answered, irritated. “He was a stranger-the man with whom you fought.”

“Oh.” Matt shrugged, making sure the movement made the light gleam on his blade again. “No problem there-I wound up fighting in self-defense. He tried to kill me.”

“I did see the stranger wielding a knife,” one of the watchmen said.

“And I saw the minstrel strike it out of his hand,” Vanni snapped. “Innocent or guilty, it is not for us to say.” His gaze stayed on Matt. “It is only for us to bring you to the reeve.”

Why did he have the feeling that the reeve was not going to give him an unbiased hearing? Matt wondered. Maybe the mention of the king?

“The stranger just died all of a sudden. His heart stopped. I had nothing to do with it.”

Vanni barked a laugh. “Died while fighting you, and you had nothing to do with it? Nay, surely!”

“We’re in a land of sorcery,” Matt countered, “and you doubt it?”

Vanni frowned. “The young king is no sorcerer!”

“What kind of magic does he work, then? Even in Merovence we’ve heard that he’s powerful enough to protect himself-and in a kingdom with a lot of unemployed and vengeful sorcerers running around, that’s no mean skill!”

“The king’s magic is not your affair,” Vanni snapped. “Obeying his law is!”

“I did.” Matt decided it was time to call in reinforcements and raised his voice. “Didn’t I, Manny?”

“Indubitably,” the rich voice said out of the night. Vanni frowned, peering into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. “Who said that?”

“I did.” The manticore stepped into the light, grinning and lashing his tail. The horses screamed and tried to bolt. A few of them managed it, with riders shouting halfhearted protests. Most of the men fought their mounts to a standstill, though-and looked as if they wished they hadn’t. “The minstrel obeyed the king’s law in every particular,” the manticore said, giving Vanni the full double grin. Vanni goggled at the monster, then managed to wrench his gaze back to Matt. “What manner of man are you, who keeps company with a manticore?”

“Just a traveling companion, really,” Matt answered. “Manny isn’t so much with me as he is with my friend, here.” He slapped Pascal on the shoulder. The young man gulped and managed a rather queasy grin. His nervous glance was ticking back and forth between the bailiff and the manticore so regularly that Matt found himself wondering if his eyes were run by clockwork. “The youth?” Vanni stared down at Pascal. The young man’s lips twitched in an attempt at a grin. “He is an old family, ah, friend.”

“A DNA-linked spell,” Matt explained. Vanni’s stare snapped up to him. “Are you a sorcerer, too?”

“No,” Matt said truthfully. After all, Vanni hadn’t asked if he was a wizard. “But I’ve heard talk about it.”

Vanni forced himself to look the manticore straight in the eye again-a brave man indeed, Matt decided. “Is your name truly Manny‘?”

“Of course not,” the manticore spat. “What fool would let his true name be known far and wide, so that any passing sorcerer might enslave him? ‘Twas one such incautious lip-slip that gave this youth’s ancestor power over me, to bind me to himself and his family for all my days! Forbear, foolish man-I will not step into your trap.” His toothy grin lolled wider. “Though you might step into mine.”

“I asked only from curiosity, I assure you!” It was amazing how fast Vanni could backpedal, even on a horse. “Say, Manny,” Matt asked, “do you remember my telling you not to eat human flesh?”

“Aye,” Manny said, his grin now so wide it was amazing his own head didn’t disappear into it. “And bitter am I about it, for mortal folk have a most excellent flavor.”

“I was thinking about taking it back.”

“Were you indeed!” Manny looked at the reeve’s men hungrily, and a slab of tongue drooled out of his lower pair of teeth to circle around his lips, slurping. “I am convinced of your innocence!” Vanni said quickly. “I thank you for your testimony, minstrel-and friend! I shall return to my master the reeve and tell him of your arguments, so monstrously persuasive!”

Or of my persuasive monster, Matt thought. “Why, thank you, bailiff. It would really be quite an inconvenience to have to go back to your village.”

“But we shall.” Vanni reined his horse around. “Ho, men of the Watch! Back to our quarters!”

“I am sorry to see you go,” Manny pouted.

“Perhaps another time,” Vanni said uneasily. “It has been fascinating to make your acquaintance! I shall tell my grandchildren about you.”

“You’re too young,” Matt protested, and Manny concurred. “You cannot have grandchildren yet.”

“No, but I intend to. Farewell!” And away they rode, barely managing to hold their horses in from blind flight Matt caught a few mutters about, “Manticore for a friend! Can he be more fell than it, then?”

“He seemed pleasant enough.”

“Aye, one you could pummel with impunity.”

“‘Tis quite unfair-one never knows who will have powerful friends.”

As they disappeared into the night, Matt turned to the manticore. “Thanks, Manny. You take a hint beautifully.”

“Hint?” The monster stared. “I spoke in all earnestness, Wizard! Did not you?”

The next day passed without incident. Matt and Pascal joined up with another group of roistering travelers, much larger than the first; a few discreet inquiries revealed that this crowd comprised three or four smaller groups that had all set out from different villages with the same purpose: living the good life in Venarra. There was constant laughter, constant singing, and the wineskins passed freely from hand to hand. Matt wondered where they found the money to buy them. He found out at the next wayside inn, where the landlord sold them provisions at what had to be cost or below. In fact, when a few of the peasants took the wine and forgot to pay, he made no mention of it-just looked tense and nervous until they had finished lunch and started on.

Looking back, Matt saw him wipe his forehead and collapse onto a bench with relief. Matt could sympathize-there were at least fifty men in the group, thirty of them young, and all of them strong and able enough so that together they could have torn that inn apart. No wonder the landlord had wanted to keep them in a good humor. Matt had also noticed that the servers were all male, and all wound tight as springs, as if nerved up to expect trouble. There wasn’t a one of them who wasn’t carrying a small club hanging from his belt. At a guess, Matt decided, the landlord had told the serving girls to hide and called in his hostlers, plus men from the nearby village, to hurry this crowd along. They were probably having to go through this at least once a day.

Matt was impressed-it would have been more in keeping with Latruria for the landlord to use his female personnel to try to keep the vagabonds satisfied enough not to cause trouble. Of course, there were more women than men in the group, but still… Still, he proved to be wise, as Matt found when the crowd came upon a peasant girl working in the fields but sneaking covert glances at the wanderers. Matt could almost see her wondering whether or not she should join them-but she must have decided not, when the boys gave a shout of glee and started chasing her.

They coursed as hounds chase a pretty doe, and brought her to bay the same way, then took her down, and what they tried to do to her was not pretty at all. Tried, because Matt muscled in, holding off the boys with wine, jokes, and occasional punches that everybody could pretend were all in good fellowship. He did all this while he was giving the girl a recruiting spiel about the joys of the capital, emphasizing all the fun she could have with boy after boy, then sent her home to pack without asking whether or not she wanted to. He turned back to face a glaring semicircle of youths, but grinned easily and rested his hand on his sword hilt as he said, “Well, back to the road, eh, lads? I doubt not she’ll catch up with us when she wishes.”

The looks they gave him made him determined not to turn his back on a single one of them-but they glanced at his sword, noticed that he didn’t have his lute on his back, and let themselves be moved by his jolly slaps on the back off toward the roadway again. Matt sang them Kipling’s “Smuggler Song,” with its refrain, “Turn your faces to the wall, my dear, as the gentlemen pass by,” and they took the excuse to start grinning and feigning good spirits, though every glance said its owner would delight in seeing Matt spitted upon his own rapier, if he’d had one. Of course, Matt was so intent on trying to calm them down that he temporarily forgot the power of verse in this world-and that melody strengthened the impact of the words.

When they caught up with the crowd again, they found everyone reveling in the goodies that had magically appeared among them. The girls oohed and aahed as they fingered the laces, the men got drunk on the brandy, and Matt was quite content to let them give King Boncorro credit for long-distance generosity. Somehow, he wasn’t eager for fame at the moment. As twilight drew in, they came to a large open meadow where another couple of groups their size were already encamped, more or less. Local peasants were bringing in pigs, and the travelers were gleefully spitting them over slow fires. More wineskins appeared, again courtesy of the locals-anything to keep the strangers from foraging. The vagabonds proceeded to eat, drink, and make merry, and the locals faded away into the dusk-but several of them cast envious looks back over their shoulders as they went. Matt gave them two days before they hit the road themselves.

It was the wildest party he had ever been to, even including his one visit to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. There was a carnival atmosphere over the whole throng, a hundred fifty strong; inhibitions were thrown to the winds, along with random articles of clothing. No, not random-the more cloth that went sailing on the breeze, the more purposeful the selection became. Matt was shocked to see couples tumbling to the ground right out in the open, without the slightest attempt at concealment or seeking of privacy, eagerly stripping one another with laughter and lewd comments. Of course, he was a little more shocked to discover that he was shocked. Was there still a Puritan lurking deep within him? Or just a romantic who held the quaint old notion that sex should somehow be linked to love? Of course, he supposed love didn’t have to be private-but if love there was, then lovemaking grew out of intimacy, which cannot by its nature be public, for if it is, it is no longer intimate. He didn’t seem to be completely wrong, judging from the young lass sobbing on the shoulder of another girl, who was leading her toward the outer edges of the crowd, her face a study in compassion and anger. “He told me last night that he loved me!” the teenager sobbed. “And here he is, stroking that hussy who just joined us today!”

“There, there, Lucia. Perhaps it is only the wine.” But the look of hatred the older girl threw at a callow fellow who was unbuttoning a giggling young woman’s garments said that she didn’t believe her own lie for a second. “He was the first man I ever let bed me! He told me he loved me!”

They passed beyond Matt’s hearing, to his relief; he felt a pang of sympathetic hurt for poor little Lucia. Her dreams had already crumbled, after only a day or two. Maybe now she would go home, though… But no, she couldn’t, could she? Not in this culture, not without the man who had taken her to bed-if you could call a patch of grass a bed. He looked around for Pascal, to remind him to be a gentleman, but he was gone. A moment’s panic ended with concern as he saw his traveling companion drinking and laughing with a group of five other young people. One of the girls was making eyes at him; another was stroking his arm. Pascal? Homely Pascal?

Matt began to suspect there was something going on here besides mere lust. Of course, maybe he was being unfair-Pascal might be attractive in ways Matt couldn’t see; after all, he couldn’t look through a woman’s eyes. The older folk were looking on with indulgent smiles, then glancing at each other with knowing looks that turned lustful as, slowly, they kissed, decided they liked the flavor, and kissed again, deeper and longer. Work-worn hands began to loosen ties and buttons-but the middle-aged did seek some kind of cover-even if it was only a bush-before they took anything off. A bit more decorum? Or only an unwillingness to display flesh that was no longer in its prime? Matt noticed one of these more mature women leading a young girl away-only this time, both of them were sobbing. Matt couldn’t detect any family resemblance. He decided the young weren’t the only ones having their hearts broken. Nor girls, either. One young man was huddling in the shadow of a cask, glaring down into his mug and muttering, “I told her I loved her! Why would she lead me on like that, then turn away to that great lout?”

“At least she let you bed her last night,” said his buddy. “Yes, and I thought it meant she loved me! All day I was burning for her, aching for her! Then she laughed at me and turned away with him!”

“Courage!” His friend clapped him on the back. “Give as good as you’ve gotten! There is no shortage of willing wenches here! Bed another and let her see how little she meant to you!”

The brokenheart looked up with a glint in his eye. “That would be the fitting revenge, would it not?”

They got up and sallied forth into the crowd, while Matt watched with his blood running cold. Okay, so the kid would bury his pain in some other girl-but what would that do to her? You worry too much about other people, he told himself sternly, but himself wasn’t listening. Now that he looked around with those last few conversations in mind, he detected the signs of the aftermath-the hard, brittle tone to the laughter, the determination, the desperation with which the young folk were pushing themselves to have fun. The girls were throwing themselves away, the boys were scalp-hunting-all of them trying to convince themselves that sex didn’t really matter.

Pleasure shouldn’t be so much work, Matt thought. He remembered when he’d been in the same state, after the breakup of his first big romance. The rebound had been hard, and he’d ricocheted for a long time, slamming into a lot of walls. He winced at the memory of the people he’d collided with, and wondered how badly he’d hurt them. Any pain Alisande had caused him, he’d more than deserved… He wouldn’t do that to her. Never. He wondered about Pascal. What kind of shape would the boy be in, come the morning? What would happen to him tomorrow night?

“A tankard, friend!” A buxom woman at least ten years Matt’s senior sailed up to him with a foaming mug in each hand. “Will you not join in the revelry?” The look she gave him left no doubt as to what she thought his place in the festivities should be. “Why, thank you!” Matt took the tankard with forced cheerfulness. “But before I take part, I must give part, for I am a minstrel, and song is my donation!” He took a drink that wasn’t as deep as it looked, handed back the flagon, and struck the strings of his lute. After all, she couldn’t quibble if his hands were busy making music, could she? “Will there not be time for music later?” she asked, pouting. She was still a very attractive woman, and Matt wondered how much of her own escape from mundanity had to do with a desperate determination to enjoy using her charms before they finally faded. He rippled out a sequence of chords, grinning at her, and tried to remember that the verses would work magic, and which song would have the least ruinous effect. What else?

The crowd quieted and turned to look at him, listening. There were still pockets of giggling and sighing and moaning, but the simple fact that he could hear them meant people were paying attention. Matt sang on, remembering how many verses Childs had chronicled, and choosing among them carefully. He thought he as having a good effect-but remembering what one professor had told his class, about which feminine profession wore green sleeves in the high Middle Ages, he could only hope. He struck the last chord and bowed, doffing his cap as the crowd broke into applause with cries of “More! More!” But before he could begin gain, several women of all ages crowded in, eyes shining, with such choice comments as, “Can you finger me as well as you do your lute, minstrel?”

“Shall we make music together?”

“Is it true you only sing about things you cannot do?”

“Never run away with a musician,” Matt counseled. At least they had crowded out the matron with the first invitation… A shout of anger, the sound of a blow, and a chorus of cries of alarm and excitement. The women swung around, avid for the sight, and Matt’s heart sank. Was that what came of singing about broken hearts in this universe? Apparently not-the wench who was the cause of it all stood to the side, eyes glowing as she watched two stalwart youths face off, each with a knife, one with his shirt open and the love bite already swelling on his chest, the other with a day-old mark on his neck and all his clothes buttoned more tightly than he no doubt wished. “Villain! She is mine!” He shouted, and leaped forward, slashing at his rival.