A small glass found his outstretched palm, and he downed the contents without so much as looking at it. The warm liquid sang down his throat. He tossed the shot glass over the fence and faced forward. With the liquor in his stomach and a new buzz in his head, he was ready.
He launched at his opponent like a viper, only to trip over his own big toe. But, even stumbling, he was still faster. Taking advantage of hisfall, he allowed the momentum to propel him into a low crouch. He steadied himself with four fingers pressed to the floor and rolled as a blade struck the deck where his head had been.
Straightening back to his full height, he cast Nose Hair a withering look and strode forward. He’d grown tired of the charade.
Sword clanged against sword as he swung—albeit a bit unenthusiastically—at his opponent again and again. The cheers around them tittered off into what sounded more like groans. Nose Hair huffed out breath after breath with every swing of his blade, puffing along like he held a pipe in his hand instead of a sword.
“Toran!”
He knew that voice.
Toran glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. Quint stood by the door, the irritation on his face as visible as the uniform on his body. Irritation of his own bubbled deep in his gut.
“Just give me a minute,” he called, turning back to the fight. “I’ve got a week’s worth of drinks riding on this.”
Nose Hair laughed. “You won’t win. You can’t even hold your sword straight.”
He frowned, peering down at his sword. It was straight. Plenty straight. He raised his arm until his elbow locked, his sword becoming one long extension of him.
The adjustment cost him. Nose Hair struck, bringing his blade down close to the hilt of Toran’s. The blow was stronger than Toran had yet to see from Nose Hair, and it ripped his sword out of his hand, sending it clattering to the deck, where it skittered across wood and slipped between the fence posts, out of reach. He was weaponless. He supposed it was what he deserved. Distractions did not win fights, nor did weak grips. Still, Toran laughed as his opponent came at him.
Nose Hair slashed and swung, meeting only air as Toran jumped back, his feet quick to avoid each strike. Precision was all but lost to Nose Hair now that he thought he had a sure advantage. Toran waited for him to make a particularly sloppy downswing before attacking.
As the blade rose high above Nose Hair’s head, Toran launched himself forward, closing the space between them before Nose Hair could blink. He grabbed the man’s wrist, forcing him to keep the hand holding his sword high in the air, and shoved him back into the fence, using his other arm to pin him against the post. Squeezing the skin and muscle at the bottom of Nose Hair’s hand, Toran twisted the man’s wrist until the blade came free of his grip. The sword fell, the hilt dropping right into Toran’s outstretched hand.
He whirled, keeping his body between Nose Hair and the man’s own sword, then sent Nose Hair stumbling back against the fence with a sure kick to the gut. Arm firm, he put the sword’s length between them. A flick of his wrist, and Toran sliced open his opponent’s forehead.
What was left of the crowd quieted. Blood oozed from the thin cut on Nose Hair’s head. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood still trickled down into Nose Hair’s eyebrows. The short slash was enough to be noticeable.
Enough to win.
Toran dropped the sword and grinned. “Now, where’re my drinks?”
He turned to Nose Hair’s companion, relieving her of their three pitchers of ale. Passing one off to Quint, Toran raised another to his lips and let the liquid fall until a river of ale ran down his throat, ending in the pit that was his stomach.
Ale sloshing, he met Quint’s hard scowl. He ignored it, as he always ignored Quint’s nonverbal reprimands, and pointed to the pitcher Quint clutched in his left hand.
“Take a drink,” he said. “Join me.”
He hadn’t thought it possible for Quint to scowl harder.
“Only a wild animal would join you,” Quint said, tilting his nose away from Toran, “and even they might run from the stench of your breath.”
“Then why are you here if not to drink?”
“I’m here,” Quint said sharply, “because you left this behind.”
He thrust a hand toward Toran, pressing something to his chest. Toran barely felt the prick as the pin broke through the fabric of his shirt and punctured skin. He looked down at his own chest, at the outline of the golden crown now pinned there.
“Hell.”
He wanted to rip it from his shirt, claw it out of his chest, even if it tore a gaping hole in skin and fabric. He’d rather lose a decent shirt, rather bleed, than have someone spot the pin and—
“You’re the Prince’s Crown?”
He cursed, the words spitting from his mouth like foam from the sea. He had to give Quint credit. His friend knew exactly what he was doing by outing Toran’s rank here.
Toran turned. It was Nose Hair’s companion.
