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the arm or leg.
Thorsen tried, but he couldn't help but fight épée style. On attacking, he
would tend to follow a successful parry immediately with a riposte; he would
avoid a running attack or any of the risky maneuvers that would speed his
point to its target ahead of his enemy's he fenced against the foil, not
against the fencer.
But the old man was damned good, give him that even with that edge, it was all
Ian could do to get a five-three win.
"Nice bout," Thorsen said, pulling his mask back. His face was almost split in
a grin. "Torrie said you were good with a foil, but he rather understated
it now, have you had enough, or would you care for a little freestyle?"
Put that way, Ian could hardly refuse. He slid his mask down.
"Have at you, sir!" he said.
What Torrie called freestyle Ian had never heard the term applied to fencing
before was basically épée scoring with some quirky variations: the bout didn't
stop with a touch, although the winner of a point was unable to score a point
for at least two seconds following a touch; three touches on the arm ended the
match prematurely.
It had swept through the fencing club on campus, particularly among the novice
players trying to work their way up to intermediate: it was fun, and it
encouraged a lot of beating of blades, and it involved a lot of jumping and
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swinging and dramatic moving, just like in the movies.
It was also contrary to almost every reflex a good foil fencer had: after an
opening flurry of disengagement play with the tips of the foils, the old man
left an opening that didn't quite turn out to be there, responded with a
delicate croisé that simultaneously shoved
Ian's blade down, out, and out of line while touching him in the middle of the
belly, then easily parried Ian's free attack Ian had learned from Torrie the
value of attacking after a touch until at least five seconds had passed.
An arm touch, a touch to Ian's exposed knee, another arm touch, and a final
croisé ended the freestyle bout embarrassingly.
It had all gone quickly, but not quickly enough: Ian's
T-shirt was damp, and his eyes were stinging so badly from dripping sweat that
he wished he had put on his headband.
God, what were you like twenty years ago, Mister?
Ian thought to himself.
If this was what you're like, out of shape, out of practice, in your fifties,
what kind of player were you at twenty?
Olympic class, certainly and Ian was sure that there had never been a
Thorian Thorsen on any U.S. Olympic fencing team. It was one of the reasons he
was skeptical about Torrie's claims about his dad.
Not the main reason, though. Down deep, Ian really didn't believe in a father
who didn't drink himself into a stupor and beat the shit out of you whenever
some case went sour, or when the plumbing broke, or when he had a hangover.
Like it was Ian's fault.
Like it was Ian's fault that Mom had died of cancer.
But life isn't fair.
That was one of Dad's favorite sayings, and he went out of his way to make it
true.
Thorsen was smiling, but just not as broadly, as he pulled off his mask and
glove and extended his hand.
"Well," he said. "It's good to see that I haven't totally lost the use of a
sword. You must give me another chance at you with a foil, later."
Ian took a moment to catch his breath. "My pleasure, sir," he said, between
pants.
Thorsen nodded. "You're quite good with foil, and very promising."
"Kind of you to say so," Ian said.
Thorsen's smile dropped, and so, it seemed, did the temperature in the room.
"No. Just accurate," he said, then shook his head and held up a hand, "but no
offense was intended, and I apologize for seeming to take some." His smile was
back. "Have you eaten recently?"
"No, sir. And I haven't drunk about a gallon of cold water recently, either.
As soon as I take another shower and become acceptable company, I'd like to
find one."
Thorsen laughed. "My wife has seen sweaty men in gym shorts before; let us get
you watered and fed first. Besides," he said, "you haven't met Hosea yet."
The others were gathered around the kitchen table, Torrie and Maggie avoiding
looking at each other in a way that instantly told Ian that they'd been at it
again although where? Right down the hall from Karin Thorsen?
There was a glance from Thorsen to Karin Ian couldn't help thinking of her by
her first name; she was just too gorgeous and back.
Now, now, he chided himself, Zayda Sol wouldn't approve you thinking lecherous
thoughts about your hostess.
Which wasn't true, not really. And he wouldn't have cared if it was. His [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]