The Glyph of Truth

First Blood

"Our party seems to be complete," the arbiter announced. He was a middle-aged officer with a florid face and a huge greying handlebar moustache. The three gilt stars and crossing swords embroidered on his russet jacket declared his rank and affiliation with the College of Duelling. The white cockade affixed to his lapel might have been an old-fashioned token of piety, or the badge of a religious order.

"I am Colonel Auburn-Saunders," the arbiter introduced himself, "of the Fern Hill Cavaliers, licensed and appointed Arbiter of the College of Duelling. I will preside over this appointment of honour, unless the parties combatant voice any objections."

"No objections," Stork-Hewitt said, a bit too shrilly, while flippantly waving his hand in an attempt to appear calm and collected. "I called on you, after all."

The Colonel grimaced, apparently none too happy with the lack of dignity with which the proceedings had begun. "Very well. May I take down the gentlemen's particulars for the minutes?"

"Merchin Ortolan Stork-Hewitt of Stork Mill Manor," the challenger blurted out, although it was customary for the injured party to begin.

The Colonel raised a plucked eyebrow. "I am, of course, well acquainted with Merchison Ortolan and his family," he said, emphasizing the honorific. Stork-Hewitt blushed angrily.

The arbiter turned to Harcourt. "But I am afraid I have not yet had the honour of meeting you, Captain, either socially or on the battlefield."

"I am Captain Harcourt Finch-Nightingale, formerly of the Sage Hall Fusiliers, now retired."

The arbiter nodded while his nondescript clerk recorded the names in a large leather notebook. "The Sage Hall Fusiliers have an excellent reputation for a Yeomanry Regiment, and are renowned for the prowess of their marksmen. May I ask, Captain, whether you, too, are a trained marksman?"

"I am."

Again the abiter nodded. "Make a note of this, Silas," he instructed his clerk.

"The challenger has appointed his sister, Dame Ludmilla Stork-Hewitt, as his second. This is highly irregular, but not entirely without precedent. Does the injured party object to the challenger's appointed second?"

Harcourt took a closer look at the striking figure of Stork-Hewitt's sister. Her long, narrow face was certainly memorable, but few would call it beautiful. She had painted her thin lips dark red, and her eyelashes black. Her prominent cheek bones were emphasized with a bluish powder that added to her general air of languor. There were dark circles under her eyes, whether natural or artifical Harcourt could not tell, but she seemed almost feverishly alert.

"I have no objections."

Dame Ludmilla dragged on her cigarette until the butt was almost too short to remove. The skin of her long, slender hands was all but translucent. She used the ember to light another cigarette, and nervously toyed with her cigarette holder.

"And the name of your own second would be?"

"Corporal Bowfinger, also formerly of the Sage Hall Fusiliers, now retired," Bowfinger answered for himself.

"Does the challenger object to the injured party's second?"

"Can he appoint a foreign savage as his second? Isn't that slighting my honour?"

The arbiter inclined his head, considering the point. "Granted, a commissioned officer would have been a more appropriate choice, but savage or no, as a former member of the Commonwealth's Yeomanry, he is eligible as a second. You might raise objections both on the base of his low rank, and on the fact that he is clearly a foreigner, but given that the injured party so gracefully accepted your own rather unconventional choice of a second, such an objection might seem to be in bad taste. If you do sustain your objection, however, either my clerk or the College physician might stand in."