#2

by James Hooper

July 13th, 1938: Sin-cong

Armand Duquense, stared out of the window of his government owned housing. He was watching his son play with some of the native children of the household servants. They were playing in the manner of all children: with care free abandon. It appeared that they were playing as though they were some sort of Knights, or perhaps the King's musketeers. They were racing around the grounds, waving sticks at each other, in some pale imitation of the real Art of the Sword. His son and his friends obviously had been taking lessons from the movies. Douglas Fairbanks, Errol Flynn were their instructors. His son always loved these movies. How could he not? Fencing ran in the Duquense blood and had for centuries. He sighed. Tomorrow his son would be ten years old. It would be time for him to give up his friendship with the natives and start acting like a member of the ruling class, but for now his father would let him keep his happiness. There had been little of it in the eighteen months since he had lost his wife, the child's mother.

He turned away from the window, gazing around his study. On the wall over the fireplace, in a place of honor, hung a painting of a swordsman dressed in red, a mask upon his face. This man was no thief or highwayman, but the great French swordsman and hero of The Great War: The Crimson Cavalier. To Armand he embodied all the great qualities of a Frenchman and a swordsman. Beneath the painting, sitting on the mantle, sat a sword and scabbard. The scabbard looked to be the one that was in the painting.

He took the scabbard down from the mantle and drew the sword from within. It was a cavalier's rapier. A broad bladed rapier designed for both the harsh conditions of the battlefields of Europe in the early Renaissance and the relatively urbane backstreet cut-and-thrust duels of Paris of the same period. It was exquisitely balanced and incredibly sharp. It could even cut through some soft metals. Armand had seen this with his very eyes. Modern metallurgy had been unable to make a blade to match it. How a weaponsmith in 15th century Paris had created this wonderful work of art was still a mystery. With the exception of the blades of legend, such as Excalibur or the fabled Ebony blade, Armand believed that this blade had never been surpassed. In fact, it had two equals. One belonged to his brother, Henri, and the other to his father and they were both in France. His father had bequeathed it to him on his 18th birthday and one day he would pass it on to his son. He brought the sword up in a salute to the painted figure and then sheathed the blade in a clean, fluid motion. He placed the scabbard back upon the mantle and stepped back. He had a smile upon his face. He knew at least a few secrets that hid behind that mask, and those he would keep. Perhaps he would pass those onto his son, along with the marvelous blade.

He turned and look at the wall to the right . It was covered with photographs; pictures of him and his brother. Hanging in the middle of them were three silver medals: One for each category at the Olympics: Rapier, Saber and Epee'. He had won them at the Olympics in Paris in 1924. He did not feel remorse at being bested. Especially since the man who bested him was his own brother, Henri. Henri had also won the gold in those events at the Olympics in Antwerp in 1920. He had said that he was just simply defending his title and prestige. There was a third figure in the pictures from the medal presentation for the saber competition: Toshiro Akahito of Japan. He surprised many European competitors with his speed and skill, but had fallen to Henri in the semi-finals. He sighed again at the memories of 14 years ago. Since then he had married, had a child, become a government functionary in the tiny French protectorate of Sin Cong, and buried a wife. Nothing seemed to make a man think more of his mortality then the birthday of a child.

Armand heard the front door of the house open and the sound of several children running through it. He immediately strode to the door and opened it.

"What is the meaning of this infernal racket?" he bellowed. Silence fell upon the Duquense household. " Jaques, why are you and the servant children running through this house?"

The boy hesitated, before answering. It was the that Armand realized that his son had his mothers eyes. "Papa, we are playing Pirates and I am leading my crew in the taking of a Spanish Galleon.". He waved his makeshift weapon around menacingly.

"I see.", Armand said icily. He smiled secretly, remembering that both he and his brother played the same games as a child. "Does Mon Capitan have time to speak to the Grand Admiral in his stateroom?", he said pointing towards his study."

"Yes Papa", Jaques said quietly as he walked towards the door of the study.

"Good. The rest of you children return to your parents. They will find something constructive for you to do."

The door closed behind Jaques Duquense. He walked slowly to the chair across from his father's great desk and sat down in it. He was afraid to look his father in the eye. Armand sat across from him and cleared his throat. Jaques looked up to him.

"Why do you insist on playing with those peasant children, my son?"

"They are my friends, Papa. The only ones I have. There are no other European children in this district. Who would you have me play with?"

"A very succinct argument my son, but pointless. Starting tomorrow you are not to play with those children ever again. Do you understand?"

Tears began to well up in the young boys eyes. "Wh...Why not?! They are my friends?!"

"It is for your own good, my son. Do you not understand that we are the ruling class? It is time for you to start acting like a member of it. You are above these people and I will not have my son consorting with the children of servants and farmers."

"That's not fair, Papa. What am I to do, if I don't have anyone to play with?"

"You will no longer concern yourself with such wasteful things as playing. You will now concentrate on your studies."

Jaques looked up dejectedly. "I am going to be forced to study all day long?"

Armand smiled secretly to himself. "Perhaps, my son. Unless you think that there is something that I can teach you that your tutors cannot. Something that can take up part of your days and use that youthful energy of yours." He looked meaningfully across the room at the wall commemorating his Olympic triumphs.

Jaques followed his gaze. His mind clicking along, several seconds behind his fathers. A smile slowly dawned on his face. "You are going to teach me how to fence!?

Armand returned the smile. "Yes, my son. It is time that I pass on to you the Duquense family tradition of swordplay. That is my present to you for your birthday. That is, if you want it."

"Yes!!", the young boy shouted. "More than anything in the whole world." He leaped up from his chair and ran around the desk. He grabbed his father in a bear hug and squeezed with all of the strength that his 9 year old body could muster. "Thank you Papa. That's the best present I have ever gotten in my whole life."

Armand Duquesne laughed, a sound not often heard in the house and hugged his son back. He then looked into his son's face. "Understand that this is not going to be easy. Your Grandfather was not easy on me or your uncle. What I teach you is beyond what they teach in most modern fencing schools. It will take you several years to master the techniques. I will not allow you to quit. Do you understand?"

Jaques face became serious, as serious as an exuberant 9, almost 10, year old can be. "Yes Papa, I understand. You want to make me the best swordsman in the world."

"Yes, my son. That is exactly right. You have a valiant and noble tradition and birthright to uphold. One that I may tell you of one day, but will have to save until you are a bit older.

"When do we start Papa."

"Tomorrow, my son. Tomorrow."