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knew that was mere desperation on Jack’s part. They also knew that a chance for Tarleton to end the
     fight had not been taken; most realized, then, that for him, a glimpse of blood would not be enough.
    Recovering, Jack returned once more to guard. His breath plumed the air before him, dissipating before it could joinwith his opponent’s negligible exhalation. He was hot and now wished he
had
taken off his jacket. Yet to do so at this stage would be an acknowledgement he would not give his enemy. That last desperate
     slash had spent enough of his credit for coolness.
    ‘Agitated, Absolute?’ Tarleton’s voice was calm, seemingly unaffected by the exercise. ‘You’re as red as you were when I caught
     you astride that whore last night.’
    Recognizing the goad to anger, disdaining it, Jack took a deeper breath and smiled. ‘You malign a lady, sir, whose only wrong
     is preferring a man to a boy. Though, if the story be true, her rejection of you was more to do with the, uh, length of your
     sword. Quill-trimmer was the term used, I believe.’
    He heard Sheridan mutter, ‘For God’s sake, Absolute.’ Indeed, the jibe was barely worthy of the playing field at Westminster.
     Yet it seemed to have such a startling effect that it left Jack speculating it must indeed have been true.
    ‘My sword? You shall feel the length of my sword, you dog!’
    Jack had but a moment to marvel at the change in Tarleton’s colour. Roaring, the youth disengaged his blade and hurled himself
     wide, thrusting for Jack’s right flank. Retiring a step, parrying with point down, Jack riposted to the man’s breast, under
     his arm. Stuck at the full length of his lunge, Tarleton went to parry hard … but encountered no blade there; for Jack had
     merely feinted, disengaged again and thrust to Tarleton’s left shoulder. The younger man was forced to pivot off his front
     foot to make the parry, his back leg spinning out and round. Jack followed, keeping his blade bound tight to his opponent’s,
     moving him around. He could have struck again but decided to savour this first little victory – and let Tarleton savour it
     too. Finally he stepped away.
    Oaths were uttered, in approval or condemnation dependingon the support. Suddenly, a one-sided fight had become a contest. Tarleton, smarting from conceding even a point, immediately
     began another assault. Jack had only a heartbeat to congratulate himself on the success of his provocation before he was protecting
     himself from the result of it.
    A lunge in carte, one in seconde, the next in tierce. Jack contented himself with parrying and nothing more, but refusing
     to give any ground. This was forcing Tarleton to ‘thrust at the wall’, an academy exercise to make sure parries were true
     … and almost an insult to a good swordsman. For Jack had discovered that, once the river of Tarleton’s anger had flooded,
     it would not recover its banks with any rapidity.
    Another thrust came, another step to the right taken, parrying with point down. Jack’s weight was on his back foot and, still
     in his fury, Tarleton slashed diagonally up at Jack’s face. Yet Jack had seen the preparation for that, the slight withdrawal
     of steel that indicated it. He ducked low, back over his bent right leg. The slash had taken the younger man off-balance,
     and now Jack lunged, stretching from the crouch to his full length. Desperately, Tarleton threw himself to his right, his
     sword point down, just preventing Jack’s from puncturing him. Their hands were almost touching, their bodies close, and the
     youth tried to pummel his sword-fist into Jack’s face. Withdrawing his blade and swinging his back leg away, Jack used his
     left hand to slap down the blow.
    They separated again. Two equal clouds of breath met and mingled in the frigid air.
    A voice called out, English, but with an Iroquois accent. ‘You can finish him now, Daganoweda. Your name says what you are
     and his says