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landing heavily on his back, only just parrying an overhand cut that gouged the taiaha blade. The steel caught in the wood, and he kicked out, trying to tangle Jones’s legs, but the old man’s stance was strong. He wrenched his blade free and flicked it against Mat’s chest.
    â€˜Ach!’ Mat looked up along the blade to Jones, his lined face a little flushed, frosty breath billowing from his mouth. ‘I’ll yield …’ Jones grinned, and Mat suddenly swung at his legs, ‘ … later!’
    His blow connected with air, and then Jones’s foot came down on the taiaha, jamming it into the turf. He flicked his wrist and Mat had to flop to avoid being skewered. He lay in the wet grass, looking along the polished blade. ‘You’ll be yielding about now, then?’ Jones enquired, jabbing the tip of his sword into Mat’s chest.
    â€˜Ow! Yes!’ He let go the taiaha and shoved the blade away. ‘That hurt!’
    Jones stepped back, out of reach of another surprise blow, and brought the hilt of his sword to his lips in a mocking salute. ‘Not bad, laddie, you’re improving.’
    Mat sat up and glared at the wet patch of grass. ‘If it wasn’t for that mud …’ He looked up at Jones accusingly. ‘It wasn’t muddy earlier in the fight! Did you … ?’ He made a ‘magical’ gesture, fluttering his fingers.
    Jones grinned wolfishly. ‘Of course. You’d stopped noticingyour footing. Easy enough to summon a little water and back you into it.’
    â€˜That’s cheating!’
    â€˜No laddie, it’s winning. All’s fair in love and war, don’t they say? Now, let’s see you with a patu.’ He retired to the balcony and exchanged Mat’s taiaha for a bone-carved, thin, sharp-edged hand club, a patu. It was light, a cutting weapon as much as a club. Mat moved with grace and made the air about him hiss, while Jones smoked his pipe. He made Mat stop and go over certain moves again until he was satisfied. Then he tossed Mat a heavy stone hand club, a mere, thicker and blunter, made to smash bone. Mat tired quickly using the heavier weapon.
    Jones raised a hand. ‘That’s enough, lad. I think the taiaha will always be your main weapon. You’re small for a warrior, so you need to fight at a distance. Get in too close, and a big man will take you down through bulk alone.’
    â€˜So I’ll need a gun, too, for that real fight-from-a-distance vibe?’ hinted Mat meaningfully. Firing the antique guns Jones owned was his favourite training.
    â€˜Indeed. Come on out the back.’ Jones led Mat around the house, where his yard backed onto denser bush. He had evidently cleared the ivy that winter, as last time Mat had visited there had been a curtain of it falling over the back veranda. On the back-porch table lay a flintlock with a walnut-inlaid handle and embossed plates proclaiming it the workmanship of ‘Williams & Powell’ of Liverpool. Jones had a room in the stables full of old-style guns, all shining like new and perfectly maintained. Only antique guns worked in Aotearoa, which was curiously resistant to modern weaponry. ‘Show me,’ theWelshman grunted, leaning back and puffing his pipe.
    Jones had Mat load the gun with black powder and a lead ball, then discharge it at an old keg thirty paces away, over and over, until the lawn was wreathed in sweet, acrid smoke. The recoil was wrist-breaking, and the gun became progressively heavier, but Mat was a fair shot, and soon the old keg was shattered.
    Jones laid a hand on Mat’s shoulder. ‘Good, lad. But too slow. A good pistolier can fire a musket or a flintlock four times a minute. You’re not doing much better than two.’
    Mat scowled, reproaching himself. ‘It’s the cleaning. I’m worried about leaving a spark in the barrel that’ll make it explode.’
    â€˜That’s