Read Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice for Free Online

get this right. They outnumber us three to one, but I’m not to kill any of them.’
    ‘Yes. Do not draw your sword. They must make the first move.’ Alessandro was calmer now.
    ‘We wouldn’t want to have any advantages, would we?’ Swan said. He unrolled his sword belt and buckled his sword on. He swung his hips to make sure of the hang of the scabbard.
    When the six men were ten yards away, they stopped.
    ‘Is this your butt-boy?’ shouted one.
    All of them were younger than Alessandro. They were eighteen or nineteen. They were well dressed in loud colours, and they all had swords of extraordinary length, with complex hilts – curved knuckle-bows and finger rings in the latest fashion.
    Alessandro seemed unable to speak. So Swan swaggered forward. ‘Each of us will fight one of you at a time. Who’s first?’
    ‘No—’ said Alessandro.
    One of the young men shook his head. ‘I don’t—’
    Swan drew his sword. ‘Coward,’ he said. This to the man who’d called him a butt-boy in his odd Venetian accent. ‘Poltroon, liar, fool, cuckold. Draw.’
    Alessandro was stepping up behind him. ‘You are supposed to—’
    Swan took another step forward. His sword was out, his buckler was on his hand, and he was in his favourite stance – sword under the buckler, pointed up at his opponent’s throat.
    The Venetian seemed confounded by his advance. ‘What are the rest of you doing!’ he yelled at his friends. He didn’t draw, and Swan feinted and smacked him in the side with the flat of his sword and then stepped with one leg past him and threw him to the ground with his buckler arm while the young man felt his side to see if he was cut.
    The other five were stepping back, and Swan put his sword-point on the fallen man’s sternum. ‘Why, exactly, can’t I kill him?’
    ‘He hasn’t drawn his sword yet!’ Alessandro said.
    ‘Oh,’ said Swan. He grinned down at the Venetian youth. ‘My apologies, messire. Please get up.’ He stepped back and saluted.
    Alessandro turned as the young man scrambled to his friends. ‘You have rattled them. That was . . . well done.’
    ‘Bembo!’ shouted another. His voice rose too much. ‘Bembo, don’t hide behind your foreign assassin. You are here to fight me.’
    Alessandro bowed.
    ‘Oh, it’s a duel?’ Swan said. He walked forward again, and had the pleasure of seeing the whole crowd of them take a step back. ‘It looked to me as if the six of you planned to murder him. Which one of you is the injured party?’
    Alessandro sniggered. ‘He is the challenger.’
    ‘Is this the ground?’ Swan said, trying to remember everything he’d ever heard about duelling. It wasn’t very common in London. Street fights and tavern brawls, yes. Formal duels . . .
    But he’d read a book . . .
    ‘Right here is good enough for me,’ said Alessandro. The seagrass was short and thick. The ground was flat, if a little damp.
    ‘Very well. You others, stand over here with me. Alessandro, this is your ground. Messire – I don’t know your name.’
    ‘What? How can you not know my name. Don’t you know who I am?’ the young duellist asked.
    ‘If you have to ask that . . .’ Swan said. ‘Never mind. Stand here.’
    ‘Jacopo Foscari!’
    ‘Splendid, Messire Foscari. Please stand here.’
    ‘My father is Francesco Foscari! The Doge!’
    ‘If you insist, although, to be fair, I should tell you that your father probably doesn’t approve of duelling.’ Swan bowed. ‘I read a pamphlet about it. Messire Foscari, who is your secondo ?’
    None of the other five volunteered.
    ‘I can fight him if he wants, or we can all watch from a safe distance.’
    No one moved.
    ‘Very well. Let me see the swords.’ He was acting – enjoying himself. The young men were all too scared to interfere, and he knew – in his heart – that as long as he could continue his patter, he’d rule them, the way the snake charmer rules the snake.
    Foscari’s sword was a handspan longer than