Free Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda by Joel Rosenberg Page B

they just didn’t have, not with Forinel as the baron.
    Young noblemen engaging in the occasional duel was more expected than not. While it wasn’t impossible to get killed in such a thing, it was extremely rare — most duels were fought to the first blood, after all, with a swordmaster standing by, staff in hand, to knock aside the dueling swords after so much as a scratch. And it was no coincidence that most nobles chose to hold their duels conveniently close to a temple, where even if a healer was not standing by, one could be quickly summoned. The short rapiers that noblemen carried on a daily basis were designed for thrusting, not cutting, and while a thrusting blow was theoretically far more capable of killing instantly than a slash was, that was only true if the thrust went to the heart or head — and any but the best swordsmen would find that well before they had worked themselves close enough to touch their opponent’s torso, they would themselves first have been struck on the hand, or arm, or leg, or foot.
    It was as much a matter of the mechanics of it as it was of common consent that most duels ended with just a scratch, or, at worst, a wound on the sword arm.
    There were safer things than dueling, but deaths were rare, and that was only in part because the local noble authorities — the barons in Bieme, and the governors in Holtun — would occasionally choose to consider that the death was a murder.
    It was one thing for a couple of nobles to occasionally square off over some private offense — whether real, or not — but it would be entirely another thing for the baron, of all people, to fight his half-brother and heir.
    Besides, Miron was almost certainly better with a short dueling rapier than Kethol was.
    Legends to the contrary, few soldiers had time for extensive sword practice, and that would be with sabers, not little noble-stickers. Pirojil and Kethol had more training than most, but put all their hours together — and double the sum — and they still probably hadn’t spent a tenth of the time with a sword in hand that Miron, a scion of nobility, had.
    Besides, while Forinel and Miron each wore a nobleman’s short rapier, Kethol had always carried a saber. It probably wouldn’t even occur to Kethol until it was too late that as a dueling weapon a rapier was by far better than the saber that Kethol had always carried, just as the longer, heavier saber was far more useful in a battle than a skinny little poking rod could be.
    Yes, Kethol was a fine swordsman, and every bit as good with staff and knife and fists and elbows if need be — but a duelist? Hardly. When you fought for real, and not just sport, the only purpose of a strike to the hand, or leg, or foot — as common as those were — was to set up for a death blow, or, as Pirojil himself had done more times than he cared to count, to disable or at least slow one enemy while you had to turn to deal with another.
    Now, if Pirojil was going to take on Miron, the fight would start with a kick to the balls or knee, or an elbow to the too-full mouth or noble neck — or, preferably, a bow shot or rifle shot at great distance — and not a swordmaster’s “Make yourselves ready.”
    Sport was a noble’s ideal, and Pirojil was very much not a noble.
    Miron had let Treseen’s words — and Forinel’s stupid words, which they were in reply to — linger in the air long enough.
    “Really.” Miron made no move to rise; he rested one elbow on the arm of his chair, and his chin on the tips of his fingers, as though studying something unusual and vaguely distasteful. “Perhaps it’s been too long since you’ve been home, brother. It’s long been a custom — in Holtun and in less civilized countries — that the ruler, be it a lowly noble landholder, or a baron, or the Emperor himself, is not properly subject to challenge by anybody below his station.” His smile was deeply offensive without being obviously offensive.