A garden lay ahead, large and walled in, its pleasures solely for the benefit of those who had the key. The seven-foot wall loomed up before him. It might as well be only four feet. He vaulted himself lightly up and over, landing on the soft grass below with nary a sound.
He rose, intent on his mission, when the sound of steel slicing against steel stopped him. Odd. Sword fighting had long fallen out of fashion. London fops now settled matters with law and courts. He rather missed the days of his youth when grievances had started with the slap of a glove and ended in first blood. He gazed over the dark garden and found the swordsmen as they moved under the weak haloed light of the gas lamps cornering the central court.
“Come on!” taunted the fair-haired one. “Is that your best effort?”
They were boys. Archer slipped into the deep shadows by the wall and watched, his unnatural eyes seeing as well as if he’d been ringside. The blond could not be more than eighteen. Not quite a man, his limbs held the lankiness of youth, but he was tall enough and the timbre of his voice had dropped. He was clearly the leader as he paced the other boy round the slate-lined court in the garden’s center.
“Keep your arm up,” he coached, coming at the younger boy again.
The younger boy was nearly as tall as his compatriot, but altogether delicate in form. His legs, peeking out from an ill-fitted frock coat, were mere sticks. A ridiculous bowery hat was crammed down upon his head, so low that Archer saw only a flash of white jaw as the pair sparred about ala mazza.
Archer leaned against the wall. He hadn’t seen such eloquent sparring in a lifetime. The elder boy was good. Very good. He had been trained by a master. But the little one, he would be better. He was at the disadvantage being lighter and shorter, but when the blond attempted a Botta-in-tempo while the youth was tied up in a bind, the little one sprang back with such quickness that Archer craned forward in anticipation, enjoying himself more than he had in decades. They broke measure and came back again.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Martin.” The youth laughed, his steel flashing like moonbeams in the purple night.
Martin’s eyes shown with both pride and determination. “Don’t get cocksure on me, Pan.”
Martin thrust once then cut. The youth, Pan, crossed to the right. To Archer’s delight, the boy leapt upon the thin wrought-iron railing that surrounded the court and, in a little display of daring, slid along the rail a distance before landing just behind Martin. He gave a swift poke to the elder boy’s backside before dancing away.
“I am the god Pan,” he sang out, his youthful voice high as a girl’s. “And if you don’t watch yourself, I’ll stick my flute right up your blooming arse, ah—”
The silly boy toppled backward over the boxwood hedge he’d overlooked in his gloating. Archer grinned wide.
Martin’s laugh bounded over the garden. The boy doubled up with it, dropping his small-sword to hold his middle. Young Pan struggled to rise, holding his absurd hat in place while grousing about English hedges under his breath.
Martin took pity and helped the boy to his feet. “Call it quits, then?” He offered his hand once more in peace.
The youth grumbled a bit then took the proffered hand. “I suppose I must. Take the sword, will you? Father almost found it the other day.”
“And we mustn’t have that, hum?” Martin tweaked the boy’s nose.
The two parted ways, each going toward opposite garden doors.
“ ’Night, Martin.”
“ ’Night, Pan!”
Smiling, the blond boy watched his little friend leave the garden and then left.
Archer moved through the shadows, heading toward the door where Pan had gone through. Prickles of unease danced over his skin. Fighter or no, the boy was too fragile to walk alone and unarmed in the dead of night. A rare bit of entertainment certainly earned the boy a safe passage home.
He stalked him easily, staying to the shadows, keeping well behind. The boy moved through the night without fear, a jaunty near swagger in his step as he turned from the sidewalk into an alleyway.
Thus his squeak of alarm was all the louder when two grimy older boys slipped out of the shadows and blocked his path.
“An’ who’s this?” The fellow was a big brute, short and wide. The