Duel at Dawn Read online

  Inside you see gentlemen and gentlewomen among the writers and artists whom you have been told frequent the establishment. Several of the patrons turn to look. You suppose you look grand, standing in the doorway dressed in your brand-new Musketeers’ uniform. A hush descends for a few moments before everyone turns back to their own business.

  “There’s a table,” Tempeste says, pointing to a corner. It’s covered with a white tablecloth—a clean one, at that—such is the class of the establishment. You and Tempeste sit in two of the four wooden chairs, the scabbards of your rapiers scraping the floor as you do so.

  A middle-aged man wearing a tunic and a large brown hat comes over with a trencher laden with bread. Worry lines crease his forehead. “Delightful to have such young Musketeers visit my cabaret. But this table … perhaps there is a better table for you both over here.” He gestures to a smaller table scrunched up next to a well-to-do merchant and her fancy-man.

  “No,” Tempeste says. “We’ll stay here, thank you. This table has more room, and it’s quieter here.”

  The proprietor scratches under his hat while still holding the trencher of bread with his other hand. He seems reluctant to put it down. You help by reaching up and taking it from him.

  “Thank you, good sir,” you say. “Please oblige us with two plates of your finest beef to go with this.”

  A bead of perspiration appears from under the proprietor’s hat and runs down his forehead until it meets the resistance of a substantial eyebrow.

  “And some of your renowned grape juice,” Tempeste adds.

  The proprietor sighs, nods, and walks away.

  “It seemed he did not want us to sit here,” you say.

  “Who cares? We’re here now, and I’m not moving until I’ve eaten my fill. You?”

  “Yes, yes, the same. Ah, here he returns already. That was quick.”

  The proprietor sets a plate of roast beef in front of each of you, smiles weakly, and departs. You breathe in deeply, the aroma of the seasoned meat making you salivate. Tempeste doesn’t hesitate. She’s already chewing on a succulent piece of beef, a hunk of bread in one hand.

  “It’s good,” she says. At least that’s what you think she said. She was talking with her mouth full.

  You join her in eating. It’s the best food you’ve had in ages, way better than what you ate at the Academy.

  You’ve barely started your meal when the cabaret goes quiet. You look up. Four people—two women and two men—have just entered. They wear short, sleeveless coats made up of four red pieces of fabric bordered in white, each bearing a white Greek cross, clasped at the neck. Rapiers in scabbards dangle from their waists.

  Cardinal’s Guards.

  And Hubert is one of them.

  You almost call out to him, but stop yourself. There’s something odd about his expression. He doesn’t smile.

  “What’s wrong with Hubert?” Tempeste whispers. “He looks different, somehow.”

  You don’t have time to answer, and nor would you know what to say. One of the women, a lieutenant, marches directly to your table and faces you with narrowed eyes and a grimace. She’s about five years your senior.

  “You are sitting at our table,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “I dare say that we are not,” you say, “for the fact of the matter is, that we have been partaking of a fine meal here while you have been out in the cold, and because we were here first, this table is ours. You may take any other table you desire.”

  Tempeste sniggers. The Guard woman’s nostrils flare.

  “There is no other table we desire. This table is, and has always been, for the Cardinal’s Guards, and, as I see you are merely lowly Musketeers, and most likely new recruits at that, I must ask you to give up this table to us immediately.”

  You clench your teeth. Your heart is racing. “You may have this table once we are finished, and not a moment before.”

  The Guard plants her feet wide, lifting her chin so her jaw juts forth. While Hubert hangs back, an indifferent expression on his face, her other companions step forth to flank her.

  “This is a table for four, and there are four of us and only two of you,” she says slowly, emphasizing the numbers. “It’s in your own interest to move to another table with no further delay.”

  Tempeste sits back in her seat and folds her arms. “And where would you have us go?”

  “That is not my concern. I do not know and, furthermore, I do not care.”

  Tempeste turns to you. “What a rude person this is!”

  “Yes, she is by no means polite, and is rather impatient too.”

  The Guard pulls her rapier a foot out of the scabbard. “You dare insult an officer of the Cardinal’s Guards?”

  In a flash, you’re on your feet, hand on the hilt of your sword. The Guard’s companions reach for their swords also, including, to your surprise, Hubert.

  The proprietor hurries over, waving his arms. “Not in my cabaret! Please! Not in my cabaret!”

  The Guard glances at him, then lets her sword drop back into its scabbard. Slowly, glaring at you, she removes her left gauntlet and slams it down on the table in front of you.

  She’s challenging you to a duel. If you pick up her gauntlet, you’ll accept the challenge. If you don’t pick it up, you’ll be safe, but publicly disgraced.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Pick up the gauntlet?

  Or

  Don’t pick up the gauntlet?

  Don’t pick up the gauntlet

  You stare at the Guard’s gauntlet. In your peripheral vision, you see her flexing her naked hand.

  You glance at Tempeste. She’s holding her breath, her mouth partly open as if she’s about to speak. But she says nothing.

  The food on the plate before you no longer appeals, as your appetite disappears and your mouth feels dry. You feel the blood draining from your face. You didn’t want trouble—you just wanted to celebrate with a decent meal. It never occurred to you that a Cardinal’s Guard would come in and start an argument about the table that would lead to a challenge.

  This is your first day as a Musketeer, and you don’t want to get killed.

  Slowly, you get to your feet. The Guard and her companions visibly relax. They grin.

  “What are you doing?” Tempeste asks. “Where are you going?”

  “Let’s leave. They can have the table.” You can’t look at her. Your face feels hot. Head bowed, you shuffle nervously past the laughing Guards. Once you have seen that Tempeste has risen to follow you, you make your way to the door.

  I’m sorry, this part of your story is over. Refusing the challenge was the safest choice, but not the wisest, given your position as a lieutenant in the prestigious King’s Musketeers, in which you’re expected to show courage and bravado. Once the captain learns of your refusal of this challenge by a Cardinal’s Guard, he dismisses you from the regiment. You can no longer wear the uniform or re-enlist in the Musketeers. Instead, you have to enlist in an ordinary regiment as an ordinary trooper and live an ordinary life fighting on the frontier, but at least it’s a short one. Maybe things would have turned out better if you’d picked up the gauntlet? If not better, at least differently. Do you want to find out?

  It’s time to make a decision. You have three choices. Would you like to:

  Change your last choice and pick up the gauntlet?

  Or

  Go to the list of choices and start reading from another part of the story?

  Or

  Go back to the beginning of the story and try another path?

  Pick up the gauntlet

  You could cut the tension around the table with a sword. Without hesitating, you take up the gauntlet. You were the top of the class at fencing at the Academy, after all. And it’s unlikely to be a serious duel over a table in a cabaret, surely.

  The Cardinal’s Guard sneers at you. Perhaps she didn’t think you’d be brave enough to accept the challenge. But a Musketeer mu
st be courageous, even foolhardy.

  “This is my Second,” she says, indicating one of her companions.

  You suppose you ought to ask Tempeste, rather than assume. “Will you be my Second, Tempeste?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The Seconds can work out the details.” The Guard spins on one heel, about to leave. She sees the proprietor hovering nearby and grabs his lapel. “Not a word of this.”

  “Of course not,” he replies, face sweating. “Thank you for not fighting in my cabaret and breaking up the furniture like last time.”

  “No problem.” She sweeps out of the door, followed by her companions, including Hubert, who appears pale and not himself at all. Her Second beckons Tempeste to follow him, and she does.

  You’re left alone at the table, your food getting cold. You take a deep breath.

  You don’t even know the name of the woman whom you’re going to fight.

  There’s no point in wasting the meal. You eat slowly. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.

  After a few minutes, Tempeste returns, sits and resumes eating her meal. “It’s arranged,” she says between bites. “Tomorrow at dawn behind the Luxembourg.”

  You nod. At least you won’t have to wait long. “Very well.”

  You both eat in silence for a minute or two, until you finally ask, “Any more details?”

  “Yes. I know it’s uncommon, but her Second suggested it, and I thought it was a good idea, so I agreed.”

  “Agreed to what, exactly?”

  “Pistols.”

  You almost choke on the bread you’re eating. “Pistols? Tempeste, I don’t want to get shot. Why not rapiers?”

  “Her Second told me she’s a poor shot.”

  “And you believed him? Besides, I’m a poor shot.”

  “Oh. I didn’t remember that.”

  Tempeste was a good friend and well-meaning, but not the brightest. You grimace. Your career in the Musketeers might be short-lived indeed.

  Somehow, you manage to sleep, although restlessly. An hour before dawn, Tempeste wakes you. Quietly, you slip out of the Musketeers’ barracks, putting your boots on once you’re outside so as not to wake any light sleepers. Early morning mist conceals you as you make your way to the fields behind the Luxembourg.

  It’s quiet there. No one else is about at all. For a minute, you wonder if your adversary will come. Then you wonder if you are in the wrong place. It wouldn’t surprise you if Tempeste had got the location wrong.

  But then the Cardinal’s Guard and her Second arrive. Two others are with them, a woman carrying a small bag and a man carrying a case for two pistols.

  The Guard introduces herself as d’Espesse, and then introduces her Second. The other two people are a surgeon and an impartial adjudicator.

  The adjudicator flips open the pistol case, loads each of the two pistols with a single shot, and addresses you curtly. “Choose your pistol.”

  They look the same. You choose one at random. D’Espesse takes the other with a grim expression. Perhaps she didn’t reckon on a pistol duel either.

  You take a moment to look around. Mist swirls around nearby trees, giving them a ghostly aura. It’s cool. The first rays of sunlight peep over the horizon.

  What a picturesque setting. What a peaceful time of day to die.

  “As the challenged individual,” the adjudicator says to you, “you have the right to choose whether to fire first or second. What will it be?”

  What a choice. The rules of pistol duels are simple, and this is the protocol. If you fire first, you could shoot d’Espesse and probably finish the duel, but that would ensure you’ll make enemies of her friends, and possibly be charged with murder. Or your shot could miss. If you choose to fire second, you might never get the chance if d’Espesse is a better shot than Tempeste was led to believe.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Choose to fire first?

  Or

  Choose to fire second?

  Choose to fire first

  You elect to fire first. D’Espesse nods her acknowledgement. The adjudicator hands you each a paper cartridge containing the gunpowder and lead ball.

  “Load your weapons, please.”

  You ease back the hammer to half-cock the gun, enabling the safety mechanism, and tear the paper sachet open with your teeth. Carefully, you tip the sachet and half fill the flashpan with gunpowder. This is your gun’s priming charge—if you don’t get this right, the charge won’t ignite and the gun won’t fire.

  You move the frizzen, a metal lever on the top of the pistol, over the flashpan to seal the gunpowder inside. So far, so good.

  The rest of the gunpowder goes down the muzzle before you stuff the remainder of the cartridge, which contains the lead ball, in after it. Then you detach the ramrod from underneath the barrel and ram the ball and gunpowder right down to the breech. If you get this wrong and leave an air pocket, your weapon would explode when you fire it.

  You replace the ramrod and nod to the adjudicator that your weapon is primed and loaded. That probably took you thirty seconds. Not bad. It’s amazing how quick it is to load a gun nowadays.

  D’Espesse is also ready. She glares at you.

  The adjudicator faces you both with a stern expression. “Stand back to back, please. Pistols at the ready. You will each walk ten paces at my count, then turn. One.”

  You take your first step, your senses heightened now that the duel is imminent. You smell the dewy grass beneath your feet, hear the rustle of the trees in the light breeze, feel the first warm rays of dawn on your skin.

  For the last time, perhaps.

  “Two.”

  Tempeste, d’Espesse’s Second and the surgeon are standing together under a tree, watching. You’ve never seen such a pale expression on Tempeste’s face.

  “Three.”

  For a moment, you reflect on the fact that you and d’Espesse are going to shoot at each other because of a minor argument about a table that’s completely irrelevant now.

  You continue to step as the adjudicator counts, and you become completely focused on his voice and those numbers.

  Finally, “Ten.”

  You spin and raise the flintlock pistol. Your opponent seems rather close. Is that really ten paces each? Did she deliberately take small strides? Or does it just look close because of the adrenalin coursing through your body?

  Your hand trembles as you raise your flintlock pistol. You chose to fire first, and now it’s time for you to act. You have one shot. You can aim to hit d’Espesse, or deliberately miss and hope she does the same.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Aim to hit?

  Or

  Deliberately miss?

  Aim to hit (firing first)

  You try to steady your hand. The flintlock pistol is heavy, and the longer you hold it, arm extended, the more your hand shakes. With your thumb, you move the hammer to full cock.

  Twenty paces distant, d’Espesse stands side-on, her pistol at her side, presenting a target as narrow as possible. Is that a grimace on her face? Or a smirk?

  You squeeze the trigger. In what seems like slow motion, the cock releases. The flint it holds strikes the steel frizzen with a shower of sparks, opening the flashpan and igniting the priming charge within. The flash passes through the touchhole into the main combustion chamber, ignites the main charge, and the gun fires with a loud crack.

  D’Espesse’s butt was your target, but the lead ball passes through the plumes of her hat. You watch the delicate white feathers scatter until the small smoke cloud from firing the gun obscures your view.

  When it clears, d’Espesse is glaring at you, teeth clenched and pistol raised, her ruined hat dangling from her other hand.

  Because you fired first and missed, your opponent can now take time to compose herself and aim carefully, knowing that you cannot shoot back.

  A cold shiver passes up your spine. You turn side-on like she did, but tur
n your head to face her. Is she as useless a shot as Tempeste was led to believe? If not, you’ll soon know. Or perhaps you won’t.

  D’Espesse fires. You’re hit! A searing pain races through your upper arm, and you collapse to the ground. You’ve been hit just below the shoulder. Rolling onto your back, you see the surgeon, Tempeste, and the adjudicator converge on you. D’Espesse and her Second are close behind.

  The surgeon examines your wound and pulls a roll of bandages out of her case. “It’s just a deep graze. You’ll live,” she says, “but you’ll be off duty for a few days.”

  The pain makes you groan, but you manage to complain to Tempeste, “You said she was a poor shot.”

  “She is,” your friend says. “Her Second said she was aiming to miss.”

  Congratulations (yes, really!), this part of your story is over. You chose to take a commission in the King’s Musketeers, in which you have the company of your friend Tempeste. You’ve picked up your dashing new uniform (though there is now a hole in the left arm of your jacket) and celebrated at the best cabaret in Paris. You’ve had an argument with some Cardinal’s Guards and faced one of them in a pistol duel. Okay, you got shot, but that’s a good thing as you’ll have an attractive scar, and you’ll live anyway. Maybe the Guards will treat you with some respect now.

  It’s time to make a decision. Would you like to:

  Go to the list of choices and start reading from another part of the story?

  Or

  Go back to the beginning of the story and try another path?

  Aim to miss (firing first)

  You don’t want to hurt or kill d’Espesse over a silly argument about a table, even though she’s a Cardinal’s Guard. Ruining your dinner isn’t a good enough reason. You just hope she sees it that way too.