The Fencing Master by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

and extremely proud. "Madam, I accept no responsibility. I would hate it if—"
    "Please."
    Don Jaime sighed. He had lost that first skirmish. It was time to pass on to the foils. "We'll say no more."
    They saluted, preparing themselves for the bout. Señora de Otero covered herself with absolute correctness; she held the foil with just the right degree of firmness, her thumb on the grip, her ring finger and little finger close together, keeping the guard at chest height and the point of the foil slightly higher than the wrist. She stood in the orthodox Italian fashion, offering the fencing master only her right profile, the foil, arm, shoulder, thigh, and foot all in one line, her knees slightly bent, her left arm raised with the wrist apparently limp. Don Jaime admired the graceful picture that the young woman presented, ready for attack like a cat about to pounce. Her eyes were narrowed, almost feverishly bright; her jaw was set. Her lips, beautiful despite the scar, were now just a thin line. Her whole body seemed to be tensed, like a spring about to be released. Don Jaime, taking all this in with one professional glance, realized with some disquiet that for Señora de Otero this was much more than a capricious, eccentric pastime. Merely placing a weapon in the hands of this beautiful young woman turned her into an aggressive opponent. Accustomed to understanding the human condition precisely through aggression, Don Jaime sensed that this mysterious woman was the guardian of some fascinating secret. That is why, when he held out his foil and stood on guard before her, he did so with the same calculated care that he would have taken when facing an opponent with an unprotected foil. He sensed that danger was lurking somewhere and that this game was far from being an innocent diversion. His professional instinct never deceived him.

    They had only to cross swords for him to see that she had had an excellent teacher. He made a couple of feints to test his opponent's reactions; she replied calmly, keeping her distance and remaining on the defensive, conscious that her opponent was a man extraordinarily well versed in combat. Don Jaime could categorize opponents at once merely by observing the positions they assumed and by testing the firmness of their steel, and this young woman certainly knew how to fence. She behaved with a curious combination of aggression and calm; she was perfectly ready to lunge, but she was cool enough not to underestimate a formidable opponent, however often he appeared to offer her opportunities to deliver a decisive thrust. She remained prudently in quarte, resting her defense on the upper third of her foil, quick to take avoiding action when the teacher changed tactics and came too close Like all expert fencers, she did not look at the blades but into her opponent's eyes.
    Don Jaime made a half thrust in tierce, intending it to be a false attack before he attacked in quarte—to test the young woman's reaction, because he still did not wish to touch her with his foil. To his surprise, she stood firm, and he saw the tip of the enemy foil flash only a few inches from his belly when, with unexpected speed, she unleashed a low thrust in seconde,
letting out a soft grunt between pursed lips. He retreated, not without some embarrassment, furious with himself for having been so careless. The young woman recovered herself, took two steps back and then advanced one, again in quarte, her lips pressed together and looking into her opponent's eyes through half-closed lids, in a pose of absolute concentration.

    "Excellent," murmured Don Jaime loud enough for her to hear, but she showed no satisfaction at his praise. There was a vertical line between her eyebrows, and a bead of sweat ran down from her forehead to her cheek. The skirt did not seem to encumber her movements; she held the foil with her arm slightly bent, aware of Don Jaime's slightest gesture. She was less beautiful like that, he thought; she was