Page 125 of The Black Table
“Halt!” roars the official again.
Another gasp from the crowd, this one rippling with concern.
“Kingston!” I hear someone cry.
Me.
Two hands hold me down—Callahan’s on my left, and Lanz on my right. I didn’t even realize I was trying to stand.
On Lanz’s other side, Kai gets to his feet.
“That conniving bastard,” he says. “That dirty, cheating, vodka-swilling motherfucking fuck?—”
The officials have pulled the two fencers apart. Kingston keeps his mask on, so I can’t see anything. Can’t discern whether he’s hurt or not, but from the slow nods on the official’s part, it seems like he’s okay, like he’ll continue fighting.
“It’s a low blow,” Lanz is explaining to me. “Literally. You don’t strike at the legs in foil.”
The official talking to Moroslav, meanwhile, has twin patches of red flaring on his cheeks, the sides of his neck corded with tension. Moroslav has taken off his mask, arguing back something in some rapid-fire stream of words that don’t sound English, but I can’t make out from here. At last, the official holds up a red card, and the crowd gasps again, like this is some kind of fireworks display.
“What’s that mean?” I hiss to Callahan.
“Same as soccer,” he says.
“Which is?” I ask.
“You’re out of the game,” Kai answers for him. “Bad boys don’t fence.”
“Swordsman will reset,” the official announces. “St. Ignaty will provide an alternate or forfeit the bout.”
Kingston strides off the piste to pick up his blade as the alternate for St. Ignaty, whoever he is, takes the strip, bouncing gently from foot to foot. Meanwhile, Moroslav, face still lit with anger, storms to the opposite bench.
Lanz looks at me. “Looks like you’re up, equipment manager.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t do much to melt the worry in his eyes. I scramble into action, darting around for Kingston’s equipmentbag and producing a replacement foil as he jogs over to the bench. This time, though, he does take his mask off.
“Here,” I hold out a hand, ready to take the broken weapon.
He cedes it to me, and our fingers brush over the hand grip.
“Thank you,” he says, taking its replacement from my other hand.
His hair hangs over his forehead a little, dark with sweat, and the strange impulse to throw my arms around his neck surges through me, but thankfully is held in a chokehold by my sense of social propriety.
“Are you all right?” I can’t resist asking in a low murmur.
“I’m fine,” Kingston replies, his tone so neutral I can’t tell if he’s being honest or just being polite. Then he looks at me, fixes me with those eyes.
“Why do you ask?”
That tiny, tiny flicker of a smile again. But it’s like someone turned on the sun for the first time in a dark, cold universe.
“I just…can’t believe you do this for fun,” I say.
“I don’t,” Kingston replies. Pauses. “But maybe I should.”
With that, he slides his mask back on, gives the blade a flick in the air for balance, nods, and takes his leave for the piste.
This time, it’s like watching a whole new sport. Kingston is still precise, still quick, but more fluid, relaxed. Almost like I’m watching Kai or Callahan up there. Someone who’s less locked in his head and more flowing in his own body.
