"Young man," said Missus Tempest, "I certainly hope that you have satisfied your desire to take out your frustrations upon Sterling, because this will be the last duel the two of you shall have. Sterling, with me; the rest of you, wait a moment: Dalliance still has some dueling to do, but first I have to get this unfortunate boy cleaned up." They left the room, which did not remain silent for long.

  "What did he do?" asked Ronan quietly, but not quietly enough.

  "I think this may have been a case," she said, "of wrong place, wrong time."

  Dalliance's head jerked up, startled at these words.

  "The two had their issues back in Tol—the village, but as far as I was aware that's where it ended."

  Dalliance turned to find that Effluvia and Ronan were openly watching him. "Well, the lads have a reason to fight now, that’s for sure."

  "Saying 'lads' makes you sound so old."

  "I feel old, watching you two," he commented. "Makes me wonder what follies of youth I'm prey to."

  Dalliance took a seat between them, having concluded that they had no intention of stopping without being stopped. "He didn't really say anything," Dalliance admitted. "It was more of what he didn’t say. I guess I asked if Charity was okay—Charity's in the House of Healing—" Upon this intelligence Effluvia took on a look of alarm: she hadn't apparently heard "—and he basically said it wasn’t any of my business."

  "I see now," said Ronan, looking thoroughly uninterested, "and . . . is it, really? There's certainly no need to publicly discuss Miss Trouble's troubles. Suffice it to say that you felt slighted."

  "Jilted, maybe." said Effluvia, sotto voce. Her eyes held wicked amusement.

  Dalliances face pinked. "It isn't like that," he said, hearing in his own words how weak his denial looked.

  "I heard only a little bit of that," said Penny-Ante unexpectedly, "but Sterling and Charity—the two were out riding when it happened, I believe."

  Dalliance shot her a glare.

  "Well, said Flounce in the following silence, from her assigned place in the arena, "I hope some day someone feels strongly enough about me to pour a jar of rotten rats over someone’s head, but I certainly hope he won’t do it."

  "Nobody likes jealousy," Penny-Ante interjected, "If she’s not available, you should find someone else."

  "My goal," said Mrs. Tempest, arriving back through the door with the crisp timing of someone who had been listening for a moment before entering, "was the provision of a moment of silence in which to reflect on what you have done. Not the insinuation of the class into Mister Rather's personal life." She looked around the room. "We are all of us, I hope, above petty gossip."

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  "I'm a soldier, ma'am," said Ronan. "Soldiers love a good yarn, the more salacious the better. But the place for such things is the mess hall—never in front of officers, or ladies."

  Mrs. Tempest regarded him. "I suppose I will take what I can get." She stepped aside. "Nevertheless. Dalliance, you owe Mister Sterling an apology, which will be performed now, before the class."

  Sterling stood behind her, clearly newly washed, and looked entirely uncomfortable.

  "I do find myself troubled," she said, "by how far you were willing to go. That said, Master Rather, having had time for reflection, is there anything you would like to volunteer yourself pertaining to Master Worth, here?"

  "Yes," said Dalliance. His pride might not like it, but. "I think . . . I think that I was angry about something else," he said, "and when Sterling was dismissive of me earlier, it—the two pieces of anger sort of stuck together in my mind and now they were all his problem, and that wasn’t very just of me. And pouring the—"

  Here, Missus Tempest interrupted him. "Also, no corpses, everyone. Blanket rule, before I forget."

  Dalliance nodded. "—pouring the corpse water on Sterling was beneath me."

  His teacher nodded a strong affirmative.

  "I apologize, Sterling."

  Sterling took a deep breath. "Every time," he said "that I think I have the measure of you, you surprise me. Not always positively. Still, that was well said: Let’s never speak of it again."

  Effluvia beamed at Dalliance from behind his teacher's head.

  Dalliance, for his part, stared, shocked, at Sterling.

  The knight's son quirked a rueful grin. "While that was unpleasant," said Sterling, "And it was, still: having seen what else is in your arsenal and after a brief chat with Missus Tempest, I am made aware that had you put your mind toward humiliation instead of merely losing your temper, I might have lost my pants rather than my breakfast. At least vomiting is an honest sort of misery."

  She interfered, thought Dalliance.

  He wasn’t sure whether the thought was reasonable: after all, what would he rather she have done? He also wasn’t sure if the thought was grateful or annoyed.

  That someone had stepped in and intervened in his private dealings . . . but the idea seemed ridiculous. Gratitude it would be.

  "I had at first thought," Sterling said, tone frank, "to duel you, but Instructor Tempest told me we were on no account to be doing so again in class or outside of it, and besides asked me what I expected to go differently next time."

  "You have outgrown him, Dalliance," said Missus Tempest, "making targeting him dishonorable. Knowing that, intentional provocation from him to you also becomes dishonorable. You will each be the bigger man, because I will not tolerate my students becoming less than they are capable of being."

  Sterling's face worked through what looked like a series of complicated feelings before he spoke again. Dalliance didn't blame him—that had to sting.

  ". . . That being the case, and given our history, and what we know one another to be capable of, perhaps a détente is in order. To be discussed elsewhere."

  "You boys are learning," said Missus Tempest. "Knowing when not to escalate is a critical skill about which some among us have yet to learn crucial lessons. At the conclusion of this week's matches, I shall elucidate: for now, let the object lessons continue. Dalliance, take your place, please."

  Sterling's posture radiated displeasure, but the boy stalked back to his seat without comment.

  He nodded and stepped back into the ring over the inset circle on the floor, humming with power, to stand on the smooth wooden boards opposite Flounce Petite. Her nervous face, he had decided, was simply shaped that way.

  "Begin," commanded Instructor Tempest.