Looking at the iron gauntlet lying forlornly on the straw-covered stone floor, Duet tried to remember what you were supposed to do next.
“Just give me the gauntlet,” said the scribe briskly, “and I’ll pass on your answer.” He looked somewhat sympathetic to her; everybody had seen Duet leaning on her cane for support as she walked around the town. A trial by combat seemed like an open and shut case to him.
She got to her feet and, the cane wobbling under the extra pressure, bent down to pick up the gauntlet.
“As the challenged party, I get to choose the weapons, am I right?” she said. The scribe nodded. She could see him briefly consider trying to talk her out of it, then wisely decide not to bother.
“Shall I tell him that you accept?” the scribe said.
“I want you to tell him,” said Duet. “That he’s a puny little sprout, and I look forward to showing his people exactly what he’s made of on the day of the duel. To first blood?
”If that is your wish,” he said, inclining his bald head.

The scribe and the guards scurried out. “Are you some kind of lunatic?” said Brewere. “Was last night a full moon? Has an evil spirit,” he said, “deranged your mind?”
“Ah,” said Duet, tapping the side of her nose conspiratorially, “I have a plan there.”
“My question stands,” said the landlord. “Band is the most formidable combatant I’ve ever seen. The last time he challenged a dissenter to a duel…” he shuddered…
“Tell me about the duel,” Duet said. “Leave no detail out.”

“The other man was a labourer called Woodsedge, who had been a soldier before. He had left the King’s Army at the beginning of the Civil War to fight for the militias – they were eagerly accepting anyone with real experience, however slight. He was an agitator around here, always the first to rally the people. He was the best at it, and everybody looked up to him. Band knew that it was only a matter of time before the People’s Militia reformed itself in miniature here, so he had to destroy Woodsedge, and his movement, in its entirety.
”It started with a simple challenge, just like yours. A gentleman’s duel, which Band extended as if it were a luxury to a poor man like Woodsedge. Choice of weapons to him, no further than first blood. He was like you, he thought he had hit on a trick – he would choose a weapon that no self-respecting knight had ever trained with. He faced Band in front of the keep and declared that his selection would be… the shovel. Ever the gracious opponent, the knight accepted it with a nod.
“The sun was high over the site of the duel in the courtyard of the keep, that had been sectioned off with a wooden fence. The dusty rock was unyielding, scattered with sand from the lakeside to catch the blood when it inevitably spilled, for none believed the terms of the duel would hold long after combat began.
”Woodsedge came to the keep with a dozen of his most trusted fellow-organisers, of which I was one, to make things ugly if Band showed signs of treachery. But he was not prepared for how deep that treachery would run. When the two men saw each other, it was as if everything else became meaningless. The town, the people, the soldiers, the money. It became soleley a blood struggle between them.
“The fight began. Never before or since had a thing like this been seen. The elegance of formal combat was profoundly unsuited. Square-cornered blade clashed against blade. Band, having agreed to the terms of the duel in pure arrogance, was taken aback, but that same arrogance made it impossible for him to flinch from the battle at hand and he fought with renewed ferocity.
”The old soldier who now worked with this tool in his hands all day, though, had the benefit of experience on his hand. The silver cutting edge whorled through the air, and Band found himself inexorably being beaten back.
“Though it took hours, the sun dipping behind the tall cliff of Agony Ridge, Band finally realised he could take no more. He threw aside his shovel and reached out his hand for his men to toss him a sword, crying ‘let me kill him and have done with it!’
”And with one brutal upward sweep, the rebellion was over before it had begun. Though our safety was assured no matter the outcome of the duel, next that black-hearted knight ordered his men to arrest us. ‘make sure they try to run before you cut them down,’ he said. I was the only one to escape that fateful day. And now, history repeats itself once again.”

Duet looked at Brewere carefully. “You aren’t a simple landlord,” she said.
“I have a cultivated image,” said the man, holding his head a little higher. “As you do, my lady,” and he bowed. “You hide behind many masks, but true nobility shines through all shrouds to the trained eye.”
She smiled. That was one way of looking at it. “Your Woodsedge sounds like a truly noble soul. I’ll simply be the bearer of his message.”

The day of the duel came quickly, to the surprise of all concerned. The weapons were to be swords – Duet had no interest in throwing Band off with an unconventional choice of tool like her predecessor.
The scattering of sand in the arena swirled and travelled in micro-sandstorms between the two combatants as they faced each other. The hot sun beat straight down making sweat bead on Duet’s brow. The knight was dressed in light, wispy garments which flowed after his movements as if he were underwater. Protection was not his concern.
“Your people suffer your rule under the sword,” accused Ila Duet. “Will you yield?”
“My rule is not under dispute, usurper,” said Band. “Your insidious plot against me ends here!”
Duet reached into a purse on her belt and tossed something into the sand. It glinted.
“My ring!” he said, scrambling to his knees for it. He lifted it. His face fell.
“I have the real one. The symbol of your authority, the true symbol. If you defeat me, it will be yours once again.”
Band’s eyes were burning coals: “Give it to me!” he hissed. Duet laughed and beckoned to the squire who held the swords, wrapped up in separate sheets, one in each hand.
“In due time, I shall,” she said gaily. “But first… have at you!” She caught the hilt of the sword that sailed towards her easily with her free right hand and levelled it at the kneeling man.
Band got to his feet, a swaggering hulk. Deliberately, he paced over to the squire, a trembling young man with eyes like fried eggs. He snatched the offered sword, and hefted it in his hands.
The two combatants stood off from one another. Band’s black, smouldering eyes met Duet’s pale green eyes met Band’s eyes again. Neither moved.
But then Band shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and sprang forwards, his sword a dull grey streak slicing through the noon light.
Clang! The sword shuddered as it struck the stone floor, jolting up Band’s arm to his elbow. He thrust forward once again; again the blade veered downwards. Duet watched.
“It seems,” she remarked to the squire, “that your master is experiencing some trouble raising his sword.” Band snarled. The squire hid his face in his hands.
“A trick! A weighted blade! I demand we exchange weapons!” roared the knight. Duet nodded.
“A fair appraisal,” she said, and tossed her own sword onto the sands, keeping her cane held back and set squarely down on the floor. “After all, let it never be said that the mighty knight was in any way inconvenienced in his great duel! Could you hand that blade to me please? This cane does make it tricky to bend down.”
Unimpressed, Band turned the weighted sword over in his hands and tossed it to the ground.
“No compromise! That’s what the people love about you, isn’t it?” said Duet. She knelt down and scooped up the sword. Again she raised it level. The tip was as steady as a scribe’s pen.
“Trickery!” cried Band. He swung the sword around his head in a broad arc, to bring it down on this insolent woman’s arm and end her taunting.
The crash the sword made as it fell from his sweat-dripping hands rivalled the uproar of laughter from the dozen guards surrounding the arena. Band suddenly looked very small in the courtyard, like a hunted animal. He realised that he would never have the respect of the guards again, if he didn’t put a stop to this once and for all. The dagger on his belt was short, but perfectly balanced. It had not left his sight all day. It fitted snugly into his hand, for which he had had it specially made. With it, he brushed the woman’s longsword aside and raised it to slash across her exposed, mocking face. He closed his eyes and brought it down with all his might.
Band opened one eye. The face was still there. The villainous knife had stopped one inch away from it for seemingly no reason at all. Then the light glinted, and he saw it. The streak of silver, so delicate as to be almost nonexistent, extending from the curved top of the woman’s walking-cane.

That moment, Sir Alder Band died, slain by the laughter of the men who had once feared him. The body that was left was driven out of town, hounded by the people as one into the woods and the wastelands. Ila Duet quietly wiped the oil off the grip of the sword, and replaced the tiny missing piece from the pommel that had unbalanced whichever sword she wasn’t holding, in case anyone thought to check.

And then she gathered up her things and carried on her journey.