The Auber salon kept a fencing floor, and Tobian Marrow fenced badly on purpose.
Losing was harder than winning. A man trained under Aldous Blackwood at sixteen does not lose the angles, and the body wants what it knows.
Every match became two fights at once, one against the opponent across the floor, and one against his own arm that kept trying to win without asking him.
He had been losing convincingly for three weeks now.
However, that evening, the price of losing went up.
Nobody announced Coren Thrace. He simply appeared at the weapon rack, took down a practice blade, and tested its balance with two flat cuts.
He wore plain grey clothing with no house color anywhere on him, and he said nothing to anyone.
Regardless, the room grew quieter on its own. Men who had been laughing at the far end found reasons to stop.
'That is the Sworn Hand. Why is he here? This salon has nothing worth his time, unless the thing worth his time is a person.'
