B.T.V. -- Session 15 Prologue: A Hat, With Panache

“If you’re going to attempt a feint, always do so at the genitals.”




From exertion, Asher’s breaths were almost-not-quite-ragged, as he replied, “What? … Why?”




“Bleys would always say, 'If the feint works, you hit them wherever you were drawing attention away from; if the feint fails, follow-through and let the feint become a faint'.”




Asher grunted and brought his short sword across his chest in the aggressive guard he’d learned from the Tu-Lu Ahn. From this position he could slash, slice or draw cut as well as defend against any of the high-line attacks Finndo might try. This did leave his lower body exposed but he’d learned that this opponent rarely did more than attempt to sweep his feet out from under him. It seemed the prince of Amber didn’t favour low-line attacks.




“Your knees are vulnerable. If I had a spada I’d be minded to try for them.”




Asher said nothing. He’d already learned how the interesting histories of Finndo’s experience with weapons of all kinds could lead to being struck while distracted. Asher’s eyes did not waver from Finndo’s 'backsword'.




Finndo turned his guard position into a vertical salute, “You’re learning fast.”




Asher limited himself to a slightest nod. The older swordsman might be a prince, a sword master and much travelled but he wasn’t going to make it easy for Finndo. The only way to learn was to challenge hard and see how things worked out.




Finndo swept his sword out wide, as he did when exiting his salutes. This time, the sword being out and back allowed him to use it as a counterbalance to his now outstretched foot.




The sweep again!




Asher leapt over Finndo’s foot and brought his sword downward cutting obliquely for Finndo’s torso. Neither man was holding back. The attempt was dangerous without being deadly. A severe cut might be the worst result.




Finndo’s other hand intercepted Asher’s blade. Finndo’s hand held his hat. It was a large hat by any measurement but it was only a hat. Asher realised that Finndo’s grip was securely on his sword’s blade, through the hat.




“And if I were a devious type or out to ruin you, I would snap the blade off, or at least bend it terribly, leaving you down a sword at worst.”




“The sword wouldn’t just slice through the hat?”




“Not likely but possibly. As the hat was not the focus of your strike, it would probably survive its brush with death.” Finndo said with a smile.




His smile faded as he noticed that some parts of the hat’s plume lay on the cobbles, having been cut from the hat.




Asher said, “A closer brush than you expected?”



“ 'Ja', as von Danzig would say, or would have if he’d worn a hat with panache. A tremendous master of blades but a terrible dresser.”




“He wasn’t very agile, this Danzig?”




“Oh, he was a titan, Asher, a titan. He just didn’t live in a time when panache were affixed to hats.”




“Panache...”




“Is what a fellow like me puts in his hatband -- a feather, or several. Sometimes called macaroni. Never call it that or they'll write songs about you, mark me. I prefer, panache. Panache serves to give a certain balance to the hat, a certain distraction when the hat is used for that purpose and a certain usefulness in attracting fairer eyes to what lies beneath the hat.” With this said, Finndo placed the hat on his brow, adjusted the brim so that his eyes met Asher's and then lowered the brim until its edge hid his eyes from Asher's. "What do you think of me now?"



Asher wasn't sure that he should change his mind regarding Finndo.



"What do you think of me now?"



Asher felt uneasy. If he couldn't see Finndo's eyes, he couldn't do more than take in his stance, his readiness and the weapons he wore with such practiced naturalness. Asher was impressed and impressed with what Finndo had just revealed -- revealed by concealment.



"Your hat does more than keep the light out of your eyes."



"Ask the ladies what a hat does for a man."




“I’m glad you’re using it as a distraction on me then.”




Finndo brushed his moustache twice with a gauntleted finger, “Let me show you what makes a backsword useful.”




Finndo produced a staggering, sequenced series of cuts and thrusts at Asher. They were close to each other. Less than an arm’s reach apart. In all of the attacks, the sword was held with both hands; one on the hilt, the other halfway down the blade. This second hand’s palm rested on the dull edge of the sword. Finndo’s intent was clear, the attacks would deal extremely well with hardened armours. The power he was able to bring with this style was a source of concern and admiration in the younger man.





“I wouldn’t have thought to use a sword like that.” Asher said as they broke apart.




“It has been less used recently in my experience. I thought you’d find some effectiveness with it. Your ninjato is similar to my backsword. It only has the one edge, eh?”




“Ninjato? This?”




“Another world’s term for the shorter of your two swords. The obscenely long one is an O-dachi or later on, a nodachi, I believe.”




"These names were used by those who gave them to me. I thought they were the swords’ special names, not types.”




“Better luck next time.”




“Ha-Ha.”




“Getting your opponent to enter a conversation is also a technique. In our last clash, you refused to be distracted by my salute. A salute is often verbal. You would be clever to view these verbal manoeuvres as the same potential evil as any physical salute.”





“Like with your hat.”




“My hat seems to be a particular source of frustration to you. My hat is honoured to be so forward in your thoughts. Let me bow for my hat, as it cannot bow itself.” Finndo made a bow that Asher began to believe might never end. It started well above Finndo’s head and ended some time later with his chin nearer the floor than his knee. Asher noticed that the man never managed to lose sight of his own gaze. For an older man, Finndo still seemed flexible. Something to remember.




As if reading his thought, Finndo said, “Not to belabour it but also remember that an older adversary is likely to be bent by time but rewarded with the wealth that time affords. Experience can be more than an equalizer for limberness. It can be the vanquisher.”




“That was something I already knew. The borderlands teach us to respect the old.”




Finndo looked amused, “Am I decrepit then? Out to pasture, is it? Plow my furrow, Death, for I am moments away from lying in it.”




“You’re... experienced. I wouldn’t say age has reduced your energy. Much.”




“It’s a truth. In my better years, I would skewer the best half-dozen of them and ask if that was all they had to teach me. Then for breakfast I’d take hot dumplings, with gorgeous hams and a roll with both.”




“A heavy meal for the morning.”




“No, her name was Rosamunda... I had more energy before than after.”




“Maybe we should stick to swordsmanship?”




“It was swordsmanship I was referring to!” Finndo’s eyes shone despite the tired light of the Adrilankhan sky. Asher allowed a grin.




“If I am to be a frank assessor of your style, I would say you lack only a hat.”




Asher couldn’t think of much to say to this. Finndo’s hat was the second most famous hat in the city and Finndo had only been in the city for a few days.




“A hat makes the boy, a man. A hat makes the man, a gentleman. A hat makes a gentleman, a swordsman.”




“I couldn’t wear a hat like that. I’d be a --”


“-- gentleman?”


“--.”


“Perhaps a hat of wherever you’re from? Surely they must wear some kind of hat? Preferably a wide sort. No caps if you please. A cap is for a lad, not a man. Caps are for games. Hats separate men from boys. No woman would venture out on the arm of someone in a cap, now would they? A hat with panache, that’s the way forward. What do they wear in Arylle?”


Asher thought of his borderland home for the first time in days. There were actually many forms of headwear there. The elaborateness of these were reserved for officials and functionaries. Asher couldn’t think to wear those and fight as well, even if he were permitted to wear any of them. Other hats? People wore shawls to keep themselves warm. He’d already received one from the Green Khakan. He could use it, draped over his head. It would serve for warmth and to keep snow or rain from getting at him. Even so, it wasn’t likely going to serve the purpose Finndo meant for it. Asher fingered his shawl’s edged seam. Finndo eyed it speculatively, “It reminds me more of a short cape than a hat, Asher. Now, there’s a series of techniques that – no, you’d look foolish. A man must look good in all aspects of fighting, even when he is being brutal. No cape techniques for you, I think.”


Asher wasn’t sure how brutal he could be with his shawl so wasn’t too disappointed in Finndo’s pronouncement. He had thought of a hat. “The farmers wear a kind of broad hat but it’s not nearly as soft, being made of stiff straw not whatever yours is made from.”


“Straw? I begin to fear for your future.”


“It could be made from panels of thin wood? Or Arylle laquer coated with insect shells dissolved in resin? I could get someone to...” Asher’s voice trailed off. Finndo’s face was being too vigorous to continue.


The two men stared at one another, uncertain what form their conversation should take next.


“Diplomacy would indicate that we should consider our mutual friend’s coming assignation and leave off hats as a topic of conversation.”


Asher was happy to change the subject to Selidor’s approaching date with the striking Lyra. He wouldn’t forget about the hat idea though. He’d wait until he’d had one made to show Finndo what he meant.


Finndo continued, “I wonder if this ‘Lost City’ has a park? It might be an idea for Selidor to have a prepared picnic?”


“Pic-Nic?”


“Picnic. A strange word for it, I warrant. ‘A meal eaten out of doors, upon a blanket with a pillow to share and an afternoon to spare.’ So the poem goes.”


“An actual meal. Outdoors? Not just traveller’s rations?”


“Aye, festoon your picnic blanket with fois gras, potatoes with chivey mayonaisse, warm bread crust not too thick, sweet meats, viands and wine, of course, wine.”


“Roasted chicken?" Asher offered.


“I see you’re pretending not to have had such a meal. Yes, roast chook or pheasant, or my favourite quail.” Finndo sighed, “It has been a time since I have had a spitted spatchcock rotisseried over apple-wood embers. A manservant would, 'baste as it spun, golden in the light of the sun'.” Finndo’s eyes were far away.


Asher didn't know the poem that Finndo was referring to, but the man’s words were creating a serious gnawing sensation in his stomach. Finndo looked at Asher. His face was sympathetic. “Come, my friend, I have discouraged your sword arm enough for one day, I can’t bring myself to defeat your taste buds too. Poetry always makes me hungry. Then again, I only know poems about food, eh? Let us find what fare our kitchen can provide.”


They walked down Black Rock Way, side by side. A man with newfound skills and a man with an old, battered hat.