En Garde (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 17) (3 page)

“What can I say? The man scares me,” Ned admitted. “I got this awful feeling in my stomach as soon as I saw him. I had to disappear.”

“Hi, Nancy,” said Evaline Waters, who was sitting right next to Ned.

“Evaline! It’s so great to see you,” I replied.

Before she retired, Evaline Waters was the head librarian at the local public library. I’ve known her for years, but apparently I didn’t know her that well. “I didn’t know you were a fencing fan,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve always loved fencing,” Evaline declared. “Never tried it myself, but I do love to watch it. When I was a girl, one of my favorite books was
The Three Musketeers
—you know, the French classic by Alexandre Dumas.”

“I saw that movie!” Bess chipped in. “It had a ton of cute actors in it.”

Evaline smiled. “Yes, it did, Bess. But the movie isn’t nearly as good as the book. It tells you everything you’d want to know about the old traditions of
chivalry. The musketeers weren’t just swashbuckling swordsmen, you know. They lived and died by a code of honor. They were noble figures in an age of deadly rivalries and rampant corruption.” Leaning closer, Evaline whispered ominously, “Not so different from the present day, I might add.”

“I’m with you on that, Evaline—
The Three Musketeers
is a great book,” Ned said. Ned is as much of a book lover as Evaline is. He’s majoring in English in college. “But there’s no way Bess is going to read it—not if her alternative is watching a movie with lots of cute actors.”

Bess made a face and pretended to punch Ned in the arm.

Ned can’t resist teasing Bess every once in a while—he’s like a brother to her, and George, too. He’s a little bit more than a brother to me, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those girls who’s always checking out cute guys. I’m too busy doing my own thing. But Ned’s special. We’ve been going out ever since junior high. Over the years, we’ve learned to give each other space, which is something I need. Of course, every now and then, Ned will give me one of those swoony looks with his big brown eyes, and then I remember how great it is to have him around.

I scanned the fencing floor and saw DeLyn standing
beside a fencing strip, zipping up her high-necked white jacket. A referee beside her was fiddling with a long electrical cord and a vest made of silver fabric. He attached the cord to the silver vest and handed it to DeLyn. She slipped it on over her jacket.

“That vest is called a lamé,” Evaline explained. “It’s got metal threads woven into the fabric, to pick up electrical impulses. Every time a fencer is touched by his opponent’s sword, it sends a signal to the scoring box.”

“Seems fair,” I said. “No one can argue whether or not the sword made contact if it’s been measured electronically.”

“If only it were that simple,” Evaline said with a smile. “As you’ll see, there are still plenty of disputes. The referee rules whether sword contact deserves to score a point, and there are many reasons why a touch might be disqualified. It could land on the wrong part of the body, for example. In a foil bout, you can only hit your opponent on the torso. A larger body area is allowed for saber fencers, and even more for épée fencers.”

“So that’s why fencers specialize in one weapon—each involves a different fighting strategy,” Ned said.

“You’ve got it,” Evaline said. “Most fencers start out with the foil, the lightest and most flexible
sword. But once they get into fencing, they may choose to concentrate on another weapon. For instance, that African-American girl down there, DeLyn Brittany—”

“Oh, we know DeLyn. She’s a friend of George’s,” I told Evaline.

“Really?” Evaline said. “She’s very good. It looks like she’s fighting with a foil right now, and sometimes she fences saber, but usually she fences épée. Now, her brother—”

“Yeah, Damon. We met him, too,” Bess said.

Evaline nodded. “Damon specializes in saber, which is the heaviest sword of all. Generally, only men compete in saber. We should see his match later on.”

Bess frowned and pointed toward DeLyn and the referee. “Look, he’s checking out her sword. Is there something wrong? Is he going to disqualify her?”

“That’s standard procedure,” Evaline replied. “The referee checks each fencer’s equipment and clothing before a match, to make sure nobody gets hurt.”

“Makes sense,” Ned said. “They are going at each other with deadly weapons, after all.”

“It’s not like it’s dangerous,” said Bess. “George showed me her sword—it’s got a protective tip on it.”

Ned gave her a skeptical look. “Believe me, when someone comes at you with a slashing sword, you
could still get hurt. The side edges of the blade are sharp, not rounded. And okay, maybe they’re not razor sharp, but they can still scratch you. Plus, that sword is made of tough metal. It can definitely bruise.”

“That’s why fencers wear padded protective clothing,” Evaline said.

“As well as a mask of metal mesh that covers the entire face,” I added.

“Those masks are a pain to wear,” Ned said with a groan. “They’re heavy, and if you don’t fasten the straps well, they rattle around, and they can cut off your side vision. Plus, you get really hot underneath.”

I had to smile. “Sounds like you really loved fencing, huh?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ned replied, equally sarcastic.

The referee now stepped over to inspect DeLyn’s opponent, a tall girl with short-cropped strawberry blond hair. She had arrived late and was still zipping up her jacket. She looked like a sorority girl, the type who didn’t want to mess up her sleek haircut or her carefully applied makeup. The referee pointed at his watch and gestured impatiently for her to hurry up.

“So that’s the famous Una,” Bess commented. “She has very long arms and legs, doesn’t she?”

“That’s a great advantage,” Evaline said. “If your arms are longer than your opponent’s, you can touch
her with your sword from a distance where she can’t reach you. But DeLyn has other advantages—speed, for one thing. I’ve seen these two girls fence before, both in local tournaments and in college matches. DeLyn and her brother started this year on the University of River Heights team. Una’s been fencing for Moreton College for a couple of years.”

Bouts had begun on other fencing strips around the field house. Hurrying things along, DeLyn’s referee gave Una a hasty pat on her shoulder. He grabbed the electronic cord attached to her lamé and followed it over to a heavy domed base, about two feet across, on the floor at the far end of the strip. He checked that the cord was firmly attached to the base, as he had already done with DeLyn’s body cord. Then he waved to the two fencers to take their places.

Each girl stood behind a line on her end of the long strip, about a third of the way from the midpoint. They touched their sword hilts respectfully to the front of their masks and bowed slightly toward the referee, who bowed back. Then they pivoted and bowed toward the nearest spectators. Finally, they faced each other and bowed a third time.

“That’s so nice!” Bess exclaimed. “Even before they start fighting, they make friends.”

Evaline chuckled. “They’re required to do that, Bess,” she explained. “If they forget, they could be
disqualified. It’s just part of the fencing ritual.”

Bess shrugged. “It still seems nice,” she said.

Having finished their salutes, the two fencers struck “ready” poses: faces front, shoulders angled sideways, legs flexed in a crouch, swords pointing to the ceiling, free hand crooked at shoulder height behind them.

“It’s almost like a dance, isn’t it?” Bess remarked.

“En garde,”
the referee called out. The two girls lowered their foils, pointing them directly at each other’s hearts.

“Are you ready?” the referee asked. Both girls nodded. “Fence!” he commanded.

I had to admire DeLyn’s aggressive fencing style. With fierce determination, she lunged forward on the fencing strip. Una scuttled backward, swinging her foil diagonally to fend off DeLyn’s thrusts. Metal clanged on metal, and light flashed off the dancing blades.

An electrical beep signaled the bout’s first touch. “Halt!” the referee called. Both girls stopped, straightened up, raised their foils, and returned to their starting lines. A yellow light on the scoring box indicated DeLyn’s side of the strip. “Oh, good, DeLyn scored the first point,” Evaline said.

“How many points do you need to win?” I asked.

“In this tournament, it’s whoever scores five
touches first,” Evaline said. “Every fencer today meets every other fencer in his or her age class and keeps an overall tally. If this were a direct elimination bout, though, it would take fifteen touches to win. The loser would then be out of the tournament for good.”

The referee called
“En garde”
again and the girls crouched into their ready positions. Soon they were lunging up and down the strip once more.

“What if you step off the strip?” Bess asked.

“Then you’re disqualified,” Evaline said. “You can also be disqualified if you touch your sword point to the floor, or if you turn your back on your opponent.”

“Whoa, you have to remember all that?” Bess asked. “While somebody is running toward you with a sword? I’d be so nervous, I’d forget.”

“You know what would make me nervous? Bela Kovacs watching my every move,” Ned said. He nodded toward the fencing floor. The Hungarian fencing master was pacing up and down near DeLyn’s strip. And on the other side, Paul Mourbiers was doing exactly the same thing, focusing on Una.

Now that Ned had pointed them out, I couldn’t take my eyes off the two coaches. Their body language was as fascinating as the bout itself. When Una scored the next touch, Mourbiers pumped a fist and
clapped his hands. He stole a triumphant glance at Kovacs, who ran his hands angrily through his wild mop of hair. But a moment later, when the referee called out “Illegal touch,” Kovacs was the one cheering.

“What just happened?” asked Bess.

“She touched DeLyn’s shoulder, not her torso,” Evaline explained. “So this time, they start fencing again from wherever they were when the signal beeped. That gives DeLyn an advantage—she’s already forced Una pretty far back on the strip.”

The referee called out “Fence!” and the girls’ swords began to fly again. Their soft-soled shoes set up a rhythm on the plastic surface—shuffle, shuffle, pound,
clash!
as one girl pressed forward and then lunged for the attack. Then it was shuffle, shuffle, pound,
clash!
as the other girl responded.

DeLyn and Una moved up and down the strip, advancing and retreating. Kovacs and Mourbiers strode in tandem alongside them, gesticulating wildly. It was almost as if the fencers were their puppets. “Attack, attack,” Kovacs barked at DeLyn.

“Why is Mourbiers shouting to Una about Paris?” Bess asked.

Evaline suppressed a grin. “It does sound like he’s saying ‘Paris,’ with a French accent—
Par-ee
,” she agreed. “But he’s telling her to
parry
—p-a-r-r-y. It’s a
technical term for a defensive move, where you swing your sword crosswise to block your opponent’s strike—”

Just then Una dropped her foil. I heard the tinny clatter as it bounced off the mat and onto the bare hardwood floor. Everyone around us gasped and jumped to their feet. I jumped up too, trying to see over their heads.

Una was kneeling on the mat, moaning and clutching her right wrist.

And there, on her sleeve, a spot of bright red was growing, staining her clean white doublet.

Blood.

T
he referee, Mourbiers
, and Kovacs closed in around Una. DeLyn stood alone on the fencing strip, still holding her sword. As she pushed her mask up onto the top of her head, her face looked creased with concern.

An assistant came running over with a first-aid kit. “What’s going to happen now?” I asked Evaline anxiously.

“If it’s just a minor injury, they’ll patch her up quickly and go on with the bout. They can suspend it for as long as ten minutes,” she explained. “Of course, if the injury’s more serious, they’ll stop the bout. Una would have to forfeit.”

I glanced at DeLyn standing awkwardly on the strip, with her sword tucked under her arm. I could
guess how she felt. Even though she hadn’t planned to hurt Una, she felt responsible. If Una forfeited, it wouldn’t seem like much of a victory.

Bela Kovacs stood up and walked away. I was surprised that he didn’t go over to reassure DeLyn. I just assumed that after making sure Una wasn’t badly hurt, his first priority would be to support his athlete.

A moment later Paul Mourbiers stood too. In one hand he clutched the long, padded white glove Una had been wearing on her sword hand. I could see a bright smear of blood on its deep, flared cuff. He waved it in Kovacs’s face.

“Now what is Paul doing with that gauntlet? What are those two buffoons up to?” Evaline murmured.

“You know about their rivalry?” I asked her.

“Dear me, everybody in town knows about their rivalry—or at least, everybody who follows fencing does.” Evaline clucked her tongue. “Every tournament, Paul and Bela find some excuse for an argument. No matter whether it’s a federation tournament, or a practice meet like this one, or a college match-up, Bela and Paul are involved in every fencing event in the area.”

I watched the two men yell at each other, red faced, with their hands waving. “I can understand why Mourbiers would be upset that his fencer got
injured,” I said. “But why should he act like it’s the other coach’s fault?”

“Mourbiers blames Kovacs whenever he can,” Evaline said. “And Kovacs does the same.”

“George said when Mourbiers opened his salle a few years ago, it really hurt Kovacs’s business,” Bess added.

“It wasn’t just a question of business,” Evaline said. “With these men, it’s personal. Bela has a terrible temper. Often he’s the one who loses his head when they argue. But in my opinion, Mourbiers deliberately provokes him. He plays that guy like a violin! Why, from the very first day, when Mourbiers opened his salle, he had the nerve to name it Salle Olympique. No wonder Kovacs can’t stand him.”