The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain Read Free Book Online Page B

longsword, much heavier than what she was used to.
    “Perhaps you should return to your needlework, my lady.” He turned dismissively and started to stride away, but Karigan shoved the blade between his legs and tripped him. Quick as a cat he rolled and was on his feet again. He tucked the document into his frock coat and gazed at her, this time without the smile.
    “Mistress Karigan, is it?” Steel tinged his voice. “You would do well not to anger me.”
    “I wouldn’t anger you if you’d simply return the document and leave.”
    “And how would that be worth my time?”
    “It might be worth your life.”
    “That’s a very unladylike threat.”
    “And this is the only needlework I know.” She raised the sword to eye level.
    The thief barked out a laugh. “You are an intriguing lady, Mistress Karigan. Now let’s dispense with this nonsense, shall we? I’ll be on my—”
    Karigan engaged him and their quick exchange of blows rang throughout the expansive halls of the museum. In retrospect, she realized she had done it again; had gotten herself into a fight when she could have just as easily pretended to be helpless and let the thief make off with the document. It was the responsibility of the constabulary, really. She always seemed to act first and think later, a dangerous failing on her part. In this first exchange, the thief revealed his rapier wasn’t just a pretty ornament he wore at his side—he knew how to use it. He was no ordinary thief, this masked man, and she might be in for more than she bargained for.
    But she wasn’t helpless, and she hated standing around when she might be able to prevent a treasured artifact from being stolen, and in full daylight no less. And she had to admit, it was a bit of a response to Braymer and Styles, and their conservative Rhovan ways. Let them see what a Sacoridian woman was capable of.
    “I see you have practiced your needlework,” the thief said. “A little.”
    Karigan scowled.
    “Tut, tut, don’t frown,” he said. “It ruins your pretty face.”
    Karigan closed in again, and he met her blow for blow, his sword work elegant and nimble compared to her own which was made ponderous by the weight of the longsword. She had to use it two-handed, which left her skirts dragging about her feet and seriously hampering her footwork. He glided about, his other hand set on his hip, his back held erect, his bearing aristocratic.
    Karigan thrust, and he slipped aside. Her sword hissed at his neck, and he danced away. The smirk on his face revealed he thought it all a great joke. She brought the sword down in what should have been a crushing blow, but he flitted out of the way. Blow after blow was casually deflected, and when she threw herself into one particularly powerful thrust, he simply stepped aside. Her center of gravity was thrown forward and she had to hurry her feet back under her before she fell on her face.
    Her lungs strained against the corset for breath. Sweat trickled down her neck and temples. The thief remained cool and impeccable, awaiting her next move. It infuriated her.
    She whirled and their blades clanged together and slid hilt to hilt. They were very close, almost nose to nose. She could look right into his light gray eyes.
    “I’m enjoying this dance,” he said in a silken whisper, “and I think you are, too.”
    Karigan shoved him away with a growl. For a moment their hilt guards caught and she thought she might be able to tear his sword from his hands, but he deftly untangled it and backed away.
    He shrugged off her blows one by one, she growing increasingly weary and light-headed because of the corset. She stepped on the hem of her dress and nearly bowled right over.
    Their fight carried them out of the main exhibition hall into the wing with the wax figures. She was struggling now, struggling to remain standing, struggling to breathe, struggling just to lift the sword, which seemed to gain pounds with every blow he parried.
    They