When Rockwell did not move, the stranger continued, “You did challenge me did you not?”

  Rockwell nodded. “I did.”

  “Then I am the one who chooses the weapons we will use, am I not?”

  All around them, the tavern murmured assent at the well-known rule, and Ollie arrived at the table just as Rockwell’s uncertain answer was given.

  “Yeees.”

  The stranger paused and looked about the inn, asking confirmation with his eyes.

  “That is how it’s played here, isn’t it?”

  Around them, the tavern’s patrons agreed once more, their assent growing to an approving growl. Rockwell nodded. The stranger relaxed at their reply, and the other patrons relaxed with him.

  “Good,” he said, and his next words were brisk with decision. “Then we shall duel in words. Riddles. You understand? Three riddles a-piece with the last riddle being answered with a riddle of like solution. Three guesses. The one who fails to answer on the third attempt loses the competition.”

  Rockwell was speechless, and his jaw dropped in astonishment, before he closed, then opened his mouth, drawing breath for words he could not find. For several long heartbeats, he looked like a beached trout trying to draw air.

  The stranger’s brow knitted in an uncertain frown. “That is fair, isn’t it? You do know how to play the game…”

  Rockwell nervously licked his lips, and returned his sword to its scabbard. He closed his mouth, met the stranger’s gaze and nodded, before settling himself in the seat opposite.

  Neither man noticed when the door to the tavern opened and closed. Most patrons didn’t even glance around to see who had entered with such unobtrusive, hurried quiet.

  Ollie’s face paled, as he recognized Rockwell’s father.

  “You do understand the nature of the competition, do you not?” the stranger asked, his voice carrying just enough uncertain concern that the hint of mocking condescension might not have existed.

  Rockwell hesitated, looking around to catch the looks of interest directed at them from the rest of the inn. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat before answering.

  “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”

  When the stranger merely sat and stared at him, Rockwell shifted impatiently in his seat.

  “Well,” the young baron blurted, “would you like to begin?”

  The stranger inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you,” he replied, “but, first, wouldn’t you like to hear the stakes for which you play?”

  Rockwell’s blush grew deeper as he felt the fool he was being made. Ollie reached Baron Rockwell just as the man’s hand touched the inn’s door once more.

  “I was hoping to reach him before he issued the challenge,” the baron murmured, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Let me know how it ends, but I fear my son has bitten off more than he can chew, this time.”

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  He sighed, again. “And I…”

  He shook his head.

  “I dare not intervene.”

  Ollie couldn’t argue with that.

  “Of course, my lord,” he agreed.

  There was a momentary weight as the baron’s hand descended onto the innkeeper’s shoulder, then the night air intruded briefly into the inn’s warmth and the baron was gone. Ollie looked toward the competitors in time to hear Rockwell echo his reply to the baron.

  “Of course,” the young man agreed, “that would be wise.”

  The stranger bowed his head once more, his thin smile mocking.

  “Of course. Most wise,” he agreed, in a mimicry of the lordling’s reply. “Your prize will be the maiden and my service until you see fit to release me, not to mention a large amount of gold.”

  “How much gold?” Rockwell asked.

  The stranger glanced around at their breath-taken audience. When he replied, his voice was low.

  “I wouldn’t disclose the amount here, if I were wise,” he said, “but this should give you an idea.”

  He took a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it, blank side up and folded, across the table. Rockwell took it, turned it briefly and paled before slipping it into a pocket of his own.

  “Agreed,” he answered from a throat gone suddenly dry, “and what will your master take should you be victorious?

  “My master’s prize,” the stranger paused, leaning back and arching his hands against each other as the mocking smile returned.

  “My master’s prize,” he continued, “will be the maiden’s freedom and your service until he sees fit to release you.”

  Rockwell paused, aware of a new intensity in the tavern’s silence. Realization of the enormity of what he might lose touched his expression, and the first hint of doubt wrinkled his brow.

  “Sounds fair to me, Rockwell!” came a rough voice from the bar.

  This was followed by such a chorus of agreement that Rockwell finally bowed his head.

  “I, I agree,” he murmured.

  “Did you say something, Rockwell?” The bar-fly’s voice grew louder with taunt.

  Rockwell looked up, scowling, and the stranger followed his gaze.

  It was met by that of a tall man with flame-red hair, and a blacksmith’s physique. The lordling answered with an uneasy silence.

  “Well?” the red-head prodded.

  A low murmur came from his supporters, and Rockwell swallowed.

  “I said, I agree to the conditions of the duel.” Rockwell’s voice was a degree off tremoring.

  The red-head looked at those around him, before raising his tankard to the stranger.

  “You heard the lad, stranger,” he said. “I think you can begin.”

  “There is one more thing…,” the stranger spat, and this time he did not smile as he raised his voice.

  “I call for this duel to be witnessed as just and fair and its conditions as binding.”

  “Hear, hear,” the red-head returned, his rowdy agreement echoed by a more subdued mutter of assent from the regulars at the bar.

  While no blood was to be drawn, the cost of losing was high. More than one mind had to be turning to what the baron might think, or do, should his son lose this fight.

  “Now, we may begin,” the stranger said.

  The red-head’s only reply was a grunt as he beckoned to Ollie for a refill.

  “After you,” Rockwell prompted.

  The stranger turned to face the young lord and reached into his vest pocket. Rockwell watched as he withdrew a golden hourglass and stood it on the table.

  “You did not think we’d have forever to ponder each riddle?” he asked. “We will have only until the glass needs turning.”

  He flipped the hourglass so that the sand began to run.

  “This long,” he said as they watched the sands trickle downward, “and no longer. Agreed?”

  “It is an amendment to the rules,” Rockwell muttered.

  “Aye, but a fair one.” The red-head had made his way from the bar and now drew a seat up beside them. When Rockwell did not immediately agree, he raised his voice to the crowd. “Is it fair, do you think?”

  Once more a rumble of assent crept around the tavern, this one more reluctant than the last.

  “And should it be made a part of the duel’s conditions and observed?”

  Again, the murmured answer was yes.

  Rockwell bowed his head.

  “Then I agree,” he said. “You may begin, stranger.”

  “Very well,” the stranger replied. “Of what do I speak: Unwielded daggers line the lanes, offering sweetness, yet giving pain.”

  Rockwell stared at him blankly as the stranger turned the hourglass to signal the start. With an effort he tore his gaze from the fall of sparkling dust and thought on the riddle. It wasn’t a hard question and a smile slowly formed as the answer dawned.

  “Hah! An easy task, stranger. Berry thorns. Now, of what do I speak?”