threaded the key to Melvin’s box through the golden hoop in Little Jane’s own ear. The key was so light that Little Jane barely felt it, yet when she tossed her hair it jingled so sweetly that she grinned in spite of herself. Bonnie Mary’s own earring was now no different than that of any other sailor — a simple circle of gold. With all the cowry shells, pearls, and golden beads woven through Bonnie Mary’s braids to attract the eye and tinkle softly in the breeze, the absence of a tiny key wouldn’t be noticed by anyone, but Bonnie Mary missed it already.
“Good girl.” She spoke softly to Little Jane. “Now why don’t you go help Ishiro with the potatoes.”
That evening, with all the potato-peeling done for the day, Little Jane gave the wooden sword a thorough examination.
Melvin, she thought with distaste.
She instantly disliked it, if for no other reason than its idiotic name. What was it with her family and names? Swords were supposed to have women’s names. Certainly, she had no desire to do sixty-four exercises with a wooden sword called Melvin, no matter how fun-filled this Admiral Hillingbottom claimed them to be.
She noticed that Melvin’s handle was wrapped in an old red rag, nearly fused to the timber with rot and age. Certainly, no suitable weapon to take on Ned Ronk with — and at the returning thought of the fearsome boatswain, she shivered. Rethinking her strategy of hiding Melvin until she could safely toss the sword overboard, she thrust him into the gap between her bed and the wall. Here he could remain indefinitely, at once out of sight, but accessible in case of nighttime danger.
After only two pages of clumsily executed book exercises, per Admiral Hillingbottom’s instructions, and two days worth of perfectly executed emotional blackmail tactics employed on her unsuspecting parents, Little Jane was set to commence her first lesson with the weaponsmaster, Jezebel Mendoza.
At first Little Jane watched, taking notes. “Without proper supervision, adults should never be allowed to use swords, knives, or a brace of pistols,” she wrote, and indeed this was her conclusion after observing the other sailors trying to make pincushions out of each other while engaging in hand-to-hand combat drills. Even with corked swords, there was no shortage of dodgy manoeuvres, as Cabrillo, the sailmaker — unfortunately struck with a sword hilt in the unmentionables — could well attest to.
The weaponsmaster, Jezebel Mendoza, was a slight, cinnamon-haired Englishwoman. She was the unlikely widow of a notorious Mexican revolutionary and Jonesy had once referred to her as “a former member of the upper crust.”
This confused Little Jane as she had no idea what the weaponsmaster had to do with pies and pie crust specifically. (Personally, Little Jane thought it would be more fun to be the fruit filling, rather than any other portion of a pie whether upper of lower, but no one was asking her.)
What she presumed Jonesy meant was that Jezebel Mendoza was a little on the flakey side. Though the weaponsmaster had always been a close friend of her mother’s, Little Jane often felt uncomfortable in her presence. Her eyes had a disconcerting tendency to dart around a room in search of armed threats, even in the midst of conversations. When she did focus on you, her gaze was so intense, her questions so prodding, that no one but Bonnie Mary could remain long under her stare without squirming.
It was this intense stare that focused on Little Jane now. “Come along, child,” Mendoza commanded her, “we have much work to do. Far be it from me to criticize your mother, but she has delayed teaching you the proper defensive techniques for far too long.”
Little Jane swore silently to herself. Whatever else happened, she did not want to look like a rank amateur. Having wooden Melvin at her side did nothing to help her self-esteem.
Someone at the back of the group sniggered.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Mendoza dismissively with a swish of her own Spanish-gripped steel rapier. “You’ll do fine — you’re a Silver. Duelling is in your blood. Now don’t look so incredulous, Little Jane, it’s true. You know George Silver was the first Englishman to publish a thorough analysis on the strengths and weaknesses of the various Continental fencing styles, don’t you?”
“What?”
“The Paradoxes of Defence. Remind me to lend it to you sometime. Very forward-thinking for the time with regard to proportioning the length of the weapon to that of the arm and the necessity of light materials for increased speed in the parry.”
“Huh?”
“But enough of old George. Let’s fight!”
With that, Little Jane was thrown right into the thick of things. She had fenced a little before with her mother and father, so some of the moves were familiar, but she knew her parents held back when they duelled with her.
The weaponsmaster, however, showed no such restraint and would shout out the name of each perfectly executed manoeuvre just as she performed it — Straight thrust! Advance! Advance! Disengage! Feint to the head! Advance, advance! But Little Jane could not concentrate on the proper names of the moves as Mendoza’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once — coming at her from the right, the left, down, sideways, above. She backed down under the assault.
“Arrêt!” shouted Mendoza, but Little Jane kept striking away. “Stop,” she added, gracefully sidestepping a thrust before it clipped her in the hip.
Little Jane quickly lowered her sword. “My apologies, Weaponsmaster.”
“No need. Even I did not reach perfection in the art of fencing instantaneously. Before one can speak intelligibly, one must learn the words.”
“Words?”
“Mix up the letters in sword and that’s what you get — words. You see, learning the sword is like learning to talk. You learn the words and what they mean and then how to put them together. Now, you can still be understood if you don’t know many words, but you won’t be considered well-spoken until you master the technique of proper speech. Fencing is the same. You must learn the proper movements and stances and what each one does. Only then can you string them together.”
“Couldn’t I just learn to brawl like all the other fellows around here? I mean, no offence, but it does seem that fine speech and courtly swordplay might serve no point here. I doubt any o’ them,” Little Jane said, jerking her thumb and her adult compatriots, “was properly trained.”
“More’s the pity. I have to go back and try to make them unlearn all their bad habits. These poor sods might be all right in a scrap, but they only know how to fight in one way. They each have their own modus operandi, and I respect that, I do, but once their opponent is onto it, then they’re lost, you see?”
“No,” said Little Jane. “What’s a modus opera?”
“Your modus operandi is the special way you work, your trademark, your gimmick,” explained Jezebel Mendoza.
Little Jane stared blankly back.
“Your special trick that only you know, unique to you. That surprise you give your opponent when all seems lost. Using what you have in natural abundance to replace what you lack. That sort of thing.”
“And
