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Inigo drew his sword.
"The six-fingered man taunts you," Yeste called. "Do what you can."
Inigo began to leap around the courtyard, the great blade flashing.
"He uses the Agrippa defense," Yeste shouted.
Immediately, Inigo shifted position, increased the speed of his sword.
"Now he surprises you with Bonetti's attack."
But Inigo was not surprised for long. Again his feet shifted; he moved his
body a different way. Perspiration was pouring down his thin frame now and the
great blade was blinding. Yeste continued to shout. Inigo continued to shift.
The blade never stopped.
At three in the afternoon, Yeste said, "Enough. I am exhausted from the
watching."
Inigo sheathed the six-fingered sword and waited.
"You wish to know if I feel you are ready to duel to the death a man ruthless
enough to kill your father, rich enough to buy protection, older and more
experienced, an acknowledged master."
Inigo nodded.
"I'll tell you the truth, and it's up to you to live with it. First, there has
never been a master as young as you. Thirty years at least before that rank
has yet been reached, and you are barely twenty-two. Well, the truth is you
are an impetuous boy driven by madness and you are not now and you will never
be a master."
"Thank you for your honesty," Inigo said. "I must tell you I had hoped for
better news. I
find it very hard to speak just now, so if you'll please excuse me, I'll be on
my "
"I had not finished," Yeste said.
"What else is there to say?"
"I loved your father very dearly, that you know, but this you did not know:
when we were very young, not yet twenty, we saw, with our own eyes, an
exhibition by the Corsican Wizard, Bastia."
"I know of no wizards."
"It is the rank beyond master in swordsmanship," Yeste said. "Bastia was the
last man so designated. Long before your birth, he died at sea. There have
been no wizards since, and you would never in this world have beaten him. But
I tell you this: he would never in this world have beaten you."
Inigo stood silent for a long time. "I am ready then."
"I would not enjoy being the six-fingered man" was all Yeste replied.
The next morning, Inigo began the track-down. He had it all carefully prepared
in his mind. He would find the six-fingered man. He would go up to him. He
would say simply, "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father,
prepare to die," and then, oh then, the duel.
It was a lovely plan really. Simple, direct. No frills. In the beginning,
Inigo had all kinds of wild vengeance notions, but gradually, simplicity had
seemed the better way. Originally, he had all kinds of little plays worked out
in his mind the enemy would weep and beg, the enemy would cringe and cry, the
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
enemy would bribe and slobber and act in every way unmanly. But eventually,
these too gave way in his mind to simplicity: the enemy would simply say, "Oh,
yes, I remember killing him; I'll be only too delighted to kill you too."
Inigo had only one problem: he could not find the enemy.
It never occurred to him there would be the least difficulty. After all, how
many noblemen were there with six fingers on their right hands? Surely, it
would be the talk of whatever his vicinity happened to be. A few questions:
"Pardon, I'm not crazy, but have you seen any six-fingered noblemen lately?"
and surely, sooner or later, there would be an answering
"yes."
But it didn't come sooner.
And later wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to hold your breath for either.
The first month wasn't all that discouraging. Inigo criss-crossed Spain and
Portugal.
The second month he moved to France and spent the rest of the year there. The
year following that was his Italian year, and then came Germany and the whole
of Switzerland.
It was only after five solid years of failure that he began to worry. By then
he had seen all of the Balkans and most of Scandinavia and had visited the
Florinese and the natives of
Guilder and into Mother Russia and down step by step around the entire
Mediterranean.
By then he knew what had happened: ten years learning was ten years too long;
too much had been allowed to happen. The six-fingered man was probably
crusading in Asia.
Or getting rich in America. Or a hermit in the East Indies. Or . . . or . . .
Dead?
Inigo, at the age of twenty-seven, began having a few extra glasses of wine at
night, to help him get to sleep. At twenty-eight, he was having a few extra
glasses to help him digest his lunch. At twenty-nine, the wine was essential
to wake him in the morning. His world was collapsing around him. Not only was
he living in daily failure, something almost as dreadful was beginning to
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