Chapter four
I refuse to fight in Kazz-JikaidaPompino switched his wooden sword about and thunked me prettily on the shoulder. I nodded to him, saluted and disengaged. The flagon of ale invited from the table and I drained it all down thirstily. In these practice bouts I had hitherto always attempted the difficult task of fighting with the object of losing with superior skill, that is, of seeming to give of my utmost and yet contriving to let the other fellow win. This is, as I have remarked, difficult.
Pompino took a swingeing draught of his own ale, and wiping his reddish whiskers where the foam clung, said, “I don’t see how you lasted half a mur against Mefto the Kazzur, Jak. I really do not.”
“He is the best swordsman I have ever met, Pompino. But, I repeat, he is nowhere near the g
