Trajan ate, apprehensive at first, subtly sniffing the food and drink placed before him, convinced he was about to be poisoned. But the family’s drinks were poured from the same pitchers as his, and their food was served from the same platters. The servants smiled and greeted Trajan like he was royalty, and so he ate, and eventually ate heartily.
The family, ten altogether including young children, said grace, laughed, conversed, and generally acted as if Trajan were an honored guest. Trajan lost all perspective on what he was supposed to be doing there, and it wasn’t until the tea was served that his full stomach let his brain take over and he pondered what Westley had said.
Another Roberts? Unintentionally, Trajan stared at Westley.
Seeing this, Westley tapped his water glass with a spoon to draw everyone’s attention. “Now, Trajan, sir. Let us hear some more of your tale so that we might come to an understanding of your quest.”
“Um, my lord,” Trajan said. “I’m quite confused. All I know is that my father was killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts. At least, that is what the note we received three years ago said. Since that day, I’ve been training to fight him. I trained until my master felt I was ready. Then I sought him – you – well, maybe not you, I guess…to enact revenge on behalf of my family.”
Clover leaned forward. “And you believe killing Roberts will in some way…help?” she asked.
“Well, I mean, it won’t bring him back, but…” He looked around the table at the concerned, friendly faces. “It is my mother’s wish, I suppose.” He lowered his head, and added in a soft voice, “And my duty, sir.”
Buttercup patted Westley’s forearm. “Westley, love. You positively must help him.”
“What’s that?” Westley looked at his wife.
Buttercup gave him a look she reserved for ending conversations, slightly raised eyebrows and a mild smirk. All of the children recognized it, and one giggled.
“How else could he possibly find Roberts?” she asked.
At this, Trajan perked up. “My lord, you said I had the wrong Roberts. So, this means there is another Dread Pirate Roberts? I must find him, but I certainly don’t expect any unwarranted assistance. I will be on my way directly, by your leave.”
Westley sat back in his chair, sipped his tea, and admired Trajan for a moment. After suffering anxious glances from his family, he set down the tea. “I know of only one person who may be able to assist you in finding the Roberts you seek.” He looked at Buttercup.
“Then it’s settled,” Buttercup smiled. “You shall venture with Trajan and arrange a meeting. Oh, do give them an embrace on my behalf. Both of them. It’s been so long.”
Trajan raised an eyebrow. “Both of them?”
Westley opened his mouth to form a protest but paused, closed it again and said nothing.
Trajan and Westley stood on the deck of the magnificent yacht and waved to nearly the entire population of the island, gathered to see them off. Westley leaned into Trajan’s shoulder as the boat pushed away from the dock.
“Now, tell me more of this training, and what you’ve learned about pirates. It will certainly be important soon. Your first display was…can we agree, pitiful?”
Trajan briefly closed his eyes and sighed. “I enlisted a man named Pilbrick. He once sailed with you, er, Roberts…at least that’s what he claimed.”
“Ah. How reassuring,” Westley said, giving a final wave to the crowd.
Eight days later, Westley and Trajan moved through the crowded streets of a restless island. Onlookers eyed them with curiosity, some glared with disdain, others seemed ready to spring on them in violent fashion at any moment.
This is much more like what I expected. Trajan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword but maintained the posture of a gentleman, nodding with respect even toward those who spat when he walked by.
Westley noticed. “Your cordiality is noteworthy, but they’re predisposed to hate you no matter what you do. You are a Guildarian. It’s all they see.”
Westley seemed completely at ease, even when he passed a dozen brutes with spiked clubs who stood and murmured insults directed toward them. Trajan turned slightly to glance over his shoulder.
“If your goal is be bludgeoned to death by ten ruffians, then by all means, stop and have a chat with them. But if you want to live at least a little bit longer, I suggest keeping a steady pace with a large smile, and pay them no mind.” After a pause, he said, “Dogs will naturally yield to one who carries the authority of a master,” he said. “I’d remember that if I were you. It may come in handy.”
Trajan took a deep breath and they carried on.
Beyond the busy streets they came to a secluded area leading up to a long series of stone staircases situated in tiers leading above the city. They climbed them all, up to the right, up again to the left, through a tunnel, back to the right and so on until they finally reached the top where they were greeted by a large wall in disrepair. Brush and vines grew across the walkway, leading to what was left of a broken gate barely hanging on its hinges. They hadn’t seen a soul since they had ascended the first step.
“Is this it?”
“It would appear he’s let things go a bit.”
Westley and Trajan stepped over the brush and into a courtyard where rabbits scattered out of their way. A spinning wheel, lodged upside down in the shallow, algae-saturated water of what was once a fountain gave them pause.
Splintered wood pieces strewn around the courtyard required them to take cautious steps around rubbish and spiderwebs. Trajan examined the wrecked items, prying up with his boot tip the unmistakable section of a dismembered loom.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
Westley merely ticked his tongue in a disapproving manner and walked on.
Finally they came upon a well-tended and fragrant garden, a pleasant contrast to the destruction but it too was unusual in that at closer inspection, iron debris littered the walkways. Trajan stepped over misshapen rods, a pair of tongs, a variety of tools large and small, and several wagon wheels. Just to the left of the path, surrounded by broken rocks, they noticed a rusted anvil on its side.
They shared a look and continued on.
As they passed through a grove of peach trees, they stopped at the sight of a sword impaled into the bark of the one nearest them. The farther they went, more and more of the trees had swords, daggers, and other blades sticking out of them.
“Um –” Trajan began, before a booming voice cut him off.
“Be gone and curse you!”
A sword flew into a tree several meters ahead of them.
“Ah, yes, here we are,” Westley said.
“You mean…that’s Roberts?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Trajan started to remove his sword.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Westley said. “You’d sooner throw yourself off the cliff and save you both the trouble. He’d dispatch you in a heartbeat.”
Trajan went white. “But this is Roberts. I must.”
“This is a Roberts. For your sake I pray it’s not the Roberts, but who knows, really. Come. Let us have a word.” Westley patted Trajan on the back and walked in the direction of the chalet.
Crashing could be heard from inside, followed by more shouting as they neared the open doorway. A heavy man burst out, waving a sword.
“Curses on you, as well!” he said, repeatedly slamming the flat of the sword onto a fencepost. He stopped and bent the blade with both of his hands until it snapped, then threw the hilt end into a tree with his right hand. He was about to do the same with the broken blade in his left when he noticed Trajan and Westley. He paused with the blade held high, cocked his head to examine the men in front of him, and spoke with curiosity that tempered his fury.
“I know you.” He squinted, staring at Westley. Then he turned to Trajan. “I don’t know you.” He lowered the broken blade, took several quick steps, and was soon nose to nose with Trajan.
“Trouble with your blade, friend?” Westley asked.
The man ignored Westley, and sniffed at Trajan. “You smell nice…Guildeeerrrian.”
“Thank…you?” Trajan trembled, smelling the older man’s breath as he held his gaze.
“I’m hungry,” he said, turning and throwing the broken blade into the tree and walking back into the chalet.
Trajan looked at Westley, who nodded and followed Inigo.
“These are marvelous,” Westley said, looking at the array of swords along the walls and scattered on tables. “Did you craft them all?”
Inigo thumped down into a chair. “Craft, craft, what know I of craftsmanship? These are sharp paperweights.” Looking into the distance, he took a disgusted swig of wine. “Domingo Montoya. There was a craftsman.” He smiled, lost in thought.
“These,” he motioned with the bottle, “are not even fit for Yeste.” He took another swig.
“Come now.” Westley picked up a sword and felt it. He frowned. “Hmm,” he murmured, and slowly put it back down.
“You see. I have no skill with a blade but one,” Inigo said, dejected. “I try so many things…” He pointed at Westley. “You, my friend. You can do anything.” He slowly drained the last of the bottle. “I cannot even spin myself a tunic,” he said, and hurled the bottle into an adjacent room.
“Is that what litters your courtyard? The graves of former hobbies?” Westley asked.
Inigo nodded. “I retired here and thought ‘This is not so bad.’ I had chests of money, food by the wagon, but…nothing.” He rose partially out of his chair. “I had nothing. You hear me?”
“Well, what about friends? You have me, you have Fezzik.”
“Ah, Fezzik.” He sat again and smiled. “It has been a long time, my friend. No, Fezzik is dead.”
The girl stopped reading. She blinked.
She put her finger to the page and reread that last line, Fezzik is dead.
“No, he can’t be.”
She slammed it shut, jumped out of bed, and ran down the stairs three at a time before coming to a slide in front of her father.
“Fezzik is dead?!
Her father looked up from his book. “I told you you weren’t going to like it.”
“How can Fezzik be dead? He was my favorite character! I’m…augh!” She paced around the room. “Why would they kill Fezzik!?”
“I didn’t write it.”
Westley was astonished. “Fezzik is dead? How? Where?”
Inigo seemed lost in thought. Eventually he scratched his head and answered, “To tell you the truth, I never found out all the details. They mostly don’t speak our languages there, you know. I was only really able to discern that he drowned.”
“Where did this happen?”
“I never told you?”
“Not remotely.”
Inigo got up and retrieved two goblets, poured some wine, and handed them to Westley and Trajan. “I ask them. Well – let me back up. You remember after you bequeathed me the name of –” He glanced at Trajan.
“Don’t worry, he knows.”
Inigo nodded, drinking from the bottle he’d just poured from. “Well, after you left us, Fezzik and I sail many leagues, maybe a year, maybe more. Ah, it was a wonderful – sea battles, fencing matches, feats of strength. Those were good times…” He trailed off into thought, and Westley and Trajan waited in silence.
“Inigo?” Westley finally prompted.
“Yes, yes.” Inigo scratched his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “Fezzik, you know, he never took much to the pirate life. Most of the time he didn’t even really fight, just gave a good shout once in a while. He never liked hurting people unnecessarily. Well, you see, all the crew, they get a little tired of doing all of the fighting and Fezzik always getting all he could eat. It’s not like we ever wanted for food, but you know there is a degree of fairness, and so I see their point. I was facing mutiny. But I figure, you know, Fezzik and I could always take them all out if it came to that. But then we happened upon this lovely island in the pacific. The people were very large. The women too, very large. Fezzik, he was in heaven.
“He decided to stay. It was very hard for me, but I figure, it’s a nice place. The next year I visit, he was married with a baby on the way. The next year, he was a magistrate of some kind. It was a good situation, and they have the most lovely nuts there. Quite delicious. But then…” Inigo’s voice changed. “Then word reached me that he was killed.”
Westley saw a vengeful look come over his friend’s face. “I went full sail to that island to take my vengeance on his killer. We made port, I jumped off the ship, pulled out my sword, and pointed at the first person I saw and screamed, ‘Where is Fezzik!! What happened to Fezzik!!’ She didn’t speak my language so she just pointed inland. I went on and threatened another person. ‘What happened to Fezzik?’ I’d ask, and every person just pointed away. Eventually I made my way to his widow’s home, lovely villa, and as soon as she saw me, she cried and cried, hugging me and saying welcome back and offering me food, until eventually I accepted – they really know how to cook, those people. Believe me, if you ever get invited to a Polynesian wedding, you go. They have the best food.” He trailed off again, smiling.
“Inigo?” Westley prodded. “Fezzik? How did he die?”
Inigo shrugged. “She was too upset to talk about it.” He stood and leaned against a pillar. “All I could get was that there was a battle. The enemies were killed, Fezzik drowned.” Inigo took a long draft, emptying the second bottle, then tossed it in the same room as before.
“Well,” Westley offered in a hopeful tone, “It’s good to hear he has a family to keep his legacy. What about you, now? Any lady, any children around here? Do tell me you don’t live here all alone.”
“Why would I want children, just so that I should be killed and my child would have to dedicate his life to a blood oath of avenging me? It is a vicious, never-ending cycle of heartache and revenge.” Inigo looked at Trajan. “What is your story?”
Trajan gulped his wine. “I’m, um, here to avenge my father…killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts.”
Inigo looked at Westley. “You see what I mean.” He unsheathed his sword. “Okay, let’s get on with it, then.” Trajan’s eyes got wide. “Um, what?”
Before he could set down his goblet Inigo was upon him, brandishing his sword in Trajan’s face and causing the young man to stumble backward to escape, knocking small pieces of pottery, tools, and unshaped steel rods across the floor.
“En garde, Guilderian! En garde!” Inigo’s booming voice shook the room. He paced toward Trajan, who stumbled to regain his footing and held his hands up.
“Sir, I have no intention of fighting you unless…”
“Unless, unless! Stop your bluthering and draw your sword. En garde!”
Trajan moved to his left as Inigo pointed his blade at his heart, following his movement. Westley sipped his wine and Trajan stole a glance at him, a silent plea with his eyes for help.
“I’d at least draw your sword,” Westley suggested.
Trajan stopped, summoned his courage, and faced Inigo. He slowly drew his sword.
“Yes, yes there we have it,” Inigo said. “Why do you scamper like a scared pussy cat? I could have killed you three times already. Now, en garde!”
“Sir,” Trajan said with a gentlemanly authority, taking up his stance. “I have no intention of fighting you unless you are, in fact, the Roberts I seek. Will you reason with me to ascertain that fact, or shall we clash swords needlessly? I have no quarrel with anyone other than he who killed my father.”
“Yes, yes we shall come to that. Now,” Inigo bowed, “we shall, as you say, clash.”
Inigo advanced on Trajan with such a speed and beautiful fury that the young man scrambled to meet the onslaught. He blocked two strokes, thrust one of his own, and forced Inigo to counter in a manner that the fencing master had not needed to draw upon in years – dozens of years, in fact.
Inigo paused, shifted his feet, and tilted his head to get a good look at his foe. He took a simple step forward and disarmed Trajan with a flick of the wrist, sending Trajan’s sword spinning and nearly taking Westley’s head with it.
Westley ducked. “Easy there, now.”
Trajan stood with Inigo’s sword point at his throat. Inigo stared closely at him and, without looking away, yelled, “Westley! What have you brought me? A child to spank?”
Westley stood, retrieved Trajan’s sword. “Now, now, old friend,” he said, handing it back to Trajan. “You can see he has some skill.”
Inigo scoffed and turned away for another bottle of wine.
Trajan took a gulp of air. He gripped his sword and took up a different stance than before. “You are clearly a master,” he said and paused, digging his boots into the sawdust on the floor. “If you killed my father, I will at least die knowing I faced an adversary of some skill, dastardly pirate or not. En garde. Sir.”
Westley smiled.
Facing the other way, Inigo grinned and slowly turned. He put his hands on his hips, no longer a tired, uncomfortable old man. Nor was he a rich man, a man of stature, feared by the lower-tier inhabitants of the island where men are rarely feared. He wasn’t even the Dread Pirate Roberts again. He was Inigo Montoya, son of Domingo Montoya, and pride swelled in him as every muscle in his body flexed remembering their former glory. He drew the famous sword, designed for a man with six fingers who no longer breathed.
For his part, Trajan no longer saw Inigo as a stranger, but rather a man standing in the way of his quest – a roadblock he no longer had time to treat with. He would either dispatch this master and move on, or fail and die.
Trajan’s form was perfect. For a moment, Inigo was on the defensive but he still met every thrust, studying the young fencer. Westley watched with fascination and could tell that Trajan grew more confident as the match wore on.
“You’re holding back!” Inigo said between moves. “Why do you wait? Is that why your father is dead, he held back when he should have attacked?”
Trajan fought faster, used the small confines of the shop to his advantage. He turned and hurdled over a table, then kicked it backward toward Inigo and screamed, “I am Trajan of the Greenglen! Son of Mastan!” and lunged at his adversary.
What followed was a furious display of rage, mastery, fear, revenge, and pride bleeding from the Guilderian who fought with equal measures of hatred and focused perfection, pent up from months of anticipation and bashes in the head. The duel lasted a full two minutes longer and both Inigo and Trajan were sweating – Trajan from exertion, Inigo mainly from his weight. Westley would only ever say that he was blessed to witness it firsthand, as it was beyond his vocabulary to describe.
But the outcome was never in doubt; Inigo was far too superior.
Inigo paused, looked at his bleeding arm – the first nick Trajan had managed to land – and felt alive again. Trajan panted for air before him, bleeding from several cuts but still focused on his man. The Spaniard master took a heavy step forward and disarmed Trajan in the same casual manner as before.
Trajan watched his sword disappear into a dark corner and his eyes searched for another weapon to employ. He’s a pirate, and fighting dirty is allowed against pirates. Trajan saw a sharp handle of a broken pot. I could pick up and thrust into the old man when he isn’t expecting it. He saw a twisted nail in a nearby board. I could kick into him. He saw a pile of sawdust at his feet. I could throw into his eyes. The Guilderian, son of Mastan, remembered all of the tricks Pilbrick had bashed into him…and he employed none of them.
Instead, Trajan knelt without lowering his eyes or head. He looked Inigo in the eye and said nothing.
Holding Domingo Montoya’s sword to Trajan’s chest, Inigo spoke not to Trajan, but to Westley.
“We will need to procure a new ship. I’ve burned all of mine.”
“Oh, the one we came here on will more than suffice. How far do you suppose we will need to voyage?”
Trajan, the sword still pointed at his chest, now looked at Westley.
“I suspect he will be near Indonesia this time of year,” Inigo answered. He turned and retrieved a rag to wipe Trajan’s blood from his blade before sheathing it. “But I wouldn’t want to face all of them just yet. We should find out what might have changed.”
Trajan slowly stood, wincing at the throbbing cuts.
“And besides,” Inigo said, putting a hand on Trajan’s shoulder and examining his face, “this one needs to heal.”
Trajan blinked and looked back and forth between the older men. “I’m ready to face him.”
Westley helped Trajan into a chair. “Perhaps.”
Inigo gave an uncertain shrug.
“So, we’re off to find a different Roberts then?” Trajan turned to Inigo. “How do I know it’s not you?”
“When was your father killed?” Inigo asked.
“Three years ago.”
“Pfft. I was trying my hand at carpentry three years ago. I’ve been retired since you were in diapers.”
“So, let us depart,” Trajan said, bolting upright, then getting woozy from blood loss.
“Do not be so rushed. First, we must consult with the man who replaced me. He will be able to tell us what we will be up against.”
“You mean what Trajan will be up against,” Westley said.
“Yes, yes, Trajan, of course. We will, er, help him, train him, yes.” Inigo’s voice took on a powerful tone. “Será glorioso. We will set upon the pirate ship Revenge. We will take on –”
“You mean ‘he will take on…,’” Westley interrupted.
“Yes, he will take on Roberts, on his own ship, his own beautiful, thirty-five foot, triple-masted ship…” Inigo was lost in his thoughts again.
Trajan, sitting again, pressed his hand against his bleeding shoulder. “Please, take me to Roberts. I can’t understand why we came here at all.”
“Because I’ve never met Archard. And, also,” he looked at Inigo, “I needed to see if you could match Roberts. My wife would be oh so cross were I to let you die without being properly prepared.”
Inigo felt the cut on his arm. “He is.” He looked at Trajan and smirked.
“So, off we go,” said Westley. “You’ll get to meet another Roberts, eh?”
Trajan shook his head while nursing his wounds, muttering to himself, “Blast, how many of you are there?”
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