Acknowledgment: Thanks to Terry, Eliza and Li for beta reading this story and helping to make it better.

Chapter Four - Everyone Wears a Disguise

Marta lifted her head from the pillow, holding her breath, and listened. Across the dark room, she saw a human form silhouetted against the thin curtains of the balcony doors. She heard something being inserted under the latch which caused it to rise from the catch. The door opened and the figure slipped inside. Marta moved out of the shadows of the draped bedstead and lowered the dagger.

"Oh, it's you, " Marta whispered, relieved, as the figure stepped warily across floor.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Marta." Tessa unbuckled her sword and as she sat on the edge of the bed, she slid the sword underneath. Immediately, she pushed off the black mask and began to unlace her boots. "Who were you expecting — Señor Reverte?" Tessa chuckled.

Marta straightened indignantly. "I hardly think so." She drew in a deep breath and asked the question she had been dreading all evening, ever since Tessa had donned the Queen's costume and gone out. "Did you find Montoya?"

Tessa hesitated for a moment. "Yes," she said slowly. She shook her head. "You would not believe what he is planning. The tournament is just an excuse to be here in Monterrey." In a hushed voice, she told Marta of all she had heard. She had listened by the door of the room to which she had followed Montoya. "He didn't know I was there, of course. I watched him from the rooftops as he hid now and then to see if anyone was following him. He never thought to look on the roofs," Tessa laughed.

Her smile disappeared abruptly and she looked seriously into Marta's eyes. "What if he succeeds? There will be a civil war in California between the loyalists and Montoya's rebel army. It will be like Napoleon all over again."

Few were stirring at the hotel when Tessa left for her sparring match. Earlier, she had spent several minutes in front of the mirror applying the stage makeup as Señor Reverte had shown her. Satisfied that her fake scar was correct and the false beard and moustache were well-fastened in place, she donned the men's clothing and started for the door. Almost as an afterthought, she put on the tinted glasses, and grinned at the strange image of herself in the wall mirror.

She left Marta still sleeping and slipped out quietly into the misty streets. A morning fog from the ocean still clung to the lamp posts and drifted along the cobbled avenue. She inhaled the sharp tang of the salty air and felt the moist coolness of the breeze caressing her cheeks. Despite a rather troubled sleep, she felt alive and refreshed this morning.

The Plaza de Toros was a long walk from the hotel but Tessa enjoyed the quiet of the early morning streets. She passed vendors setting up food carts, street cleaners going home from their night's work and the local militia patrolling on horseback. Shopkeepers unfurled canopies in front of their shops, preparing for customers. All along the broad avenue there was unhurried activity, a city waking and starting a new day.

Once inside the arena, she quickly found a place to change into the white fencing outfit which she had brought in a canvas bag. Appropriately dressed, and with her disguise in place, she went through the entrance into the bullring where many fencers were already sparring.

A young man stood waiting near a long table on which were many fencing foils. His mouth gaped slightly when he saw her approaching. "Señor de la Torre?" he asked uncertainly. He was lanky and tall with an unruly crop of straw-coloured hair. Blue eyes stared at her somewhat in trepidation.

"Si. Are you my sparring partner, señor?" Tessa inclined her head slightly as the young man bowed courteously. "Well, then, let us begin." She selected a foil from the table and checked it for balance and weight. She tried a few more before she was satisfied with a sword that would suit her. Her sparring partner had watched carefully and had chosen a foil for himself.

With her mask and sword tucked under her arm, Tessa tugged off her gloves and moved away from the fencing strip to a table where water pitchers and glasses were set up. She poured herself some water and drank thirstily. The sparring had been a bit of a disappointment. She felt like she was giving fencing lessons to a junior fencer, which in fact, she probably was. Still, she thought, it had been a good workout and she felt much keener for it. The matches were scheduled to start after eleven that morning and continue throughout the day and part of the evening. Four areas were set up in the bullring to accommodate the large number of contestants in the competition.

She turned back to the fencing strips to watch the others sparring. There were several whom she thought it would be interesting to fence with, and hoped she might be paired with them. So far, she had not seen Montoya this morning. 'Perhaps he does not feel the need of practice', she thought with a disdainful shrug.

An attendant handed her a clean towel to wipe her perspiring face and dry her hands. Tessa accepted it and wandered a distance away before using it in case some of her stage makeup came off.

She gazed around the bullring and smiled. This was what she had been longing for – the thrill of competition against worthy opponents. Competition with rules, protocols.

The sparring matches had drawn a large crowd; they clustered around the chalk-marked strips and cheered on their favourites. Tessa wondered as she glanced through the crowd if Marta had come to the arena or if she was still at the hotel.

As she turned toward the exit, she nearly collided with a crippled man who leaned heavily on a wooden crutch. His clothing was tattered and a cloth cap was pulled down far on his face, hiding his eyes which he kept lowered. He shook an old tin cup before her with a mute plea for alms.

Tessa pulled a coin from her trouser pocket and dropped it in the cup, and was about to pass him, when he plucked at her sleeve.

"Is that the best you can do, señor?" the man pleaded in a hoarse voice. "Surely a rich man like you could do more to help out a poor veteran from the war." He held out the cup again and lifted his eyes to her with a sly wink.

Tessa's mouth gaped as she recognized the dark laughing eyes under the disguise. She blurted in surprise, "Marta!", then looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard. "What is the meaning of this costume? What was wrong with the one you wore yesterday?"

"I was tired of it and Jorge said he could create an even better one for me," Marta laughed as Tessa raised her eyebrows. She leaned closer and asked in an undertone. "What do you think?"

"I think if I keep meeting different strange-looking men every day, my reputation will suffer," Tessa said in an aggrieved tone.

"Well, at least the women will leave you alone."

With an arch look, Tessa said, "Thank you, Marta. I can always trust you to find the ray of sunshine in anything." Her face softened and she smiled. "But you do look incredible. Señor Reverte is a master of disguises."

"I will tell him you said so."

She took Marta's arm and guided her out of the bullring and into the circular corridor that embraced the arena. People gave way to the 'crippled' Marta as she hobbled beside Tessa, and there were even several clinks as coins fell into the cup as they passed. Tessa felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment by the time they finally reached the outside of the building.

Marta glanced into the cup and showed Tessa the pile of coins. "Not bad for an amateur," she said, laughing at the incensed expression on Tessa's face. "Do not worry. I will put it all into the poor box in Santa Elena." Marta squeezed her arm as she went toward their wagon. "Come on. I have brought a small meal from the hotel." She laughed then added, "Before I put on this disguise."

Tessa was exhilarated. Three matches and three wins. If she won again tonight, she would be among the finalists tomorrow. Her sword arm was tired, and she was a little weary as she made her way out of the arena.

Now and then she had caught sight of Marta in the crowd in the stands. She wondered where her friend would be waiting for her as they had made no particular arrangements. 'I am famished,' Tessa thought, 'But where can we go to eat?' She smiled to herself at Marta's newly-discovered penchant for disguises, then sighed. 'With Marta dressed as a beggar, I doubt if any respectable establishment will let us in.'

A veiled woman glided up to her side as Tessa stood uncertainly looking around the outside of the arena. "Do you have the time, señor?" a pleasantly husky voice asked.

Tessa drew in an uneasy breath, hoping this was not another embarrassing encounter with an importunate woman, attracted by the drama of the fencing contests. "I am sorry, señorita. I do not own a watch. I believe it is just after four o'clock however." With that, Tessa sketched a brief bow and moved away. A hand caught at her coatsleeve.

"Surely, señor, you have some time for me," the voice pleaded. A throaty chuckle issued from behind the veil. Then a daintily gloved hand lifted the heavy lace and Marta winked and dropped the veil again to cover her face.

"Marta!" Tessa exclaimed impatiently. She shrugged resignedly. "Well, at least we can go to a café and get a decent meal. I have to be back at the arena for my next match by six o'clock." With exaggerated courtesy, she took Marta's arm and led her to the gates of the arena.

Tessa checked the competitors' list and scanned the arena for the piste where her next bout would take place. With her mask tucked under her arm, she headed for a group gathered around a long strip of earth marked off by chalk lines. The four judges and the referee for the bout stood together chatting while they waited for the fencers.

She stopped near the piste and nodded courteously to the judges. Tessa noticed them all looking behind her and she turned to glance up into a pair of lustrous dark eyes. Her next opponent, she surmised. His physical presence made her catch her breath. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders that the fencing jacket did not hide. She caught herself staring at his handsome face, at the dimple on his clean-shaven chin, and the wisp of moustache above his smiling lips. Dark hair curled away crisply from his wide brow.

He bowed ceremoniously and said, "My apologies for my lateness, señor. I was detained by a dinner engagement with a lady. You understand." He winked conspiratorially and Tessa forced a smile on her lips.

"I am Armando Catalano, from Napoli. I have been watching you fence, Señor de la Torre. Such agility, such grace, such skill. I was hoping we might be matched."

"That remains to be seen, Señor Catalano," Tessa replied with a laugh. Her face coloured as she quickly put on her fencing mask. Silently she berated herself for that remark. It sounded flirtatious. 'Turn off the charm, Tessa,' she reprimanded herself fiercely. 'You're supposed to be a man. And concentrate on the bout. He's just another fencer.'

Taking a steadying breath, she stepped across the chalk lines into the fencing area to await the formal beginning of the match. The referee introduced the two opponents to the spectators who filled the stands. The din of clashing swords and cheering for the other matches nearly drowned out his words.

The two fencers saluted, then assumed the 'on guard' position and at the referee's signal, began to cautiously make a few tentative thrusts and parries. Tessa decided, since her opponent was so much taller, she would keep inside his reach, forcing him to retreat to thrust. Her strategy seemed to be working as she eventually manoeuvred him across the end line and the referee awarded her a hit point for his going out of bounds.

She could not see his eyes, but could almost feel the anger pouring off him as they moved back to on guard. 'An angry opponent makes mistakes', her fencing master had told her. Catalano was now more forceful, less careful as he tried to get inside her defence. She hit him on the chest with a disengagement, and scored another point. They resumed their position. Her opponent seemed to be determined to use his greater strength as their swords engaged again. Her parry-riposte was thrust aside and she felt a bruising hit on the shoulder of her sword arm. 'Too slow,' she reproached herself. 'I've got to get into the rhythm more.' But her sword arm was tired and now sore from the hit.

The volleys went back and forth rapidly for several minutes. Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw Montoya enter the arena. He was dressed in fencing whites and carrying a mask under his arm. That small inattention cost her another point as Catalano jabbed her under the ribcage with a hard thrust that made her wince. A rush of fury flowed through her, energizing her as she came back to on guard and proceeded to dazzle her opponent with the speed of her foil. She scored another hit.

Distance and timing. That was what Señor Torres had drilled into her all those years. But he had also taught her a few special techniques for winning against a difficult opponent. The score was three hits to two in her favour. She needed to finish this bout soon as her strength was waning quickly. Behind the hot mesh mask, she could feel her face moistening with sweat. She worried about the stage makeup. Grimly, she came back to on guard, determined to win. Their blades engaged, then Tessa took his blade briefly, making him expect an attack. She feinted, then thrust and hit him so hard in the midsection he grunted and stumbled. She struck once more as he tried to get back onto the defensive. The referee called, "Halt," and announced her as the winner.

Cautiously, Tessa removed her mask, and saluted her opponent, then stepped forward to shake his hand. He gave her a strange, searching look, shook her hand, then turned and strode away. She hurried out through the crowds and into the corridor to find a mirror. 'Why did he look at me like that?' she wondered as she entered a room where the toreadors dressed for the corrida.

With relief, she saw that the fake scar and the false moustache and beard were still intact. She left the room to return to the crowded reception area of the arena.

The din from the main lobby met her as she moved out of the corridor and into the throng filling the room. White-suited fencers mingled among elegantly clad men and women, wine glasses clinked and conversations flowed animatedly as the end of the tournament neared. After these matches, only the finalists would be left for tomorrow's bouts. A thrill of excitement ran through Tessa as she realized she would be among the finalists.

She accepted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter, and sipped reflectively as she wandered through the crush of people. She felt a tug on her jacket and looked down to see a bent old man leaning heavily on a cane standing beside her. Grizzled grey hair fringed an old top hat, and his curved body was clothed in servant's livery. He held a card in his gloved hand. Tessa could not see his eyes as he kept them cast down toward the ground.

She shook her head, compressing her lips. Bending down to his ear, she said tersely, "This time, Marta, you've gone too far!" and gave the old man's hair a sharp pull.

He yelped. Through bushy grey eyebrows a pair of rheumy blue eyes glared up at her. He hobbled back a few steps and raised his cane as if to fend her off.

Tessa's face burned as she stammered out an apology. "I am sorry, señor. I thought you looked like someone I knew, or ... someone I know might look like you by now." Confused, she took a step toward him, trying to mollify his indignation. He thrust the card into her hands and started to turn away.

"What is this?" Tessa asked.

"It's an invitation to a soirée at the villa of my mistress, the Condesa de Monte Alban. For all the finalists in the fencing matches." He eyed her suspiciously as she held the invitation as if it were hot.

Tessa began to shake her head. "Please thank the Condesa and tell her that I ..."

"Would be very pleased to accept her invitation." This statement came from a paunchy middle-aged man wearing a caramel-coloured long jacket, gaitered trousers and a fancy cravat pinned in front of a white striped shirt. A top hat covered his grey hair, and a pince-nez was perched on his nose.

Tessa gave the gaudily-dressed man a displeased look, sighed heavily and rolled her eyes heavenward. The old servant scuttled away, apparently thinking fencers were all crazy, and disappeared into the crowd.

"You're obviously having a much better time than I am, Marta," Tessa said petulantly. "What's next — the Gypsy dancer in the seraglio?" She wished immediately she could call back that mean-spirited remark as Marta's eyes narrowed angrily.

"I'm saving that one for last," Marta said with asperity as she turned to make her way through the crowd to the exit.

Tessa hastened after her and caught her arm. "I'm sorry, Marta. That was cruel and selfish of me. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. I'm just tired, my sword arm hurts and I'm worried about Montoya." She smiled apologetically.

"It is all right. I know you are under a lot of pressure. I have not helped. It is true, though. I am having a lot more fun than I thought I would. Señor Reverte is letting me help with the costumes and makeup for the play."

Tessa's face fell suddenly. "I can't go to that soirée tonight, Marta. I don't have anything suitable to wear."

"Come with me. Señor Reverte will fix you up." Marta laughed as she led Tessa out of the arena towards their wagon. "Montoya is in the finals too, so he should be at the soirée. You can keep an eye on him."

"What will you wear tonight, Marta?" Tessa asked worriedly.

"I'm not going to the soirée. I was not invited, ...and besides I'm going to a party tonight. After the play, an opening night party is being held in the theatre and Jorge has asked me to go with him." Marta grinned at the shocked look on Tessa's face.

Chapter 5 - We all have secrets to hide

She felt as if she was choking. The rigid starched collar pressed tightly against her throat and chafed under her jaw. 'Why on earth do men wear these things?' she wondered then thought, 'Probably men wonder why women would wear tight corsets. It's just vanity,' she admitted. As she passed a long mirror in the large brilliantly lit salon, she caught sight of herself and nearly laughed aloud. A dark-haired dandy stared back at her wearing a short-waisted black jacket trimmed in brocade over a pair of tight black trousers. Under the jacket she wore a white linen shirt with fancy pearl buttons and a black satin cravat at her throat. The neat goatee and moustache made her face look more angular and the tinted glasses hid her eyes completely. "I think I look rather handsome in a mysterious sort of way,' she thought with a slight smirk.

Several times since she had come into the salon alone, she felt eyes following her. She saw Montoya turn quickly as she looked his way, and another time, it was Señor Catalano who was watching her. Both men seemed to have a bemused look on their faces. 'Do I look that strange to them?' she wondered as she turned away from her mirror image.

A small orchestra played over the din of conversation and many couples danced in a small cleared area in front of the bandstand. From a doorway, Tessa watched, longing to join the dancers. She sighed and sipped at her wine. The glass was empty and she was about to search for another when her path was intersected by Colonel Montoya.

He bowed formally, and said, "We meet again, Señor de la Torre. My wish has come true. We are paired in one of the final matches tomorrow. It has been an interesting test of skills, no?" Montoya smiled though his grey eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate the tinted glasses.

"Yes, the matches have been most stimulating, Colonel ..." Tessa feigned embarrassment as she pretended to forget his name.

"Montoya," he said pleasantly. "I see your wineglass is empty. Allow me to get you another." He snapped his fingers at a passing servant carrying a full tray of drinks. The servant offered the glasses to Montoya and he took two, giving Tessa one.

"Are you trying to get me drunk so I won't be at my best tomorrow?" Tessa jested as she took a quick sip of the wine.

"I have watched you fence, señor. Anything that gives me an advantage is worth a try," he laughed as he toasted her and then took some of his wine. His gaze became more intense as he asked, "Where did you say you were from, Señor de la Torre?"

"I did not say, Colonel. I have lived in many places. Where are you from?" Tessa squirmed inwardly under his close scrutiny. She struggled to maintain her composure, feeling that he knew her beard and moustache were fake. If only he would turn that piercing grey stare on someone else.

"Toledo," Montoya answered offhandedly. He peered more closely at her eyes. "It must be difficult, perhaps even dangerous to fence wearing spectacles ...especially tinted ones," Montoya observed.

"It would be even more dangerous not to wear them," Tessa replied coolly, keeping her voice low and raspy. "My eyes are sensitive to light so I must always keep them on."

At that moment, the other colonel whom Montoya called 'Ignacio' walked by in the company of an elegantly dressed woman. No sign of recognition passed between the two men. Tessa immediately inferred they were deliberately pretending to be unacquainted to allay suspicion they were co-conspirators if the plot was uncovered. A cold chill ran down her spine as she looked at Montoya. In his elegant dress tunic with its gold braid, he looked magnificent, regal. His dreams of empire seemed to be within fulfilment if all went as planned tomorrow night.

"If you will excuse me, Colonel ...uh ...Montoya, I believe I see someone I know." With that she moved across the crowded salon toward Señor Catalano who had been signalling to her.

When she arrived at his table, she noticed two women seated with him. Sudden panic gripped her but she was trapped for the moment.

Catalano stood up and gestured to the women. "I was just telling these two charming señoritas how I, Armando Catalano, the greatest duellist in Napoli, was bested today. I am your humble servant, Señor de la Torre," he said with a deep bow. "Please join us." He held out a chair for her to sit next to a very pretty girl who seemed to be about seventeen years old. Her companion was probably closer to Tessa's age.

"May I introduce you to Doña Anastacia de Monte Alban, and her sister, Alma." Anastacia held out her hand and Tessa took a deep breath and swallowed, realizing she was expected to kiss that delicate hand. Awkwardly, she bent and brushed her lips over it, suppressing an irrational urge to laugh at her preposterous situation. With what enthusiasm she could muster, she also kissed the younger woman's hand. She felt her cheeks burning as she sat beside Alma de Monte Alban.

For several seconds, an uncomfortable silence prevailed at the table. Then, Catalano rose and bowed to the woman sitting next to him. "May I have the honour of this dance?" He helped her from her chair and led her onto the dance floor, leaving Tessa alone with her younger sister.

Tessa gazed longingly at the crowded dance floor glowing under the brilliance of the crystal chandeliers, and tapped her foot in time to the music. She followed the smooth and graceful Señor Catalano as he swept his partner around the small space. A discontented sigh escaped her.

"Señor de la Torre," the young woman began, touching Tessa's arm and making her start. "My aunt is the Condesa de Monte Alban. She is giving this soirée. I find it a terrible bore, don't you?" She inclined her head conspiratorially toward Tessa, and added, "If I could escape my duenna, we could go to a party that will be a lot more fun than this funeral."

Tessa was taken aback. Then she nearly laughed. Alma reminded her of herself at the same age, always looking for something more exciting, more adventurous to do. The girl made her feel old and serious. "I think your aunt would miss you if you left without her permission, Señorita de Monte Alban. You had better remain here where you are safe." She bit her tongue to keep back a giggle. 'Did I actually say that?' she thought. 'Marta would laugh heartily if she could hear me.' How many times had she done exactly the same thing, eluding Marta to go with a group of young people to a private party. A little freedom was all she had wanted, the same as this young girl.

"Well, then, why don't you ask me to dance?" the girl said boldly. Her oval face had the freshness and innocence of a child, but her dark eyes were full of mischief and daring. A seductive smile spread over her lips as she reached for Tessa's hand.

Tessa moved her hand away and stammered, "I'm afraid I can't dance this evening. I am saving my strength for tomorrow's matches, señorita. I hope you understand." It was a limp excuse, Tessa knew, especially when Alma frowned and threw her a disdainful look. As soon as Catalano and the other woman returned, Tessa stood up. She bowed to the women and said, "Thank you for your pleasant company. I must return to my hotel for a good night's rest. Buenas noches."

Her hands were shaking as she strode quickly through the brightly lit salon, past people laughing and enjoying themselves, past ladies glittering with jewellery and men in their elegant finery. Inwardly, she cursed her disguise. 'If I had come as myself, I could have had a good time tonight. Perhaps, I could even have had a few dances with Señor Catalano.' Instead, she was leaving just as the party was getting started, 'and all because of this damned disguise,' she thought bitterly.

As she emerged into the cool night air, a mischievous thought struck her. A quick look at the town clock showed it was just after ten, still early. Her first match was not until noon tomorrow. She grinned to herself as she hailed a horse-drawn cab from a rank in the circular drive in front of the villa. 'I can use this disguise to my advantage,' she thought as she climbed into the calash and gave the address to the driver.

She paid the cabdriver and stepped down into the dark alley. The cabby drove quickly up the lane and disappeared, apparently uneasy about this part of the city. Tessa opened the door and went inside, following the noise of a party in full swing. Loud laughter and music flowed toward her as she ascended a short flight of steps and opened the door into the backstage area of the Teatro Real.

Tessa slipped quietly through the canvas backdrops and stage properties to the wings. As she gazed onto the stage, she could see many people in small groups, laughing, drinking, dancing. She grinned as she caught sight of Marta with a cluster of people around her, demonstrating some intricate flamenco steps which the other women tried to follow.

Sudden inspiration struck her and Tessa rushed down the corridor to the dresser's room. She pushed open the door and went in. On the long table, Señor Reverte had left a small lamp burning with its wick turned down. Quickly she turned up the wick and surveyed the treasures that lay heaped on every surface. With an excited snicker she set to work.

A musician from the theatre orchestra was playing a lively tune on his guitar as Tessa made her entrance. She twirled across the floor to the group Marta was with and stamped out an impressive flamenco. All eyes turned toward her and a chorus of "Brava's" and "Ole's" accompanied her. When the tune ended, she finished with a flourish. Breathlessly, she grinned at the applause and bowed modestly. Her smile faltered as she encountered Marta's eyes.

Marta came forward ostensibly to kiss her cheek. Instead, she whispered fiercely in Tessa's ear, "What do you think you are doing in that costume?"

She led Marta a distance from the group. The din of the party resumed, louder than before. "I was tired of looking like a man. I wanted to look like a woman again," Tessa protested.

"Well, you have succeeded. That costume hides almost nothing!" Marta's eyes snapped with anger, her voice harsh. She took a step back and surveyed the woman before her.

Tessa wore a short sleeved blouse fitted tightly over the bodice and ending just below her ribcage, leaving her midriff exposed. Her legs were encased in a voluminous pair of dark blue harem pants. Several diaphanous veils of various colours covered her bare shoulders, and a short silk veil masked the lower half of her face. She thought her costume was exquisite, a sentiment Marta obviously did not share.

"You mock me with this costume," Marta said bitterly, turning away.

Tessa sighed heavily. "It was meant to be a joke. A Gypsy dancer in a seraglio." She chuckled as she looked down over her costume. "I thought you would think it was funny. I meant no offense, Marta," she said seriously, putting her hand on her friend's shoulder.

Marta faced her. "Why did you not stay at the other party? You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Montoya."

"It was dull, and I was bored. Besides, Montoya was making me nervous. He was watching me all evening. I don't know why. Maybe he could see through my disguise. So I came here to have some fun." A tentative smile played across Tessa's lips. "Come on, Marta," she urged, taking Marta's hands. "Say you forgive me and let's enjoy ourselves."

Marta's face softened. "All right, but go and put on something less revealing." She suddenly laughed. "You do make a good harem dancer, though. Your flamenco was excellent."

"I had a good teacher," Tessa replied as she began to turn toward the wings. A commotion near the rear of the empty theatre drew her attention. She caught her breath as she saw a group of eight people making their way down the centre aisle toward the stage. In front of the group was a familiar figure. His black cloak draped smoothly over his broad shoulders, and even from this distance, Tessa could feel the magnetism of his presence.

Marta tapped her arm, and said quietly, "Isn't that the man you fenced with tonight?"

"Yes, I won against him. He is very good." Her eyes shone with admiration as he agilely leapt up the few steps onto the stage and heartily grasped the playwright's hand. His booming voice carried over the noise of the party.

"Congratulations, Carlos!" he said enthusiastically. "I wish I could have been here for your opening night, but I had that damned fencing contest then a boring party to go to. But here I am now." He threw a rough hug around the thin playwright's shoulders, producing a grunt from him.

Tessa watched Armando Catalano and his entourage being introduced to the cast and then looked uncertainly at Marta. "Perhaps we should leave. I still have the finals tomorrow. I can't take a chance on being recognized, exposed."

Marta arched her eyebrows at the last word with a rueful look at Tessa's costume. "It is a bit late to worry about being exposed. But I doubt if he could make the connection between your disguises."

A pert smile flitted across Tessa's face, a twinkle of mischief lit her dark eyes. "You're right, Marta. He couldn't. Excuse me. I think I'll get some wine." She gave Marta a saucy wink and started across the stage to a makeshift bar where wine bottles and glasses were set up. She passed the large group around Catalano without a glance and started to pick up one of the bottles.

A voice close behind her said, "Con permisso, señorita, if you would allow me." The bottle was taken from her hand and she turned slowly to meet a pair of bold dark eyes in a tanned and handsome face. His even white teeth gleamed as he smiled. He poured her wine, and lifted the glass into her hand. "I am Armando Catalano, from Napoli. Who is this masked vision I see before me?"

Tessa held out her hand. "Maria Theresa de Navarre," she replied with a warm smile. He bent over her hand and kissed it sensuously. His fingertips grazed her palm, sending a thrill through her.

"Are you an actress?" he asked as his eyes brazenly took in the glimpses of bare flesh scarcely covered by her veils. He obviously liked what he saw as his smile broadened and the grip of his hand tightened on hers.

"No. I am just a friend of the dresser," Tessa said, withdrawing her hand. She was glad of the veil masking her face. It was hot from embarrassment. She wished she could have gone backstage to find something a little less revealing to wear. The warmth in his eyes made her feel almost as if he was making love to her. She had met his sort many times before at the Spanish Court and knew how to handle him. She drew herself up, lifting her chin haughtily and returned his bold gaze with one of her own. "I assume you are not an actor, Señor Catalano."

A loud laugh nearby answered for him. "Dios, no, señorita. Armando is the greatest duellist in Italy and Spain. He has half a dozen noble titles as well." The playwright, slightly tipsy, slapped Catalano on the shoulder good-naturedly. "He is also the reincarnation of Don Juan," the playwright added, shaking his finger warningly at Tessa. "So be careful, señorita."

Catalano grimaced and steered the playwright, Carlos, off into another direction. "Pay no attention to him. He overdramatizes everything ...but then that is his job." He laughed, then turned his full attention on Tessa, making her feel ill at ease.

"So you are a great fencer, Señor Catalano," Tessa remarked. She had to lift her veil to take a sip of her wine which seemed to amuse him.

"I thought I was until today." Catalano turned to the group surrounding him and laughed deprecatingly. "I was thoroughly trounced today by a better man." His face grew serious and he gazed intently at Tessa. "Have you ever heard of the unstoppable thrust?"

Tessa giggled and shook her head. "I'm almost afraid to ask what that is." Many of the group laughed at her risque remark.

Catalano smiled briefly and said, "I had always thought it was a myth among fencers ...that there could be an unstoppable thrust. But today, I was a witness to it. Actually, a victim of it." He regarded her gravely with a mirthless smile. "I felt like a clumsy bear fencing this man. I have gone over and over the bout, trying to think how I could have countered that thrust, but can come up with nothing. It was unstoppable."

Tessa tapped him lightly on the arm. "I think now it is *you* who are overdramatizing, señor. More than likely, it was just a lucky stroke. If you met the same fencer again, you would probably win." Around them, his retinue nodded their heads and murmured in agreement.

He looked around at his clique, and laughed lightly. "You may be right. It might have been my imagination playing tricks on me." Suddenly, all seriousness was gone from his countenance and he grinned. "Now, I see there is music and wine and a beautiful woman before me. Why be melancholy? Let us be gay and enjoy ourselves. Dance with me," he added, holding out his hands.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of dancing, laughter and witty conversation. Catalano charmed her until she felt she was under a spell. At length, the town clock struck two, and Tessa realized the party must end for her. Extricating herself from the group with Catalano, she searched for Marta. She was among the actors and stage crew, most of whom were quite tipsy and laughing uproariously. Tessa approached her and nodded toward the stage wings. Marta got up immediately and met her off-stage.

"I'm going to change back into my male costume. I'll meet you outside in ten minutes," Tessa whispered. With a last regretful look across the stage at the lively party, she hurried down the corridor to the dresser's room to resume her male persona.

Chapter Six - There's a hero's eyes

The noise in the arena was almost deafening. It seemed the stands were packed for the concluding events of the fencing competition. The twenty finalists paraded in like toreadors, wearing their fencing whites, through the gates and onto the sand of the bullring. The roar of the crowd grew louder. Tessa experienced a rush of exhilaration, feeling what a matador must feel standing in the midst of all that adulation, all that passion directed at him. It was unnerving and yet thrilling. She grinned and waved, hoping Marta was somewhere among the crowd. A little worry nagged at her as she wondered what disguise Marta was wearing today.

In the front row of the stands, bunting and flags were draped over the wood barrier, and seated in a private box among a large group of dignitaries, was the Viceroy himself. Tessa had not met the new Viceroy as he had not yet visited their pueblo in his tour of Alta California. If Montoya liked to adorn himself lavishly, he had nothing on the Viceroy. The portly man's tunic was covered completely with gold braid, and festooned with medals and ribbons. His gold epaulets were the largest Tessa had ever seen. She almost laughed, as his military outfit seemed like a costume, a parody of a military tunic. 'If only Señor Reverte could see him,' Tessa thought wickedly. 'What a burlesque he could make of this pompous bureaucrat.'

He obviously thought highly of himself as he glanced loftily at the fencers, raising his lorgnette now and then to gaze myopically around the arena. Occasionally, he flourished a handkerchief to mop his moist brow. Tessa guessed he was in his mid-fifties, judging by his lined face and balding pate of wispy grey hair.

The Viceroy and his party sat under a canopy, protected from the blazing sun. Tessa was reminded of the Roman gladiatorial contests. She stifled a smile as she wondered if the Viceroy would turn thumbs down on her if she lost. 'He certainly would if he knew who I am,' she thought in wry amusement.

Sudden cold dread ran through her as remembered he was the target of a plot that would culminate tonight after the ceremonies. There had been nothing she could do to prevent the conspiracy from taking place. The Viceroy would never have believed her even if she could have warned him. It would be her word against two of his trusted colonels? Who was she to carry such a tale?

Tessa turned her attention to the pistes where the judges were assigning the fencing pairs for the first four matches. These were the elimination bouts out of which would come the four finalists to determine the overall winner. Her stomach clenched and she felt breathless with excitement. She had come so far! Señor Torres would be very proud. She had taken part of his name to honour him – de la Torre.

With a dry throat, she stepped into the fencing area, and saluted her opponent. He was smaller than Tessa, with a wiry frame. She sensed an agile strength in him that would test her skills and strategies.

She was relieved when the bout ended. Her final touch had won the match but just barely. Breathing heavily, she saluted her opponent, and stepped off the piste, hardly conscious of the wild cheers and bravos rolling through the arena from the stands. She had a few hours before her next bout and needed to rest. Staying up half the night had not been a good idea, after all, she decided. Her next match was with Montoya and she wanted to be at her best for that contest.

Tessa headed for the toreadors' dressing room where she knew she would be alone. She found the room empty as she expected, and laid down on a bench near the wall. Moments later she was asleep.

Something touched her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she brushed away a hand reaching for the tinted glasses. Montoya! His grey eyes seemed amused, mocking as he leaned over her recumbent form. She scrambled to her feet and rasped, "What are you doing, señor?"

"I was sure you would not want to miss our match, Señor de la Torre. I was merely trying to wake you." A smile laced with derision flitted across his face. "Too much wine, women and song last night?"

Tessa recovered her composure and gave him a lofty look. "Gracias, Colonel..." She raised her eyebrows inquiringly and waited.

"Montoya," he snapped. He stood aside as she strode from the room.

Her head was a little hazy as she entered the bullring. She made straight for the table where water pitchers and glasses were set up, poured herself a long drink and finished it quickly. Feeling much better, she headed for the piste where Montoya was already inside the chalk lines waiting for her.

While the referee went through the usual formalities, introducing the opponents and the four judges, Tessa studied her adversary. She had never been in this particular situation with him before. All their previous encounters had been brief, explosive, and without rules. Her intention then was just to survive or escape. Only later did the reaction set in and she would tremble from the terror of her brush with death. Now, she felt tense, excited as her hand gripped her foil and she eagerly watched Montoya.

His body seemed taut, like a coiled spring; his pale eyes never left her face. The fencing jacket fitted smoothly over his chest, and he held the sword as if it was part of his hand. Tessa could see he was familiar with fencing competitions. He had his own fencing gear as did she.

The formal introductions made, the fencers donned their masks and saluted. The referee signalled for the duellists to come to on guard, then said, "Engage." For several long moments, Montoya seemed to be testing the strength of her sword arm with tentative thrusts and parries. They were nearly of a height so his only advantage was his strength. With several small feints, he tried to tempt her into an aggressive move, but Tessa remained calmly in control, watching for an opening, looking for a weakness in his defence. It came quickly as he half-thrust then retreated to draw an attack. With lightning speed, Tessa drove under his sword and scored a touch on his abdomen. He uttered a low growl as the judge awarded her a point.

Returning to on guard, Montoya's stance was more rigid, more tense. Tessa could almost see his steely eyes glaring at her. He launched a sudden attack, advancing several steps, forcing her to retreat while keeping her defence on the upper third of her sword. She left him no way through to score a touch. He lunged and slashed her on the nearly unprotected flesh of her thigh, which was covered only by her fencing trousers. In foils, only the torso is a valid target. The anguish of that stroke made her gasp with pain, tears blinded her for a moment and he scored a touch on her chest. Whistles and jeers from the audience almost drowned out the referee's announcement of a point to Montoya.

The welt on her leg burned like fire, and fury raged through her. He was fighting dirty but within the rules. So be it. Taking several deep breaths as she returned to on guard, Tessa tried to control her anger and ignore the pain. She decided to take the offensive and pressed a vicious attack, driving him back as her foil flashed like lightening. She had discovered his weakness, the lower outside and thrust quickly into that quarter, scoring a hard touch on his left side that nearly bent her foil double. She smiled behind her mask as she heard him grunt from the impact and drew back to on guard.

Montoya seemed galvanized by the second point to her and began to use his strength against her foil. The hard blows on her sword made it difficult to parry and stay in defence. For several minutes, he kept up a volley of brutal slashes and thrusts but Tessa held her ground, refusing to retreat. Around her, she was dimly aware of loud cheering from the crowd. All her concentration was on the man and the blades which clashed and sang in an almost trance-like aura of light and sound.

Suddenly, he lifted her blade and drove beneath, striking her just below the bib of the mask that protected the throat. She staggered and choked, unable to get her breath for several seconds. Sparkling lights danced before her eyes and she thought she was going to faint. She shook her head to clear it and glanced at the referee. He was frowning but there was nothing he could do. It was a valid hit. Two points each.

The pain in her leg was easing, but the muscle was starting to tighten. A sudden cramp could give him another opening for a hit. Grimly, she came at him with renewed determination. A few quick thrusts to open his defence left her with the target she sought. She thrust at his groin area, and made a hard hit. The cuissard protected him but she could still hear him hiss with pain. Around her, she heard laughter and cheers. The crowd around the piste and in the stands seemed clearly on her side.

Three points in her favour, but her leg was weakening. She could feel the nerves twitching. The bout had to end soon and conclusively, or she would be out of the finals. Swallowing hard, she decided on a bold move that could either win quickly or lose just as quickly. The attack must be timed exactly with no indication to the opponent of what was coming. Fencing was the art of deception.

She sparred with Montoya for several seconds, inviting him to engage with small feints while preparing herself for the flèche, a fast lunging attack. She poised, settling her balance on her leading foot, then leapt forward almost running as she lunged at Montoya. She scored a hit on his chest. As she passed him on his left, she turned swiftly, regaining her balance and touched him again as he twisted to defend himself. A loud roar rose from the crowd. She had won!

Her breathing was laboured as she pulled off the mask and stepped toward Montoya to shake his hand as protocol demanded. His grey eyes glittered angrily as he briefly touched her hand, bowed curtly and strode off the piste, pushing through the crowd. Tessa felt several hands clap her on the shoulder as she too moved off the fencing strip toward the exit. She wanted some privacy to have a look at the welt on her thigh. Maybe Marta had something with her to make it pain less, and loosen the muscle. She still had two more bouts to survive and then the final one. Tessa hoped to be the overall winner. Why else come all this way and compete?

As Tessa moved through the crowded corridor, an elderly priest signalled to her. He was garbed in a dusty black cassock and wore a wide brimmed hat on his head. The features were obscured by a long unruly grey beard and moustache, but Marta could see that Tessa recognized her this time.

She moved to the priest's side and whispered, "Bless me, Father..."

"...for you have sinned," Marta added with a throaty laugh.

"After that match with Montoya, I was beginning to think I would need a priest for the Last Rites. Were you watching?"

"Yes, I saw it all. Bastardo!" Marta spat.

"Really, Padre! Such language. Say two Hail Mary's and pray to control your temper." Tessa laughed then took Marta's arm and steered her toward the toreadors' dressing room. "My leg is killing me. Do you have anything with you to ease the pain. I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish the competitions."

"I brought some herbal remedies with me. The ones I use for all those cuts and bruises you seem to be acquiring lately since we have been in California." Marta smiled grimly and reached inside a pocket of the cassock to produce a small corked bottle. "Take this. It's arnica and should reduce the pain and swelling." A concerned expression crossed her face. "Does it hurt much?" At Tessa's nod, she added, "You must keep moving to prevent the muscle from cramping."

"Did you bring the things I asked for?" Tessa asked as they entered the dressing room.

Marta patted a black pouch hanging by her side. "It's in here. Just tell me where and when to meet you with it." She sat on the bench and watched Tessa pacing back and forth, a worried frown creasing her brow. "What will you do tonight?"

Tessa halted and took a deep breath. "I don't know yet. But I have to do something. At least, I can keep an eye on Montoya as long as he is still among the finalists. I beat him but he still has two more matches as I do, before he's either eliminated or matched with the last fencer." Tessa grinned suddenly. "I have a good chance of winning, Marta. Imagine that." Sheer, youthful exuberance lit her face and she hugged herself tightly in her excitement.

Marta smiled indulgently at Tessa's mercurial mood swings. She was like quicksilver, never still for a moment. "You will win if you want it that much. Now take the arnica and let me see the wound. It may not be so bad."

From a discreet distance, he followed the unlikely pair as they moved down the corridor away from the crowds and saw them enter a room. With seeming casualness, he strolled past the closed door, checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had seen him. He then returned, leaned his ear to the panel and listened intently to their conversation. He controlled his breathing, trying to catch everything they said. 'So,' he thought grimly. 'I was right.'

Their talk ended and he hurried down the corridor and entered another room. He waited until he was sure they had returned to the main lobby of the arena, then rejoined the crowd. His brow was furrowed as he watched the pair exit the arena. 'As if I don't already have enough on my mind, now I have to keep an eye on those two as well,' he thought irately.

Picking up a glass of wine from a passing waiter, he sipped it absently, as he deliberated over his plans for tonight. Timing was everything. Nothing must be left to chance.

Tessa's next two bouts were the hardest she had ever fought. Thanks to Marta's medicine, the muscle in her thigh seemed to be less painful though each time she put her weight on that leg, she was reminded that it was still sore and weakened. However, those two victories placed her against the other finalist in the last match of the day.

She had nearly lost her last bout when she saw Señor Catalano on the sidelines of the piste, watching her intently. His presence pulled her attention away from her opponent. She felt his eyes on her like a physical touch. It had taken all her concentration to keep her mind on her adversary and his flashing blade.

After the match, Catalano had fallen into step beside her as she moved away from the fencing strip. He grinned and patted her on the shoulder. "Well done, ...señor." Was there a hint of mockery in his tone? Tessa wondered. "Why did you not use the 'unstoppable thrust'?" he asked jovially.

"There is no such thing, Señor Catalano," Tessa laughed self-consciously. 'So that is why he was watching me so closely. He had hoped to see the series of moves that led to this secret technique. He must have been disappointed.'

"So you are now in the last match of the tournament. Felicidades, señor. I wish you well." With that, he gave a brief bow and sauntered away through the gates leading to the main lobby.

As she lowered her sword, thunderous applause beat around her ears. She could hardly believe it! She had won!

It had taken every ounce of strength, every technique she knew, but she had beaten the last of the finalists. All of the fatigue and soreness disappeared, however, as she raised her sword and turned to the audience. She saluted them formally, and they responded with wild cheers. She removed her mask, tucking it under her arm and saluted her opponent, then moved forward to shake his hand. A tight smile crossed his lips as they gripped briefly, then he bowed and left the piste.

Tessa could see the Viceroy stepping out of his private box and moving with measured stately paces across the bullring toward her. Behind him, a young man carried a satin pillow with several items upon it. They arrived at the fencing strip and the Viceroy walked up to her and bowed gracefully. Tessa returned the bow. Behind her tinted glasses, her eyes smarted as she tried to control her emotions.

The Viceroy turned to the audience and held his hand up for silence. After a few seconds, the din died down and he began to speak. "This fencing competition," he intoned dramatically, "has brought together the greatest swordsmen in Alta California and beyond. We have been honoured by their presence and dazzled by their skills." He paused as the crowd roared and he held up his hand again. "For the past three days, we have watched a drama unfold as these warriors have competed fairly and with strict adherence to the rules of gentlemanly combat. Before I present the prizes, let us show our appreciation to all the contestants who fought so well."

The noise in the arena swelled to a crescendo then slowly quieted again as the Viceroy turned to the young man bearing the prizes. With calm dignity, the Viceroy lifted a ribbon from which was suspended a gold medallion. He draped it ceremoniously over Tessa's head, letting it rest on her shoulders. The medal was heavy and ornately inscribed. Tessa gave a tremulous smile, not trusting her voice. Next, he picked up a long object wrapped in black satin. He pulled off the wrapping and presented a shiny new rapier to her. It was the most beautiful sword she had ever seen.

Tessa was taken aback. She had not expected such a prize. Swallowing several times, she finally stammered, "Gracias, Your Excellency." She took the sword carefully into her hand. It was perfectly balanced and the hilt fitted as if it had been made for her. She felt the Viceroy's hand on her shoulder. He pulled her out into the open, then left her to stand alone with her prizes.

She lifted the medal in one hand and the sword in the other and saluted the audience once more. As she gazed up into the cheering crowd, she wondered if there would ever be another moment in her life like this.

Concluded in Part 3

Please send your comments on this story to the author, Maril Swan