Being confined in a small space on board ship was a fact of life, and one to which Connor had long become accustomed.  And living in close quarters with his kinsman and student was also something that had become part and parcel of everyday life.  But confined in close quarters with a sexually frustrated man being actively pursued by an equally frustrated and sexually potent young woman was enough to drive any sane man to the brink.  It was almost as irritating as being pursued by Brigitte himself. 

"How about I just sleep below decks with the crew, and you and Brigitte use our cabin," Connor groused, already knowing what Duncan's answer would be.  He was tempted to mouth the words along with his student. 

"Och, No, Connor!" Duncan responded predictably with a look of affronted honor.  "Not with the lass' father only a few feet away.  And she is wanting marriage, not just a quick ride between the sheets."  Duncan paced the two strides it took to get from one side of their cabin to the other.  "And how could you tell her that I was looking for a bride?  You know that's not true, you bastard!" 

Connor was sitting on his narrow bunk, slicing and eating a slightly shriveled apple with his dirk.  "I'm really sorry about that.  Must've been Seamus' grog.  Didn't know what I was saying."  He didn't meet his student's dubious look, concentrating diligently on the perfection of his cut of apple. 

Duncan narrowed his eyes at his teacher.  "I don't recall you drinking that much grog, Connor MacLeod." 

Connor chuckled.  "I'm surprised you recall anything at all.  You were passed out or puking for most of the next day."  He glanced up, and almost chuckled again when his clansman's complexion faded to a distinctly odd shade at the memory of the aftereffects of Seamus' poisonous brew.  Fortunately for everyone, Seamus and Duncan had consumed the last of the stuff that first night, or Seamus might not have survived the trip.  "I, however, am old enough that no amount of grog actually makes me sick," he lied smoothly. 

Duncan made a dubious noise and gave him a baleful look, so Connor concentrated on the last of his apple.  His student was naive about some aspects of life, but he was not stupid.  It was best not to push his credibility too far. 

The city of Genoa was a riot of color and odor and movement, warmed and ripened by gentle Mediterranean breezes that had the crew and passengers of the Brigitte stripping off layers of clothing.  Even so, the Genovese were well wrapped against what, for them, was a crisp winter chill.  Connor carried his cloak over his arm, but Duncan had gone so far as to pack his away in the trunks the crew was loading onto carts to be hauled to a nearby inn. 

Normally, Duncan would have been happily chattering about all the new sights and sounds of the colorful city, but the lad was still brooding over his difficult departure from Brigitte, who had been left sobbing in their cabin, convinced she would never love again.  Connor felt a twinge of guilt at his own less-than-honorable role in her misery but firmly shoved the thought away.  If it hadn't been Duncan who had been forced to let her down, then he would have had to do the deed himself, and he had a bit less ease and flair with the ladies than did his handsome kinsman.  Brigitte was much better off suffering the gentle refusal of Duncan MacLeod than the rude, brusque and ill-considered dumping that Connor would have inflicted on her.  Connor just hoped he lived long enough to have some of Duncan's natural finesse with the fairer sex rub off on his teacher. 

But Duncan couldn't stay introspective for too long with the whitewashed buildings of the large port city gleaming in the Mediterranean sun, and soon his head began to saw back and forth as he tried to take in everything at once.  By the end of the half hour trek to their hotel, Duncan was peppering him with questions and practicing his broad smile and a friendly "Buon Giorno!" with every passerby. 

Connor was just glad to be back in what he now considered 'real' civilization, and as the innkeeper suspiciously eyed their kilts, he realized they would have to dress the part of young Continental gentlemen in order to blend into the crowds.  That wasn't such a problem for him, as he still had some appropriate clothing, but getting his student to wear European fashions might prove to be a challenge. 

"What's wrong with my kilt?" Duncan insisted when Connor broached the topic at dinner.  "It's relatively clean, it's in good repair, and it is so warm here, why would anyone want to wear britches?  It's not healthy to constrict the blood flow to certain parts of your body, you know, Connor," he added with a wink to his teacher. 

"You've worn britches before, Duncan," Connor sighed.  "It is just so you will blend in more easily.  No Immortal wants to stand out in a crowd, and you do enough of that without scaring half of the countryside into thinking they are about to be attacked by a godless Northern Barbarian." 

Duncan's eyes were twinkling as he eyed his teacher.  "I'm nay godless, Connor, and well you know it.  Besides, methinks yon signorinas might be pleased to be attacked by a Northern Barbarian, godless or not."  Connor turned to find a cluster of women standing at the edge of the outdoor eating area, fluttering their fans and whispering together as they eyed the two unusually attired Scots. 

"They're just laughing at your hairy legs, cousin," Connor smirked. 

"I'll have you know many a lass has told me I have strong, fine legs, Connor MacLeod.  Or maybe you should ask one of them," he nodded again at the small crowd of daringly dressed admirers. 

"I'd be careful of asking them anything, Duncan, since they're no doubt more interested in your purse than your legs.  And I mean your coin purse, kinsman, not the other one." 

Duncan looked shocked.  "Nay.  They're not!"  Then he looked more closely at the 'girls', several of whom waved at him and cocked their hips suggestively.  "Well," he sighed with a twist of his mouth, "at least here they're a little prettier than the ones in Edinburgh."  Then a look of panic flashed across his face and he ducked his head, finding sudden fascination in his stew. 

"Oh?" Connor asked, and put down his spoon with a clatter.  "And exactly what do you know of Edinburgh whorehouses, Duncan MacLeod?" 

"Mmm," Duncan mumbled around a large mouthful of food, and shook his head and shrugged his shoulders all at the same time. 

Connor just put an elbow on the table and leaned against his hand, and waited.  Duncan dared glance up once, but returned his eyes immediately to his bowl, spooning food quickly into his mouth to keep it full.  But Connor just kept waiting, and finally Duncan was scraping the bottom of his bowl. 

"Well," Duncan cleared his throat, and took a drink of his wine, finishing it off in several long gulps.  "That was pretty good, aye?" he smiled, but it faltered a little when all he got was a hard glare in return.  Connor had been perfecting the art of the glare for a good long while. 

"Duncan?" Connor again asked softly. 

Duncan cleared his throat again, shifted in his seat a little and frowned, his eyes wandering anywhere but to his teacher's face.  "Well, I'm a grown man, Connor.  You ha' no call to treat me like some lad wet behind the ears." 

"Then don't act like one.  I asked you a simple question.  What do you know of Edinburgh whorehouses?" 

Duncan shrugged.  "Well, you spent a lot of time at the bankers and the tailors and writing letters and such, and...and haring off to Huntly's estate," Duncan waved his arm dramatically.  "You didn't expect me to just stay in that tiny room, did you?  After all, Connor it had been ..." 

"I couldn't have left you alone for but a day, cousin.  You must've gone looking for them.  Lord a' mercy, I thought you got enough women for free without having to visit a whorehouse.  Do you know how dangerous that is?  Many of them are as like to slit your throat as bed ye!" Connor heard his voice rise, and he glanced around to see if they were drawing attention, but it was a wasted effort.  Duncan always drew attention. 

"I'm no' a virgin, Connor," Duncan whispered loudly.  "And your friend Jamie knew the best places to go.  It was really quite fine, like nothing I'd ever seen.  I'd have told you before but Jamie said..." 

"Jamie Graham took you to a whorehouse?" Connor again raised his voice, finally giving up on any attempt at discretion.  "That bastard!  And him a married man, although I suppose among the nobility that's as makes no difference, but I thought he had a wee bit more sense." 

"Jamie's a fine lad!" Duncan vehemently defended the young Earl of Montrose.  "And he said as I was a friend of yours, he would show me the best of Edinburgh.  And so he did," Duncan finished with a determined smile.  "I don't think I've ever had so many, uh, adventures in one evening. And," Duncan added, leaning closer and with a definite leer in his eye, "The ladies seemed quite impressed with my stamina." 

"Listen to me, Duncan MacLeod," Connor leaned close.  "Whorehouses are notorious hangouts for thieves, brigands and...Immortals.  You weren't to go wandering about the city without me.  You disobeyed me, and could have easily gotten robbed, killed or worse!" 

"And you listen to me, Connor," Duncan whispered back harshly.  "I'm no' a child to be protected from all the evils of the world." 

"No, you're my student, which means you are supposed to be learning from my experience and following my instructions, not wandering off with a young scamp like Jamie Graham and whoring all night!" 

"You're just jealous because he didn't take you instead.  Well, you were too busy off hobnobbing and making deals with the bloody Earl of Huntly to think about enjoying life a little." 

"It's those deals that keep us both clothed and fed, Duncan MacLeod.  Perhaps if you bothered to think about anything more serious than your next fuck, you might not have to rely on others."  Oops.  Once again Connor knew he had overstepped, trampling Duncan's prickly sense of honor and pride.  Or had he?  He had just caught a glimpse of a small, triumphant glimmer in Duncan's eyes, and realized the subject had been shifted far from its original topic. 

"Well, Connor," Duncan rose to his full height, in what Connor was beginning to suspect was a masterful display of deliberately conjured insult, "If that's how you feel, perhaps I should learn to find my own way!"  He swirled and strode out of the tavern in nothing less than a high dudgeon. 

"Well, I'll be," Connor smiled to himself, picking up his spoon to finish his meal. 

He took his time, savoring the plain but filling seafood stew and the mediocre wine that was still a vast improvement over shipboard fare.  He paid the bill and wandered out into the open piazza, where the setting sun was casting long shadows from the multi-story buildings.  He stretched out his senses, followed his instincts and found his student just off the square, watching some old men play bocce, trying with gestures and his few phrases in Italian to learn the rules. 

Duncan glanced in Connor's direction, then turned expectantly as Connor casually strolled closer. 

"So, found a trade yet?" Connor asked, crossing his arms and watching the bocce game with feigned interest. 

Duncan's eyes widened a little in surprise, but then quickly narrowed and he turned away, mimicking Connor's own stance as they watched the subtle game of strategy and control.  "I could become a bodyguard to a rich nobleman," Duncan announced. 

"Really?" Connor asked.  "You have no experience, no contacts, and what Italian nobleman would hire a Northern barbarian dressed in a skirt?" 

"A skirt!?  And you call yourself a Scot!" Duncan huffed. 

They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes until the light faded too much for the game to continue, then they wandered away, back towards the inn.  "That was pretty good, Duncan," Connor finally broke the silence.  "For a few seconds there, you almost had me apologizing again." 

Duncan's slowly materializing grin was unrepentant.  "I did, didn't I?" 

For that Connor cuffed his student hard on the shoulder, sending him stumbling away.  "And the next time you decide to go whoring, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you'd better take me with you!" 

"Nay," he laughed, ducking a second cuff from his teacher, then reaching out to drape an arm around Connor's shoulders.  "You'd scare off all the pretty women!" 

Over the next several days, Connor got them to a clothier to purchase some simple attire that was suitable for travel, and found a coach to take them east to Ravenna.  He would wait to purchase horses there, since he knew the tradesmen better in that area.  But while Connor had not mentioned Duncan's disobedient behavior in Edinburgh again, he had nonetheless come to the conclusion that he needed to loosen the tight rein he had held on Duncan over the past three years. 

The man was beginning to chafe at the restrictions, and probably rightly so.  Duncan truly was a grown man, despite his relative infancy as an Immortal.  It was far from easy, however, to watch the lad disappear into a crowd of strangers in his new soft brown breeches and coat, his large claymore slung at his side, off to just wander the city or perform some errand.  Duncan was picking up Italian remarkably quickly and within days had begun to grow a small mustache, similar to what other well-dressed young men were wearing, and was talking to shopkeepers and flirting with anything in skirts.  Connor feared the lad's open heart and trusting attitude would surely get him into serious trouble, but perhaps experience was the only real teacher of life's hardest lessons.  Even as Connor forced himself to give Duncan more freedom, however, he emphasized to his student that he expected that what rules he did establish were to be strictly followed.  From the beginning, Duncan had been independent minded and strong-willed, but now that they were out in the world, he had to understand its very real dangers. 

Connor felt the wash of Immortal presence from across the cobblestone street, and headed towards the tavern he and Duncan had frequented during their week in Genoa, but as he stepped into the tavern's shadowed interior, a frisson of unease crawled across his shoulders.  The Immortal presence he was feeling was amplified and disconcerting and he automatically put his hand on his katana, scanning the room for threats. 

He spotted Duncan, who grinned and waved him over to a table where several people were ensconced, but then Duncan's outgoing ways frequently drew a crowd.  When Connor frowned at him meaningfully, Duncan just waved again, that cocky grin of his broadening even wider.  Connor carefully examined each face as he approached, finally settling on one that seemed a little more knowing, a little more wary than the rest. 

He was a plain man, lean and lanky with shoulder length brown hair and an unmemorable face punctuated by light blue eyes.  He was dressed in a well used, but serviceable coat, waistcoat and breeches.  The only thing that might have made him stand out in a crowd was the fine Spanish rapier worn at his side. 

Connor strode up to the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade, and nodded to the stranger, who stood and smiled carefully. 

"Baron Wilhelm Munter," he said with a quick nod. 

"Connor MacLeod," he responded coolly. 

The Baron smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.  "Ah, yes, another MacLeod.  How...unusual.  I was just telling Duncan how very pleasant it is to meet up with my own kind." 

Connor smiled tightly.  "What brings you to Ravenna?" he asked.  "Our own kind tend to be interested in how good the hunting is, but you should know that around here sport hunting can be quite dangerous." 

"I assure you, sir, I was just traveling on business when I ran into your delightful young cousin here. 

"My student is a friendly soul," Connor replied.  "And unlike many of us, he trusts easily, and sometimes unwisely." 

The Baron laughed, showing white, even teeth.  "I assure you, I have no designs on your student or yourself.  I only wish to pass the time, share a few stories, have a few drinks.  Come!  Join us!"  He gestured to the nearest bench and Connor sat carefully, eyeing this unknown Immortal uneasily. 

"Oh, Connor, stop looking like you were about to be attacked," Duncan grinned at him.  "The Baron has ordered the tavern's best wine and food.  Relax!  No one is going to behead anyone here." 

"That's right," the Baron clapped Duncan on the shoulder, signaling to the barmaid to bring another cup.  "I was just telling young Duncan about an adventure I had in Morocco about 50 years ago, when a local emir entertained me by sending four of his concubines to my room." 

Connor sat back, sipping judiciously at his wine, watching the Baron weave fanciful stories of exotic locales.  Duncan's eyes gleamed with interest and delight, and he asked dozens of questions, and got steadily more giddy as the evening progressed and the wine flowed. 

At last the three of them stumbled out into the night, the chilly air a blessed relief to Connor, who had not relaxed his guard for an instant. 

The Baron and Duncan were staggering, arm in arm, as Munter tried to teach Duncan a German drinking song while Connor trailed behind until they reached their inn, where Duncan gave a cheery goodnight and lurched inside. 

Munter turned to Connor, suddenly no longer weaving, his blue eyes cold and hard.  Connor stiffened, his hand automatically moving to his blade. 

"I've heard of you, MacLeod," he said softly.  "You've gotten yourself quite a reputation for your age." 

Connor cocked his head, smiling a little.  "I had a good teacher.  So has Duncan," Connor added.  "And he is a gifted swordsman.  Do not think he would be an easy target, even if I were not around to protect him." 

The German nodded briefly, then clicked his heels and their eyes met in a hard look.  "Until we meet again then, Connor MacLeod," he said softly, smiled, swirled and disappeared down an alley. 

The next morning, Duncan was slow to rise, but Connor was patient, sitting and reading through the latest correspondence from his bankers until his student managed to yank on his breeches and boots, raking his fingers through long, tangled hair to tie it back away from his face. 

"We will be leaving for Ravenna this afternoon, but I think we could both use a bit of exercise.  There is a salon not too far from here where we can do some sparring." 

Duncan groaned.  "Nay, Connor.  My head feels like it may fall off my shoulders without even bothering with a blade, and I told Wilhelm we would..." 

"I wasn't asking, Duncan," Connor snapped.  "You cannot afford to get sloppy or careless, especially when there are other Immortals about." 

Duncan blinked at him slowly.  "You mean Wilhelm?  He's my friend!  We spent the whole day together, and he was going to take me riding today on a new stallion he had purchased." 

"We won't be seeing the Baron again," Connor said.  "At least I certainly hope we won't," he added more softly. 

"Dammit, Connor!" Duncan pushed himself to his feet, his eyes hard with anger.  "He was nothing but kind and friendly to me.  You yourself said that not every Immortal is out to take heads.  I'm not.  You're not, and it was really nice to be able to talk to someone else about their experiences without having to lie or hide what I am.  Maybe you're just jealous!" 

Connor slowly stood, meeting Duncan's hard gaze with one of his own.  "You're a fool," he said softly.  "That man befriended you for only one reason, to catch you off guard, get you drunk and take your head." 

"But... that would be dishonorable!  He's not like that," Duncan insisted.  "There are rules...." 

"I said there are rules we must abide by," Connor insisted coldly.  "But I did not say all Immortals fight honorably.  Far from it.  We are a cold, heartless, ruthless race, Duncan MacLeod.  The sooner you accept that, the longer you are likely to survive." 

"Is that what you are then, Connor?" Duncan asked.  "Cold?  Heartless?  Ruthless?" 

Connor yanked his sword from its scabbard and Duncan stumbled back to the wall as Connor pressed the katana to his student's throat.  "Yes," Connor hissed.  "When I have to be.  Just as you must be, in order to survive.  And once you've taken your first head, you will know why," he whispered.  "The rush of power, the energy, having all your senses overwhelmed and magnified until you think you'll die from it.  It is ecstasy, Duncan.  And agony.  After that, the student becomes a hunter, and the teacher is a teacher no more." 

Duncan's eyes met his, and Connor was surprised that there was no fear there, no anger, just stubborn determination and even a little sadness.  "You're my friend," Duncan whispered, putting his hand over Connor's on the hilt of the katana.  "My clansman.  Do you really think my taking a Quickening would change that?  That I would become some demon, some monster you could no longer trust?" 

Connor pulled the blade back and turned away, feeling oddly angry and ashamed, but not exactly sure why.  "No, Duncan.  I only know what Ramirez told me, and he had been teaching for almost 2,000 years - that an Immortal's first Quickening will effect him the rest of his life." 

"So if I took my first Quickening and you weren't there to make sure I understood what was going on, I would no longer be worthy of being your student?" Duncan demanded in a harsh, low tone. 

"I didn't say that."  Connor realized how unforgiving his words sounded, but he wasn't sure how to express his concerns and Duncan was pushing him, demanding an answer he wasn't sure he knew how to give to someone who had never felt the power, the ecstasy, the confusion and pain brought by any Quickening, but especially the first.  "What I'm trying to say is that you need to be careful, to choose your battles for the right reason.  That is part of what I need to teach you." 

"And what if the battle chooses me?" Duncan asked. "What if I'm not given a choice?" 

"There is always a choice," Connor snapped, wanting the conversation to be over with.  "You can walk away.  Run away, if you have to." 

"I'd no' run away from a fight," Duncan insisted.  "I'm no' a coward!" 

"It is not being a coward to know when you are outclassed.  There is no honor in dying for no purpose."  Connor shivered, the morning's cold penetrating his skin.  "Enough of this," he sighed.  "I'm hungry, it's cold and we've got a lot to do before starting out to Ravenna.  All I am saying is you still have much to learn, not just about the sword, but about when to take a stand and fight and when to walk away.  Right now, you are not ready to take on another Immortal.  No," Connor raised his hand as his student started to voice another protest. "You will have to rely on my judgment in this, Duncan."  He turned and pulled his cloak off the chair, headed to the door and downstairs for breakfast, determined to put an end to the conversation. 

The trip to Ravenna was made in strained silence in a badly sprung coach that, had they been mortal, might easily have rattled loose a tooth or two.  As they finally approached the city and the rutted dirt path changed to cobblestones, Connor was delighted to return to a place he now considered 'home.'   Once they finally arrived at the spacious piazza in front of the building he had owned for the past two decades, he threw open the doors of his apartments, pulled off the linen covers, showed Duncan to a spare bedroom and spent the next few days restocking food stores, making repairs and contacting the various tradesmen and servants he had let go during his long hiatus in Scotland.  Some of them had found other positions, but his former manservant, Giuseppi, had been eager to leave the aging baronet who had hired him as a second valet, and return to his status as Signore MacLeod's head of household. 

Duncan, however, had been unusually moody and terse ever since their argument over Baron Munter.  The studied silence, the grim concentration during their spars, the long disappearances on days when they didn't have specific training scheduled, was all wearing on Connor's own disposition, so after a few weeks of putting up with his student's black mood, he used the excuse of Giuseppi's arrival to have him order up some new clothes for them both, hoping the appeal to Duncan's vanity might create a crack in the wall of hostile silence his student had erected. 

Connor's manservant was a man full of love of life and laughter, and his ebullient presence had always lightened Connor's own tendency towards dark broods.  If Giuseppi could make Connor laugh even in his blackest moods, surely he could provide a lighthearted distraction for Duncan, whose disposition was far more easy going.  Fortunately, Connor's hopes were fulfilled, if not exactly in the way he had expected.  It had only taken one stunned look at Duncan, and Giuseppi had clearly been utterly smitten.  It was Duncan's obvious embarrassed discomfort with the adoring attention Giuseppi lavished on him that helped at last to distract Duncan from whatever dark humor had so affected him. 

Connor allowed Giuseppi to measure first himself, then Duncan for the new suits of clothes, watching in secret amusement as the valet's small hands fluttered over Duncan's broad shoulders.  Duncan was learning Italian quickly, but Giuseppi's rapid-fire local dialect was hard for him to follow.  Even though he missed most of the lewd and suggestive innuendoes the manservant was tossing around while measuring Duncan's back, thighs and arms with gently pressing fingers, Duncan understood enough to flush bright red when Connor finally chuckled at Giuseppi's running commentary on Duncan's manly beauty. 

"What's he saying!?" Duncan insisted, finally slapping away a hand that lingered a little too long on the inside of his thigh. 

Connor struggled to smooth the smirk from his face.  "Only that he thinks you would look very nice in blue brocade with bright gold trim." 

"I think not!" Duncan's dark brows huddled together in a frown.  "If I must wear all these pantaloons and fancy tunics, at least they can be in black or brown!"  But Giuseppi protested loudly, waving his arms and gesturing with the long feather quill he had been using to write measurements.  "What the devil is the man saying now?" 

Connor forced his face into a smooth, benign smile.  "He's just suggesting a modest compromise.  Perhaps gray and silver for the second suit of clothes?" he supplied innocently, thinking that it was about time Duncan's looks garnered him something other than the adoration of every female that crossed his path.  "I think you should let Giuseppi choose the cut for you.  He knows all the most current fashions and the best tailors in town." 

"Well," Duncan said dubiously, shifting constantly, in a vain attempt to stay out of reach as Giuseppi found all kinds of things to measure that seemed irrelevant to the cut of a suit of clothes.  "If you think it best, I suppose that's all right.  I know nothing of all these ridiculous local fashions." 

"Oh, aye, and those wee black smudges on your upper lip and chin are just because your barber got careless?" Connor smirked. 

Duncan drew himself up to full height, looming darkly in umbrage at the slur on his carefully groomed facial hair as he gently smoothed the well-waxed mustache and tiny goatee with a fingertip.  "I'll have you know the ladies consider such fine whiskers the mark of a virile man, unlike some I know, whose best efforts only manage to make him look like he forgot to wash!" 

"Oh, ho! So you think a little hair on your face makes you the better man, then?" Connor stepped up to the slightly bigger man, smiling coldly as Giuseppi nervously stepped away, his eyes getting large.  He may not have understood the words, but he certainly understood the body language and the tone, even though Connor was just jesting. 

Duncan cleared his throat, swallowed and squared his chin, suddenly serious.  "No.  I may never be the better man, but you won't be able to always best me with a sword.  And someday, Connor MacLeod," he added softly, "Someday, I'll be as good a fighter as you, maybe even better." 

Connor held Duncan's hard gaze for a long moment before he broke the tension with a smile.  "I believe you might, Duncan MacLeod," he said softly.  "I just believe you might." 

Their conversation was prophetic.  In only a few weeks of steady sparing, for the first time, Duncan caught his teacher off guard, almost stripping his sword away.  It might have just been a fluke of circumstance, but then a few days later, after the two had been at it for what seemed like hours with Duncan getting by far the worst of the contest, Duncan unexpectedly swept out with a leg just as Connor closed in, and with a woof of expelled air, Connor ended up on his back with the point of Duncan's claymore at his throat.  It was a move Connor hadn't taught him, and for a moment the two men froze, the student looking almost as surprised as the teacher. 

Then Connor laughed out loud.  "Well, well, well," he sighed as he let Duncan pull him to his feet.  "Where on earth did you learn that?" 

"Little Dougal Harris," Duncan answered breathlessly, "A young scrapper whose parents had a miserable little croft on the south side of Glenfinnan.  The poor sod could never win a fight for as long as I could remember 'cause he was such a skinny thing, but that never stopped him from trying. Then one day he got in a brawl with Big Angus MacKay over Maggie Nic Neal, and you never saw the like.  Just when I thought Angus was going to wallop him good, the stringy wee mite swept out a leg and down Angus goes in the mud.  Dougal jumped on his chest and pounded Angus' face 'til his nose broke and he cried 'uncle.'" Duncan chuckled at the memory as both men wiped their blades and sopped the sweat off their brows and necks.  "Just now, I decided I was getting tired of losing all the time, and it made me think of Dougal." 

Connor watched as the laughter died and a sad, wistful expression settled on Duncan's face. 

"He married Maggie and the last I heard they had made three babes, one of which died before his first Solstice," Duncan added, pulling on his tunic.  "But I think they are a happy family, for all that." 

"Well," Connor slapped Duncan on the shoulder, looking for a distraction.  "Learning from everything you have seen and experienced is an excellent survival skill, Duncan.  What say we celebrate?  There's a small tavern I know that serves a wonderful dish with fresh sea bass and leeks...," but he paused when Duncan turned away, suddenly seeming engrossed in straightening his tunic and making sure his hair was tied back properly.  "What's wrong?" Connor asked.

"Wrong?  Nothing's wrong," Duncan said, putting first one boot, then the other, up on a bench to wipe away invisible dust.  "I just...had somewhere else I was going this afternoon." 

"Ah, not another signorina," Connor sighed.  "You know, some day some irate father is going to run you through, and that can be most inconvenient." 

"No, it's not always a woman," Duncan snapped in annoyance.  "I just have someplace I was going, is all.  It's not important." 

Connor studied his student closely.  While Duncan had an annoying tendency to play jokes and tricks on his teacher, when it came to actual deceit, the lad might as well have had his sins written on his forehead in illuminated letters.  But Connor was curious as to what was so "not important" that he felt compelled to lie to his teacher, so he said nothing. 

But when Duncan slipped away an hour or so later, Connor let him go, then followed at a discreet distance, just out of sensing range.  Duncan was hardly difficult to trail.  He 'helloed' everyone in site, greeting them with a grin and a wave, frequently stopping to try his limited, but enthusiastic, Italian on trades people and neighbors.  He had only been living in the city a few months, yet knew more people by sight and by name than Connor had managed in over a decade. 

Duncan stopped for several minutes to help a wine merchant lever a large cask off the back of a wagon, getting a free mug of wine for his efforts, then continued on towards the southern part of town. 

At last Duncan paused in front of a large inn.  It was a comfortable looking place, with a long tiled veranda in front and a large adjacent stable.  After a moment a figure appeared in the doorway, then moved out to the courtyard.  Connor's blood went cold.  It was Wilhlem Munter. 

It was as though a spear of lightening struck just behind his eyes, and before he was even aware of it, his sword was in his hand and he had charged all the way into the clearing and shoved Duncan aside.  The use of his fist was far more satisfactory than his sword, though, and he lashed out, catching Munter in the act of drawing his sword and knocking him to the ground.  Connor drew his blade back for a killing blow, but froze when Duncan stepped in, grabbing his forearm in an iron grip. 

"No, Connor!  Stop this!" 

The white-hot emotions that had sparked the attack were still roiling inside, with no outlet but the one in front of him.  Connor yanked his sword arm free and backhanded his student, spinning him almost to the ground.  "How dare you!" Connor snarled.  "I do everything in my power to protect you, to teach you some common sense about how to survive, and you defy me, go behind my back. Were you so cocksure of yourself you thought you could take him?  God, you are an arrogant ass!" 

Duncan used the back of his hand to wipe blood from his mouth.  "I wasn't going to challenge him," he said darkly.  "Nor he me.  You wanted me to find a way to earn my own keep.  Wilhelm offered to pay me to train his horses." 

"And you trusted him?" Connor asked derisively.  Munter had gotten to his feet and was fastidiously dusting off his clothes, watching student and teacher quarrel with amused interest. 

Duncan stepped closer.  "Aye, I trusted him.  I know you trust no one, confide in no one, but I spent time with the man, and I do not believe he intends me harm.  If he had, he could have done so the first night we met, before you ever came along.  I am not nearly the naive bumpkin you seem to think me, Connor MacLeod." 

Connor stepped up until their noses were almost touching.  "The only reason he didn't was because he knew you were a youngling and he wanted to know who and where your teacher was," Connor said quietly.  "Other Immortals are not to be trusted, I've told you that again and again." 

Duncan cocked his head and one corner of his lip curled into a half-smile.  "Aye, that you have.  And you have almost no Immortal friends to speak of, do you?  You yourself said Immortals are human, with the same drives, the same needs.  I offered Wilhelm my friendship, and he offered me his.  I trust that.  If that makes me a fool, then so be it." 

"It's all right, Duncan," Wilhelm inserted before Connor had an opportunity to reply, smiling when both men's attention turned to him.  "MacLeod is just trying to protect you.  Here."  He reached into his purse and extracted a few coins.  "This is for the work you've already done with my stallion." 

"But..." Duncan protested, looking between the money, Connor and Munter. 

"Go ahead, take it," Munter insisted, grabbing Duncan's hand and folding the money into it before turning his attention to Connor.  "Your student is an excellent horseman and earned his money.  He is also a decent, caring young man.  There are too few of us that can say the same, but I don't envy you the task of teaching him," Munter grinned.  "I suspect he is quite a handful." 

"As for you, Duncan," Munter added, "You mind your teacher's words.  Trusting unwisely could cost you your head, no matter how charming you are."  Then he bowed to both men.  "Until we meet again, gentlemen," he said softly, then turned and went back into the inn. 

Connor was too angry to talk, knowing he would say something hurtful, so he just turned on his heel and headed back towards the center of the city.  After a few long strides, he realized he could barely feel Duncan's presence, so he turned.  Duncan was still standing in the inn courtyard, hands on his hips, staring at him darkly. 

"Well, are you coming or not?" Connor demanded coldly, half fearful that Duncan would walk away, abandoning their relationship, their friendship.  But after a moment, Duncan followed, and Connor turned, trusting that once his student had decided on a course, he would follow it to its conclusion. 

Eventually, his student caught up to him and Connor slid his eyes sideways in the dusk.  Duncan walked at his side, tall and proud, his shoulders square, his dark eyes scanning ahead.  Connor's throat closed.  It would be soon, for sure.  Soon Duncan would feel he was ready for a true battle with another Immortal.  But no one could truly be ready for that assault on the mind and body - even assuming he won.  Would Duncan be able to take that final, deadly stroke, to sever his enemy's head from his body, to absorb that first bitter taste of the true power of what he was without being forever tainted by it?  A shudder ran across Connor's shoulders at the thought, but he shook it off. 

Duncan was a warrior, born and bred.  He would do what was necessary when the time came.  Connor would see to that. 

Connor concentrated on Duncan’s efforts on sword drills and spars, and the winter sped by with few incidents that caused real concern.  In the early spring, Duncan caught the eye of a local noblemen's wife, and her not-particularly subtle invitation to Connor "and house guest" to a lavish dinner and ball were an impetus for Duncan to finally wear the clothes Giuseppi had ordered for him.  But even the prospect of an evening of women fawning over him was not sufficient to overcome his disgust at the vivid blue silk jacket and pantaloons, with slashes opened to show gold satin underneath, matching the intricate braiding on the high collar and sleeves.

"Och, I canna' walk in these things," Duncan complained, stepping bowlegged around the room while Giuseppi giggled in delight.

"You'll get used to it," Connor assured him, as Giuseppi stopped staring at Duncan long enough to help him into his own, far more conservative burgundy and black damask jacket.  "At least you won't have to wear a wig."

"A wig!  You canna' be serious!"

But the valet had pulled a long, chestnut-colored wig out to fit tightly on Connor's head.  It weighed a ton, and before the evening was out, Connor was certain he would sweat clear through the damn thing.

"Well," Duncan gave him a long, appraising look.  "Don't you look the right gentleman?"

Connor turned in a circle, knowing he cut a pretty impressive figure as Giuseppi busily brushed imperceptible dust and lint from his clothes.

But Duncan, standing there with a hand on one hip, his luxuriously, naturally curled hair tumbling down the front of the brilliant blue coat, looked every inch a prince, and was amusingly oblivious to it.  The impression held - until Duncan walked across the room.

"No, no, just walk naturally, Duncan.  You look like a sailor without his land legs!"

"But these damned pantaloons feel funny," Duncan complained, bending down to awkwardly pluck at the excess material between his thighs.

"No, no, signore Duncan," Giuseppi insisted.  "Like so!"  With one hand in the air, and one on his hip, he pranced gracefully across the room.

"Not bloody likely!" Duncan growled.  He grabbed his sword in disgust and slid it into his scabbard, preparing to leave.

"No, wait, Duncan," Connor advised, going to his dresser and opening the door.  He pulled out a rapier with an intricately worked quillion guard.  With it was a lovely engraved scabbard, held by a black velvet sash, edged with gold braid that just happened to match the braid on Duncan's new suit of clothes.  He turned and handed it to his student.  "This is far more suited to a social affair, and that giant claymore of yours will just scare the guests."

Duncan's eyes grew wide as he pulled the blade free, turning it and watching it gleam in the bright sunlight from the tall windows.  "Oh, Connor, it...it's beautiful, but I can't accept this."

"Yes, you can.  It is time you learned to use a variety of blades, anyway.  That heavy claymore is not the best for close quarters fighting."

Duncan cut the rapier through the air with a smile.  "It feels like almost nothing in my hand, though.  My claymore would slice right through it."

"You'd be surprised, Duncan, what any good blade can do in the hands of one who knows how to wield it."

"Mmm," Duncan said dubiously.  "Well, 'tis a pretty thing, regardless."

Connor laughed, then took the scabbard, settling the velvet sash over Duncan's shoulder while Giuseppi applauded in delight.  "It's a gentleman's weapon, Duncan.  And tonight, at least, you are to look every inch the gentleman."

Duncan frowned and "harrumphed", but nonetheless, suddenly his walk lost its bowlegged straddle, and he had a prideful tilt to his head that would have done any princeling proud.

Their cloaks were taken by liveried servants, and Duncan stayed one pace behind as Connor stepped into the glittering ballroom and the smell of bodies and perfume and food assaulted them.  And at a distance, something else.

It shouldn't have been a surprise.  Immortals of any serious age tended to easily tread the halls of money and power, but Connor's hand automatically found its way to the hilt of his sword, resting there as though the gesture was perfectly natural.

"Connor, do you...?" Duncan stopped his question at Connor's raised hand.

"Whoever it is, they are not likely to make a challenge in this crowd.  Just don't wander off," Connor instructed.  Then when Duncan turned, studying the glitteringly attired crowd, his hand on his blade, Connor took a firm grip on his student's arm. "I mean it, Duncan.  You go out to take a piss, you tell me about it," Connor demanded.

"All right, all right," Duncan frowned, pulling his arm away, but then smiled as the Contessa di Montecini sailed up to them in a brilliant red gown trimmed in black at a tight 'vee' waistline, with stiffened gilt lace forming a high collar that framed a bold display of décolletage.  Her glossy black hair was piled high in tight curls, with a few stray strands left to drift tantalizingly at her temples and long, white neck.

"Ah, Signore MacLeod," she said to Connor.  "What a pleasure it is to have you here," she said in Italian, offering her hand for him to bow over.  "And you brought your charming cousin," she added conspiratorially.  "All the ladies have been asking about the handsome new cavalieri."

As the Contessa's gaze traveled over him, Duncan clearly understood enough of her words and her body language to get the general trend of the conversation, and he smoothly stepped forward and bowed over her hand with an openly flirtatious smile.

"È un onore incontrare tale bella signora," he said softly. 

The Contessa, who had to have been used to such flattery, still blushed and fluttered her fan under the force of Duncan's charm.

"I didn't realize you spoke our language, Signore," she replied in Italian.

Duncan cocked his head and smiled quizzically at Connor, which made him laugh.

"Ah, but he has only learned a little Italian yet," Connor explained.

"Well," the Contessa sighed with a glittering smile, firmly taking Duncan's arm, "He certainly seems to have learned the most important phrases."

Connor wasn't entirely sure whether Duncan was at greater risk in the Contessa's clutches, or from an encounter with an unknown Immortal, but he decided he had best find out who else was there among their Race.  Hopefully, it was no one interested in a confrontation, but you could never be certain.  He left Duncan in the firm grip of the Contessa, and wandered around the perimeter of the large ballroom, smiling and nodding at faces that had become familiar during the decade he had lived in the city.  He kept getting annoying brushes of Presence, but couldn't be sure whether it was Duncan or someone else, or even more than one other.

He paused at a cluster of local landowners, discussed the weather, the last grape crop, the ever-bubbling local gossip, and ended up dancing with the daughter of a prosperous local vintner.  The floor was crowded with couples as the large string ensemble played a lively tune underneath the warm, sparkling light of enormous crystal chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles.  The stately moves of the dance allowed for many flirtatious looks and conversations, and Connor spotted Duncan on the dance floor with the Contessa as he made a mistake in the pattern.  From the rapt, amused look on his partner’s face, Duncan's ignorance was considered charming. 

Connor remembered his own clumsy first efforts at court dancing, when he managed to trample his partner's dainty silk shoes. Despite her insistence that his dancing was more than adequate, he had ultimately hired an instructor so as not to publicly embarrass himself again.  How his student managed to turn a liability into a flirtatious asset was a mystery and an irritation.

The evening had blended into night before Connor finally found the mysterious immortal in the large crowd and the sizeable estate, and only after he spotted Duncan standing on one of many outdoor balconies with Wilhelm Munter and another man.  He could see the tension in Duncan's shoulders from across the room, and as soon as he could, he excused himself from his latest dance partner.

As he approached, Duncan stepped close to the stranger next to Munter, deliberately invading his space, and Munter placed a hand on Duncan's shoulder.

"Something wrong, Duncan?" Connor asked, masking his concern with a friendly smile.

"This Sassenach said he heard that Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez was a fool and a sodomite," Duncan growled.

Ah, so that was the source of all the dissonance rattling around in Connor's brain.  Four immortals in the same room.  Connor couldn't ever remember seeing so many in the same place.  No wonder the tension in the air was palpable.

“Really?” Connor stepped forward, crowding Duncan away from the stranger, while surreptitiously clamping his hand on Duncan’s, where it had closed over the hilt of his new rapier.  “You knew Ramirez, then? And you are…?”

The man was almost Connor’s height, pale skinned, with striking dark blue eyes.  He wore a wig of powdered white, so Connor couldn’t tell much more about him, other than he had expensive tastes in clothes.  His coat was of beautifully embroidered silk from Cathay, displaying intricately interweaving vines and colorful flowers that would have taken months of work to complete.

“Edmund Henry Dunningham, at your service, sir,” the man replied in a carefully cultivated upper-class British accent.  “And I only repeat what I was told by no less than Grayson himself.”

Munter ostentatiously cleared his throat and Connor saw Dunningham send the German an irritated glance before he backed off slightly from a near-physical confrontation with the two MacLeods.  Connor looked over to Munter, with an expectant, curious stare.  “Please excuse Edmund’s rudeness.  He has strong opinions on many subjects,” Munter said by way of explanation.  “As a student, it…complicated the teaching process,” he added with a wry twist of his mouth.

Connor was beginning to believe that Duncan’s instincts about Munter might have been correct.  “Aye, I can well understand the problem,” he agreed.

“But eventually, the student is no longer a student, eh, Wilhelm?” Dunningham asked with a tight, cold smile.  “At least for some of us,” he added, glancing disdainfully at Duncan.  Connor could feel Duncan lean forward, and willed the man to stillness with a hard look. 

“Only a fool decides he has nothing left to learn,” Wilhelm replied with an equally frosty tone even before Connor could form his own response.

“Old styles and methods must give way to new ideas,” Dunningham snapped back.  “This Game of ours,” he waved a hand languidly, “all those rules we’re supposed to follow, what use are they in an era when a flintlock can cut a man down at 20 paces before he comes within a swordarm’s length?”

“If we abandon honor, we are nothing more than murderers,” Duncan snapped.  “And there is no true value to anything gained in such a manner.”

“Oh, ho!” Dunningham laughed, placing his hand on his chest.  “Touché!” Then, in an aside to Munter intended to be heard by both MacLeods, “Imagine a Scotsman extolling the virtues of gentlemanly combat.”

“Be careful, boy,” Connor said softly, moving close enough to almost whisper in the Englishman’s ear.  “I have no desire to taste the sour Quickening of such a wee Sassenach as yourself, but I’ll be happy to put a few slices in that lovely jacket of yours, just to teach you some manners.”  He caught Dunningham’s eyes for a moment and saw them flicker from arrogance to fear before they shifted away entirely.  “And Grayson would no more confide in you than he would to a mongrel dog,” he added softly.

Connor felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked over to see Munter giving him a hard-eyed stare.  “Take care, Connor MacLeod,” Munter said softly.  “He may be an arrogant fool, but he was my student, and I’ll not have you taking his head while I’m around to defend it.”

“I don’t need you to protect me!” Dunningham snapped at his former teacher, then glared at Duncan and Connor before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. 

“Connor,” Duncan began, but they were interrupted by the Contessa, come to claim Duncan to teach him more of the finer art of courtly dancing.  All three men immediately dropped their overt hostility.

“And you’ve met the charming Baron Munter!” the Contessa observed.  “How delightful.  I’m sure you have much to discuss.  Signore MacLeod has been a most knowledgeable and successful trader of some of the finest goods from all over the world, and I understand you, my dear Baron, have some stunning horses that I absolutely must see.”

“Indeed, Madame La Contessa,” he smiled graciously and gave a courtly bow.  “I have a beautiful mare who would make an excellent mount for a fine horsewoman such as yourself.”

“Ah, you flatter me, Baron, but perhaps we can ride together sometime, yes?” she fluttered her eyelashes at the German before pulling Duncan back onto the dance floor.

“I take it manners was not among the subjects you attempted to teach young Mr. Dunningham,” Connor said evenly once the Contessa was out of earshot.

Munter sighed, rubbing a temple with one hand.  “The obligation to teach new Immortals when we stumble across them can truly test a man’s patience.  I’ve had precious few students like your Duncan, someone who is intelligent, curious and eager for knowledge, but who is also someone of honor.  Most have been more like Dunningham – obsessed with this new gift they’ve been given and eager mostly to exploit it at the expense of anyone who crosses their path.”

Munter’s words struck Connor as odd.  “You just…stumble across your students?” he asked.

“Well, of course,” he answered, his brow furrowing curiously.  “How else?  I certainly wouldn’t go looking for one.  I found Dunningham when he got his skull crushed in a bar brawl in London, and they dumped his body out into the alley.  If I hadn’t been crossing the street when he first woke up, I would never have known he was there, and there are days when I wish I had just kept walking.”  The two men moved further out onto the balcony where the air was cooler.  “I’ve had three other students, one of whom was a young servant to a woman I was keeping as a mistress.  I knew she was going to be an Immortal, of course, so when I heard from Caroline, my lady friend, that Abigail had taken a terrible fall, but hadn’t seemed harmed at all, I knew what had happened.  I tried to tell her what she was, showed her that we could get cut and heal, but she just kept screaming that I was the devil.”  Munter shook his head sadly.  “It was such a complete balls up.  Caroline was jealous that I was suddenly paying attention to her maid, and Abigail was scared out of her mind.  I finally stuck her in a convent in France and have no idea what has happened to her since.  That was almost 200 years ago.”

“And the others?” Connor asked.

Munter shrugged.  “Both ignorant young scamps that I stumbled across.  One had been stoned by his village as a devil, the other was a thief who had been hung for his crimes.  I tried.  I really tried to teach them that being Immortal was about more than getting away with crimes for which they might otherwise have been killed.  Both learned some rudimentary sword skills, then ran away when I tried to instill some real discipline or education in them.  Neither of them survived a decade.”  Munter looked over at Connor.  “You are really quite lucky, you know.  Duncan is a fine man.  I suspect he will mature into a real contender for the Prize, and someone who actually might be worthy of it.”

Connor chuckled, remembering Duncan’s vow to be the very best, learn from the very best.  “I think you may be right.”

“How did you find him?” Munter asked.

Connor cleared his throat, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked up into the night sky, where the moon hung heavy and fat, high above them.  “You might not believe me,” he said softly, wondering if he even believed it himself.

“Really?  Try me.”

“I dreamt of him.  Was driven all the way across the Continent by nightmare after nightmare, pushing me to find someone who desperately needed me.  And I found a clansman who had been exiled from his home and family, as I had been.  He had been living on the edge of starvation and despair for three years, thought himself a demon, and was prepared to die over and over again in defense of a cause he believed just, just to prove otherwise.”

Munter was silent for a moment, gazing with Connor at the stars.  “You’ve given me chills, Connor MacLeod.  A strong portent, indeed.  Does it mean the Gathering is near, at last?”

“I don’t know what it means, except that I have found a kinsman, a brother, when I had thought my family long dead,” Connor replied in a near whisper, then he shook his head.  What was he thinking, confiding in a near stranger, much less another Immortal, like this?  He stiffened when Munter put a hand on his arm.

“MacLeod,” Munter said, then stilled when he saw the cold look in Connor’s eye.  “I…I just wanted to ask you not to take on Dunningham, if you can avoid it.  He has a lot to learn, and while he no longer considers himself my student, he is far from ready to take on a seasoned Immortal.  Give him a chance to become a better man.”

“I do not hunt, Munter.  But I do not run from a challenge.”  Connor held Munter’s pleading gaze for a moment, then relented a little.  “But if your Mr. Dunningham is so bold as to challenge me, I’ll try to teach him that it was a bad choice, without taking his head.”

Munter smiled gratefully.  “Duncan is a lucky man, Connor MacLeod,” he said, then bowed, clicking his heels together.  “Until we meet again, then.”

“Until we meet again,” Connor replied, and watched as Munter slipped through the crowd, probably off to find his ex-student to try to keep him out of trouble.

Speaking of which, Connor moved inside, scanning the room for his own errant student, finding him at last in a circle of women, blushing furiously as he struggled to answer dozens of questions in his limited Italian.  When Connor approached, Duncan sent him a look of desperation, so Connor waded in and was, himself, immediately the target of a babble of female attention.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of dancing and laughter and Connor had the best time he could remember in years.  The women were abundant and attentive, the music was lilting and lively, and he had Duncan to watch his back and with whom to share the evening’s memories.

It was almost dawn by the time they stumbled into their carriage, with both of them recipients of numerous notes and whispered promises for future rendezvous.  Duncan sighed and leaned back, then chuckled, reaching across to slap Connor on the leg.  “And where did you and that young woman in the blue ball gown disappear to for so long?” he insisted with a grin.

“She just needed some air,” Connor replied, trying to keep a straight face as the carriage lurched over the cobblestones.

“Oh, and you supplied it, no doubt!” Duncan laughed.

“Well,” Connor shrugged, his lips beginning to betray him with an uncontrolled twitch of a smile.  “I always try to accommodate a lady.  But at least I generally stuck to one at a time.  Lord, Duncan, the men were beginning to talk about lynching you if you monopolized any more of them.”

“They all just wanted to help me learn to dance,” Duncan smiled, looking insufferably pleased with himself.  “And sometimes, I can be a very slow learner,” he added with an evil glint in his eye, “and hands-on teaching is required.”

“So I noticed,” Connor observed with a raised eyebrow.  “As a matter of fact, I’m sure I can think of some hands-on training we can do.  There is a little exercise Nakano taught me called ‘slapping sand’.  It is very useful in hardening yourself against extreme pain and exhaustion.”

The grin on Duncan’s face quickly evolved to mild panic when he saw the malicious look of anticipation on Connor’s face.

Sometimes it was good to be the teacher.