The masters said one shouldn't fight to resolve disputes with one's comrades, unless all other possibilities had been explored. Loren thought that clause was bull, and he expected Rheuben had known that when the other boy began their practical joke war. Frogs in the bed were one thing, and Rheuben had even admitted to being impressed with Loren's last prank—reassembling Rheuben's bed in the middle of the practice yard when Rheuben sneaked out one night—but when Loren found his grandfather's watch missing, that was too much.
His anger was still building when he challenged Rheuben after breakfast, once their masters had left for the hour allotted for morning reflection. Rheuben accepted vehemently, allowing the watch to peek out of his pocket just barely while his friends laughed.
"Good thing we don't need seconds," taunted the other boy while Loren selected one of the dull practice swords. They were still laughing while Loren struggled to finish tying up the leathers they used in practice; it was near impossible to tie on the back piece alone. At last, one of the other boys sighed heavily, and crossed the room to jerk Loren's leathers in place without asking permission, muttering all the while about how long this was taking, that the masters would hear and be upset.
At last, they were ready.
Three sets," declared Rheuben, and Loren had no grounds to argue, though he would have preferred one. Rheuben had more endurance and all present knew it.
The first set was no real contest. Over the year since Loren had been at the Hall, he had gradually overcome the older boy at swordsmanship—smaller and lighter than the other, he did not last long while swinging around a heavy sword, but while he did he was one of the better.
"Point," he said at last. His knee was crushing Rheuben's elbow on his sword arm, and Loren's blunted sword pressed benignly against the other's neck.
"Conceded," admitted Rheuben, no insults this time. They stood.
Loren's parry came too slow next time, and Rheuben sword slammed into his stomach with all of the force his large arms could muster. Loren folded around the middle, and soon enough he expelled his breakfast on the practice room floor.
"Conceded," he spat at Rheuben's sword, pointed at his chest, and climbed to his feet. His grip was shakier now, and he knew he wasn't going to win.
At last, in desperation at the other's superior strength, he tried a complicated form of riposte they had only just learned, but he lacked the strength to complete the maneuver, and Rheuben forced Loren's blade against his own chest. He attempted to turn the flat against himself, but failed, and he felt his skin break underneath the leathers. It still knocked the wind out of him and threw him to the ground, as well. He had known he couldn't beat Rheuben. But the gnomish watch…
"Match," declared Rheuben, his jaw set into a smirk of triumph, and his friends nodded approval.
After a moment in which Loren caught his breath, he admitted defeat. "I still want my watch," he gasped afterward, and Rheuben turned back to him, away from his friends.
"I think I deserve it now, no?" laughed the boy, indicating Loren with his sword, but still he lingered.
"It belongs in my family. I'll challenge you every day if I need to," he said, though the effect was somewhat diminished by his gasps for breath.
"Please explain how a bastard has a family heirloom?" questioned Rheuben sweetly, and a few other boys snickered.
"My mother's father, you idiot," said Loren, finally winning his struggle to stand. He leaned against the wall so he would not take another embarrassing fall.
Rheuben scowled, and stared at him for long minute. Loren met his gaze. "Have your stupid watch, then, whoreson," he said at last, twisting his face into a scowl. He threw it at Loren, who caught it, thanking the gods that his reflexes weren't entirely gone. With that parting shot, he and his friends left.