Rex was sitting on the floor next to the strip, his legs extending in front of his body like poles. Rune handed him one of the water bottles, as he glanced at the strip.
“Francis.” He saw Rex nod silently at the corner of his vision, intent on the other fencer in the bout. “Any idea who that is?”
“Hassan.” Rex opened the bottle. “He’s from the Academy too. He’s I don’t know, Egyptian or something.”
“Libya.” The gal whose name Rune couldn’t remember had followed him.
A clatter or metal, a sharp buzz. Rune looked at the scoring machine, which showed one green light, on Francis’ side.
“Parry-riposte.” Not having seen the conversation himself, Rune nodded, trusting the report of this gal he knew only as Harris. “Malik still hasn’t figured out that Francis likes to use his opponents’ aggression to his advantage.”