The guard’s soft-soled boots made hardly a sound on the paving stones, yet each step reverberated through Gareth’s marrow, each step bringing him closer to his destiny. He thought how foolish he had been. He should have thought it all through. He should have rested overnight instead of rushing here, still weary from his journey. He should have—
It was too late now, and what did it matter, so long as he took Hayat with him? He needed only that much strength, that much quickness, that much luck. No more.
With a start, Gareth realized that they had arrived at the presence hall. When the guard swung the door open, Gareth glimpsed the interior, bright with banks of torches. Smoke mixed with incense to create a haze through which all the riches of Lord Dayan’s court seemed like a mirage.
The guard spoke a few words to another liveried man just inside the door, then gestured for Gareth to enter. Mouth suddenly dry, Gareth stepped inside. The liveried man escorted Gareth toward where Lord Dayan sat. As if in a dream, Gareth made his way through the assembly of courtiers and lesser lords in their robes and shirtcloaks of jewel-toned silks, seated on their brocaded cushions or standing well back, the servants and the armed guards moving about their duties. At some point, when Gareth and his escort had proceeded perhaps halfway to the single chair at the far end, the assembly took notice of him. Muted conversations ceased, so that he heard Hayat’s distinctive voice, followed by a rumbled comment.
Hayat was seated at his father’s right hand, dressed in a robe that gleamed with threads of gold. The neck opening was unfastened, so that Gareth caught the glimmer of something silver at Hayat’s throat—the Nebran amulet. As Hayat spoke, he gesticulated with one hand while he brandished a blaster with the other. A pile of the off-world weapons, most likely the entire lot, sat at Dayan’s feet. Dayan stared at them with the same intense gaze Gareth remembered from his first audience. As before, the Shainsa lord wore dark clothing.
Merach, standing behind Dayan’s left shoulder, was the first to react to Gareth’s approach. He did not draw his sword, but he shifted one hand to the hilt and positioned himself in such a way that he could easily slip it free as he stepped between his lord and any threat.
Dayan waved Gareth’s escort closer, and the two exchanged murmured words.
“What message do you have for my son?” Dayan’s voice, although not loud, carried well. He placed a subtle emphasis on the word you that conveyed his rejection of Gareth’s legitimacy: What gives rubbish like you the right to sully the air I breathe?
Even the poorest beggar, Gareth thought hotly, can speak the truth.
Slowly, deliberately, Gareth shifted his gaze from Dayan to Hayat. He had no idea how Dry Towners framed a formal challenge, nor did it matter.
“You, Hayat, son of Dayan, are a thief and a liar! I name you so before these great men of Shainsa and before all the gods!”
Shock and silence answered him.
Hayat scrambled to his feet, his sword already half drawn. An ugly flush sprang to his cheeks.
“Hold!” Dayan’s command cracked like of a whip. “This man has uttered grave accusations indeed, in these charges of dishonor.”
“But Father, he’s just a stupid villager who was laboring for the off-worlders. He has no clan or kin, no kihar! I should trounce him like the troublemaker he is and be done with it.”
As Dayan regarded his son, the tiny muscles around his eyes tightened. “Would the Heir of Shainsa allow these charges to go unanswered?”
The air, so thick with smoke and incense, turned chill. Gareth felt a stirring of compassion for Hayat, who did not even realize how he had just disgraced himself.
“He’s nobody, a piece of lying, treacherous offal!” Hayat rushed on, seemingly unaware of the darkening of his father’s countenance. “He deserves no answer! Father, you can’t be serious in suggesting I should . . .” His voice trailed away as a measure of comprehension sank in. No one dared to whisper the word, coward.
“Your Magnificence,” Merach spoke into the lapse. “These are grave charges, yet any lout can bandy about insults in order to make mischief for his betters. Would it not be prudent to investigate the basis on which they are made before deciding on a proper response?”
Dayan shifted in his chair, turning his attention back to Gareth. Once Gareth would have quailed under such scrutiny, but Dayan no longer had the power to intimidate him. To gain his objective, Gareth must be as provocative as possible. He lifted his chin and glared back.
“I am listening,” Dayan said.
“He is a thief because he has stolen from me,” Gareth said. “He has taken an item that belongs to me, without lawful right. He is a liar—and a traitor as well—because he has told you that these blasters will give you the power to conquer your rivals and go to war with the Seven Domains!”
Dayan’s face showed an instant of surprise before he settled once more into preternatural stillness. Hayat cried, “I swear I never told him!”
“Shut up, fool!” Dayan snapped.
“Even a man of no learning could guess how you would use the fire-weapons,” Merach said. Dayan dipped his chin in agreement. “Until now, your enemies have had equal resources. It is common knowledge, is it not, that only the resulting stalemate has prevented Shainsa from expansion.”
“You!” Dayan said to Gareth. “My son brings me the means of victory and you accuse him of treachery! I should have you stripped naked and whipped through the market for your vile lies!”
“Go ahead.” Gareth put a bit of a swagger into his step as moved closer. “My discomfort will not alter the truth. You will discover soon enough how reliable the off-world blasters are. They are quite spectacular, as your son has undoubtedly informed you. They can kill at a distance, and there is no defense against their power. But for how long? What happens when they cease working in the middle of a battle?”
Dayan frowned.
“Did Hayat also tell you that the first lot of blasters ran out of power within a day?” Gareth went on. “A day of light use, not heavy fighting? Did he tell you that the off-world captain had played a similar trick on the headman of the nearby village? And—” lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “—did he tell you whether he has tested these blasters to ascertain whether or not they, too, are almost drained?”
By Hayat’s flare of anger, Gareth knew he had not tested the blasters. He wanted to conserve their charges.
Gareth returned his attention to Dayan. “What assurance do you have, then, that they will not fail you at the most critical time, when you are in heated battle with the armies of the Domains? Once your blasters are gone, what is to stop their sorcerers from razing Shainsa to the ground . . .” Gareth reached for the laran that was not quite there and aimed his final words at the entire assembly “. . . all on the word of a thief?”
Red-faced, Hayat drew breath to respond, but Merach restrained him with a touch on his arm.
Dayan’s voice was as quiet as Gareth’s, as powerful in its delivery. “What do you claim my son has taken from you?”
“Lord Hayat stole a silver amulet in the form of Nebran the Toad God. If you would determine the truth of my words, seek for it on his person.”
The guards standing closest to Hayat hesitated, the fear on their faces plain. It would mean death to lay hands upon the Heir to Shainsa, but death also to disobey Dayan’s command.
“There is no need,” Merach said in the grimmest tone Gareth had ever heard him use. “I myself witnessed the deed. Lord Hayat acted out of belief that this man—” indicating Gareth without naming him, “—had forfeited Nebran’s favor.”
“I had every right to put a halt to his sacrilege!” Hayat said.
“What led you to judge another man’s soul?” Dayan asked, and not for all the gold in Shainsa would Gareth have been in Hayat’s place.
“He served the off-worlders! He tried to prevent them f
rom giving me the fire-weapons, as had been agreed!”
A long moment of silence answered him.
“This matter cannot be judged by mortal means,” Dayan said heavily, “but by the ancient test of kifurgh. The contest will take place within the hour.”
31
Within a quarter-hour, a fighting circle had been laid out in the square outside the Great House. A small army of servants set about raking the sand, placing torches, and erecting a dais for Dayan’s chair, while others of higher rank carried the ceremonial gear: masks, whips, and enormous padded gloves from which protruded three sets of long, curved, razor-edged claws. Gareth had heard stories of such weapons and how the Dry Towners were said to have adopted this style of fighting from the catmen.
Hayat went aside with three of the most elaborately garbed guards. Merach gestured for the other arms-bearer to follow him. Gareth watched, puzzled, as the Dry Towns lord motioned for Gareth to hold out his left hand.
“I don’t understand,” Gareth muttered. “You are Lord Dayan’s man, and you served Hayat. Why would you do this for me?”
“You know little of the ways of kihar, man of Carthon, for all that you have your share of bravery. By assigning his most trusted advisor to make certain all is correct with your weapons, my lord ensures that all the world knows of his impartiality.” Merach tightened the laces around Gareth’s wrists, then tested the glove to make sure it would not slip. “Let no man claim that any advantage was taken this night.”
“What about swords?” Gareth asked as Merach slipped the leather mask over his head. Gareth caught only a glimpse of the painted design, the exaggerated outlines of lips, the broad feline nose. The mask had a faint, unpleasantly musty smell, but the eyeholes were wide enough to not seriously impair his vision.
“In ancient times, we did not use swords.” Merach turned his body slightly so that Gareth, following the movement, saw one of the guards placing a single sword, point down, into the sand at the center of the arena. The first part of the duel would be fought with whips and claws, each striving to entangle the other, to weaken him with pain and blood loss. It would take a long time or extraordinary luck to kill a man that way. The sword was the prize and the key to victory.
Gareth flexed the fingers of his left hand to test the action of the claws. He wondered how much experience Hayat had with them. The glove felt like an alien thing grafted on to his own hand, yet it was not a dishonorable weapon like the Terranan blasters. Whoever used it must place himself within equal risk from his opponent.
The whip was of braided leather, except for the tip, which terminated in a handful of short thongs. It was stiff as if from disuse, with a heavy knot at the end of the handle that fit snugly into Gareth’s palm. He tested the balance, keeping his wrist loose. He’d probably get only one or two chances, with no time to practice, but a quick glance told him that Hayat was no expert, either.
As Merach finished checking Gareth’s gear, the sound from the crowd increased. Through the mask, it sounded like the rumble of thunder on distant peaks. It seemed that half of Shainsa had heard of the duel and gathered to watch. Then Dayan’s voice cut through and the murmurs died away.
Dayan, having commanded the attention of the audience, recited a brief speech in a dialect so archaic, so filled with unfamiliar terms and hissing accents, that Gareth wondered if it were not half in the speech of the catmen.
“The rules are these,” Merach said, bending close so that Gareth could understand his words, even through the mask. “You must stay within the arena. You must fight until one of you is slain or has yielded, in which case he may be killed as one without kihar. No one else may assist you. Do you understand?”
Gareth suppressed a shiver. There were no restrictions on the fight itself. He felt as if he had broken into a dozen pieces, one part of his thoughts trying to understand these unfamiliar weapons, another inventing a strategy of how he could possibly put an end to Hayat under these conditions, yet another part grappled with the certainty of his own death, all the while laboring under the dullness that had smothered his inner senses since Hayat had seized the Nebran amulet. . . .
“Take your place.” Merach pointed to a spot along the rim of the circle, directly opposite where Hayat waited. “Bow first to Lord Dayan and then to your opponent. Lord Dayan will then signal the commencement of the duel.”
How? Gareth wondered, but his mouth had gone too dry for speech.
The torches around the circumference of the arena flared, filling the center with surging red and orange light. The Terranan were said to believe in a fiery hell, and Gareth thought it might resemble this.
Dayan lifted both arms, and Gareth stepped into the off-worlders’ hell.
Across the circle, Hayat did the same. He crouched slightly, shoulders hunched. The Nebran amulet glinted from his open shirtfront.
Gareth kept his muscles loose, his grip on the whip just firm enough for control.
Dayan brought both arms down.
With a wordless scream, Hayat leaped forward. By some trick of the light, his eyes gleamed as if they had burst into flames. Instantly, Gareth saw that Hayat meant to seize the sword right away.
Gareth rushed forward, although he could not close the distance quickly enough. Then, as if a veil had been lifted from his sight, his vision came clear. He could see every detail of the fire-lit arena, every grain of sand, every star overhead.
He slowed, setting his balance, and brought the whip around in back of himself and then over his head. The thong uncurled in a long, lazy arc. His hand passed the top of the circle. His ears caught the faint whistle as leather cut through air, moving faster now, downward, and faster yet as he stretched out his arm. The tips of the thongs shot out with a thunderous crack!
Hayat skidded to a halt and scrambled backward. Whirling, he faced Gareth across the embedded sword.
Without taking his eyes off Hayat, Gareth circled to the left, keeping his whip hand toward his opponent. If he went for the sword, he’d be putting himself at the same disadvantage as Hayat had. Hayat had already shown he could be startled, perhaps even precipitated into panic.
Someone in the crowd began shouting, words Gareth couldn’t make out, only the general sense of them, urging the fighters to get on with it. Gareth struggled to block out the sound. This wasn’t like practice with a swordmaster, where the goal was the perfection of skill, the seamless flow of will and muscle and steel. It wasn’t like the ambush on the Carthon trail; then he had been taken by surprise, they all had, and he’d fought to save the lives of his comrades. This ritualized violence was another matter altogether, exultant in its cruelty.
Hayat took visible heart from the shouting. He straightened from his crouch. A swagger marked his step as he spiraled toward the center, his gaze fixed not on the sword but on Gareth.
“How long do you think you can stand against me, puny sandal wearer? Look at you, half-dead, shriveled up from the desert, your strength draining away . . .” As he spoke, Hayat’s voice settled into a rhythm, half sneer, half singsong. He flicked his whip once, twice, always following the rhythm of his words.
Gareth allowed his shoulders to sag, as if he knew he had no chance and there was no way out. He shrugged, dragging the long line of his own whip to the side, where a quick flip of his forearm would be enough to snap it out.
Hayat kept swinging his whip, fast and jerky. Every four or five steps, he let out a roar and made a swiping motion with his clawed glove. The claws fell so far short, they represented no credible threat. Hayat was indulging in empty show for the approval of the onlookers.
No, Gareth corrected himself as one of Hayat’s whip strikes came perilously close. Hayat was blustering as a distraction while he sidled closer.
Gareth jumped back, narrowly avoiding the tip of Hayat’s whip. He could see the pattern now, but his body was reacting too slowly. The energy from the meal eaten ea
rlier with the yard owner would not last. His muscles felt thick with fatigue. He’d have to force the fight, and soon.
He gathered his ragged strength, lunging for Hayat as he brought his own whip around. Although he was not at all certain of his control, he directed the arc at Hayat’s face. Hayat swerved just as the whip cracked. A cry went up from the crowd, a mixture of outrage and scattered applause. Gareth couldn’t tell if he’d actually struck the other man.
Hayat lurched backward, but he didn’t drop his whip. He scuttled to the very edge of the arena. Chest heaving, he wiped his face in the crook of the elbow of his gloved hand. In the wavering torchlight, Gareth saw the blood welling from a small cut in Hayat’s forehead, just above the top of the mask.
For an instant, Hayat stared at his sleeve as if he could not believe he’d been cut. Screaming, swinging his whip with frenzied abandon, he hurled himself at Gareth.
Whipcracks shocked through the air, one after another. Swirls of dust and fine-grained sand shot upward as the tip of the whip struck the ground.
Gareth sank into a fighting stance, knees bent, weight balanced on both feet. Hayat was swinging so fast and closing so rapidly, timing would be tricky. If Gareth moved too soon, Hayat might swerve or back off or redouble the attack, but there was no way of knowing which.
Instinct urged Gareth to back away, to run. It took all his focus to hold his ground, to wait—wait—until Hayat’s whip came within reach.
Now!
Gareth pivoted, using his body to bring his own whip around in a horizontal path. The whip unfurled just as Hayat’s whip came down. The two whips tangled, faster than the eye could follow, twining around one another like snakes. The impact almost tore Gareth’s whip from his hand, but he was ready for it, his fingers tight around the handle knot.
Bracing his feet, Gareth jerked as hard as he could. Hayat, still holding on to his own whip, was pulled forward, but not close enough to come within reach of Gareth’s claws.