“It did not go as I had hoped,” Vikary said. “I thought perhaps Bretan feared us, that he might let pass his duel with t’Larien in order to avoid us. He did not.”
“No,” said Janacek, “he did not. I could have told you, had you asked. You pushed him too far and came perilously close to duel-breaking.”
“It is within the code.”
“Perhaps. Yet Bretan was correct; there would have been great shame for him if he had ignored t’Larien’s trespass in fear of you.”
“No,” said Vikary. “That is where you and all our people are wrong. There should be no shame in avoiding a duel. If we are ever to achieve our destiny, we must learn that. Yet, in a sense, you are right—in consideration of who and what he was, he could give no other answer. I misjudged him.”
“A serious misjudgment,” Janacek said. A grin split his red beard. “It would have been better to let t’Larien duel. I saw to it that they will fight with blades, did I not? The Braith would not have slain him for such a trifling offense. A man like Dirk, ah, there would have been no honor in it. One blow only, I would have said. A cut would do t’Larien good. A lesson for him, a lesson about mistakes. It would add character to his face, a small cut.” He looked at Dirk. “Now, of course, Bretan Braith will kill you.”
He was still grinning and he made his final comment with casual élan. Dirk tried not to choke on his wine. “What?”
Janacek shrugged. “As first-challenged, you must duel first, so you cannot hope that Jaan and I will slay them before they get to you. Bretan Braith Lantry is as widely known for his skill in duel as he is for his striking good looks. In truth, he is notorious. I suppose he is here hunting mockmen with Chell, but he is not really much a hunter. He is more comfortable in the death-square than in the wild, from all that I have heard of him. Even his own kethi find him difficult. In addition to being ugly, he took Chell fre-Braith to teyn. Chell was once a highbond of great power and honor. He outlived his betheyn and his original teyn. Today he is a superstitious dodderer with a small mind and great wealth. The holdfast rumors say the wealth is the reason Bretan Braith wears Chell’s iron-and-fire. No one tells this to Bretan openly, of course. He is said to be quite touchy. And now Jaan has made him angry as well, and perhaps he is a bit frightened. He will have no mercy for you. I hope that you can manage to cut him a bit before you die. That would make it easier for us in the duel to follow.”
Dirk was remembering the confidence that had filled him up on the roof; he had been quite certain that neither of the Braiths was a real danger. He understood them; he felt sorry for them. Now he began to feel sorry for himself. “Is he right?” he asked Vikary.
“Garse jokes and exaggerates,” Vikary said, “yet you are in danger. No doubt Bretan will try to kill you, if you let him. This need not happen. The rules of your mode and weaponry are quite simple. The arbiter will chalk a square upon the street, five meters by five, and you and your enemy will start from opposite corners. At a word from the arbiter, each of you will advance with your sword toward the center. When you meet, you fight. To satisfy the requirements of honor, you must take one blow and deal one. I would advise you to cut at his foot or at his leg, since this will indicate that you have no wish for a true death-duel. Then, after you have taken his first blow—try to deflect it with your sword, if you can—you can walk to the perimeter of the square. Do not run. There is no honor in running, and the arbiter will rule the duel a death-victory for Bretan, and then the Braiths will kill you. You must walk, calmly. At the perimeter line, once beyond it, you are safe.”
“To achieve this safety you must reach the perimeter line,” Janacek said. “Bretan will kill you first.”
“If I deal my one blow, and take one, then can I drop my sword and walk away?” Dirk asked.
“In such a case Bretan will kill you with a puzzled look on his face, or what remains of it,” said Janacek.
“I would not do that,” Vikary cautioned.
“Jaan’s suggestions are folly,” Janacek said. He walked slowly back to the couch, retrieved his glass, and poured himself more wine. “You should keep your sword and fight him. Consider, the man is blind on one side. Surely he is vulnerable there! And see how awkwardly he nods or turns his head.”
Dirk’s glass was empty. He held it out and Janacek filled it with wine. “How will you duel them?” Dirk asked.
“The rules for our mode and weaponry differ from yours,” Vikary said. “The four of us must stand at the four corners of the death-square with dueling lasers or other sidearms. We may not move except to step backwards, outside the square, to safety. And that we may not do until each man within the square had taken one shot. That done, the choice is ours. Those who remain within, if they still stand, may continue to fire. It can be a harmless mode, or a very deadly one, depending on the will of those participating.”
“Tomorrow,” Janacek promised, “it must be deadly.” He drank again.
“I would wish otherwise,” Vikary said with a rueful shake of his head, “but I fear you speak the truth. The Braiths are too full of anger for us to fire into the air.”
“Indeed,” Janacek said with a small smile. “They took the insult too deeply. Chell Empty-Arms, at least, will not forgive.”
“Can’t you shoot to wound?” Dirk suggested. “Disarm them?” The words came easily, but it was odd to hear himself say it. The situation was so totally outside his experience, and yet he found himself accepting it, becoming strangely comfortable with the two Kavalars and their wine and their quiet talk of death and maiming. Perhaps it meant something, to be one of the kethi; perhaps that was why his unease was fading. All Dirk knew was that he felt peaceful, and at home.
Vikary looked troubled. “Wound them? I might wish that too, but it cannot be. The hunters fear us now. They spare korariel of Ironjade because of that fear. We save lives. That will not be possible if we are too easy on the Braiths tomorrow. The others might not hold back their hunting if they thought that all they risked was a small wound. No, sadly, I think we must kill Chell and Bretan if we can.”
“We can,” Janacek said confidently. “And, friend t’Larien, it is not so easy or so wise to wound an enemy in duel as you might think it is. Disarming them, well, you jape us. That is virtually impossible. We fight with dueling lasers, friend, not with war weapons. Such sidearms fire in half-second pulses and require a full fifteen seconds to recycle between firings. You understand? A man who hurries his shot, or makes it needlessly difficult, a man who shoots to disarm—he is soon dead. Even at five meters you can still miss, and your enemy will kill you clean before your laser is ready for a second shot.”
“It can’t be done?” Dirk said.
“Many people are only wounded in duel,” Vikary told him. “Far more than are killed, in truth. Yet in most cases this is not the intended result. Sometimes yes. When a man fires into the air, and his enemy decides to punish him, then horrible scars can be inflicted. But this does not happen often.”
“We might wound Chell,” Janacek said. “He is old and slow, his sidearm will not rise quickly to his hand. But Bretan Braith is another matter. He is said to have a half-dozen kills already.”
“He will be my concern,” said Vikary. “See that Chell’s laser stays dark, Garse, and that will be enough.”
“Perhaps.” Janacek looked toward Dirk. “If you could cut Bretan only a little, t’Larien, in the arm or hand or shoulder—give him a single painful gash, slow him a bit. That would make a difference.” He grinned.
Despite himself, Dirk found that he was returning the smile. “I can try,” he said, “but remember, I know damn little about dueling and less about swords, and my first concern is going to be staying alive.”
“Don’t fret over the impossible,” Janacek said, still grinning. “Just do as great a damage as you can.”
The door opened. Dirk turned and looked up, and Janacek fell silent. Gwen Delvano stood framed in the doorway, her face and clothing streaked with dust. She
looked uncertainly from one face to the next, then came slowly into the room. A sensor pack was slung over one shoulder. Arkin Ruark followed her in, carrying two heavy cases of instruments under his arms. He was sweaty and panting, dressed in heavy green pants and jacket and hood, and he looked much less foppish than usual.
Gwen lowered the sensor pack to the ground gently, but her hand kept its hold on the strap. “Damage?” she said. “What was this? Who is going to do damage to who?”
“Gwen,” Dirk began.
“No,” Janacek interrupted. He stood very stiffly. “The Kimdissi must leave.”
Ruark looked around, white-faced and puzzled. He threw back his hood and began to mop his forehead beneath his white-blond hair. “Utter trash, Garsey,” he said. “What is this, big Kavalar secret, eh? A war, a hunt, a duel, some violence, yes? I would not pry such things, no, not me. I give you privacy then, yes, yours to keep.” He started back toward the door.
“Ruark,” Jaan Vikary said. “Wait.”
The Kimdissi paused.
Vikary faced his teyn. “He must be told. If we fail—”
“We will not fail!”
“If we fail, they have promised to hunt them. Garse, the Kimdissi is too involved. He must be told.”
“You know what will happen. On Tober, on Wolfheim, on Eshellin, all throughout the Fringe. He and his kind will spread lies, and all Kavalars will be Braiths. It is the way of the manipulators, the mockmen.” Janacek’s voice had none of the savage humor with which he had jabbed Dirk; he was cold serious now.
“His life is at stake in this, and Gwen’s,” Vikary said. “They must be told.”
“Everything?”
“The charade is over,” Vikary said.
Ruark and Gwen spoke simultaneously.
“Jaan, what—” she started.
“Charade, life, hunting, what is all this? Tell!”
Jaan Vikary turned and told them.
7
“Dirk, Dirk, you cannot be serious. No, I do not believe it. All along I have thought, well, yes, that you were better than them. And you say this to me? No, I dream. This is utter folly!” Ruark had recovered somewhat. In his long dressing gown, green silkeen embroidered with owls, he looked more like himself, although he was woefully out of place amid the clutter of the workroom. He sat on a high stool with his back to the dark rectangular screens of the computer console; his slippered feet were crossed at the ankles, and his chubby hands held a tall frosted glass of green Kimdissi wine. The bottle was behind him, sitting next to two empty glasses.
Dirk was on top of a wide plastic worktable, his legs folded under him and his elbow resting on a sensor pack. He had cleared a space for himself by shoving the pack to one side and a stack of slides and papers to the other. The room was in incredible disarray. “I don’t see what the folly is,” he said stubbornly. Even as he spoke, his eyes were wandering. He had never seen the workroom before. It was about the same size as the living room in the Kavalar compartment, but seemed much smaller. A bank of small computers lined one wall. Across from it was a huge map of Worlorn in a dozen different colors, stuck full of various pins and markers. In between were the three worktables. This was where Gwen and Ruark pieced together the bits of knowledge they hunted down in the wilds of the dying Festival world, but it looked more like a military headquarters to Dirk’s eyes.
He still wasn’t quite sure why they were there. After Vikary’s long explanation and the acrimonious discussion that had followed between Ruark and the two Kavalars, the Kimdissi had stomped down to his own apartment, taking Dirk with him. The time had not seemed right to talk to Gwen. But no sooner had Ruark changed clothes and quieted his nerves with a slug of wine than he insisted that Dirk accompany him back upstairs to the workroom. He brought along three glasses, but Ruark himself was the only one drinking. Dirk still remembered the last time, and he had tomorrow to consider; he had to be sharp. Besides, if Kimdissi wine mixed with its Kavalar counterpart the way the Kimdissi mixed with Kavalars, it would be sheer suicide to drink one after the other.
So Ruark drank alone. “The folly,” the Kimdissi said after one sip of the green stuff, “is you dueling like a Kavalar. I say it, I hear myself, I cannot believe it! Jaantony, yes, Garsey by all means, and of course these Braiths. Xenophobe animals, violent folk. But you, ah! Dirk, you, a man of Avalon, this is beneath you. Think, I beg you, yes, I beg, for me, for Gwen, for you yourself. How, how can you be serious? Tell me, I must know. From Avalon! You grew up with the Academy of Human Knowledge, yes, with the Avalon Institute for the Study of Non-Human Intelligence, that too. The world of Tomas Chung, the home base of the Kleronomas Survey, all that history and knowledge all about you, as much as is left anywhere except perhaps Old Earth or Newholme maybe. You are traveled, cultured, you have seen different worlds, many scattered folks. Yes! You know better. You must, no? Yes!”
Dirk frowned. “Arkin, you don’t understand. I didn’t pick this fight. It’s all some sort of mistake. I tried to apologize, but Bretan wouldn’t listen. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Do? Why, leave, of course. Take sweet Gwen and leave; get off Worlorn as soon as you can. You owe her, Dirk, you know it, truth. She needs you, yes, no one else can help. How do you help her? By being as bad as Jaan? By killing yourself? Eh? You tell me, Dirk, you tell me.”
It was getting all confused again. When he had been drinking with Janacek and Vikary, everything had seemed so very clear, so easy to accept. But now Ruark was saying it was all wrong. “I don’t know,” Dirk replied. “I mean, I turned down Jaan’s protection. So I have to protect myself, don’t I? Who else is responsible? I made the choices and all that; the duel is set. I can’t very well back out now.”
“Of course you can,” Ruark said. “Who is to stop you? What law, eh? No law on Worlorn, no, none. Utter truth! Could these beasts hunt us with a law? No, but is no law, so everyone is in trouble, but you don’t have to duel unless you want to.”
The door clicked open, and Dirk turned in time to see Gwen enter. His eyes narrowed, while Ruark beamed. “Ah, Gwen,” the Kimdissi said, “come with me, talk sense into t’Larien. This utter fool intends to duel, truth, like he was Garsey himself.”
Gwen came forward and stood between them. She wore pants of chameleon cloth (dark gray now) and a black pullover, with a green scarf knotted in her hair. Her face was freshly scrubbed and serious. “I told them I was coming down to run over some data,” she said, the tip of her tongue flicking nervously over her lips. “I don’t know what to say. I asked Garse about Bretan Braith Lantry. Dirk, the chances are very good that he’ll kill you out there.”
Her words chilled him. Somehow hearing it from Gwen made it different. “I know,” he said. “It doesn’t change anything, Gwen. I mean, if I wanted to be safe, I could just be korariel of Ironjade, right?”
She nodded. “Yes. But you rejected it. Why?”
“What did you say in the forest? And later, again? About names? I didn’t want to become anyone’s property, Gwen. I am not korariel.”
He watched her. Very briefly her face darkened, and her eyes flicked down to the jade-and-silver. “I understand,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“I do not,” Ruark said in a snort. “So be korariel. What is it? Some word only! Then you are alive, eh?”
Gwen looked at him, up on his perch on his stool. He looked faintly comic in his long gown, clutching his drink and scowling. “No, Arkin,” she said. “That was my mistake. I thought betheyn was only a word.”
He flushed. “All right, so! So Dirk is no korariel, fine, he is no one’s property. It does not mean he must duel, no, utter not. The Kavalar honor code is nonsense, great high stupidness in truth. So, you are bound to be stupid, Dirk? To die and be stupid?”
“No,” Dirk said. Ruark’s words bothered him. He did not believe in the code of High Kavalaan. Why then? He was far from sure. To prove something, he thought, but he did not know what or to whom. “I have to, th
at’s all. It is the right thing to do.”
“Words!” Ruark said.
“Dirk, I don’t want to see you dead,” Gwen said. “Please. Don’t put me through that.”
The pudgy Kimdissi chuckled. “No, we will talk him out of it, us two, eh?” He sucked at his wine. “Listen to me, Dirk, will you do that much?”
Dirk nodded sullenly.
“Good. First, answer me this, do you believe in code duello? As a social institution? As a moral thing? Tell me, in truth, do you?”
“No,” Dirk said. “But I don’t think Jaan does either, from some of the comments he’s made. Still, he duels when he has to. Anything else would be cowardice.”
“No, no one thinks you are a coward, or him even. Jaantony may be Kavalar, with all the bad that is in that, but even I do not say he is coward. But there are different kinds of courage, no? If this tower caught fire, would you risk your life to save Gwen and maybe me? Garse too, perhaps?”
“I’d hope so,” Dirk said.
Ruark nodded. “See then, you are courageous man. It is not needed, a suicide, to prove that.”
Gwen nodded. “Remember what you said that night in Kryne Lamiya, Dirk, about life and death. You can’t go off and kill yourself after that, can you?”
He frowned. “Damn it, this isn’t suicide.”
Ruark laughed. “No? Same thing, close enough. You think you will outduel him, maybe?”
“Well, no but—”
“If he drops his sword, sweat on his fingers, or such, will you kill him?”
“No,” Dirk said. “I—”
“That would be wrong, yes, in truth? Yes! Well, to let him kill you, that is just as wrong. Even to give him the chance. Stupid. You are no Kavalar either, so point me not at Jaantony. Misgivings or no, he is still a killer. You are better, Dirk. And he has an excuse, something he thinks he fights for maybe, to change his people. A big savior complex, Jaan, but we will not mock at him, no. But you, Dirk, you have no reason like that. Do you?”
“I guess not. But damnit, Ruark, he’s doing the right thing. You didn’t look so good up there when he told you how the Braiths would have hunted you down except for his protection.”