Lois Bujold - Barrayar

Vorkosigan rejoined her. “All set. She’ll start against one of father’s men.”

Droushnakovi returned, attired in loose slacks and a knit shirt, as close to the men’s workout suits as her wardrobe could provide. The Count came out to consult with Sergeant Bothari, his team leader, and find a place to warm his bones in the sun beside them.

“What’s this?” Piotr asked, as Koudelka called Droushnakovi’s name for the second pair up. “Are we importing Betan customs now?”

“The girl has a lot of natural talent,” Vorkosigan explained. “Besides, she needs the practice as much as any of them—more; she has the most important job of any of them.”

“You’ll be wanting women in the Service, next,” complained Piotr. “Where will it end? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“What’s wrong with women in the Service?” Cordelia asked, baiting him a little.

“It’s unmilitary,” snapped the old man.

“ ’Military’ is whatever wins the war, I should think.” She smiled blandly. A small friendly warning pinch from Vorkosigan restrained her from rubbing in the point any harder.

In any case it wasn’t necessary. Piotr turned to watch his player, saying only, “Humph.”

The Count’s player carelessly underestimated his opponent, and took the first fall for his error. It woke him up considerably. The onlookers shouted raucous comments. He pinned her on the next fall.

“Koudelka counted a bit fast there, didn’t he?” asked Cordelia, as the Count’s player let Droushnakovi up after the decision.

“Mm. Maybe,” said Vorkosigan in a non-committal tone. “She pulls her punches a bit, too, I notice. She’ll never make it to the next round if she keeps doing that in this company.”

On the next encounter, the deciding one for the two-out-of-three, Droushnakovi applied a successful arm-bar, but let it slip away from her.

“Oh, too bad,” murmured the Count cheerfully. “You should have let him break it!” cried Cordelia, getting more and more involved. The Count’s player took a soft and sloppy fall. “Call it, Kou!” But the referee, leaning on his stick, let it pass. In any case, Droushnakovi spotted an opportunity for a choke, and grabbed it. “Why doesn’t he tap out?” asked Cordelia. “He’d rather pass out,” replied Aral. “That way he won’t have to listen to his friends.”

Droushnakovi was beginning to look doubtful, as the face clamped under her arm turned a dusky purple. Cordelia could see release coming, and leaped up to shout, “Hang on, Drou! Don’t let him fake you out!” Droushnakovi took a firmer hold, and the figure stopped struggling.

“Go ahead and call it, Koudelka,” called Piotr, shaking his head ruefully. “He has to be on duty tonight.” And so the round went to Droushnakovi.

“Good work, Drou!” said Cordelia as Droushnakovi returned to them. “But you’ve got to be more aggressive. Release your killer instincts.”

“I agree,” said Vorkosigan unexpectedly. “That little hesitation you display could be deadly—and not just for yourself.” He held her eye. “You’re practicing for the real thing here; although we all pray that no such situation occurs. The kind of all-out effort it takes should be absolutely automatic.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll try, sir.”

The next round featured Sergeant Bothari, who flattened his opponent twice in rapid succession. The defeated crawled out of the ring. Several more rounds went by, and it was Droushnakovi’s turn again, this time with one of Illyan’s men.

They connected, and in the struggle he goosed her effectively, loosing catcalls from the audience. In her angry distraction, he pulled her off-balance for a fairly clean fall.

“Did you see that!” cried Cordelia to Aral. “That was a dirty trick!”

“Mm. It wasn’t one of the eight forbidden blows, though. You couldn’t disqualify him on it. Nevertheless …” he motioned Koudelka for a time—out, and called Droushnakovi over for a quiet word.

“We saw the blow,” he murmured. Her lips were tight and her face red. “Now, as Milady’s champion, an insult to you is in some measure an insult to her. Also a very bad precedent. It is my desire that your opponent not leave the ring conscious. How, is your problem. You may take that as an order, if you like. And don’t worry needlessly about breaking bones, either,” he added blandly.

Droushnakovi returned to the ring with a slight smile on her face, eyes narrowed and glittering. She followed a feint with a lightning kick to her opponent’s jaw, a punch to his belly, and a low body blow to his knees that brought him down with a boom on the matting. He did not get up. There was a slightly shocked silence.

“You’re right,” said Vorkosigan. “She was pulling her punches.”

Cordelia smiled smugly, and settled herself more comfortably. “Thought so.”

The next round to come up for Droushnakovi was the semi-final, and it was the luck of the draw that her opponent was Sergeant Bothari.

“Hm,” murmured Cordelia to Vorkosigan. “I’m not sure about the psychodynamics of this. Is it safe? I mean for both of them, not just for her. And not just physically.”

“I think so,” he replied, equally quietly. “Life in the Counts service has been a nice, quiet routine for Bothari. He’s been taking his medication. I think he’s in pretty good shape at the moment. And the atmosphere of the practice ring is a safe, familiar one for him. It would take more tension than Drou can provide to unhinge him.” Cordelia nodded, satisfied, and settled back to watch the slaughter. Droushnakovi looked nervous.

The start was slow, with Droushnakovi mainly concentrating on staying out of reach. Swinging around to watch, Lieutenant Koudelka accidently pressed the release of his swordstick, and the cover shot off into the bushes. Bothari was distracted for an instant, and Drou struck, low and fast. Bothari landed clean with a firm impact, although he rolled immediately to his feet with scarcely a pause.

“Oh, good throw!” cried Cordelia ecstatically. Drou looked quite as amazed as everyone else. “Call it, Kou!”

Lieutenant Koudelka frowned. “It wasn’t a fair throw, Milady.” One of the Count’s men retrieved the cover, and Koudelka resheathed the weapon. “It was my fault. Unfair distraction.”

“You didn’t call it unfair distraction a while ago,” Cordelia objected.

“Let it go, Cordelia,” said Vorkosigan quietly.

“But he’s cheating her out of her point!” she whispered back furiously. “And what a point! Bothari’s been tops in every round to date.”

“Yes. It took six months practice on the old General Vorkraft before Koudelka ever threw him.”

“Oh. Hm.” That gave her pause. “Jealousy?”

“Haven’t you seen it? She has everything he lost.”

“I have seen he’s been blasted rude to her on occasion. It’s a shame. She’s obviously—”

Vorkosigan held up a restraining finger. “Talk about it later. Not here.”

She paused, then nodded in agreement. “Right.”

The round went on, with Sergeant Bothari putting Droushnakovi practically through the mat, twice, quickly, and then dispatching his final challenger with almost equal ease.

A conference of players on the other side of the garden sent Koudelka limping over as an emissary.

“Sir? We were wondering if you would go a demonstration round. With Sergeant Bothari. None of the fellows here have ever seen that.”

Vorkosigan waved down the idea, not very convincingly. “I’m not in shape for it, Lieutenant. Besides, how did they ever find out about that? Been telling tales?”

Koudelka grinned. “A few. I think it would enlighten them. About what kind of game this can really be.”