David Drake - The Tyrant

There didn't seem to be any answer expected, however, so he said nothing. After a moment, Prelotta nodded politely and left.

The duel lasted less than two minutes. Esmond charged immediately, as Adrian had known he would. He evaded Adrian's first missile easily enough. Cast when Esmond was still over a hundred yards away, his athletic brother had enough time to see the blurring lead bullet and lunge aside.

No matter. Adrian had known Esmond would dodge it. He'd cast the missile simply to rattle his brother. It was one thing for Esmond to be aware that Adrian's skill with a sling seemed supernatural. It was another for him-even with his incredible reflexes-to barely manage to duck one of those lead bullets thrown at such a distance.

"Supernatural" was perhaps as good a word as any. Center's visual acuity gave Adrian a degree of accuracy which was far greater than that of any normal slinger, even an expert one. "Visual acuity" didn't adequately describe it, really. Center's inhuman capability to translate what Adrian saw through his own eyes gave Adrian the kind of near-perfect aim which the computer itself thought of in terms which Adrian barely understood. "Range finding" was obvious, but how such a term as azimuth applied was a mystery.

The rest came from Adrian himself. Prelotta had seen the truth of it, where most people-even Adrian himself, more often than not-saw only the reedy scholar's build. He was five and a half feet tall, true, and wiry rather than muscular. But brute strength was actually not necessary for the task of sending a lead bullet flying through the air at a speed which would break bones and shatter skulls. Good muscles and quick reflexes were enough for that-provided the bullets hit where you aimed them.

The second cast brought Esmond down, at seventy yards. Adrian's brother made the mistake of pausing for a moment to sling his own bullet, which went wild; Adrian's bullet hit Esmond's thigh like a sledgehammer.

A less muscular man than Esmond would have been taken out of the fight entirely by that hit. A small enough man would have suffered a broken bone. Esmond managed to lunge back on his feet, hobbling, frantically fitting another bullet to the sling pouch.

Don't kill him, cautioned Raj. We'll need him, for a time. Then, sensing Adrian's mute cry of hurt and protest: I'm sorry, lad. I'm just telling the truth.

Adrian said nothing. There was nothing to say. He fit another bullet to the sling, dodged easily the bullet his brother sent his way, and brought Esmond down for good.

Just as Raj had wanted-not killing him. With Adrian's accuracy, killing could be avoided. But not even a real demigod could have withstood the strike of that bullet on the chest.

A weaker and less powerful man than Esmond would have been killed outright. Esmond himself would spend weeks at rest, letting the broken sternum heal. Cursing all the while, as he discovered-every time he tried to do something as simple as lift a cup-that every bone in a human body above the waist is ultimately held together by spine and sternum.

The boy died the next day. Apparently he had suffered internal injuries from Esmond's beatings, after all. Or, perhaps, his spirit had simply no longer been able to face life's torture.

Adrian never knew his name.

It wasn't all for nothing, said Raj. Your status is phenomenal, now, especially among the Reedbottoms.

All Adrian could do was stare at the walls of his tent. Until finally, hours later, he gave out the cry which had been building since the first moment Raj and Center entered his mind:

Is everything just a maneuver?

He would spend the rest of his life pondering a ghost's answer. Never really knowing if he agreed or not.

Yes, everything is a maneuver. No, it's not just a maneuver.

Over the centuries, as the twelve villages which formed the original core of Vanbert had expanded to conquer half the world, the edifices of the Confederacy's government had undergone their own massive expansion. Whether torn down and rebuilt, or swollen by modification and accretion, the complex of buildings and plazas had become something of a monstrosity itself.

So, at least, thought Demansk, as he worked his way across the Forum of the Virtuous Matrons toward the still-distant but imposing Council Hall. "Threaded his way" was perhaps a better description. The Forum was filled with a huge crowd, as always after rumors spread of a major oncoming shift in political power in the Council. Most of the mob were simply curious. A large number were street vendors. Still others were taking advantage of the traditional custom of allowing unlimited speech in the Forum to harangue the crowd from jury-rigged speakers' pedestals. Others His sons were walking just behind him. He heard Olver whisper to the others: "Careful now; keep an eye out. Some of these fellows are not loitering."

Demansk, as befitted his aloof dignity as a Justiciar, ignored the whisper. He ignored as well the temptation to place his hand on the battle-ax hanging from his waist. At the moment, the temptation was hard to resist. There were a lot of suspicious-looking men here and there in the crowd, under whose robes might be concealed any number of weapons.

The ax was a ceremonial weapon; sized more like a hatchet than an ax. Because of his status as a Justiciar, Demansk was allowed an ax rather than the long knife permitted to simple Councillors. But where most members of the Council carried elaborately carved and inlaid "weapons"-some of them even with silver blades-Demansk's ax of office was perfectly functional. The blade was good steel, and sharpened to a working edge.

Still, he resisted the impulse. Dignity, manifesting itself among other ways in an apparent indifference to danger, was an essential ingredient for the "public aura" of a central Vanbert official. It was for that same reason that Demansk was unaccompanied by any bodyguards. His sons would have to do for that.

Which, when all was said and done, made the task of any would-be assassins quite difficult. All three of Demansk's sons were strong and healthy men. His two oldest, Barrett and Olver, were also experienced soldiers. The youngest, Trae, had only limited experience in battle-a single skirmish against the pirate raid which had resulted in his sister's abduction. But, perhaps oddly given his fascination with gadgetry and natural philosophy, Trae was actually the most athletic of the three. And if his combat experience was slight, the young man had never stinted on his training.

So Demansk was not surprised to see the subtle but careful way in which his sons shielded him as he made his way through the crowd. Nor was he surprised at the manner in which each of the three handled the task of moving people aside. Barrett, brusquely and rudely-he'd knocked down an old woman some fifty paces back; Olver, with his usual stolid firmness; Trae, as often as not, with a smile and a jest.

Another jest now, as he lifted (quite easily) a rather portly matron by the armpits and set her to one side. "Madame, you tempt me too much in my progress! For shame-here in the Forum!"

The matron's squawk of protest choked off into a giggle. She waved the fan vigorously in front of her face, and returned Trae's humor with gleaming eyes which were quite inappropriate for her respectable status. Despite himself, Demansk couldn't entirely force down a smile.

The Forum of the Virtuous Matrons was named after one of the many episodes in Vanbert's early history. The matrons of a small Vanbert village had committed suicide rather than be ravished by a band of raiders from a nearby tribe who had overcome their husbands on the field of battle.

So, at least, according to legend. Demansk had his doubts. The "field of battle" would have been a small meadow, filled for a time by sweaty, shouting pig farmers struggling with sweaty and shouting shepherds. As for the rest, who was to say?