Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

Adelaar hit my arm, a tap but it stung. “Haven’t we wasted enough time?”

“Just about. I said there was only a chance they’d bite.”

“I suppose it could’ve worked.” She yawned. “Don’t mind me, I get cranky when I’m bored.” The imp peeped out again and she smiled up at me. “Aslan’s told me that often enough.”

“Right. You want to call a jit to the Gate, or try a few games first?”

“Games. After tonight we get serious again.” She raked the headband off. “Here, you carry this; I don’t want to feel as moronic as I look.” She started stripping off the chains and bracelets and excess rings, I stuffed them down my shirt as she handed them to me; that’s our motto, the client’s wishes come first, it was damn uncomfortable though, they were sticky with her sweat and some of those gems had sharp corners.

We weren’t paying attention to what was happening around us, we’d both given up the stalk. Maybe it was the watched pot thing, but about ten seconds into that strip act Adelaar was doing with the fake jewelry, someone slammed into me, spraying grushajuice everywhere; it was a mess, I was dripping, my shirt was sogged against me stinking sweet and slimy, Adelaar was cursing and using her sleeve to wipe her face as she ignored the attempts of a female duelist to set the challenge going. I got my back against a wall fast, just in case, but the man who’d collided with me was intent on doing this the proper way; he slapped a glove in the direction of my face, called me a mannerless clod and invited me to redress my honor on the dueling ground. Babbit’s android guards were there, they’d come out of the walls as soon as the mess started, stunners ready to make sure Babbit’s version of the rules held fast (’droid guards don’t come under the weapon ban when they’re hired from the city council by respectable home firms to protect the premises), a comforting sight they were, too. I managed a bow of sorts, proclaimed my innocence of all malice and inquired if an apology would be acceptable. Naturally it wasn’t, so there we were, bait taken; all we had to do now was win our respective fights and damage our opponents so badly that other duelists would be disinclined to take up the gage, no matter what the prize. It wasn’t going to be a pretty fight, not one of the epic duels that songsmiths celebrated, but I never had much time for that kind of thing anyway.

“Hra Trewwa Harona.” He sketched a bow but didn’t take his eyes off me. He was tall and wiry, skin like polished walnut, not a hair on his head, not even eyelashes, one of the cousin races but nothing about him to say which world he whelped on; way he moved, he was fast and agile.

“Swardheld Quale,” I said.

“Lugat Haza,” the woman said, touched lips and heart and spread her hands palm out; she had a shock of bright red hair, green eyes and a spray of freckles across a beaky nose. Another cousin, equally anonymous.

“Adelaar aici Arash.” Adelaar put her hands palm to palm in front of her, bobbed her head and shoulders in a quick dip.

The four of us were standing on the broad oval of the dueling floor; the tiered seats outside the lighted area were filling quickly, I could hear the sounds of scuffling feet and a growing mutter of conversation. It was as if the walls had sucked in the challenge and spat it out in every section of the House, enticing to this vault most of those who heard it. We were going to have a large and interested audience. It’s what I wanted, what I’d planned to get. Why I was forcing the fight in here rather than leaving it to chance. In a brangle on the street without witnesses anything could happen and the survivors could say what they wanted without contradiction.

Adelaar stepped away and started wrapping the remnants of her shirt around her right arm; she’d laced up the vest so it didn’t flop about (her either) and twitched her swordbelt round so the rapier’s hilt was on her left. From what I’d seen she was ambidextrous with a slight tendency to favor her right hand; apparently she was going to start this thing off as a lefter; I’ve had a few skirmishes with lefters and I knew how they can throw you off your pace. I relaxed some more and got rid of the soggy shirt, leaving the wristlets which weren’t as flimsy as they looked; they wouldn’t turn Harska’s edge, but there wasn’t much else they couldn’t bat aside.

The House Referee came up the ramp and stumped to the center of the oval, ordering us to follow him with a sweep of a muscular arm. Adelaar and I stopped a few paces apart on his left, Lugat and Hra Trewwa faced us on his right. He was a chunky cold-eyed Frajjer, a long pole in his left paw, its end beaten into a knife-edged half circle; any flagrant infringement of Babbit’s rules and he took out the offender, no recourse, his judgment was final. There might not be many rules in Babbitland, but they were serious about those they had. When I say final, it was sometimes exactly that, said offender was cremated the next day.

He faced Adelaar and me. “You are challenged. They say as-is. You two got the veto, so?”

“As-is, that’s fine with me. Del?

“As-is,” she said.

“Caveats?”

“None,” I said. Lugat’s nose twitched, she looked scornful and delighted, a mix of expressions that did nothing much for her face. She stood shaking her arms lightly; beneath the stretch silk you could see her muscles shifting; she was sleek and feral as a hunting cat.

“First-blood or final?”

“Final,” I said. Adelaar nodded.

He looked over his shoulder at the other two. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Hra Trewwa said; the woman shrugged. “Agreed,” she said.

The Frajjer waved us apart, Adelaar and Lugat to the left end of the oval, Trewwa and me to the right. He beat the end of his pole against the floor, three solemn thumps. While he was announcing the terms of engagement, Hra Trewwa took off the long cape he was wearing and stripped out the lining. A weighted net. Shit. I hated netmen. Looks like Bolodo did their homework, got someone to tell them about the last mix-up I had here. I slid my lady from her sheath, brought her past my head, the light catching the crystal edge and making a minor glory of her; I handled her as if she had the mass her size suggested, rested her blunt end on the floor and stood waiting with both hands closed round her hilt. Trewwa probably knew she was a slasher, not a stabber, what I hoped he didn’t know was how nimble she was; looking at her size and conformation you’d think she’d be a heller once I got her wound up, but she’d be slow as a sleepy bumphel. Trewwa snapped the net open; from the way it shimmered it was Menavidetin monofilament. He flipped it around his neck and let the ends hang while he gave me a cocky grin and began working on his walking stick. After a bit of twisting it extended into a two-pronged lance not much longer than assegai traditional; the points of the prongs glittered in the strong light like blue-white diamonds. Double shit. I was going to spend most of this dance running like some fieldsport jock after a speed record.

Lugat produced a pair of k’duries, wrist bands with two chains on each about the length of her arms; at the end of the chains were soft lead balls the size of a green peach. She spread her fingers; the nails glittered. Adelaar wasn’t the only one with a fancy for claws. I hoped she knew how to deal with a k’duri expert; I had a mix-up with one a few years back and felt lucky to come out of it with some broken bones and an aching head, that femme wrapped a chain around my stunner and jerked it away, fast! you wouldn’t believe how fast she could whirr those things; then she got my boot knife, broke my right arm and was playing pattacake with my head when I left through a window I didn’t bother to open.