Verkan Vall nodded. “I think so. I’d been considering that as a possibility from the first. Then what?”
“Then I was about and around for a couple of hours, buying drinks for people—unattached Assassins, Constabulary detectives, political workers, newscast people. You owe me fifteen System Monetary Units for that, Lord Virzal. What I got, when it’s all sorted out—I taped it in detail, as soon as I got back—reduces to this: The Volitionalists are moving mountains to find out who was the spy at Garnon of Roxor’s discarnation feast, but are doing nothing but nothing at all to find the Lady Dallona or Dirzed. The Statisticalists are making all sorts of secret efforts to find out what happened to her. The Constabulary blame the Statistos for the package-bomb: they’re interested in that because of the discarnation of the three servants by an illegal weapon of indiscriminate effect. They claim that the disappearance of Dirzed and the Lady Dallona was a publicity hoax. The Volitionalists are preparing a line of publicity to deny this.”
Verkan Vall nodded. “That ties in with what you learned at Assassins’ Hall,” he said. “They’re hiding out somewhere. Is there any chance of reaching Dirzed through the Society of Assassins?”
Olirzon shook his head. “If you’re right—and that’s the way it looks to me, too—he’s probably just called in and notified the Society that he’s still carnate and so is the Lady Dallona, and called off any search the Society might be making for him.”
“And I’ve got to find the Lady Dallona as soon as I can. Well, if I can’t reach her, maybe I can get her to send word to me,” Verkan Vall said. “That’s going to take some doing, too.”
“What did you find out, Lord Virzal?” Olirzon asked. He had a piece of soft leather, now, and was polishing his blade lovingly.
“The Reincarnation Research people don’t know anything,” Verkan Vall replied. “Dr. Harnosh of Hosh thinks she’s discarnate. I did find out that the experimental work she’s done, so far, has absolutely disproved the theory of Statistical Reincarnation. The Volitionalists’ theory is solidly established.”
“Yes, what do you think, Olirzon?” Marnik added. “They have a case on record of a man who worked up from field hand to millionaire in five reincarnations. Deliberately, that is.” He went on to repeat what Harnosh of Hosh had said; he must have possessed an almost eidetic memory, for he gave the bearded psychicist’s words verbatim, and threw in the gestures and voice-inflections.
Olirzon grinned. “You know, there’s a chance for the easy-money boys,” he considered. “‘You, too, can Reincarnate as a millionaire! Let Dr. Nirzutz of Futzbutz Help You! Only 49.98 System Monetary Units for the Secret, Infallible, Autosuggestive Formula.’ And would it sell!” He put away the hone and the bit of leather and slipped his knife back into its sheath. “If I weren’t a respectable Assassin, I’d give it a try, myself.”
Verkan Vall looked at his watch. “We’d better get something to eat,” he said. “We’ll go down to the main dining room; the Martian Room, I think they call it. I’ve got to think of some way to let the Lady Dallona know I’m looking for her.”
* * * *
The Martian Room, fifteen stories down, was a big place, occupying almost half of the floor space of one corner tower. It had been fitted to resemble one of the ruined buildings of the ancient and vanished race of Mars who were the ancestors of Terran humanity. One whole side of the room was a gigantic cine-solidograph screen, on which the gullied desolation of a Martian landscape was projected; in the course of about two hours, the scene changed from sunrise through daylight and night to sunrise again.
It was high noon when they entered and found a table; by the time they had finished their dinner, the night was ending and the first glow of dawn was tinting the distant hills. They sat for a while, watching the light grow stronger, then got up and left the table.
There were five men at a table near them; they had come in before the stars had grown dim, and the waiters were just bringing their first dishes. Two were Assassins, and the other three were of a breed Verkan Vall had learned to recognize on any time-line—the arrogant, cocksure, ambitious, leftist politician, who knows what is best for everybody better than anybody else does, and who is convinced that he is inescapably right and that whoever differs with him is not only an ignoramus but a venal scoundrel as well. One was a beefy man in a gold-laced cream-colored dress tunic; he had thick lips and a too-ready laugh. Another was a rather monkish-looking young man who spoke earnestly and rolled his eyes upward, as though at some celestial vision. The third had the faint powdering of gray in his black hair which was, among the Akor-Neb people, almost the only indication of advanced age.
“Of course it is; the whole thing is a fraud,” the monkish young man was saying angrily. “But we can’t prove it.”
“Oh, Sirzob, here, can prove anything, if you give him time,” the beefy one laughed. “The trouble is, there isn’t too much time. We know that that communication was a fake, prearranged by the Volitionalists, with Dr. Harnosh and this Dallona of Hadron as their tools. They fed the whole thing to that idiot boy hypnotically, in advance, and then, on a signal, he began typing out this spurious communication. And then, of course, Dallona and this Assassin of hers ran off somewhere together, so that we’d be blamed with discarnating or abducting them, and so that they wouldn’t be made to testify about the communication on a lie detector.”
A sudden happy smile touched Verkan Vall’s eyes. He caught each of his Assassins by an arm.
“Marnik, cover my back,” he ordered. “Olirzon, cover everybody at the table. Come on!”
Then he stepped forward, halting between the chairs of the young man and the man with the gray hair and facing the beefy man in the light tunic.
“You!” he barked. “I mean YOU.”
The beefy man stopped laughing and stared at him; then sprang to his feet. His hand, streaking toward his left armpit, stopped and dropped to his side as Olirzon aimed a pistol at him. The others sat motionless.
“You,” Verkan Vall continued, “are a complete, deliberate, malicious, and unmitigated liar. The Lady Dallona of Hadron is a scientist of integrity, incapable of falsifying her experimental work. What’s more, her father is one of my best friends; in his name, and in hers, I demand a full retraction of the slanderous statements you have just made.”
“Do you know who I am?” the beefy one shouted.
“I know what you are,” Verkan Vall shouted back. Like most ancient languages, the Akor-Neb speech included an elaborate, delicately-shaded, and utterly vile vocabulary of abuse; Verkan Vall culled from it judiciously and at length. “And if I don’t make myself understood verbally, we’ll go down to the object level,” he added, snatching a bowl of soup from in front of the monkish-looking young man and throwing it across the table.
The soup was a dark brown, almost black. It contained bits of meat, and mushrooms, and slices of hard-boiled egg, and yellow Martian rock lichen. It produced, on the light tunic, a most spectacular effect.
For a moment, Verkan Vall was afraid the fellow would have an apoplectic stroke, or an epileptic fit. Mastering himself, however, he bowed jerkily.
“Marnark of Bashad,” he identified himself. “When and where can my friends consult yours?”
“Lord Virzal of Verkan,” the paratimer bowed back. “Your friends can negotiate with mine here and now. I am represented by these Gentlemen-Assassins.”
“I won’t submit my friends to the indignity of negotiating with them,” Marnark retorted. “I insist that you be represented by persons of your own quality and mine.”
“Oh, you do?” Olirzon broke in. “Well, is your objection personal to me, or to Assassins as a class? In the first case, I’ll remember to make a private project of you, as soon as I’m through with my present employment; if it’s the latter, I’ll report your attitude to the Society. I’ll see what Klarnood, our President-General, thinks of your views.”
A crowd had begun to accumulate around the table. Some of them were per
sons in evening dress, some were Assassins on the hotel payroll, and some were unattached Assassins.
“Well, you won’t have far to look for him,” one of the latter said, pushing through the crowd to the table.
He was a man of middle age, inclined to stoutness; he made Verkan Vall think of a chocolate figure of Tortha Karf. The red badge on his breast was surrounded with gold lace, and, instead of black wings and a silver bullet, it bore silver wings and a golden dagger. He bowed contemptuously at Marnark of Bashad.
“Klarnood, President-General of the Society of Assassins,” he announced. “Marnark of Bashad, did I hear you say that you considered members of the Society as unworthy to negotiate an affair of honor with your friends, on behalf of this nobleman who has been courteous enough to accept your challenge?” he demanded.
Marnark of Bashad’s arrogance suffered considerable evaporation-loss. His tone became almost servile.
“Not at all, Honorable Assassin-President,” he protested. “But as I was going to ask these gentlemen to represent me, I thought it would be more fitting for the other gentleman to be represented by personal friends, also. In that way—”
“Sorry, Marnark,” the gray-haired man at the table said. “I can’t second you; I have a quarrel with the Lord Virzal, too.” He rose and bowed. “Sirzob of Abo. Inasmuch as the Honorable Marnark is a guest at my table, an affront to him is an affront to me. In my quality as his host, I must demand satisfaction from you, Lord Virzal.”
“Why, gladly, Honorable Sirzob,” Verkan Vall replied. This was getting better and better every moment. “Of course, your friend, the Honorable Marnark, enjoys priority of challenge; I’ll take care of you as soon as I have, shall we say, satisfied, him.”
The earnest and rather consecrated-looking young man rose also, bowing to Verkan Vall.
“Yirzol of Narva. I, too, have a quarrel with you, Lord Virzal; I cannot submit to the indignity of having my food snatched from in front of me, as you just did. I also demand satisfaction.”
“And quite rightly, Honorable Yirzol,” Verkan Vall approved. “It looks like such good soup, too,” he sorrowed, inspecting the front of Marnark’s tunic. “My seconds will negotiate with yours immediately; your satisfaction, of course, must come after that of Honorable Sirzob.”
“If I may intrude,” Klarnood put in smoothly, “may I suggest that as the Lord Virzal is represented by his Assassins, yours can represent all three of you at the same time. I will gladly offer my own good offices as impartial supervisor.”
Verkan Vall turned and bowed as to royalty. “An honor, Assassin-President: I am sure no one could act in that capacity more satisfactorily.”
“Well, when would it be most convenient to arrange the details?” Klarnood inquired. “I am completely at your disposal, gentlemen.”
“Why, here and now, while we’re all together,” Verkan Vall replied.
“I object to that!” Marnark of Bashad vociferated. “We can’t make arrangements here; why, all these hotel people, from the manager down, are nothing but tipsters for the newscast services!”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Verkan Vall demanded. “You knew that when you slandered the Lady Dallona in their hearing.”
“The Lord Virzal of Verkan is correct,” Klarnood ruled. “And the offenses for which you have challenged him were also committed in public. By all means, let’s discuss the arrangements now.” He turned to Verkan Vall. “As the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons; your opponents, then, have the right to name the conditions under which they are to be used.”
Marnark of Bashad raised another outcry over that. The assault upon him by the Lord Virzal of Verkan was deliberately provocative, and therefore tantamount to a challenge; he, himself, had the right to name the weapons. Klarnood upheld him.
“Do the other gentlemen make the same claim?” Verkan Vall wanted to know.
“If they do, I won’t allow it,” Klarnood replied. “You deliberately provoked Honorable Marnark, but the offenses of provoking him at Honorable Sirzob’s table, and of throwing Honorable Yirzol’s soup at him, were not given with intent to provoke. These gentlemen have a right to challenge, but not to consider themselves provoked.”
“Well, I choose knives, then,” Marnark hastened to say.
Verkan Vall smiled thinly. He had learned knife-play among the greatest masters of that art in all paratime, the Third Level Khanga pirates of the Caribbean Islands.
“And we fight barefoot, stripped to the waist, and without any parrying weapon in the left hand,” Verkan Vall stipulated.
The beefy Marnark fairly licked his chops in anticipation. He outweighed Verkan Vall by forty pounds; he saw an easy victory ahead. Verkan Vall’s own confidence increased at these signs of his opponent’s assurance.
“And as for Honorable Sirzob and Honorable Yirzol, I chose pistols,” he added.
Sirzob and Yirzol held a hasty whispered conference.
“Speaking both for Honorable Yirzol and for myself,” Sirzob announced, “we stipulate that the distance shall be twenty meters, that the pistols shall be fully loaded, and that fire shall be at will after the command.”
“Twenty rounds, fire at will, at twenty meters!” Olirzon hooted. “You must think our principal’s as bad a shot as you are!”
The four Assassins stepped aside and held a long discussion about something, with considerable argument and gesticulation. Klarnood, observing Verkan Vall’s impatience, leaned close to him and whispered:
“This is highly irregular; we must pretend ignorance and be patient. They’re laying bets on the outcome. You must do your best, Lord Virzal; you don’t want your supporters to lose money.”
He said it quite seriously, as though the outcome were otherwise a matter of indifference to Verkan Vall.
Marnark wanted to discuss time and place, and proposed that all three duels be fought at dawn, on the fourth landing stage of Darsh Central Hospital; that was closest to the maternity wards, and statistics showed that most births occurred just before that hour.
“Certainly not,” Verkan Vall vetoed. “We’ll fight here and now; I don’t propose going a couple of hundred miles to meet you at any such unholy hour. We’ll fight in the nearest hallway that provides twenty meters’ shooting distance.”
Marnark, Sirzob and Yirzol all clamored in protest. Verkan Vall shouted them down, drawing on his hypnotically acquired knowledge of Akor-Neb duelling customs. “The code explicitly states that satisfaction shall be rendered as promptly as possible, and I insist on a literal interpretation. I’m not going to inconvenience myself and Assassin-President Klarnood and these four Gentlemen-Assassins just to humor Statisticalist superstitions.”
The manager of the hotel, drawn to the Martian Room by the uproar, offered a hallway connecting the kitchens with the refrigerator rooms; it was fifty meters long by five in width, was well-lighted and soundproof, and had a bay in which the seconds and other could stand during the firing.
They repaired thither in a body, Klarnood gathering up several hotel servants on the way through the kitchen. Verkan Vall stripped to the waist, pulled off his ankle boots, and examined Olirzon’s knife. Its tapering eight-inch blade was double-edged at the point, and its handle was covered with black velvet to afford a good grip, and wound with gold wire. He nodded approvingly, gripped it with his index finger crooked around the cross-guard, and advanced to meet Marnark of Bashad.
As he had expected, the burly politician was depending upon his greater brawn to overpower his antagonist. He advanced with a sidling, spread-legged gait, his knife hand against his right hip and his left hand extended in front. Verkan Vall nodded with pleased satisfaction; a wrist-grabber. Then he blinked. Why, the fellow was actually holding his knife reversed, his little finger to the guard and his thumb on the pommel!
Verkan Vall went briskly to meet him, made a feint at his knife hand with his own left, and then side-stepped quickly to the right. As Marnark’s left hand grabbed at his rig
ht wrist, his left hand brushed against it and closed into a fist, with Marnark’s left thumb inside of it, He gave a quick downward twist with his wrist, pulling Marnark off balance.
Caught by surprise, Marnark stumbled, his knife flailing wildly away from Verkan Vall. As he stumbled forward, Verkan Vall pivoted on his left heel and drove the point of his knife into the back of Marnark’s neck, twisting it as he jerked it free. At the same time, he released Marnark’s thumb. The politician continued his stumble and fell forward on his face, blood spurting from his neck. He gave a twitch or so, and was still.
Verkan Vall stooped and wiped the knife on the dead man’s clothes—another Khanga pirate gesture—and then returned it to Olirzon.
“Nice weapon, Olirzon,” he said. “It fitted my hand as though I’d been born holding it.”
“You used it as though you had, Lord Virzal,” the Assassin replied. “Only eight seconds from the time you closed with him.”
The function of the hotel servants whom Klarnood had gathered up now became apparent; they advanced, took the body of Marnark by the heels, and dragged it out of the way. The others watched this removal with mixed emotions. The two remaining principals were impassive and frozen-faced. Their two Assassins, who had probably bet heavily on Marnark, were chagrined. And Klarnood was looking at Verkan Vall with a considerable accretion of respect. Verkan Vall pulled on his boots and resumed his clothing.
There followed some argument about the pistols; it was finally decided that each combatant should use his own shoulder-holster weapon. All three were nearly enough alike—small weapons, rather heavier than they looked, firing a tiny ten-grain bullet at ten thousand foot-seconds. On impact, such a bullet would almost disintegrate; a man hit anywhere in the body with one would be killed instantly, his nervous system paralyzed and his heart stopped by internal pressure. Each of the pistols carried twenty rounds in the magazine.
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 16
