"The truth might also free memories of the attack," said Velesti flatly. "You may be challenging the wrong man to a duel."
The thought had crossed Reclor's mind, but he had considered it too dangerous in the light of what Torumasen had said. Now Velesti had asked, however, and that seemed to change the situation. He indicated a garden seat with his Cambrissen. They sat down together, but at opposite ends.
"You had just passed the Dragon Yellow level librarians's examination, and had been walking home from the dinner with your friend Elsile. Both of you were set upon by musketeers, and some of their officers. They raped you both in a deserted stable for hours, then set the place afire. Two passing officers broke in to save what they thought were horses, but instead found Elsile dead and you
unconscious. Her throat was cut, and you were both naked and covered in filth and terribly beaten."
"How do you know who the musketeers were?"
Relief coursed through Reclor. Obviously the story was nothing more than just that to her: a story. She had no memories at all of the terrible night.
"One of the musketeers returned to retrieve something, and was caught. At first he named everyone involved, then lawyers and magistrates got to him, along with the rich family of one the officers. The musketeer who was caught is still in jail, but the others are merely at the barracks and wear the yellow circle of inquisition at their collars. No trial, no justice, and honor definitely not satisfied. All that has happened has been a civil hearing."
Reclor took a key from his pocket and led Velesti into the house and to the parlor. Unlocking a glass-fronted library cabinet, he took a briefing box from one of the shelves and set it in front of Velesti.
"If you wish to learn a little of the truth, you will have to open the box and read for yourself. Enough hurt has been done to you, and I'll do no more—but neither shall I hide the truth if you ask for it."
Velesti opened the box. She took out three sheets of poorpaper, and a parchment declaring that further proceedings were suspended, awaiting the pleasure of the city magistrate.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"Yes. The declarations of witnesses, the statement from the musketeer, and finally an addendum declaring that the musketeer had withdrawn his earlier statement. It does, however, give me the names of eleven musketeers, two operations officers, and two commissioned officers. Seventeen is a standard squad, but the two other men have been accounted for as innocent. One was a sergeant who became involved in a brawl early in the night and was locked up by the Constable's Runners. The other met with a harlot and left the others just before you and Elsile were attacked. In general terms the musketeer's first statement is as close to the truth as anyone is liable to confess."
Velesti read the pages carefully.
"I do not know any of the men named."
"Of course not. You were set upon merely because you were female and chanced to stray within reach."
"Now you have challenged one of these men to a duel?"
"Yes. A lieutenant. I insulted him in public, quite deliberately, and he made a declaration of the aggrieved. In the eyes of the law, that makes me the challenger. Because I was still fourteen I had the option of naming a champion or waiting until I could legally duel."
Velesti put the sheets of paper back in the box and closed the lid.
"Now I understand," she said, her voice vague and flat.
He placed the box back in the library case and locked the glass door. Velesti now saw that the words "Martyne" and "Hearing" had been pressed into the leather and highlighted with gold.
"I did not see the name Martyne on any of the documents in the box," said Velesti, sitting with her hands clasped on the table.
"Martyne is Elsile's brother. Five years ago he left to pursue a vocation in the Balesha monastery, far away, in the West."
"Balesha," echoed Velesti.
"When he returns . . . well, let us just say that there will be no survivors left for me to deal with."
"True," responded Velesti.
She stood up. Her movements were smooth and careful, as if she were frightened of falling. She stared at Reclor, unblinking.
"You do not have to duel for me," she said, every word slow, precise, and deliberate.
"I was not there when you needed me, Vel."
"If you die, who will provide the family heir? It shall never be me. I cannot stand the idea of touching a man."
"Then the Disore name will die. Better that than shame and dishonor."
■ he afternoon became evening, and the evening began to fade into night. Harren and Elene Disore had dinner with their son, trying to persuade him to accept the services of a contract champion. Reclor
was firm. Again and again he insisted that he wanted to fight, he had to fight, and he would fight.
"You had a chance to make a challenge and use the family champion," said Reclor to his father as he contemplated his very first glass of wine.
"Dueling is the final resort against injustice," pleaded Harren. "There has been no inquest or trial yet."
"There will be neither!" Reclor shouted back, slamming his glass down so hard that the remaining contents splashed dark red on the tablecloth. "Lieutenant Grammain is the city magistrate's son."
Reclor stood up, his shoulders back and his arms hanging by his sides.
"There is much to do, please excuse me."
This was the end of persuasion. Reclor was going to fight, and there was no more that could be done about it. His parents stood together and came around the table to where he was waiting.
"You bring honor to the family," declared Harren, grasping Re-clor's right hand in both of his.
Elene embraced Reclor with a great rustle of lace and skirts. "I love you, and I am so proud of you," she said, her words forced and broken.
Reclor left without another word, for it was bad luck to say goodbye before a duel. He had his parents' blessing, which he had not expected. A thin, bright ray of optimism shone through the gloom that had been hanging about him all day. There was a chance that he might live. He was sure to fight with honor, but perhaps not to die for it. Good omens were the smiles of fortune, or so some old saying went.
"Fras Disore, have you spoken to Medician Torumasen?" asked Julica anxiously as she was clearing the plates away.
"About Velesti? Yes, I have."
"Is it—ah, is she crazed?"
"Between you and me only, yes. He thinks her behavior is predictable, however."
"Predictable? But Fras, she eats enough for three, and she has
gained twenty pounds in sixteen days. She will be as fat as a prize sow by Christmas at this rate."
"Does she do Torumasen's exercises?"
"Well, yes, quite faithfully. More than faithfully, and every day, but—"
"Good. He thinks that she should have something simple to focus on, to cling to."
"But Fras, twenty pounds in sixteen days!"
"That brings her weight to just one hundred and ten pounds, which is hardly excessive. Frelle Julica, the medician says that victims of such terrible attacks can chose a number of paths. Some suicide, some lose their minds, some shelter behind the men of their households, and some even pretend to become boys. In the last case they seem to think that they have ceased to be girls, and so can never be ravished again."
"She will become ugly."
"So, what is worse? Ugly and alive, or the way she was—beautiful and dying? She may think that her beauty caused the attack. She may blame it for what happened."
"Fras Disore, that is not all! When she reads she turns the pages so fast that anyone else would have trouble just reading their numbers. Fras, she does not remember me, she does not want to remember me."
Julica fell to her knees beside the table, her hands clasped. The elder Disore patted her head gently but condescendingly.
"My dear, the medician says that she may be fashioning herself into someone new, and that she regards what she used to be as a failure. Ple
ase, try to be the new Velesti's friend and companion."
Julica slowly got to her feet, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.
"I'll try, Fras Disore, but it will be hard."
iVeclor washed, cleaned his teeth, then began to dress in the clothes that he had prepared weeks earlier. Everything had been meticulously, scrupulously laid out, polished, cleaned, or tuned to perfec-
tion. There was not a rule or protocol in the dueling or law books that he had not learned, attended to, or at least prepared for.
There was a soft rapping at the door. Reclor slid back the bolt, to find Julica waiting in the corridor.
"May I come in?" she asked after he had stood looking puzzled for a moment.
Reclor stood aside and she entered. Within his room were the birthday presents of his friends and family, but the youth showed no signs of settling down for the evening to enjoy them. He was dressed in a white shirt with fashionable puffed sleeves and a starched collar, a wide belt, blue riding slacks and calf-length boots. The pair of Cambrissen dueling pistols lay in a case that sat open on the table, and beside it was an authority to duel, signed by a magistrate that day. Julica closed the door behind her.
"So, you intend to go through with it?"
"Yes, it is arranged."
"And your parents will lose another child."
"Thank you for your faith in my skills, Frelle Julica. Besides, Velesti is still alive."
"Her body is alive, but the mind in it is only a few days old. She is a strange, cold thing now. It is hard to be close to her."
Reclor squared off in front of a full-length mirror, then turned slowly, checking his clothing for fit and stray threads.
"You look very fetching," observed Julica.
"Thank you. Do you think they will take me seriously?"
"Oh, yes. I presume the duel is tonight?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"In three hours. Don't try to stop me."
"Do what you will, I only want to protect you, Reclor. I have served you and your family for five years. I do not want you killed."
"I do not want myself killed either, but this is a matter of duty. You have duties to the family, and so do I. Well, time to be off."
Julica leaned back against his door and folded her arms. "So early?"
"Things to arrange."
no sean Mcmullen
"That is what your second is for."
"Some things a second cannot do."
"Like the Touch of Serenity?"
"Yes, well, bad luck to enter a duel as a virgin."
"Who is she?"
Reclor squirmed. "How should I know? Some whore on Hawker Lane, I'll try to chose one who looks sympathetic."
"You may get poxed."
"I'll wear a skin."
"Wearing a skin is bad luck."
"Then I won't. If I die, will I care about the pox?"
"That is not a good attitude to take into a duel. You should go in with everything to live for."
Reclor closed the case on the Cambrissans and snapped the latch across, then reached for his coat.
"I am open to constructive suggestions, but otherwise I would appreciate it if you would wish me luck and step away from the door."
Mica did not move. They stared at each other, unblinking. She unfolded her arms, reached up and undid the top button of her blouse.
"I have a suggestion," she said. "It is very constructive."
Reclor deduced the intent of her suggestion instantly.
"I, I, I—no!" he burst out.
She undid a second button. "Poking about with some strange whore will do nothing to steady your nerves."
"No! You're like a sister to me."
She undid a third button. "But I am not your sister, I am a servant. I am twenty-two, and you are fifteen. We are consenting adults in the eyes of Confederation law."
"I've known you since I was ten! You wiped my face, washed my clothes, even laid me over your knee and smacked my arse!"
She undid a fourth button, then pulled her blouse open to allow her breasts to stand free. "Maybe so, Reclor, but just now I am your friend and your lady, and nothing else matters or even exists," she said, now advancing on him. "I am going to make love with you,
for there is no other man that I care for as much as you. Now get undressed and get into bed."
"Dammit, you've made that bed for five years!"
"And tomorrow I'll be sure to wash the sheets. Reclor, other youths are forever chasing and pestering their maids, and often bedding them. I am impressed that you have always behaved honorably toward me, but there is nothing unusual about a maid coupling with her master's son."
"I—I'm ashamed."
"Why?"
"I'm a virgin. A harlot might laugh, but then she would be out of my life forever. You work here, you—"
"It's bad luck for a virgin to enter a duel, Reclor, and I'm here to make sure that you're not when you leave tonight. I can provide the Touch of Serenity as well as anyone, and perhaps even better."
She began to unbutton his shirt as he stood with his coat in one hand and his case of pistols in the other. She slid her arms around him and pressed her quite high and prominent breasts against his skimpy chest.
"Reclor, Reclor, I want revenge for what happened to Velesti and Elsile as much as you do, and this way I shall be there, standing with you as you turn and fire. Lie with me, let me help, my brave and dashing lover. It is a mater of honor for me as well."
The mention of honor suddenly made all the difference to Reclor. He dropped his coat and placed his dueling pistols on the table, then wrapped his arms around Julica. She put a hand behind his head, drew his face close to hers, then kissed him. As their lips pressed together the memories of the previous five years faded away, and for a short time they became, truly, lovers.
It was only fifty-five minutes later that Reclor slipped from his bed and began pulling on his clothes. Julica sat up, hugging her knees against her breasts.
"You don't have to leave for another hour," she said.
"I have things to arrange. I had not reckoned on taking so long."
"So long? How long had you planned to spend doing. . . ." She waved her hand in circles. "Doing what we just did?"
"Ten minutes."
Julica shook her head, then rested it on her knees.
"When you get back, I shall have to introduce you to the idea of appreciating the pleasure of a woman a little more."
Reclor blushed and turned away.
"Julica, I could not possibly impose like that."
"Reclor, did it ever cross your mind that I might enjoy what we have just been doing? Sex is not something filthy that men do to women, it's pleasure to be shared. Look forward to spending the rest of this night with me, Reclor; survive the duel for it."
Reclor sat on the edge of the bed and embraced Julica again.
"I shall return," he whispered through her unbound hair and into her ear.
"What do you have to do? Your second should be arranging everything."
"Things unrelated to the duel, but things related to honor."
H
ere it is, twenty-five gold daras," said Reclor, counting out the coins.
"I might be cashiered for this," muttered the watchouse guard.
"The world is wide, and you are now rich. Now return to your post."
Reclor descended into the cells area, carrying a torch. The cells were all secured by doors of thick redgum, each with a tiny access slot bound with iron. At cell five Reclor put an iron spike into the lock and twisted. It gave a soft creak, then tore away. He drew back the bolt and opened the door.
"Musketeer Glarek?" he asked as he held the torch before him.
Three prisoners stirred, blinking up from their narrow bunks.
"Aye," said one, raising his hand.
"I'm here to free you, come with me."
Outside the cell again, Reclor slid the bolt back quietly. They ascended the stairs.
"I'll be wantin' coin fer those weeks in there," said Glarek as they entered the keeper's office. "All the others walkin' free, while I take the—"
Reclor pressed the baffle tube of his flintlock against the back of the musketeer's head and fired. There was a shark crack, like a swagger stick striking flagstones. Glarek fell.
"Consider yourself free," said Reclor as he began dragging the body over to the pantry.
leclor walked slowly into the Gardens of the Commoners, his second carrying the case with the dueling pistols. The youth's legs felt as unsteady as those of a newborn foal, and he was sweating. The moderator was waiting there, holding a single lantern. Four other figures stood close by.
"You're exhausted, you can't shoot in this condition!" insisted Reclor's second.
"I had business on the other side of town, and some wastrel stole my pony."
"We can call a stay until—"
"No! We duel this very hour or not at all."
The medician examined Reclor and declared him fit to take the field. Both duelists now approached the moderator, who held up his lantern to formally identify Reclor and Grammain. Both seconds remained masked.
"You realize that this duel is not legally constituted, even though it is not actually criminal," said the moderator. "As the challenged party Fras Grammain can claim self-defense if he kills you, Fras Disore. If you win you will be charged with murder, and your only hope of cheating the gallows will be to prove just cause."
"I understand all that, but I am committed to the field of honor," replied Reclor. "Exceedingly committed."
The two duelists stood back to back in the dim light provided by Mirrorsun and the moderator's lantern. In the distance the gunshots of revelers and the glow of a bonfire added an eerie backdrop of festivity.
"This is a voluntary duel outside the rules laid down in Confederation legislation," the moderator said in a clear, sharp voice. "There will be no target shoot, and no right to call distance. I shall call the distance, and remember that I am only here to declare self-defense or murder. Understood, Fras Disore?"
"Yes."
"Understood, Fras Grammain?"
"Understood."
"I shall now begin counting. At the count of ten, turn and fire at will. One, two, three—"
Eyes of the Calculor Page 11
