by Andre Nolton
Kyrtian sighed, knowing with resignation that he was going to have to go and play the fool to keep Aelmarkin happy. "Not really. When is this farce scheduled?"
"In three days," Lydiell told him, and patted his hand comfortingly. "Cheer up," she offered. "It's only for an afternoon. How hard can it be to maintain your composure for an afternoon?"
How hard can it be to maintain my composure for an afternoon? Kyrtian asked himself savagely, as he glared down at the sands of the arena to avoid meeting any more contemptuous or amused glances. Harder than getting the better of Gel in a sword-bout, that's how!
From the moment he'd stepped out of the Portal into Ael-markin's manor, he'd realized two things. The first: Lydiell had been absolutely right; if he hadn't shown his face—and his sanity—at this function, Aelmarkin would have been able to say whatever he liked and be believed. The second: it was going to stress his patience and his acting ability to the limit to put up with the attitude of every other guest that Aelmarkin had invited. He had never felt so utterly out-of-place in his life. Why, he had more in common with the humans of his estate than he did these strange creatures of his own race!
A great many of them were approximately his age—much younger than Aelmarkin—the idle offspring of Great Lords who didn't care to attend this particular challenge-fight themselves, but wanted to send representatives. Of course this meant that he was surrounded by those with little to do except chatter about others of their set, current fads, useless pastimes, and new fashions. The people of their social set were people he didn't know anything about, and the pursuits they found so important—well, he couldn't imagine why anyone would waste time on such things. But in their eyes, he was clearly impossibly backward, out-of-step, and provincial.
None of them knew anything about any of the subjects he cared about, which made him sound both a bore and a boor.
And after he'd shown a flicker of startlement at statements he considered outrageous, they probably put him down as callow and a prig.
Well, by their standards, I am a prig. I don't consider an afternoon spent in having my jaded appetites aroused by poor human girls who only exist to serve as my concubines to be particularly amusing.
After the first hour, they snubbed him openly, and with unveiled contempt.
This, strangely enough, made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't expected them to make him feel that way. He could try to tell himself that these people didn't matter, that all he had to do was remain polite and comport himself like a gentleman and nothing they reported back to their fathers would do any harm—but that didn't make the sneers and the sniggering any easier to bear. He didn't like them, but they were many and he was one; it was all too easy to feel the hurt of the scorned outsider. He truly hadn't anticipated that sort of reaction from himself, and he wished there was a way he could gracefully extricate himself and go home.
As he stared fixedly down at the wooden-walled arena below him, he heard whispers behind him, and snickering, and felt the back of his neck grow hot. He was just glad that Gel was here with him, in the role of bodyguard; somehow it was easier to stay composed with Gel's stone-faced example to copy.
I'm on their choice of ground; the best I can hope to do is get out of this without making any major blunders. Mother couldn 't possibly have known how slippery this situation could become. He was acutely aware that they had far more experience than he at the maneuvering of intrigue and politics. He felt horribly young, shallow, and naive; these people had drunk machination with their first milk, and he had no idea how to deal with situations they wouldn't even hesitate over.
Kyrtian had taken a seat in the first row to avoid meeting their eyes any longer, but they continued to speak to each other in voices pitched for him to overhear, taunting him to respond.
"Who, exactly, is this fellow?" asked an arrogant young male a little to Kyrtian's left.
"My cousin Kyrtian," Aelmarkin said lightly. "Son of the late Lord Darthenian, my uncle."
"Lord Darthenian..." someone murmured behind him. "That name sounds familiar. Don't I know it from some old story or other?"
"Try coupling the name with daft," drawled another, sounding so smug that it was all Kyrtian could do to keep from standing up and going for the fellow's throat. "Daft Darthenian, pot-hunter, excavator of things better left buried, and pursuer of useless old manuscripts. Missing in pursuit of same, and presumed dead, oh, decades ago."
"Now, Ferahine, there's nothing wrong with having a hobby," replied Aelmarkin, in a tone so tolerant that Kyrtian clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair to keep himself in his seat. "Isn't insect-collecting as silly? I've seen you send slaves out bobbing about in fields and forests with a net and a bottle—and all those boxes of dead beetles are just as useless as unreadable manuscripts!"
"Point taken. Still, hobbies are all very well, Aelmarkin," said the drawler, "But no gentleman and no sane fellow goes off himself to dig up nasty old discards in parts unknown, now, does he? I certainly don't go rambling through briars with nets and bottles! That's what slaves are for! And he went out alone, too! Why, that was simply insane, if you ask me."
Kyrtian gritted his teeth. He knew he was meant to overhear all of this. He knew they were trying to provoke him. And they were only saying in his hearing what they told each other—and what their elders said. If he just kept his temper, he would learn a great deal. If they thought he was too dull to understand—or too cowardly to respond—what possible harm could it do?
Still, it was the hardest thing he had ever done, to sit there and let strangers abuse the memory of his own father, without challenging them.
"Alone!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Why didn't he take slaves, if he wouldn't send them to do his hunting for him? Aelmarkin, admit it, he must have been deranged!"
There was an audible rustle of fabric, marking Aelmarkin's careless shrug. "He was always secretive about these hunts of his, and never more so than on the last one. He was hunting the site of the Great Gate that brought us from Evelon, and the things that were discarded as useless because they no longer functioned after passing the Gate. Why? I haven't a notion."
"Yes, well, it's obvious he was an obsessive, at the very least," said the drawler, dismissively. "And judging from the disaster of a conversation I had with Kyrtian, yonder, obsession runs in the family blood. All the poor fool can talk about is military matters! History, tactics, battles no one cares about." A sneer crept into the drawl. "As if anyone would ever give the likes of him command over so much as a squad of latrine-diggers."
By now Kyrtian's neck burned, his cheeks were nearly the same temperature, and his jaw and shoulders ached with the strain of tightly-clenched muscles. He gladly would have given half his possessions for the opportunity to come at any of those foppish fools in barehanded combat!
And that's just what they expect from you, he reminded himself, trying mentally to throw a little cold water on his overheated temper. They think you 're an atavistic barbarian, and they may very well be waiting for you to stand up and attack them physically! They would have the right to challenge you or bring you up in front of the Great Council.
And that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was what Aelmarkin wanted him to do, for such an attack would prove to everyone's satisfaction that he, Kyrtian, was just as mad as Aelmarkin claimed in his petition. An Elvenlord and a gentleman did not settle differences hand-to-hand. An Elvenlord and a gentleman issued a proper challenge, and settled it as this feud was being settled.
I have to keep my mouth closed and my eyes open and find out just how these things work! he told himself vehemently. So that if I get a chance, I can arrange for these fools to eat their words without salt!
Beside him, Gel stood at wary attention, as impassive as any statue, and as invisible to these fools as any other bodyguard. Gel had heard every word, too—but you would never know it by looking at him.
Copy Gel, he told himself. Stay quiet, if not calm. Wait, and watch. He knew only that these feu
ds were settled in trial-by-combat, using slaves as proxies. If his fighters were better-trained than these—
Then it might be worth dealing with these dolts in a way they 'II understand.
Abruptly, conversation behind him ceased, as some signal he didn't recognize warned the idlers that the combat was about to begin. Abruptly caught up in spite of himself, Kyrtian leaned forward with the rest, as the light in the arena brightened, and the lights above their seats dimmed.
5
Two bronze doors, one at each end of the arena and decorated with hammered images of armored fighters, opened onto the sands of the arena. Two lines of heavily-equipped fighters paced through them, moving ponderously into the light. There were fourteen of these humans in all, seven to each side. One set was armored in pale green, with a winged serpent badge in brilliant blue on their breastplates and shields, the other in emerald green with the badge of a rearing alicorn in white.
The armor was impressive; the men inside it were less so. Kyrtian studied each of the fighters minutely, weighing and measuring their general strength, noting the kinds of weapons each man carried. He assumed that Gel was doing the same.
"Ancestors!" came another whisper from behind. "What can be so fascinating about a handful of fighters? Is he so provincial that he's never seen gladiators before?"
Kyrtian's neck burned again for a moment, but he calmed himself quickly. With something before him to study and analyze, he finally managed to think of his own situation in terms of tactics rather than emotions.
Most of them are taking me for a provincial boor, but those are the ones who are ignoring me. The comments might be coming from those who are suspicious of me—thinking that the "provincial fool" might just be a pose. They would be trying to prod me into either doing something typical of a fool—such as lose my temper and insult them back—or to do or say something that will give them more information about what I'm really here for. If I do neither, I'll confuse them further. It's even possible that Aelmarkin is behind the prodding. The possible number of plots and counterplots going on behind his back made him feel dizzy.
And these strangers seemed even more alien to him. How did they do it? How could anyone live like that, spending most of every day in guarding against treachery, and the rest in planning treachery? It would drive him mad in no time. He could not imagine how they coped with the constant paranoia.
Perhaps that is why they spend so much time in debauching themselves. Only by immersing themselves in pleasure can they relax for a few moments. If that was so—he felt suddenly sorry for them. But not too sorry.
The best weapon he had to use against them was the uncertainty he represented, the very fact that he was unknown. No matter what Aelmarkin had told them, they probably wouldn't really believe it until they had proved for themselves what he was. They would tend to judge him against the standard of their own behavior. What would one of them do in a situation similar to his? Play the fool? Try and find an ally?
Probably look for an ally or a protector; hopefully by doing neither, he had confused them further. He wished he could talk openly to Gel; of all the times he needed advice—
Then again, Gel might not have any better notion of how to handle these effete creatures than he did.
Well, others have mistaken my caution for a lack of imagination in the past—so perhaps that is what is going on now. I can only hope so; it will make them underestimate me further.
All he really knew was how such situations would have been handled in the far past, as recounted in the history books he spent so much time perusing. In the days of long ago, there had been less time and leisure for long plots and political machination. The Elvenlords of old had dealt with problems with their own kind in ways that "human barbarians" would find perfectly familiar.
If one of the First Lords chose to deal with the insults instead of tamely accepting them, he would have called his enemy out for a duel-by-magic.
That makes a satisfying fantasy these days as well—providing you picture yourself as the winner rather than the loser.
In law, that was still an option, but it was one that very few ever took anymore. More than ninety-nine times out of a hundred, insults were answered and arguments settled by proxy, in the arena, at the hands of human gladiators like the ones below. Hardly fair, since clearly someone whose means were limited couldn't afford to keep and train as many fighters as someone of greater rank and power, but someone of greater rank and power would also be much stronger in magic than a lesser lord—so it wouldn't make a great deal of difference to the outcome, whether it was settled by combat or magic duel.
It's even possible for someone with weak magic to become wealthy enough to afford first-quality fighters, or to gain an ally with access to such fighters, but nothing increases the power of the magic that someone is born with. I suppose combat-by-proxy is marginally more fair than combat-by-magic.
It wouldn't be quite as viscerally satisfying, though.
I wonder how I'd fare if I decided to challenge one of the charmers behind me to a magic duel? Have any of them even bothered to practice and train their power? There was no way of judging how strong they were by the way they were acting, and he really didn't know how strong his magic was in comparison with theirs. Going into such a challenge blind would be the stupidest thing he could do.
He didn't use magic except when there was no way to accomplish something without it. He really didn't have much use for illusions, so he'd never really practiced them, but there was no reason why even an illusion couldn't be used as a weapon. Other Elvenlords seemed to waste a great deal of power on outward appearances—for instance, as Aelmarkin had, turning his manor into an impossible confection that hardly resembled a dwelling at all. But was that the waste that it seemed to be?
Is it a kind of bluff—or even a way of demonstrating power without the risk entailed by combat?
For a moment, he felt a flicker of concern that he hadn't done likewise; should he have created an opulent illusory costume like theirs? What would these people think if they saw his unadorned home? Did they think him weak, and of little account, because he didn't create and maintain fantastic illusions?
It doesn 't matter, he told himself quickly. No one ever comes to visit who needs to be impressed, and I'm not the only one here wearing ordinary clothing.
He reminded himself that his status, and that of his family, remained secure—because they produced what others needed, and they had no power that anyone else coveted. It was a reassuring thought, and one that calmed his new-born concerns. He wanted to look harmless and inconsequential; he'd nearly forgotten that. He wanted people like these friends of Aelmarkin to underestimate him and his family.
He gave himself a mental shake. These people were contaminating him—he hadn't been among them for even half a day, and already he was thinking about challenges and status, worrying because they thought he was a provincial, insular bumpkin! So what if they did? That was what kept him and his safe! Let them jockey with each other he reminded himself. Let them ignore us. As long as they consider us politically insignificant, but too useful to disturb, we 'II remain secure and safe.
Unless, of course, the family holdings looked so prosperous that they became a choice plum, ripe for picking. Certainly Aelmarkin thought so; was it possible that some other, more dangerous opponent would come to share that belief?
Perhaps—perhaps he ought to consult with Lydiell when he returned home. Maybe it was time to create a few carefully-crafted bluffs. Lydiell was clever; surely she would be able to concoct an excuse for Kyrtian to demonstrate his powers in such a way that would make it appear that Kyrtian had incredible ability. Or, at least, that he had enough magical power to make challenging him more costly than the prize was worth.
Something to make it appear that it isn 't worth upsetting the way things are now, that's what we need. Something to show that there is nothing to be gained and a great deal to be lost in a direct confrontation.
It
might be all to his advantage that most conflicts were settled in the arena. He knew for certain that in strength and agility, his own worst fighters were the equal of even the best of the fighters down there on the sand—and were superior to most of the men waiting to fight. If it came to a challenge-match like this one, Kyrtian was confident that his side would not lose.
That realization made him relax a little. Really, he was worrying for no reason. As long as issues were settled by human gladiators like those below him, he had nothing to fear.
In fact, the more he studied those fighters, the more confident of that fact he became. It was odd; those gladiators all seemed a good bit younger than he would have expected. This was an important match, or so he had been led to believe. So why weren't the two antagonists fielding their older, more experienced gladiators? What is it that Gel says? "Experience and duplicity will overcome youth and energy every time."
He had managed to lose track of what the gossips behind him were chattering about while he mulled over his own situation and studied the combatants. When he turned a fraction of his attention back to them, he discovered they were placing bets on the outcome, not only of the whole combat, but on the fortunes of individual fighters. Mildly intrigued, he eavesdropped without shame.
"You must know something, if you're betting that high," the drawler said suspiciously. "Don't take the bet, Galiath! He's too confident! I think he bribed the trainers to tell him something!"
"Nonsense, he doesn't know anything—he's just bluffing, and I've wanted a chance to get that horse for ages!" replied a new voice, one that Kyrtian thought was slurred just a little with drink. "I'll take that bet; your racehorse against my red-haired concubine and two jeweled armlets that the one with the two swords draws first blood before he's marked!"
It took a moment for the sense of what they were saying to sink in, and when it did, he felt a little sick. The idea of equating the value of a human with that of a horse—no, as less than that of the horse ... it hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach just how foreign their way of thinking was to his. He'd known it intellectually, of course, but this was the first concrete example he'd witnessed. Up until now, Aelmarkin's slaves hadn't behaved any differently than his own servants at their most discreet.
