Conn waited for some emotion to manifest itself. He felt a vague sadness, but could not get it to deepen to anything profound. The place in which he stood, the spot where he had come into existence – birth was not an accurate term – conjured no response from deep within him. Indeed, he was willing to accept that there was no “deep” for Conn Labro, except of course for his unnatural capacity for rage. And that he must avoid, lest it consume him from within until it left him like those heavy troopers in the projection – depleted and spiritless as the hulk of a burned-out star.
For a moment he was tempted to summon up his anger. At what? he thought. The ghost of Hallis Tharp? The even longer dead Flagits? The disinterested universe which could oversee the extinction of a gnat or of a galaxy with the same equanimity?
And even if he could overcome his conditioning and let the fury take him, what would he do with it? Rampage across the corpse-strewn fields of Forlor, smashing dried bones and raging at phantoms and memories?
The integrator interrupted his thoughts. “I am receiving a signal from the Martichor. It is for you.”
“Connect me.”
He expected to see the face of the spacer. Instead he found himself looking into the eyes of Lord Magratte, a gaze that sparkled with a cold glee. “Erkatchian has relayed your message to my lord,” the Old Earther said.
Conn was intrigued to discover that the sight of the aristocrat stirred a faint sentiment in him. He examined it and found it was on behalf of Jenore Mordene. Of course, he thought, Hallis made me loyal to my comrades. She despised Magratte, so her despite became mine. But the emotion was therefore artificial, therefore pointless. He wanted only to be alone.
“Very well,” he said. “You may depart whenever you are ready. My regards to the captain.”
“Give them to him yourself. Erkatchian forgot his place. He spoke brazenly and attempted to thwart my lord’s intentions. Thus he has been relieved of command. You will find him at the base of the front steps, somewhat the worse for wear. I am now handling matters for my lord Vullamir.”
“It does not signify,” Conn said. “Take Erkatchian with you and depart. There will be no sale. I wish to be left in solitude. If you attempt to enter the house I will instruct it to fire upon you. And I will do so if your ship remains on the landing apron longer than I think appropriate.”
Magratte showed no anxiety. He said, “I invite you to change your mind. Hand over the bearer deed.”
“I will not.”
A glint of pleasure appeared in the cold blue eyes. Conn saw that the conversation was going in a direction the aristocrat wished for, though he did not know where that direction would lead. “If you agree, I will give you something you want,” Magratte said.
“You have nothing that I want.”
“Oh?” said the aristocrat, in a tone of practiced malice, “not even this?”
He stepped back from the Martichor’s internal percept. Conn heard a rustle and a gasp of pain and then the screen before him filled with the bruised and tear-streaked face of Jenore Mordene. “Conn,” she said, “don’t let them...”
Before she could say more, a hand closed over her mouth and she was pulled from view. Magratte reappeared. “And now?” he said.
Conn paused atop the black and white steps, the anger held in check. The Lho-tso mantra still worked and he repeated it silently in his head as he watched the party descend from the yacht. The coterie of the nobly born wore similar garments to those Vullamir had had on at the birl field on Four Fingers Key, with wide extravagantly feathered shoulders and six-fingered gauntlets of gleaming metal. They had put on their life masks for the occasion, the dead eyes looking about with vague curiosity.
Magratte had forgone the mask and appeared in more utilitarian garb, a singlesuit of dark metallic mesh that converted the actinic light of Forlor’s star into rainbow highlights. He stepped out in front of the others and waited. Behind him were a squad of well muscled men in coordinated livery, with energy weapons in their hands. Conn assumed they were of Vullamir’s household. Two of them held the arms of Jenore Mordene.
“Integrator,” Conn said, “carry out step one.”
At his command, the two towers overlooking the landing apron divided at their tops and their ison-cannon appeared. The emitters swiveled to cover the party before the yacht. Magratte glanced up at them and moved his head as a player does when his opponent performs an expected move.
“So,” the aristocrat said, “we begin.”
“Or perhaps, instead, we all end,” Conn said. “I am still making up my mind.”
“We know what you are,” Magratte said. “When we talked with Tharp he told us about you. He didn’t want to, but he did.”
“The knowledge gives you no advantage. You will do what you will do. I will do what I will do.”
“Except that we have the girl.”
“I will not deny,” Conn said, “that her presence complicates matters.”
“She is your comrade. You must aid and protect her.”
“Apparently, that is so.”
“Then give us the bead, instruct the integrator to accept us and we will let you depart.”
Conn let a thin smile show. “Really? How? There is only one ship, and its captain has been dismissed.” He glanced down at where Erkatchian was moaning and just beginning to stir at the base of the steps. “And with prejudice.”
“I will accompany you, along with these useful men you see here. We will drop the three of you on a world near the edge of The Spray. I will engage a new captain and return.”
Conn signaled a negative. “Many things can go amiss in space. Noxious gases can invade parts of a ship, rendering those within unconscious or worse. Or sections can be suddenly exposed to vacuum.”
“Trust is out of the question, then?”
Conn made a small but significant gesture.
“Well, we can try the direct and brutal approach,” Magratte said. “We could rush you, firing our weapons, hoping some of us will survive. With you dead, the integrator may accept new instructions.”
“Except that I have told it to spray the apron at the first discharge of a weapon.”
“Which would mean the death of your traveling companion, contrary to the urges and restrictions your maker instilled in you.”
“It is a conundrum,” Conn said. “But perhaps there is also within me an allowance for a glorious demise in which I take my enemies with me.”
“We would certainly want to avoid that,” Magratte said. “Have you any proposal to offer?”
Jenore cried out. “You can’t bargain with them, Conn! They will kill us no matter what they say.” One of the men holding her placed a hand over her mouth. She struggled then subsided.
Conn could feel elements shifting within him. He had reviewed the notes he had found in Hallis Tharp’s workroom and now had a good understanding of how the components of his nature fitted together.
“I am a piece of a game,” he said, “made for counterfeit wars and artificial battles. I am no longer sure of my judgment, nor am I even confident that I should ever again be set loose in the ‘real’ world. My standards are peculiar and thus I do not know what to propose.”
Magratte put a finger to his chin and made a thoughtful sound from behind closed lips. Conn remembered the subtle tells the man had unknowingly displayed during the game of thrash in the Dan’s casino. “Step two,” he said, and the whine of the ison-cannon running up to full charge was loud in the silence.
Magratte very slowly drew his finger from his chin while his other hand made deterrent motions to the armed men behind him. “Are we at an impasse?” he said.
“No,” said another voice. Yalum Erkatchian was sitting up, leaning back on the first two risers of the black and white steps. He turned his head stiffly to look up at Conn. His face was bruised and his lips split. Conn was reminded of his last view of Hallis Tharp in Skrey.
Magratte regarded the spacer with a skeptical mien. “You wish to a
dd something?” he said.
The captain struggled to his feet, swayed a little then assumed a military posture. “Conn Labro,” he said, “I would be honored to speak for you.”
Conn recognized the formal phrasing. “The Challenge Exceptional?” he asked.
“Indeed.”
Conn saw a stiffness enter Magratte’s posture. “Then speak on,” he told Erkatchian.
The spacer turned to the margrave and made certain precise motions involving his hands, head and upper torso. His voice was loud. “I have the honor to speak for Conn Labro.”
The dead eyes of the several aristocrats’ life masks swung toward Erkatchian. When he stopped speaking, they turned to Magratte.
“He has neither rank nor ancestry,” the Old Earther said. The life masks turned back to Erkatchian.
“On the contrary,” the captain said, “he is the acknowledged offspring of Hallis Tharp, of a respectable landed family of Old Earth. Moreover, his rank derives from his estate on which we stand, it being traditional to ascribe to rulers of entire worlds the presumptive degree of duke when they are at home.”
Magratte said nothing. Vullamir’s and all the other life masks turned toward the top of the steps. Conn realized that, for the first time, they had him clearly in focus.
Erkatchian spoke. “Therefore, in the name of Duke Conn Labro, I offer you, my lord Magratte, the Challenge Exceptional. We will be interested to hear from your second the choice of weapons.”
It was a tidy stroke, Conn realized as he ran through its extrapolations. Vullamir’s perceptions would encompass the duel to its nicest degree. If Magratte failed to accept the challenge, he would lose honor. At that point, his patron Vullamir and the other lords would become unable to perceive him. It would be as if he had ceased to exist. Their dismissal of him would extend to their servants; the armed men in livery would obey no orders he might give. He would be lucky to end up stealing food from the kitchens.
On the other hand, if Magratte accepted the challenge, he would have to kill Conn Labro or die in the attempt. There was no blood-or-breakage limit to a Challenge Exceptional. The eyes of the life masks almost seemed alive as they regarded the margrave and awaited his response. The stillness extended and Conn saw Magratte chew the inside of his lip. After a moment, Vullamir tapped his foot.
The margrave swallowed then took a formal stance. “Very well,” he said, “I name my second. Step forward, Alwan Foulaine.”
Conn contained his surprise though he saw from her reaction that the Tote creator’s presence on board the Martichor was no secret to Jenore. As he came out of one of the yacht’s middle ports and passed her she spat in his direction. Conn saw the way it had gone: Foulaine had eavesdropped on the negotiations at the birl match; he must have contacted the intercessor Opteram and suggested that Jenore’s presence on the yacht might prove useful in the event of any last minute hitch; then he and his bullies had snatched Jenore on some deserted stretch of beach and handed her over to Vullamir’s minions. But Magratte would not have left Foulaine behind as a loose end. Still, once the two of them were together on a space ship, the margrave’s love of card play and Foulaine’s facility with numbers could have made some kind of bond between them. They deserve each other, Conn thought.
The two conspirators had been whispering together, Magratte demonstrating hand movements. Now Foulaine stepped forward, bowed and made the motions as instructed and called out, “My Lord Magratte accepts the Challenge Exceptional. The weapons shall be...” – he paused for effect – “epiniards.”
Vullamir spoke to one of his servants. The man stepped forward and said, “My lord Vullamir is honored to offer his brace of epiniards. They are the work of Rhee Vlens.”
Weapons by Vlens would be more than suitable. Conn signaled his acceptance to Yalum Erkatchian who formally relayed the information through Foulaine to Magratte. The margrave then spoke again to his second. Foulaine made fresh gestures and said, “We now name the stake: surrender of this world and all its appurtenances.”
Conn looked within himself, found a complex of motivations. Magratte was his enemy; it was licit to kill him. The same was true of Foulaine, if the opportunity presented itself. Jenore Mordene was his ally and comrade; he must save her if he could. He found a similar response when he considered Erkatchian, though the attachment was not so deep. For Vullamir, he felt nothing but a distaste, as if he had encountered something unwholesome.
He formed a strategy: to save his friends, he would hand over this world to the Immersionists, then inform the Bureau of Scrutiny of its location and their intent. The Old Earth police could look after the matter, although he had been less than impressed by the way they had handled themselves at the Registry of Off-world Properties.
He gestured approval to the captain, then subtly indicated himself, Jenore and the spacer, too. Erkatchian stood upright and said, “We name the counter stake: safe passage from this world for Conn Labro, Jenore Mordene and Yalum Erkatchian.” The captain threw Conn a wry glance, then added, “And title to the yacht Martichor.”
There was a moment’s silence as all eyes turned to Lord Vullamir, then a collective release of breath as the aristocrat waggled one bejeweled finger in acceptance. A footman was dispatched to the yacht and returned with a long, flat case carved from the shovel-like tusk of some off-world beast. He brought it to Vullamir who waved him toward the open space before the steps.
A crowd of people had come out of the yacht in the footman’s wake. Conn saw Umlat and Po and even the nameless skivvy with the prominent nose who had cleaned his cabin. They formed a demilune behind the aristocrats and the men who held Jenore, those at the back craning their necks forward to see.
Foulaine and Erkatchian advanced to meet the footman with the ivory case. The latch was snapped and the weapons displayed, two thin spikes of supple gray metal, each razor edged for a hand’s breadth below the needle point. They had simple hafts, with four quillions arranged in an “x” and spherical pommels that would exactly balance the weight of the blades.
Erkatchian executed the proper formal gestures and chose one of the epiniards. Foulaine clumsily imitated the spacer’s actions and took the other. Now Conn came down the steps to take the weapon from the captain, while Foulaine carried the other to Magratte.
Again, there were gestures to be made. As Conn performed his, he whispered to Erkatchian: “Title to the yacht, too?”
The captain maintained a formal face as he quoted, “In for a zlazni, in for a smov.”
“Very well,” Conn said and turned to face Magratte. The seconds withdrew to opposite sides of the arena.
Conn flourished the epiniard. It was quite simply the finest weapon he had ever held. As he cut and arabesqued the air, its grip subtly fitted itself to his hand, just as the Flagits’ chair had adapted to his body. But where the one had been gross, the other was exquisite perfection. The product of the legendary Vlens’s workshop had made itself an extension of Conn Labro, responsive to the slightest microtremors of the nerves and sinews of hand and arm. A masterpiece had found the hand of a master and Conn knew that this fight would be the pinnacle of his career.
And perhaps at this high point he would find not victory but defeat. He watched Magratte adapt to his own weapon and perform a few test strokes, a pensive look on his face. Then the margrave closed his eyes, aligned his body and settled his breathing. He, too, is a practitioner of the Lho-tso school, Conn thought. And he moves very well indeed.
Conn performed his own preliminary exercises then stilled himself. Magratte advanced halfway across the space between them and Conn did likewise. The aristocrat looked at him levelly and said, “Let us have a neutral opening passage, that the blades may fully acquaint themselves with us. Rhee Vlens deserves no less.”
“I agree,” said Conn.
They stepped back, performed the final formal gestures appropriate to the situation, and commenced. As the challenged party, Magratte had the option to initiate or reply. He chose t
he latter and assumed a modified Grievot stance, blade pointing low and forward as he waited for Conn’s first move.
Conn advanced and offered a triple Bogiline at moderate speed. Magratte ignored the first thrust, sidestepped the second and parried the third with an economy of motion and precision of form that told Conn he was indeed in the presence of a virtuoso swordster.
Now it was Magratte’s turn: he adopted the Flewellyn stance, blade high and angled down, then came forward at a measured pace to execute a double quadriline whose twin epicenters were Conn’s eyes and groin. Conn replied with neat, exact strokes that beat each slash aside by no more than a finger’s breadth then countered with a spiral bind intended to confine Magratte’s blade and divert it to his off side so that Conn’s point could reach over the guard and touch the margrave’s forearm. But the aristocrat smoothly slipped free of the trap and pressed forward so that his point brushed harmlessly against the bicep of Conn’s sword arm. It was a masterful display of precision.
The opening passage concluded, the duelists stepped back and allowed their epiniards to digest what they had learned. Conn felt a subtle shifting in his weapon’s response to his grip, a combination of pressure and pulsation that caused the tendons and muscles of his hand and arm to alter their orientation to optimum. He saw that his opponent was entering into his own partnership.
“Are you ready?” Magratte said after a moment.
“I am.”
They executed the gestures required to commence the second passage, then Magratte began to circle toward Conn’s off side. Conn did likewise. They offered each other stances and exchanged swift but inconsequential attacks, each gauging the other’s speed, form and the ineffable quality called rif.
The aristocrat’s eyes were busy for a little while, his gaze flicking here and there as he measured subtleties and weighed tiny significances. Conn was doing the same and soon came to the conclusion that Magratte was at least his technical equal. The contest would therefore come down to rif or, if they proved to be equal in that regard, to simple endurance.
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