High above, Ellegon's dark form passed across the stars. *Anything I can do?*
"No. Just leave me alone." Karl buried his face in his hands. "I've just got to be alone for a while."
* * *
Time lost its meaning. He never knew how long he stood there.
A finger tapped against his shoulder. He turned to see Beralyn standing next to him, her face wet. "You loved him, too, didn't you?"
Karl didn't answer.
"I've spent years hating you, you know. Ever since a trader brought us your letter, telling us that he was dead."
"I . . . understand."
"I thank you for the understanding. What do we do now, Karl Cullinane? Do we go on hating each other?"
"I don't hate you, Baroness. You've never given me any reason to hate you."
"But you don't like me much, either. You feel that I should be grateful because you freed Thomen, Rhuss, and me."
"Just tell me what you want, Lady. Don't play games with me."
She nodded slowly. "My husband sent Thomen and me away, once the Holts started using these guns and the tide of the war turned against us. He thought we would be safe. But it seems that guns are flowing out of Enkiar these days—flowing toward Holtun."
Enkiar, again. That was where the slaver caravan had been heading. That was where Ahrmin had hired the assassins. What did it all mean?
Well, he'd find out soon enough.
"Aeia told me that you're going to Enkiar. She didn't say where you would be going after that."
He shrugged. "I guess that depends on what happens there. Maybe back here, maybe on another raid." And maybe to the source of the slavers' guns. Not only was there a score to be settled there, but even light trading in slaver guns and powder had to be stopped.
"You owe me, Karl Cullinane. You owe me for my son. I wish to collect on that debt."
He looked her full in the face. "How?"
"You know my husband. Zherr isn't going to survive this war. I'm likely never to see him again. Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Dammit, couldn't anyone speak plainly?
"Unless you take me back to Bieme. I want to go home, Karl Cullinane. And I want your word." She gripped his hand. "I want your word that if it's humanly possible, you'll take me home, after Enkiar. That's little enough payment for my son's life."
"Baroness—"
"Isn't it?"
"Yes, but—"
"Do I have your word? This . . . word of Karl Cullinane that you prize so much?"
"You have it."
"There is one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Thomen. He is to stay here, to be sent with another party. I won't have him around you."
Chapter Ten
Practice Session
Even if you persuade me, you won't persuade me.
—Aristophanes
Karl gobbled down the scrambled eggs, then took a last bite of the half-eaten ham steak before pushing his chair away from the table.
"And just where do you think you're taking your brainless body off to, Karl Cullinane?" U'len asked, her fists on her more than ample hips.
Suddenly he felt about eight years old, and was surprised to find that he liked the feeling.
"Gotta rush, U'len. I've got a workout with Tennetty and a couple of Daven's men, and then I've got to get ready for the town meeting."
"First things first. Eat."
"No—"
"Yes." Andy-Andy shook her head. "U'len's right. Sit down and finish your breakfast."
Jason hid a broad smile behind his tiny hand. "Daddy's in trou-ble," he announced in a stage whisper, addressing nobody in particular.
"Damn straight," Aeia said, the English words still incongruous coming from her. "He acts as if he's in charge here or something."
He glared at her.
"Siddown, hero," Andy-Andy said. "Out there you may be the legendary Karl Cullinane, but in here you're an all too often absent husband and father who thinks he can wolf down his food and run."
Relay, please: You didn't think I was so damn absent last night.
There was no answer: He snorted. Question: Why is a dragon like a cop? Answer: You never can find one when you need one.
"Give me a break, please." Keep it light, he thought. There were too few opportunities to have an argument that could be treated lightly, where winning or losing didn't really matter; he decided to enjoy this one. "I've got things to do."
"Exactly right. And the first heroic thing you're going to do today is to finish your ham. All of it."
"Yeah," Jason piped in. "Children of Salket are starving, and you wanna throw away good food?" he went on, in a fine imitation of his mother's voice when she got angry.
"Name two."
"Karl—"
"I'm eating, I'm eating." He pushed his chair back to the table. Somehow, it seemed that the remaining ham had grown larger in the past seconds.
* * *
Karl's workouts tended to draw crowds. Even on a morning when most people were doing their best to finish whatever they were working on so that they would be free for the late-afternoon town meeting, more than fifty had gathered around the corral to watch.
Pendrill and the stableboy chased the three horses out of the corral, while Wraveth and Taren cleared out the fresh dung, then stripped to the waist before donning padded shirts and trousers and slipping the wire-mesh masks over their heads.
Karl settled for just a mask. The practice swords' edges had been dulled, and the points had had steel balls welded to them; with the mask precluding the possibility of losing an eye, there was little chance of much more than a bruise or two, and Karl wasn't likely to get bruised. Besides, the padded practice garments tended to interfere with his freedom of movement. His overfilled belly was going to do enough of that; no need to aggravate the problem.
Tennetty was late. After a few minutes that Karl spent chatting with Wraveth and Taren, she rode up, then hurriedly slipped from Pirate's back, waving away Taren's offer of a mask and practice sword.
Her wrists were bandaged. Karl walked over to her.
"Problem?"
She shook her head. "You still want me in the Enkiar operation? I'll need some fresh scars on my wrist, and I'd rather get them from Thellaren's scalpels than by wearing cuffs a moment longer than I have to." She tapped at her patch, her lips pursed in irritation. "Thellaren's working on the glass eye, and I asked Chak to ride out and get Nehera started on trick chains—you happy?"
"It's necessary, Tennetty." But why the sudden change of mind? Karl shrugged mentally. It wasn't any of his business.
She broke into a smile. "I have a surprise for you. Remember Jilla and Danni?"
"Yes?"
"They want to join our team. Seems that they've decided to become warriors, get a bit of revenge."
Wonderful. Once Karl had let a woman join up just because she had a thing for seeing slavers' blood. That someone had been Tennetty; he had lucked out.
But he didn't want to push his luck. He'd been fortunate enough to find in Tennetty someone with a natural bent for combat, plus a personality skewed enough to be able to handle it. "How did you talk them out of it?"
"Well . . ."
"You did talk them out of it, didn't you?"
"No." She snorted. "They don't think it's all that hard." She set a hand on her hip and bent her other wrist. " 'It looks soooo easy. You pull a trigger, slice with a sword—' "
"You're joking. Tell me you're joking."
"Nope. They'll be here in a while. I made them a deal: Whoever scores on you we'll sign up. Whoever you beat has to find herself a man and settle down—and we get to pick the man."
"We?" He raised an eyebrow. "You got anyone in particular in mind?"
"Obvious: Chak for the blonde, Riccetti for the brunette. By the way, they're both good cooks, although I can't vouch for their . . . other talents. You might want to try them out—"
"Tennetty . . ."
"Think about it, Ka
rl. Might give Chak something to come Home to, put a little weight on Lou, and maybe smiles on both of their faces."
That might not be a bad idea, provided Chak and Lou agreed to it. Not bad at all. As far as Karl could tell, none of the female apprentice Engineers were sleeping with Lou; Riccetti had always been shy around women. And while Karl trusted Chak with his life, discussing Chak's relationships with women—or, rather, the lack of them—wasn't something he was comfortable doing.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "They went for it?"
Tennetty nodded. "That they did. Remember, for most of their lives, they were owned by a Pandathaway inn. Their only real talents are over a stove and in a bed, unless you consider arranging flowers to be a major skill. I don't think that either of them would have a hard time getting Riccetti to agree. If you want, we could rig it so that Lou thinks it's his own idea. I don't vouch for Chak; he can be clever, in his own little way."
"That wasn't what I was asking. They really agreed to sparring with me?"
"Well, I had to throw in a few conditions for them to be willing to face the great Karl Cullinane."
"Such as?"
"First, they get to use real swords."
"Great. Thanks a lot." That was pushing things a bit far. Even an absolute tyro could get in a lucky slash. "I'd better send for some armor." Normally, Karl didn't like wearing a lot of armor; in combat, speed was more important, particularly if you had a bottle of healing draughts handy to take care of the occasional nick.
"Umm, that was the second condition. You don't get to wear armor. No mask. Nothing but your pants—"
"Thank heavens for small favors."
"Really?" Tennetty snickered. "I never noticed. The third handicap is that you use only a practice sword."
Karl snorted. "Anything else? Do I have to fight with one hand tied behind my back?"
Tennetty produced a leather thong. "Number four."
* * *
Look, Karl wanted to say, this isn't a pleasant business. Don't get into it if you don't have to.
But he didn't. It wouldn't have done any good. For some people, blood was a drug. Tennetty was that way; the killing never really bothered her.
Then again, how do I know that? Karl hid his own feelings as much as he could, even from Andy-Andy.
There were things he had to do; horrible, awful things. The only justification was that not doing them was worse. Remonstrating with himself was a luxury for late at night; he couldn't spend precious moments in combat remembering that an enemy had once been a cute little baby, bouncing on a mother's knee.
But he didn't have to like it. He didn't have to force himself to feel the pleasure that Tennetty got from the killing, and that Jilla and Danni seemed to have learned at her hands.
He worked his left hand in the leather thongs that bound it behind his back. It wouldn't be hard to work it out of the thongs, but that would take time. And it would be seen as cheating.
Not that he had anything against cheating, not if it made the difference between bleeding and not bleeding, but . . .
Damn. One of the watchers in the crowd was an unfamiliar elf, not a Home resident. One of Dhara's people, no doubt. Which upped the stakes: Karl wouldn't only have to win; he would have to win in such a way as to impress the elf. The Therranji had already been shocked by the scene Karl had pulled the day before; best to keep them impressed.
How the hell do I get myself into things like this?
*Do you really want an answer?* With a rustling of leathery wings, Ellegon landed next to the corral. *It's because you're egotistical, smug, stupid, foolish—*
Ellegon—
*—and those are your good points.*
"Thanks."
Jilla and Danni walked out through the gate from the Receiving complex, naked swords held clumsily in their hands, whispering conspiratorially to each other. Each wore a deeply cut halter and a sarong slit well up the thigh. Rather nice thighs, at that.
*Naughty, naughty. And if you're thinking that's accidental, guess again. Jilla decided that if you're watching other parts of their anatomy, you won't be concentrating on the hands with the swords. By the way, the halters are loosely tied; they'll slip off with just a bit of exertion. Sort of a second line of defense.*
Well, at least Andy-Andy isn't—
"Hey, hero," Andy-Andy said, tapping him on the shoulder. "What goes on here?"
"Great. Just great." He put his free hand on the corral railing and vaulted over, accepting a practice sword from Tennetty. "Let's get to it."
* * *
Naked blades didn't always make Karl nervous, but they did always make him serious. He eyed both of the women professionally as they circled him, waiting for him to make the first move.
If this had been for real, he would have tried for a quick injury to either—preferably a leg wound, some sort of disabler—and then taken out the other, finishing off the injured opponent at his leisure.
But that wouldn't work here. There was prestige at stake, as well as injury.
*Why you're worrying about prestige when you're facing two swords is something I fail to understand.*
He made a tentative lunge toward Danni, allowing her to retreat, the sword held awkwardly in front of her face. Because I can't afford to lose face before the town meeting.
*In either sense. Think about it. You're not all that pretty to begin with—*
Shh. He forced a casual smile to his face.
Mr. Katsuwahara had had it right, way back when.
The way to think of kumite, of practice, he had said, is to treat it as real, except for the last inch of your own blows. Block as though the punches really would crush your trachea, the kicks would truly rupture your diaphragm. Your strikes should be aimed just outside the kill points—the navel instead of the solar plexus, the upper thigh instead of the groin, the orbital ridge instead of the eye—and then focused just an inch away from the flesh.
That wouldn't quite do it here, but it was the right idea. Treat the swords as real—because they were, dammit—and then work out how to come up with an offense that wasn't really an offense.
Danni slashed at his leg; he parried easily, putting enough force into the move to make the steel sing.
He spun to block Jilla's stab at his left shoulder. Dammit, they had him between them, and both of them had moved in too close.
But why was that bad? In a fight, you wanted your opponents' blades to endanger each other; they had to avoid cutting into an ally's flesh, while any meat your sword met was an enemy's.
And what of someone who was foolish enough to move in too close? Why wasn't that a problem? That was supposed to be an opportunity to bring feet and elbows into play.
Because this isn't a real fight, dammit. It isn't supposed to be.
Danni poked her sword at his shoulder—
Where thought would have failed him, reflex took over.
He didn't stop to think that ducking aside brought Danni's sword into line with Jilla's face; there just wasn't time to think about it.
It wasn't thought that opened his right hand, letting the practice sword drop, while his left arm clenched, snapping the leather thongs that bound it.
And it wasn't thought that brought his two palms together, clapping his hands against the flat of Danni's blade, stopping it a scant half-inch from Jilla's left eye.
"No." Danni gasped. "I almost—"
"Right." He twisted the sword from Danni's hand, then turned and snatched Jilla's blade from her nerveless fingers.
Jilla rubbed at her left eye, although it hadn't been touched. Her breath came in short gasps; her face was ashen.
Karl forced a chuckle. "You've just had a taste of what it's really like. Just a little taste, mind." He tossed one of the swords end over end into the air, letting the hilt thunk into his palm. "You know what we really do? We're merchants, in the business of selling pieces of ourselves. Tennetty's eye, Chak's toes—take a look at Slovotsky's scars sometimes, or Daven's.
&n
bsp; "Look at my chest," he said. "I picked up this scar outside of Lundescarne. A slaver had a chance to whittle on me with a broken sword while I was busy choking the life out of him. And then there's—" He stopped himself. "And we're the lucky ones."
Anger welled up and choked him. "Idiots. You don't have to see a friend's intestines spread across the grass because he wasn't quick enough with his sword. You can let yourselves sleep soundly at night, because a little sound or a light touch doesn't have to mean anything to you. You don't have to jump through a window and find three people dead, their throats cut because someone was after your blood and they happened to be in the way.
"And you don't have to keep going, death after death, killing after killing, year after year.
"But you want in on it?" He offered them each a sword, hilt first. "Congratulations. You've got it."
Eyeing the sword with horror, Danni staggered away.
"Yes, Karl Cullinane." Jilla gripped the other one tightly. "I want in. I understand what you're saying; I've spent the past tenday listening to Tennetty. And I know I'll need training, but—"
"You want in." He shrugged. "Tennetty, she's in your charge. You get to train her. I want you to start by running her until she drops." He turned and walked away.
Chapter Eleven
Town Meeting
The deadliest enemies of nations are not their foreign foes; they always dwell within their borders. And from these internal enemies civilization is always in need of being saved. The nation blessed above all nations is she in whom the civic genius of the people does the saving day by day, by acts without external picturesqueness; by speaking, writing, voting reasonably; by smiting corruption swiftly, by good temper between parties; by the people knowing true men when they see them, and preferring them as leaders to rabid partisans or empty quacks.
—William James
Ahira snickered. "Ever wish you hadn't freed Chton? Just sort of let him slide by that time?"
"No." Karl pursed his lips. "Just 'cause he has clay feet like everybody else?" Including me, for that matter.
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