by Jo Clayton
I waved the Doorman off and followed her into the House; we weren’t buying protection tonight.
5
Around three hours later, after bar hopping a while and wandering through the drome and sitting through six or seven acts in the music hall, we left the hall and started for the casino; I was beginning to think those shadows I’d spotted were either my imagination or a mugger gang enticed by the fake gems we were loaded down with and the dumb getup we were wearing. Adelaar was looking tired and depressed and uncomfortable. If no one took our bait, I had a suspicion she was going to make me regret the time we spent trolling it.
Adelaar hit my arm, a tap but it stung. “Haven’t we wasted enough time?”
“Just about. I said there was only a chance they’d bite.”
“I suppose it could’ve worked.” She yawned. “Don’t mind me, I get cranky when I’m bored.” The imp peeped out again and she smiled up at me. “Aslan’s told me that often enough.”
“Right. You want to call a jit to the Gate, or try a few games first?”
“Games. After tonight we get serious again.” She raked the headband off. “Here, you carry this; I don’t want to feel as moronic as I look.” She started stripping off the chains and bracelets and excess rings, I stuffed them down my shirt as she handed them to me; that’s our motto, the client’s wishes come first, it was damn uncomfortable though, they were sticky with her sweat and some of those gems had sharp corners.
We weren’t paying attention to what was happening around us, we’d both given up the stalk. Maybe it was the watched pot thing, but about ten seconds into that strip act Adelaar was doing with the fake jewelry, someone slammed into me, spraying grushajuice everywhere; it was a mess, I was dripping, my shirt was sogged against me stinking sweet and slimy, Adelaar was cursing and using her sleeve to wipe her face as she ignored the attempts of a female duelist to set the challenge going. I got my back against a wall fast, just in case, but the man who’d collided with me was intent on doing this the proper way; he slapped a glove in the direction of my face, called me a mannerless clod and invited me to redress my honor on the dueling ground. Babbit’s android guards were there, they’d come out of the walls as soon as the mess started, stunners ready to make sure Babbit’s version of the rules held fast (’droid guards don’t come under the weapon ban when they’re hired from the city council by respectable home firms to protect the premises), a comforting sight they were, too. I managed a bow of sorts, proclaimed my innocence of all malice and inquired if an apology would be acceptable. Naturally it wasn’t, so there we were, bait taken; all we had to do now was win our respective fights and damage our opponents so badly that other duelists would be disinclined to take up the gage, no matter what the prize. It wasn’t going to be a pretty fight, not one of the epic duels that songsmiths celebrated, but I never had much time for that kind of thing anyway.
6
“Hra Trewwa Harona.” He sketched a bow but didn’t take his eyes off me. He was tall and wiry, skin like polished walnut, not a hair on his head, not even eyelashes, one of the cousin races but nothing about him to say which world he whelped on; way he moved, he was fast and agile.
“Swardheld Quale,” I said.
“Lugat Haza,” the woman said, touched lips and heart and spread her hands palm out; she had a shock of bright red hair, green eyes and a spray of freckles across a beaky nose. Another cousin, equally anonymous.
“Adelaar aici Arash.” Adelaar put her hands palm to palm in front of her, bobbed her head and shoulders in a quick dip.
The four of us were standing on the broad oval of the dueling floor; the tiered seats outside the lighted area were filling quickly, I could hear the sounds of scuffling feet and a growing mutter of conversation. It was as if the walls had sucked in the challenge and spat it out in every section of the House, enticing to this vault most of those who heard it. We were going to have a large and interested audience. It’s what I wanted, what I’d planned to get. Why I was forcing the fight in here rather than leaving it to chance. In a brangle on the street without witnesses anything could happen and the survivors could say what they wanted without contradiction.
Adelaar stepped away and started wrapping the remnants of her shirt around her right arm; she’d laced up the vest so it didn’t flop about (her either) and twitched her swordbelt round so the rapier’s hilt was on her left. From what I’d seen she was ambidextrous with a slight tendency to favor her right hand; apparently she was going to start this thing off as a lefter; I’ve had a few skirmishes with lefters and I knew how they can throw you off your pace. I relaxed some more and got rid of the soggy shirt, leaving the wristlets which weren’t as flimsy as they looked; they wouldn’t turn Harska’s edge, but there wasn’t much else they couldn’t bat aside.
The House Referee came up the ramp and stumped to the center of the oval, ordering us to follow him with a sweep of a muscular arm. Adelaar and I stopped a few paces apart on his left, Lugat and Hra Trewwa faced us on his right. He was a chunky cold-eyed Frajjer, a long pole in his left paw, its end beaten into a knife-edged half circle; any flagrant infringement of Babbit’s rules and he took out the offender, no recourse, his judgment was final. There might not be many rules in Babbitland, but they were serious about those they had. When I say final, it was sometimes exactly that, said offender was cremated the next day.
He faced Adelaar and me. “You are challenged. They say as-is. You two got the veto, so?”
“As-is, that’s fine with me. Del?
“As-is,” she said.
“Caveats?”
“None,” I said. Lugat’s nose twitched, she looked scornful and delighted, a mix of expressions that did nothing much for her face. She stood shaking her arms lightly; beneath the stretch silk you could see her muscles shifting; she was sleek and feral as a hunting cat.
“First-blood or final?”
“Final,” I said. Adelaar nodded.
He looked over his shoulder at the other two. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Hra Trewwa said; the woman shrugged. “Agreed,” she said.
The Frajjer waved us apart, Adelaar and Lugat to the left end of the oval, Trewwa and me to the right. He beat the end of his pole against the floor, three solemn thumps. While he was announcing the terms of engagement, Hra Trewwa took off the long cape he was wearing and stripped out the lining. A weighted net. Shit. I hated netmen. Looks like Bolodo did their homework, got someone to tell them about the last mix-up I had here. I slid my lady from her sheath, brought her past my head, the light catching the crystal edge and making a minor glory of her; I handled her as if she had the mass her size suggested, rested her blunt end on the floor and stood waiting with both hands closed round her hilt. Trewwa probably knew she was a slasher, not a stabber, what I hoped he didn’t know was how nimble she was; looking at her size and conformation you’d think she’d be a heller once I got her wound up, but she’d be slow as a sleepy bumphel. Trewwa snapped the net open; from the way it shimmered it was Menavidetin monofilament. He flipped it around his neck and let the ends hang while he gave me a cocky grin and began working on his walking stick. After a bit of twisting it extended into a two-pronged lance not much longer than assegai traditional; the points of the prongs glittered in the strong light like blue-white diamonds. Double shit. I was going to spend most of this dance running like some fieldsport jock after a speed record.
Lugat produced a pair of k’duries, wrist bands with two chains on each about the length of her arms; at the end of the chains were soft lead balls the size of a green peach. She spread her fingers; the nails glittered. Adelaar wasn’t the only one with a fancy for claws. I hoped she knew how to deal with a k’duri expert; I had a mix-up with one a few years back and felt lucky to come out of it with some broken bones and an aching head, that femme wrapped a chain around my stunner and jerked it away, fast! you wouldn’t believe how fast she could whirr those things; then she got my boot knife, broke my right arm and was playing patt
acake with my head when I left through a window I didn’t bother to open.
The Ref blew his whistle and retreated to the edge of the oval.
Adelaar and Lugat circled warily. Adelaar kept back, watching the sweep of the balls, reading the k’durin’s body. Lugat was gripping the chains about midpoint, one emerging between thumb and forefinger, other between the last two fingers. Each hand moved separately, the chain loops clinking and burring as they swung, the balls whispering round with lazy swishes; her arms shifted out and in, a cadenced mini-dance like the sway of a cobra, as hypnotic and as potentially lethal, without any indication of where the attack would come from. Adelaar feinted, feinted again, testing the space about the k’durin with the point of her rapier, retreating always before one of the chains could wrap about the sword and pull it from her or sneak around it and break a hand or an arm.
I held Harska angled out before me, swaying her a little, camouflaging her nimble nature. My first sword, you swung her a couple times and you went and lay down and breathed hard for a while. Of course, if you knew what you were doing and had reasonable armor, once or twice was about all you needed. Trewwa was as quick as he looked, slipping back or sideways with the ease of a man running at you; he had the bident in his left hand, the net in his right, bunched into a thick loose rope which he kept flicking at me, face then ankles, whipping it away before I could get Harska after it; he was wary of her edge even with the monofil’s toughness. He darted the bident at me, weaving it into the flick-retreat of the net, testing me, trying to read how fast I was and what I knew about netmen. And he was maneuvering me closer to Lugat. This was a doubleduel, nothing against one of the partners breaking off his or her fight to help the other.
Adelaar eased closer. The left-hand lead balls shot out, their chain loops suddenly released. She ducked away. One sphere whistled over her head, the other hit but not solidly (it would have cracked her skull if it had); it grazed her temple, slid off her hair, banged into her shoulder, catching for an instant on one of the pointed studs on the back of her vest. In spite of the dizzy dark that blurred her vision and slurred her mind, she took advantage of that brief catch, turned the duck into a low attack and managed to carve a piece out of Lugat’s left leg, only a deep scratch, but it started bleeding sluggishly. She dropped flat, rolled frantically away before all four of the lead spheres slammed into her; she scrambled onto her feet outside the limit of the chains and began prowling once again, watching Lugat as she drew the chains in and brought the balls to order.
The net flicked out, low, no feint this time, he was after my ankles if he could get them; if I jumped clear, he’d twitch the net open and have me like a gasping fish which he’d skewer on the double prongs of his lance. At the same time, he beat Harska aside with the lancepole, hitting her against the flat, careful still of her edge. Instead of jumping clear, I brought Harska in a quick circle, freeing her from the push of the pole; continuing the move, I jumped into the net, falling flat on it, pinning it temporarily while I swung Harska one-handed at Trewwa’s legs; she went through flesh and bone like butter; he fell over, screaming with rage, too angry to feel the pain yet; he hadn’t expected her to swing that fast and easy; I’d cheated him and he wanted blood for it; he hauled back on the bident and tried to puncture me with those diamond points. I took his head off and that was that.
There were a few appreciative hisses and clicking sounds from the watchers, but the room was mostly quiet, there was still a fight to finish.
Adelaar had an oozing bruise on her brow, another on her left shoulder near the joint. Her left arm was disabled; she carried the sword in her right hand now. Lugat had a deep scratch on one thigh, she favored that leg when she moved, and there several small bloody rents in the tight stretch silk of her sleeves. As I turned around, Adelaar took advantage of Lugat’s leg drag, tossed the sword into her left hand (freeing her right), got momentarily behind her and close enough to rake her neck with those poison claws; she whirled away too fast for Lugat to manage a solid hit, but collected some more bruises and was staggering by the time she was beyond chain reach. Lugat went after her, but with Trewwa down and out, Adelaar had room enough keep clear until her head was working again.
Lugat stumbled, the lead balls seemed to shudder, their swings turned erratic; she pulled herself together, went after Adelaar, ignoring the rapier, ignoring pain and disorientation as the poison took effect; the lead balls whirred viciously, she caught Adelaar in the heel, the small of her back, slammed one into her side (I could almost hear those ribs go) as Del stumbled over one of Trewwa’s severed legs. Del threw herself aside and into a shoulder roll; on her feet again she turned and ran, around, across, along the oval, ignoring broken ribs and other bruises, running, dodging, ignoring grazes as Lugat tried to get at her, running beyond exhaustion until Lugat was gasping and staggering, eyes glazed, blood trickling from her nose and the corners of her mouth. Adelaar whipped back; a bound, a stride, a lunge and with beautiful extension she slid the rapier into the k’durin’s chest, a perfect heart kill.
A burst of applause, then sounds of movement, the shuffle of feet, arguments over who won as bets were settled and the bettors went off to celebrate the entertainment with a drink or snort or whatever suited their needs.
Adelaar drew the sword clear and stood holding it against a twitching leg, exhausted; the adrenalin that’d kept her going and partially anesthetized was draining away, leaving her with the dead-ash feeling you get after an all-out struggle when still being alive doesn’t seem worth all that effort.
The Referee stumped over to Hra Trewwa, grunted onto his knees and dug around in Trewwa’s clothes until he found his ID; he tucked it away, got to his feet and moved over to Lugat. While he was finishing his business with the dead, I unbuckled the straps to Harska’s sheath and pulled it round where I could get at the shimmy cloth I kept in a squeeze pocket. There wasn’t much blood on my lady, she cut too fast and too clean, but I never put her away mussed. Wiping her was tricky, I could lose a finger myself if I got careless; flesh was flesh as far as she was concerned, didn’t matter whose. Not a lady for sentimental sighing. I rubbed the blood off her alloy and crystal, then slid her back in her sheath. As she vanished I could hear something like a collective moan out there in the dark, she was a lovely thing.
“You getting old, Swar.” A man came out of the dark and leaned his elbows in the dueling floor. “Nearly five minutes this time. Came close to costing me some money.”
“Always complaining, eh Barker? Didn’t expect to see you here, I thought you were howling out near the Rift.”
“Was. Found me a nice little Belt full of plums, now I’ve got to track down some financing.”
“Hmm. I’ve got a little extra on my hands, if you’re still hunting investors, why not drop round and we’ll have a talk? Benders Trucetel. I’ll key the clerabot to give you my number.”
“Why not. Want some company to walk you home? Hay and Apelzan are in the bar drinking up their winnings, by the way, they said to say hello and bring your friend around, they’d buy you both a sop whatever you felt inclined to, and I saw Ahehtos with a set of boy-girl twins around three hours ago, he ought to be winding up about now and ready for something new.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t hurt.”
Adelaar’d got herself together; she came over and stood listening to us talk. Her hand closed on my shoulder while the Barker was making his offer; I eased her fingers loose, I didn’t want her to forget what she was holding onto and stick those claws into me. Be one helluvun irony to die from a client’s fingernails after winning that mix-up with the enemy. “You think they’d come after us again?”
“You’re tired, Del, or you wouldn’t say something so stupid.”
She scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. “Right. I need a stim.”
“Well,” Barker said, “Hay’s offer’s still open.”
“Adelaar aici Arash, meet one Tomi Wolvesson, we call him the Barker for reasons I won�
��t go into now. She’s Adelaris Securities, Bark, a client.”
“Naturally a client, otherwise this lovely respectable femme wouldn’t be in a mile of you, old bear.” Without taking his elbows from the wood he managed a bow and a swagger, grinning up at both of us. “If you’ll take my arm, dear lady, we shall go searching for that stim.” He backed away, swept another bow and crooked his arm ready for her hand. “File your reports, my son, and join us in the bar.”
Amused by his rattle and wanting to be away from this place, Adelaar went down the ramp, took his arm and left me to deal with all the nonsense the bureaucrats demanded once a duel was done. Especially when there was a corpse or two as a result. The Ref tapped me on the shoulder, took me to his office and started on the umpteen reports he was going to have to make. It was the ultimate in futility, there were no penalties for the duels or the deaths. Running out on the reports, though, that was serious. I knew better than to waste time complaining, the sooner the business was done, the sooner I could climb into the trucetel medicell and after that into a long hot bath.
7
Ti Vnok looked like an absurdist’s idea of a cross between a spider monkey and a praying mantis; his movements alternated between the stillness of mantis-at-rest and the frenetic energy of monkey-at-full-cry. He was a general-purpose agent, there to link anyone with an itch to anyone who could perhaps scratch that itch, never involved with either side, silent as stones about his clients’ business, never challenged because in his busy little way he was as useful as Helvetia herself. And a friend of mine. Which didn’t mean he’d whisper secrets in my ear, just that he’d steer things my way if he saw a chance, might even hint oh-so-delicately if I was about to put my foot in something that stank. There are worse kinds of friends.
