opponent, but he gives you the chance to better him," Velesti explained. "You must hit closer to the heart circle than that."
"I can do better," said Samondel, filling with confidence for the first time since she had been taken into custody.
Samondel stood square on to the target, holding the Miscafi in both hands. She squeezed the trigger. Released from its ratchet, the striker swung through a short arc with a loud, emphatic click, striking sparks with its flint and raising the cover of the priming powder pan. The gun boomed and kicked hard in Samondel's hand. The breeze swept the smoke aside, revealing that her shot had clipped the edge of the heart circle.
Velesti held out her hand for the Miscafi. The City Constable stared at the target and frowned.
"The duel will proceed, and may God have mercy upon you both," he declared.
"I do not understand," said Samondel as Velesti reloaded her Miscafi. "He said the duel will proceed. Was the duel not inevitable anyway?"
"Had you missed the target or hit worse than Martyne, you would forfeit the right to duel with him, and the matter would have had to go to a trial. You bettered his shot, however, so you now have to fight him. Did Martyne not teach you that?"
"No. He taught me to shoot, not dueling protocols."
Samondel's heart sank. A trial would have been public and humiliating, and would put a rumor on public record that she had slept with Serjon after he had married Bronlar. Perhaps the result had been for the best after all. Velesti handed her the reloaded pistol, with the striker cocked back.
"Now you two must duel, but Martyne will call the distance," Velesti explained.
"So he decides the number of paces?"
"Yes. After the last count, you both turn and fire at will. The moderator will actually call out the count, however, as a result of the Cybeline amendment some three decades ago."
Samondel and Martyne stood back to back. She felt the heat of his body against hers through the shirt. All that would now protect
her from his bullet would be that white cotton shirt with puffed sleeves.
"The challenged will call the distance," said the moderator.
"Ten paces," said Martyne.
Samondel's heart leaped. Ten plus ten was twenty paces, precisely the distance that the conciliation target had been from the line. The moderator began to count, and Samondel and Martyne walked away from the line, and each other. When she turned, there would be a target and she would have to hit it before it shot back at her. Just a thing, not the young man she had held in her arms and kissed as the moon had been rising only yards from where they now paced. Serjon's life was hanging by a thread, and that thread was being held by her fingers. There was a thing to be killed, then Serjon would be safe.
At the word "ten" Samondel whirled, placed Martyne and fired, both hands on her gun. Martyne was standing side on as the bullet hit him, his Miscafi pointed straight up, his left arm hanging limp. The breeze blowing through the cloisters quickly wafted the smoke away and Samondel saw Martyne fall. Exultation surged through her, she had killed him. Killed him. Devastated, Samondel realized that he was dead, and by her hand. Martyne stirred. Slowly, to Samondel's horror, he began to get up. His left arm was bleeding and his chest was a mass of red as he faced her and straightened. In his right hand was the Miscafi, hanging down but still cocked and ready to fire.
Samondel lowered her empty gun. Martyne began to raise his own Miscafi, although in obvious pain. The red continued to spread down his arm and lower chest. Samondel's right leg began to shake involuntarily. I'm going to die now, passed through her mind, but I'll show them all how a Bartolican can die. Her arms at her side, she thrust her chest out and stared steadily at Martyne. For a moment there was silence in the cloisters. Nobody moved, most were not even breathing. The dean was standing with a roll of bandage in one hand and a jar of medicinal whiskey in the other, both extended before him, waiting to rush to the aid of whoever was more seriously wounded—and still alive. Samondel did not move.
"Good-bye, Samondel," said Martyne.
She closed her eyes, then in a blaze of pride she forced them open again. Martyne was aiming deliberately wide.
He fired without taking his eyes off Samondel. The jar of medicinal whiskey burst in the dean's hand and the breeze carried away the veil of smoke from the shot. For a moment more they stood facing each other, both Miscafis empty.
"I love you," said Martyne, then he fell again.
Samondel let the flintlock drop from her fingers and stood frozen with her hands to her face. Then she screamed and took a pace toward him. Velesti darted into her path and seized her.
"No! You may not cross the line. You must leave the cloisters after the moderator's verdict."
"Martyne!" screamed Samondel.
"Samondel! The guards will cut you down the instant you step over the line. You must stay here and you must not call out again."
"Fras Camderine is unable to fight another round," called the dean as he cut the fallen man's shirt away.
The City Constable produced his own flask of whiskey as the Highliber and dean began to bandage Martyne. He did not flinch as the whiskey was poured onto his wounds.
"The result goes to Frelle Samondel Leover," declared the City Constable.
There was a brief, agonized silence.
"The duel is concluded, both duelists and seconds must leave the path of honor without crossing the line, and must not speak with the opposite principal or second for a dozen days from this moment."
Martyne lay on the ground, his chest and arm a mass of blood and his torn shirt and bandages stained. Samondel continued to struggle in Velesti's grip, and her hair burst free of its pins and cascaded down over her shoulders and dueling shirt.
"Why, Martyne, why?" she cried.
"Come, we must leave the cloisters," said Velesti, finally resorting to an armlock and applying moderate pressure to force Samondel to move away.
They stopped in Mirrorsun's dim light, just outside the cloisters.
It was a windy but mild night, typical of a summer approaching equinox.
"Tra? Fen cavas indiate des g'vrastin —"
"I don't speak much Bartolican, just Old Anglian."
"Why? I just don't—"
Velesti suddenly seized Samondel in her arms and pressed her face against her shoulder.
"Don't look," she whispered in Samondel's ear as the stretcher bearers came past them.
"To the dissection chambers," said the dean as he hurried after the stretcher. "At the Faculty of Medicine."
The dean flicked a wink to Velesti as he passed. Velesti released Samondel's head, Samondel turned, saw dark drops of blood on the stone path, then pressed her face against Velesti's shoulder again.
"Perhaps he will be all right," Velesti began.
"I know enough Austaric to understand what 'dissection chamber' means. Martyne is dead."
"There are worse ways to go."
"They said he was spying on me, yet he, he . . ." Samondel burst into another fit of sobbing and it was some time before she could speak again. "Martyne, Es cor valoricel, Martyne, oh, Martyne, my love. Why did he fight, Velesti? Why?"
"He—he volunteered, and now I think I know why." Velesti sighed. "He knew anyone else would try to kill you if you chose to duel. If you named a champion, well, champions exist to be shot at. He gave his life to let you win. Now you are established as a foreign envoy, unless further evidence is brought against you. I am your liaison, and you may seek an audience with the Overmayor."
"He died for me?" whimpered Samondel. "Deliberately?"
"Er, yes. The Highliber will be annoyed, but that is hardly Mar-tyne's concern now. I—"
"I killed Martyne! Your best friend. Don't you care?"
"Yes," replied Velesti, her voice a trifle ragged. "He was more than my friend, he was my sensei, my master, my teacher, my edutor, my, my—mentorian, is that the Bartolican word?"
"Warrior teacher, yes. Mentorian."
; "I hate my body, I hate my life, I hate filthy, lecherous men, I hate my breasts, I hate the way men's eyes fondle me, and I hate, I hate . . ." Velesti shook her head. "When Martyne was instructing me, when we were sparring together, just for a moment here and there, I stopped hating. I felt ... as if I had a place. I care about losing that, Samondel, and there is nobody to replace him."
Velesti looked around. Students on the way home from late-night revels were beginning to gather in small groups and point at them.
"Frelle Samondel, come with me. By tradition, you must now leave the city for a fortnight. I know a place where you can have some peace."
"Where?"
"A research monastery. A very quiet place. But first you must meet the Overmayor, I'll arrange an audience for midnight."
I hey stopped at the administration chambers, where the four Tiger Dragons were waiting with Serjon. Velesti dismissed Serjon's guards.
"You may go," Velesti said to the Yarronese flyer.
"What is this?" asked Serjon as the Tiger Dragons filed out of the room.
"I have just killed Martyne in a duel," said Samondel quietly. "By law I must avoid my—my opponent's second for a fortnight, so I am leaving Rochester."
"I don't understand. You killed him, yet we are free?"
"Yes. You may return to your room at the inn. In a fortnight I shall join you again, and we can speak directly with the Highliber about open diplomatic ties with Rochester."
"Rochester? But your sailwing was shot down by Rochestrians, you face charges of heresy for using compression engines."
"No, that has changed. The Reformed Gentheists are only one faction here, and they are losing support all the time. The Highliber is interested in trade with Mounthaven. Our venture is about to become a great success."
Serjon stood up and tried to take Samondel's hand, but she pulled it away.
"I shall be at a monastery with Velesti, praying and meditating," Samondel explained.
"But why are you so upset about that monk if he tried to kill you?" insisted Serjon as he snatched for her hand again.
Velesti's hand shot out and seized his, twisting his wrist around and bending it at an excruciating angle. She dropped slightly, so that Serjon doubled over with the pain.
"Velesti, let him go!" exclaimed Samondel.
Velesti released Serjon and folded her arms beneath her breasts again.
"Do nothing to alarm Velesti, she is very dangerous," Samondel cautioned.
"Easily alarmed," said Velesti quietly in heavily accented Bar-tolican. "Away, fortnight. Leaving, now."
"Yes, we must go," Samondel repeated.
"Er, so what should I do?" asked Serjon.
"You will be safe here. Explore Rochester, enjoy yourself, you can go about openly now but beware of Gentheists. When I return I'll take you to all my favorite places, and we shall move into a nice hostelry with double beds."
"But what about you?"
"Velesti is my bodyguard as well. She is very effective."
Velesti gave a shallow bow, her eyes never once leaving Serjon. Serjon shuddered at the sight of her eyes. They were deep and hungry, and whatever was behind them was definitely not human. Another aviad, concluded Serjon. Samondel came across and kissed him on the cheek, then placed a purse on the table.
"Spend time in the markets and do try the riding school," said Samondel as she returned to the door. "Work hard on your Austaric. Misunderstandings can happen very easily unless one is careful with language."
Lengina lay slumped in her reading chair, her feet propped on a padded stool and warming before a fire. A book of protocol theory lay open on her lap, and three heralds and a magistrate hovered in
the shadows behind her, all clutching books on intermayoral law. Before her stood Dramoren, his jacket still stained with Martyne's blood.
"Now, let me repeat this back to you in the Overmayor's Aus-taric," she said as Dramoren cringed before her, his hands clasped firmly behind him and shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I am Overmayor, after all, so by definition my Austaric should be the finest available to human ears."
"Without doubt, Overmayor."
"Airlord Leover was seconded by the Dragon Librarian who arrested her, Frelle Disore. Your champion was the ex-monk and Espionage Constable, Fras Camderine. You were his second. Fras Camderine allowed Airlord Leover to shoot him in the duel, then declared that he loved her as he fell. Frelle Leover was then led away in tears by Frelle Disore, who then beat up Frelle Leover's American lover before taking Frelle Leover away to . . . somewhere. How am I managing?"
"Word perfect, gracious Frelle."
"Had I found a plot like that in a romantic novel I would have flung it into the fire."
"Justifiably so, gracious Frelle."
"Did anyone think to ask Frelle Leover whether she is at war with my Commonwealth?" shouted Lengina, standing up and flinging her book to the floor.
"That is a rare book, gracious Frelle, please be—"
"Answer me!"
"She has never heard of the Christian Gaia Crusaders. When I explained who they were meant to be, she said that she would have had them shot for treason and heresy had she encountered them in North America."
Lengina kicked the book of protocol theory away across the floor, and a herald hurried to snatch it up. Her shoulders slumped, and she collapsed back into her chair.
"Dramoren, advise me!" she pleaded. "What do I do with Airlord Leover?"
"In a dozen days we can both meet with her, she seems anxious
to buy horses and other trade animals and goods, but will probably insist that we not fire upon her flying machines."
"Oh. So she is not angry?"
"No, there are no residual resentments. Americans also think duels to the death are a good way to settle intractable disputes."
"Well, I do not, but what I think does not seem to matter. So we are not at war?"
"No."
"Is she pretty?"
"Oh yes, beautiful. Violet eyes, long red hair, and no more than perhaps twenty years of age."
"Beautiful, young, brave, dedicated, what a woman! I am looking forward to meeting her."
"I am so glad, gracious Frelle."
"Meantime, can I achieve anything by staying out of bed any longer tonight?"
"Ah, well, yes."
"Fras Highliber, you look uneasy. Precisely what can I achieve?"
"Well, being a duel disputant I cannot speak with Frelle Leover for twelve days, so I arranged a meeting for her, with you, in approximately ten minutes."
Lengina stood up so quickly that her reading chair flew back and struck a herald.
"What!" she shrieked. "With my hair entangled, and wearing a nightsmock and dressing cloak and slippers, and with no makeup or jewelry?"
"But Airlord Leover is only dressed in boots, trousers, and a dueling shirt—"
"Rouse my maids!" shouted Lengina as she dashed from the room, flinging off her dressing cloak, then her night smock, as she ran.
Dramoren watched her receding, naked figure as it vanished into the shadows of the passageway.
"Now, there's a sight you don't see every day," said the magistrate from behind him.
We must be at the palace at midnight, but there is plenty of time," said Velesti as she walked along with Samondel leaning on her arm. "Then a special galley train will take us away."
"I must rest, I feel dizzy," said Samondel.
"Over there, we can get the best coffee in Rochester."
"Cafe Marellia? But Martyne said—"
"He took you thereV
"Yes. He said it was only for lovers. We can't go there."
"I can be very persuasive," said Velesti.
The door of the cafe looked just as subtly enchanting as when she had first seen it. Even though it was nearly midnight the place was packed, and the waiter hurried across looking harassed and carrying an ashwood tray with three mugs of coffee and a plate of butternut shortbreads.
"Ah, so
rry, so sorry, all full—Ah, beautiful Frelle Samondel, so sorry but—"
Although it was the waiter's arm that Velesti's hand closed around, it squeezed the words from his throat.
"There has been a terrible mistake," said Velesti in a voice that was not loud, but was absolutely distinct to everyone within ten feet. "Frelle Samondel has just killed her beloved in a duel and needs somewhere to sit down."
The waiter dropped his tray of coffee and butternut shortbreads. Although his lips managed to say no more than an anguished "Ah!" his face said a great deal more. Velesti's words were transmitted to the more remote tables within moments, and over a dozen of the closest patrons bounded to their feet and gestured to their seats and tables. Soon Samondel and Velesti were seated in a corner, while the displaced couple squeezed onto a bench at a larger table. Manuel had tears in his eyes as he set two mugs of the finest Northmoor coffee before them, each with a spiral of cream slowly sinking into its depths.
"Beautiful Frelles, eleven people have asked if they can pay for whatever you have to eat and drink," he reported.
430 SEAN McMULlEN
"Pay? Why?" asked Samondel.
"Rochestrians fancy themselves as being very romantic," said Velesti in Old Anglian. "You have just been part of the most intense romantic tragedy possible. They consider that their own ability to feel love is greatly heightened by just being in the same room as you, and that your tragedy blesses their own lives. Nobody will leave this cafe while you are here."
Samondel put a hand to her face and closed her eyes. "Australians, all mad," she said in Old Anglian, "except that some are madder than others."
"Thank them, but I shall pay," Velesti told the waiter. "What we really need is a pedal gig to be brought here to carry Samondel. She is feeling dizzy and—"
"Stop! No more! It is happening."
Manuel dashed off.
Suddenly everything made sense to Samondel. Although Velesti resembled, acted like—and probably was—a dangerous and homicidal psychopath, she was remarkably kind, understanding, and loyal to those in her favor. Samondel had somehow joined this quite exclusive elite, which had also included Martyne until an hour or so earlier.
"Did Martyne ever speak of me?" she asked after a sip from her mug.
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