by Blaze Ward
“I do not have such an ally close at hand,” he continued. “Given the public nature of this challenge, nothing more would be asked of you than to bear witness today. You aided me once. May I ask a second favor?”
Jessica watched the flow of energy around the room.
Had he no friends in the room?
On the one hand, this had been planned to some degree, to put her in an awkward position. She couldn’t back out now without losing face with these people. And she suddenly had to take sides in a situation utterly foreign to her.
Again, testing the Republic for weakness, and trying to back–foot her. It probably had less to do with being a woman, although she could see some of that in the looks strangers gave her. It was more the uniform she wore. These men saw themselves as Robin Hood, and her as the law.
Fine. Let’s play rough, you assholes. I have an imperial admiral prisoner on my ship who could have taught you better. Maybe I should bring him down here, sometime.
Jessica stepped up to stand next to Warlock. She studied the stranger known as Hellhound for a few seconds, very obviously, the way a woman might inspect a man. Or, in this case, a side of slightly–spoiled beef.
She met his eyes for a moment and leered at him, followed by a snort of derision loud enough for many people to hear. Marcelle had taught her that one, one night when a too–full–of–himself senior flight centurion got a little too free with his hands in a bar.
The blush on Hellhound’s face took on a darker tinge, clear to the tips of his ears. Jessica heard snickers from deeper in the crowd, off to her left. They seemed to grow in intensity for a few seconds, rolling around her like a wave.
Hellhound’s snarl was reward enough.
“Captain Ishikura,” she said, loudly, her voice pitched in just the way First Lord had taught her to. “I will grant you this boon. See to it that my trust in you is not wasted.”
Warlock grinned at her. From the set of his jaw, he was stifling a laugh at Hellhound’s expense. Much of the rest of the room wasn’t trying.
He turned to the rest of the Court with his own grandiose flourish. “I have no blade to answer this challenge. I call on the Free Captains of Corynthe to aid me.”
Jessica was amazed at the number of men who suddenly drew their belt–knives and presented them hilt–first for inspection. When she got home, all of this was going to make some ethnographer at the University of Ladaux quite happy to hear.
Warlock walked carefully around, hands behind his back until he stopped in front of an older captain, perhaps in his fifties when the average here was late thirties, and nodded. He silently took the blade and tested the balance.
He nodded again, this time to the man, almost a bow, and turned to smile at her.
From her vantage, the blade was interesting. In Valse d’Glaive, the saber was long and single–edged, with a slight reverse curve, while the main–gauche was a short, heavy, straight, two–edged weapon designed to block or stab, but not slash particularly well.
This borrowed weapon was almost a yataghan. It was single–edged with a slight bow forward at the midpoint, rather than being straight over the sixty–centimeter length. The tip was sharped on both sides, and the sharp edge trailed back perhaps ten centimeters before fading suddenly into the heavy spine. The addition of a crossguard indicated that it was intended to be used in close combat, rather than slashing from horseback, unlike the original design.
The quality of the workmanship was excellent, over and above the gold and silver worked into the hilt. It appeared to be made from very high–grade steel rather than something exotic. In Valse d’Glaive, that was traditional. Here, probably raw economics.
She watched Daneel flick the blade back and forth a few times to get the feel. The smile on his face said all she needed to know about the quality of the weapon, and the bearer.
She fixed him with a questioning look.
He nodded formally as he approached. “Admiral Keller,” he said carefully, pointing at a spot on the floor and very obviously not touching her. “If you would stand here, we will draw the circle from this point.”
Warlock turned to look across the space that had opened. “Hellhound, were you able to find someone willing to stand Second for you in public?”
He was rewarded by more snickers. Apparently, Hellhound was not universally loved in this room. He had the look of a bully.
Jessica disliked bullies.
“I will stand,” a man said. He was obviously one of Hellhound’s cronies. The rest took a few steps back.
By now, there was a clear space about ten meters across, roughly the shape of an egg, with what looked to be the more blood–thirsty captains closest.
Warlock stepped into the makeshift arena and faced his opponent. “Rory Agano,” he called loudly, “I repeat for the record that your brother was a coward and a thief. By continuing this feud, you show the world that you are also a liar and a fool.”
Jessica watched Daneel lower his weight into a fighting stance. It was not one she used often, but Hellhound only held one blade, and she doubted that either man could do a spring–over cartwheel if his life depended on it.
Pirates were two–dimensional fighters. Useful to remember.
“I invoke the blood–feud on you, Daneel Ishikura,” Hellhound responded. “Only death will settle this.”
“So be it,” Warlock said.
Ξ
Daneel drew a deep breath and let the extra oxygen flow into his limbs. Things were about to get interesting. More interesting. The week was already off the charts.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected something like this, but there had been really no way to get around it once that woman decided to drag him along with her to the palace.
Just his bad luck.
At least Rory was mad. Hopefully that would lead him to make mistakes. Otherwise, he was very, very good. Probably almost as good as his brother had been.
Nothing like a fight over a woman to keep getting you in trouble, even years later.
Warlock shifted to his right. He and Hellhound were both right–handed, so the man began to mirror him, swirling slowly around the observation bowl.
Hellhound’s blade flicked out like a snake’s tongue, tasting the air without committing. Warlock relaxed into stillness, primed to move without telegraphing. Around them, the air was still, but charged, like the sky right before an electrical storm.
Warlock moved, presuming that Hellhound was still working himself up to the courage of a duel to the death. It was not a thing to take lightly.
Daneel hopped forward and slashed quickly upwards from the hip. The other man was out of position to block it, but managed to skitter backwards out of range without bleeding.
Hellhound quickly found his balance, stepped to the side, and thrust forward.
Warlock blocked the strike with his stout crossguard and a ringing of steel. He jumped back, but not fast enough to evade a fist to the side of the head.
Apparently, Rory had learned a few tricks sometime recently. And was out for blood. Daneel felt a trickle of blood on his ear, probably from a knife–edge on the glove. Hopefully not a poisoned one.
Warlock took two steps back suddenly and put a hand up to feel his ear.
“Had enough already, coward?” Rory called. Daneel could hear the anger in his voice.
Time to play the gallery.
“Just making sure you didn’t put venom on the blade in your left hand, Hellhound,” Warlock replied.
Around them, the crowd had a sudden surge of angry grumbling. Duels were one thing. Cheating was a fast way to lose your crew and your place. And your life, if enough people decided to do something about it.
That was just one of the reasons Hellhound had never risen to the top ranks of captains. He skirted the edges of the few rules the pirates did honor.
Hellhound held his left hand up, open, to the room. “No knife,” he yelled, even more angry.
Warlock countered by holding up
his own hand, stained with fresh blood. He felt a few fresh drops land on his shoulder. He wiped his hand on the seat of his pants and stalked forward, blade pointed at the man’s heart.
It was a trick his father had taught him when using blades. He let his own anger show.
Across the way, Hellhound took a half–step back and blanched.
Daneel could see the man’s pupils shrink when he glanced up, before forcing his eyes back down.
Always study the center. Everything moves from there.
Daneel saw the feint before it even began. Hellhound’s hands moved outward, but not the hips. He faded to his left, towards the supposed strike, shifting his weight and ignoring the trick.
Hellhound’s hips told the truth. He lunged forward suddenly, a slash intended to open Warlock’s stomach if he hadn’t already been moving out of the way. Instead, he got kissed on the right hipbone. Cloth parted, but not skin.
Warlock’s counter should have finished the affair. Hellhound was out of position, unable to block, and over–extended.
Daneel drove the tip of his blade forward.
And felt it bounce.
Hellhound was wearing some sort of armor under his jacket. Nothing heavy, but Daneel had just pricked him in the belly button instead of hammering the tip of his poniard through the man.
He danced backwards ahead of Rory’s reverse slash. He would need half a dozen stitches on his right arm when this was done, but nothing worse. He was supposed to have been caught totally off–guard and killed by now, based on the set up.
This wasn’t an honorable duel. It was an assassination.
And it was a trap. Hellhound was gambling that nobody would catch him cheating, or that he would be protected by someone important if he was caught.
Daneel skipped back two steps to catch his breath. He was always amazed at how much energy was burned in a few complex passes.
Hellhound smiled at him now, a predator playing with a mouse. One who had already drawn blood twice without losing any.
Daneel smiled back. He gestured at the man, a silent conversation between just the two of them, encompassing the little tricks and cheats Rory was counting on to win.
“And that,” Daneel said quietly, “is why Matilda preferred me.”
A bull will get that look in the eyes, when goaded sufficiently. A shark as well. Powerful, dangerous, mean.
But mindless.
For a moment, Hellhound went white, before all the blood surged back into his face like a tide of rage. Warlock thought the man’s eyes had even turned red. He heard a growl, but wasn’t sure which of them it came from.
Hellhound rushed forward, blade forward like a stinger. There was no feint, no subtlety. Just a wild stabbing.
Warlock shifted to his right, instead of the left as Hellhound expected, and punched upward with the hilt and crossguard of his borrowed blade.
He met Hellhound’s blade and thrust it upwards, not quite clear, as he felt the tip enter his shoulder, ripping flesh.
His own blade tip spun around and caught the man high in the belly. Daneel put all the anger of the last three weeks behind the blow.
Losing his base. Watching it be obliterated by that woman. Coming home in disgrace. Being subject to an assassination attempt.
He was angry.
And he held an exceptional blade.
Hellhound’s own inertia drove him forward onto the point, even as Daneel drove it forward and up. It caught on something inside there, maybe a rib, maybe the back of the armor.
Daneel grabbed the man by his throat and pulled him further onto his death, crunching bone with a sawing motion.
He looked into the other man’s eyes as death approached. “See you in hell, Rory,” he whispered as the light slowly faded.
Two down.
Warlock held Hellhound’s corpse weight with one hand. He looked around the room with an angry scowl before tilting the weapon down and letting Rory Agano’s body slide backwards and fall to the floor.
The room was silent for a moment.
Daneel kneeled down and ripped open Hellhound’s jacket. Sure enough, the man was wearing something like a girdle around his middle, heavy chain links sewn into the cloth. Good enough for most fights.
“What are you doing?” someone called.
Daneel ripped the armor loose and stood up, displaying it to the room. His left hand suddenly wouldn’t work.
The mob got ugly at the realization. Duels were duels. Cheating was a death sentence, one way or the other.
Daneel stumbled a bit.
She was there suddenly, holding his weight up with an arm around his waist. How strong was this woman?
“Poison?” she whispered.
“Maybe,” he replied. It was suddenly hard to concentrate.
He saw her point at Arnulf’s herald with her other hand.
“You,” she commanded, “I need a doctor. Now.”
It was not a voice to be brooked. She sounded almost as angry as he had been.
Had been? Had?
He let the darkness overwhelm him.
Chapter XXV
Date of the Republic October 31, 393 City of Corynthe, Petron
Jessica looked up with a silent snarl when someone approached her. She softened it when she realized that it was Marcelle intruding.
Warlock was stretched out in a hospital bed before her, machines beeping quietly as the man slept. According to the court surgeon, he was only still alive because all of Auberon’s marines were cross–trained as medics to some degree, and carried all sorts of interesting surprises in their packs. As did, apparently, Marcelle.
Good to know.
It had been a day of surprises. Obviously, Warlock hadn’t expected an assassination attempt right after he landed. At least not one so public. From the anger of King Arnulf, she deduced he had been willing to accept an honest fight. That, or he was a much better actor than she would have given him credit for.
The room where she waited was a private clinic reserved for members of the Court, and the King’s Own were guarding at the door, along with two of her marines who had refused to stand down.
Not that she blamed them. They were chewing–nails angry. Nobody liked assassins. Especially not after the effort her people had been through getting all these people home safely. They took that sort of insult personally.
“Yes?” Jessica asked, softening her voice, bringing her mind back to the present and forcing her anger at the situation back into a bottle.
Marcelle paused and licked her lips, mimicking the exact tone and intonation of the King’s herald, an octave higher. “His Excellency, King Arnulf Rodriguez, requests a private audience with his staff to discuss recent diplomatic and political developments. He would appreciate your attendance.”
Jessica drew a breath deep into her lungs. She glanced down at Warlock, heart rate beeping strong, unsure why she was reacting like this.
“He’ll be safe,” Marcelle said quietly. “Necromancer is sending over more marines, and I’m told Ishikura’s people have been notified, so they’ll be along.”
“Now?” Jessica asked, harsher–sounding than she intended. Marcelle wouldn’t take offence. Jessica could see the anger smoldering in the other woman’s eyes as well.
“Aye, sir,” Marcelle replied, coming to parade rest.
Jessica nodded. Warlock wasn’t going anywhere, and nobody was getting in here without trouble.
And there were questions. She was not feeling especially polite about asking them.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us go see what the King of the Pirates can do for us.”
Ξ
Jessica let herself be personally fawned over by Arnulf’s herald and ushered into a private conference room.
It was a small–ish space, comfortable for perhaps a dozen people, rather than the hundreds who had danced attendance this afternoon. A giant oval of a table, polished from some local speckled orange stone, dominated the space, surrounded by a bevy of comfo
rtable chairs and cloth–covered walls.
King Arnulf was there, dominating the space in his own way.
Up close, the man was still impressive, even seated, but she could see the stress of aging beginning to sap him. This was not a place with rules and organization. And he could not rely on any divine right of kings to hold his palace. It would be a daily battle to remain king until he finally lost, or chose to step down.
Jessica could not see this man voluntarily relinquishing power. Especially not if he truly wanted to found a dynasty that would reign after him.
Next to the King sat a man who had been hovering close by on the dais, but not prominent. He was tall and skinny, bald but for a ring of short gray hair around his skull. Obviously not a man desperately concerned enough about his physical appearance to be vain about it. Unlike most of the men in the room.
Jessica noted the appraising look in the stranger’s eyes as she took her seat. It was not a man looking at an attractive woman, but a shark recognizing another one in a small area. She almost expected him to puff up like a cat, but he merely smiled.
“Jing Du,” he said quietly by way of introduction, “Chancellor to the king.”
Ah. Roughly the local equivalent of the Premier of the Republic Senate, back home. Probably almost as dangerous.
The other half dozen were largely faceless nobodies, flunkies here because they were important enough to be seen, but not particularly relevant to the discussion at hand. She memorized names and faces as they were introduced, but only because she wanted to be able to keep track of them later.
Only the last one stood out in her mind. He was a rangy man, with wiry muscles, but the sort of bulk an athletic man will attain after he gets into his forties and stops trying to out–run kids half his age. His red hair was medium length and he had what Jessica’s mother would have called Irish freckles.
“Captain Ian Zhao,” he said with a roguish smile. “We’ve actually met once, if only briefly.”
Jessica let one eyebrow ask the question.
“At Sarmarsh IV,” he continued.
“Ah,” she said, “yours was the Mothership we did not pursue.”
“Indeed,” Zhao replied. “If I may inquire, what happened to the Imperial corvette after we left?”