Rules of Conflict

by Kristine Smith

  “You may think you want that, sir, but you don’t.” Jani caught a glimpse of Hals, who stood behind Burkett, mouthing an emphatic “shut up.” “Nema has fervor on his side, but Cèel has forty years. Their mutual enmity’s ground in the bone. À lérine may technically be ritual fighting, but knives have been known to slip. The Vynshàrau are the most pro-humanish born-sect, thanks to Nema’s influence. You don’t want anything happening to him.”

  Burkett looked down his nose at her. “Don’t presume to know my mind, Kilian.”

  “I was in Rauta Shèràa the night it fell to the Vynshàrau. I repeat, you do not want anything to happen to Nema!”

  “I hear my name!”

  They turned as one toward the voice.

  The overrobe churned less vigorously, befitting the formality of the occasion. “I find my nìa arguing with you again, General.” Nema’s face split in a ghoulish grin. “Such habitual disputation—you should declare yourselves. We have blades you may borrow for the task.”

  Burkett’s face reddened. “We don’t handle disagreements that way in the Service, nìRau.”

  “Ah.” Nema cocked his head to the left as he cupped his right hand and raised it chest-high, his tone and posture indicating question of yet another aspect of humanish behavior. His eyes met Jani’s, and he bared his teeth. “Nìa,” he said, touching a fingertip to her chin. Then he looked at each of them in turn, examining them from head to toe one after the other. He reached into his overrobe as he did so, and removed a battered black ovaloid that twinned Jani’s scanpack. His handheld, however, functioned as a Vynshàrau-humanish dictionary. It held French, English, and Mandarin, formal and foul, idiomatic and slang. The occasional amusing muck-up occurred, but Nema’s research and extensive cross-referencing would have impressed any linguist.

  He tapped at the worn unit’s touchpad. “We have been cooking you in your skins.” He shut down the handheld and bared his teeth again. “And you have accepted challenge. A glorious thing. My compliments, General, for finally waking up.” He thrust his hand toward Burkett and nodded vigorously as the man gingerly shook it. “Now, let us work, for we have much to do.” He swept down the hall, the members of Foreign Transactions playing butter to his Sìah blade. “Come! Come! Much to do!” he cried as he vanished around the corner.

  Burkett watched him, mouth agape. “He’s a goddamned Pied Piper.”

  “And he’s the only idomeni who can pipe a tune you can dance to,” Jani said. “Remember that the next time you wish a knife in his ribs.” She waited for Burkett’s face to flare anew before she turned her back on him and walked slowly into the documents examiners’ meeting room.

  Jani braced her hands on the U-shaped table for balance and leaned back in her three-legged easel seat.

  So where are Hantìa and company? Foreign Transactions had been validating documents for almost forty minutes, and the Vynshàrau had yet to make an appearance. Only a couple of hours left. Jani felt the muscles in her right forearm twitch. They knew what would happen if the princess didn’t leave the party on time.

  She looked at the others. Vespucci turned away as soon as she glanced uptable at him. She had caught him eyeing her several times, beetle brow knit in consternation. And dripping sweat.

  She breathed through her mouth as Ischi leaned close to spread a set of nautical survey maps before her. His deodorant still worked. Barely. Wish I could remember what we used in Rauta Shèràa. A colonial brand, formulated for above-average temps. Limited distribution. Odds were it wasn’t even manufactured anymore.

  Wonder who could find out?

  Well, there are my parents.

  She imagined the dead comport light, and busied herself scanning the maps.

  “How are you holding up, Captain?” Hals, seated next to her, asked for the umpteenth time. “There’s ice water and electrolyte replenishers in a supply vehicle just outside the embassy perimeter.” The easel seats, like all Vynshàrau daytime furniture, weren’t designed for comfort. They also weren’t designed for the average human—the one-four Hals was having a hell of a time keeping stable in a seat designed for a one-nine Vynshàrau. “We can break at any time—our mover can get us there in five.”

  “I’m fine, ma’am.” Jani met Hals’s examination head-on. “Really.”

  “You’re not even sweating.” Hals wiped the tip of her nose with the edge of her T-shirt sleeve just before she dripped on her aerial survey grid. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Could be heat stroke,” Ischi chimed helpfully.

  “I’m not moving around as much as you are,” Jani said. “And I picked the seat by the vent.”

  “Moving hot air is still hot air.” Ischi tugged his blotched T-shirt away from his skin. “I think we should invite the Vynshàrau to the base and stick them in the arctic test facility. Crank it all the way down.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Hals said.

  “Chip ’em out with chisels.”

  “That will be all, Lieutenant.” Hals waited until Ischi found another ear downtable to complain into. “Was it like this in Rauta Shèràa?”

  “Worse.” Jani felt her forehead. Slightly damp. A little warmer than normal. “The only air-conditioning was in the human enclave. Once you entered the city, you were at the mercy of nature and idomeni utilities.” I know the symptoms of heat stroke. She’d seen it enough in Rauta Shèràa. I’m still lucid. She felt fine.

  The general buzz of conversation died as work claimed everyone’s attention. So intent were they, no one looked up when the door opened.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.”

  Heads shot up. Hals had a better view of the door than Jani. Her breath caught. “It’s Burkett. He looks sick. Or mad as hell. I can never tell the difference.”

  Jani twisted in her easel seat too quickly and grabbed the edge of the table to keep from tipping over. “Anyone else?”

  “The PM and some Ministers—Ulanova, damn it—Tsecha and all the Vynshàrau dexxies and a whole bunch I don’t recognize and—oh damn! Cèel’s there, too!”

  Jani balanced on the seat rungs to peek over Hals’s head, and caught a glimpse of the Oligarch. He was half Nema’s age, lighter-skinned and darker-haired. They were arguing—you didn’t need to be a trained Vynshà-watcher to interpret the choppy hand movements and twisted facial expressions. Hantìa stood with them. Her hairloops had been gathered and clasped. Instead of the tan-and-grey clothing of a documents suborn, she wore white lightweave trousers and a sleeveless overshirt. “The better to show the blood.” Jani pressed a hand to her churning stomach.

  “What?” Hals glanced back at her, frowning.

  “Remember when I promised not to use my fists, ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to have to take it back.”

  “Kilian, what are you talking about?”

  “You know that challenge that’s going to be made?”

  “The guessing games stop now, Captain.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe they will.” Jani watched Burkett break away from the group and walk along the table toward her, followed by Nema.

  Hals leaned close. “What are you talking about!”

  Jani slid off her seat. “Twenty-five years later, it’s finally Hantìa’s turn.”

  Before Hals could ask any more questions, Burkett stopped in front of Jani. “Captain.”

  Jani nodded. “Sir.”

  “I imagine you don’t need to be told what’s going on.”

  “No, sir. Hantìa’s requested permission of nìRau Tsecha to make challenge. He gave her leave. Then he made the request to you, as my most high dominant. I’m assuming you’re reluctant.”

  “Yes.” With Burkett, uncertainty came clothed as stiffness and an inability to look one in the eye. “I understand refusal is an insult.” He stared at a point somewhere over Jani’s shoulder.

  “Without cause, yes. Simply not wanting to fight isn’t enough. Health reasons can serve, but I’m here work
ing, so it’s difficult to argue that I’m unfit.” Jani flexed her hands. It was safe to say she was already warmed up. “It’s ceremonial fighting. Doesn’t last long. Injury occurs to the arms, mostly. The shoulders. Superficial wounds. They leave ugly scars, because of the types of knives used, but they’re not in themselves dangerous.”

  “Nonetheless, I’ve messaged Doctor Colonel Pimentel. Nothing proceeds unless he’s standing by. I asked him to bring a trauma surgeon, as well. Something someone said about knives having been known to slip.” Burkett lowered his voice. “I am deferring to your judgment, Captain. I’ve never acted as someone’s second before.”

  “Sir, Captain Kilian has been at Sheridan less than two weeks.” Hals’s voice was strained. “She’s spent more than half that time in hospital, and remains under close medical supervision. She is in no condition to fight anyone. I don’t care how ceremonial it is.”

  Jani looked uproom at the assembled Vynshàrau. She recognized several of them from her Academy days. Hey, a class reunion. “It’s not a fight to the death. I don’t need to be in top form. It’s simply a declaration. Hantìa and I are acknowledging to the world that we hate each other’s guts.” She stared at the female, who turned to look in her direction. Jani nodded; Hantìa bared her teeth. “That shouldn’t take long.”

  Nema, who had remained uncharacteristically silent to that point, stepped forward. “I have accepted challenge sixty-seven times, and offered challenge twenty-two times.” He extended his arms and pushed up the sleeves of his overrobe to his elbows. The silvered remains of old scars, accented by the occasional red slash of a fresher wound, crosshatched the bronze skin of his forearms and wrists. “It is an honor to be challenged by one such as OnìnaìaRauta Hantìa. She shares skein with Cèel, through their body mothers.” He tilted his arms back and forth. The scars, jagged and raised, seemed to shimmer in the roomlight. “Such an esteemed enemy is greatly to be wished.”

  Hals and Burkett both stared at the wounds. “Hantìa and Cèel are cousins?” Burkett asked. He sounded choked.

  Jani looked at Nema, who patted his pockets for his handheld. “In a way. Vynshàrau family organizations are difficult to explain.” She shut down her scanpack and stuffed it into its pouch. “Right now, I need to get ready, and since the opening ceremonies can get a little protracted, I can’t afford to waste any time.”

  Burkett glared at Hals. “I thought you took care of that, Colonel.”

  Hals glowered back. “They gave me four hours, sir.”

  “I specifically asked for six.”

  “Well, askin’ ain’t gettin’ around here, is it!” Hals closed her eyes. “Sir, I apologize—”

  Burkett ignored her. “Captain—”

  Jani held up her hands. “I realize you’re both upset because you’re confused and hot and completely out of your element, but I know what I’m doing, so there’s no need to worry.” She handed her packpouch to Hals for safekeeping and ducked under the table. “Let’s try to maintain a united front, all right, Spacers?” she called out as she emerged on the other side. Nema bared his teeth and beckoned to her, and she followed him out of the room.

  Chapter 25

  “To which god do you pray, nìa?” Nema pointed to the cluster of statues and symbols arranged atop the altar. The beads, medals, and smaller figurines had been obtained from the pockets of members of Diplo and Foreign Transactions, while the larger pieces had been hastily acquired from nearby shops by an Ischi-headed strike force. “You have more than we. Such confusion.” He backed away, so that Jani could step up and choose. They were the only two in the embassy’s secondary altar room. Normally, both foes would have offered prefight sacrifice in the same place, but since such a profound difference in religion existed, the home team had been granted use of the primary room, a windowed veranda that contained shrines to all the Vynshàrau’s eight dominant gods.

  I, meanwhile, get the closet. But it was a nice closet, quiet and cooler than the rest of the embassy. Nema had chosen to accompany her, a fact that had visibly irked Hantìa and resulted in even more heated discussion between Nema and Cèel. He’s declared himself my supporter. In the face of his ruler. In spite of Knevçet Shèràa. I have to fight well. Her stomach ached from tension.

  She picked up a small stone elephant. “Ganesha, the god of wisdom. I prayed to him when I was little.”

  “Ah.” Nema took the tiny figure from her and examined it thoughtfully. “Why did you stop?”

  “I don’t know.” She picked up the teakwood seat on which the elephant had rested and studied its minute carvings. “Maybe I didn’t think it helped.” She set the seat back down on the altar. “Sometimes, he’s called Vinayak, when he’s worshipped as the god of knowledge, and other times, he’s called Vighneshwer, when he’s honored as the remover of obstacles.”

  “Ah.” Nema handed the figurine back to her. “Do you worship any gods that are less complicated?”

  Jani smiled. “My mother is Brh Hindi. My father grew up Freehold Catholic, and converted to the Hortensian Presbyter just before I left for the Academy.” A memory of the baptism ceremony flashed in her mind’s eye, and she almost burst out laughing. They held it outside. It was cold and the pool leaked and the minister wrenched his back dipping Mrs. Louli. “I guess the answer is no.”

  “Then I believe the remover of obstacles would be a good god for now.” Nema looked around the room. “What does he demand as sacrifice?”

  Jani set the elephant back on its seat. Then she stripped some petals from the blanket of bright orange cymbela that had been draped across the altar, and sprinkled them before it. “Help me, Lord,” she said, just as she had when she was eight and asked for the wisdom necessary to pass maths.

  She knew her father would be disappointed if he somehow discovered she hadn’t given his God a chance, so she picked a plain gold cross from the collection and whispered a quick Act of Contrition. The one formal prayer she remembered. She knew many informal ones, spoken from the heart, usually a variation of “please, God, get me through this.” Any God. Whichever one cared enough to listen. And up to now, she’d managed to survive it all and didn’t despise herself any more than she ever had, so someone must have thought her worth the bother.

  “We must go, nìa,” Nema said. He watched Jani as she set the cross back down on the altar. “You feel strong?”

  “Yes, nìRau.”

  “Hantìa will try to draw much blood. That is her way.”

  “I understand.”

  “If she fights too vigorously, you must knock her down, as you did before.”

  Jani stared at Nema. His expression was bland, for him. Grim Death in Repose. “You knew about that?”

  “Yes, nìa.” He rearranged the draping of his red-rimmed cuffs. “I know all.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “No, nìa.” He walked ahead of her, which since he was her dominant was a serious breach of protocol. “You prefer your secrets, even if they are secret only to you.”

  “You’ve come to know humanish so well?”

  “Humanish have no place in this.” His auric eyes seemed to glow. “I know Rauta Haárin. I know you.”

  The room was oval, windowless, with smooth, dun-colored walls and floor. A high ceiling, the light provided by simple sunglobes suspended from helical chains.

  The audience had already assembled. Humans filled the banked seating on one side, idomeni, the other, each following the idomeni convention of lower ranks to the rear. That allowed Prime Minister Li Cao a seat of honor on the floor, very close to the action. Closer than she would have liked, judging from the way she jerked back as Jani walked near the edge of the fighting circle.

  Anais Ulanova sat at Cao’s side, the slight elevation of her seat denoting her lesser status. “An interesting way to start the day, is it not, Captain?” No false bravado was detectable in her voice or manner. In fact, she seemed rather bored. Somewhere in her ancestry lurked women who yawned during executions.
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br />   “Yes, ma’am.” Jani shot an encouraging look toward the back rows. Hals stared back, grim and tight-lipped. Ischi sat behind her, edgily tapping his feet. Vespucci chewed a thumbnail. Burkett sat arms folded, eyes on the floor.

  The Vynshàrau side looked even cheerier. As ranking secular dominant, Cèel sat in a very low seat, mere centimeters from the floor. The best seat in the house, idomenically speaking, belonged to Nema as ranking religious dominant and, as such, Cèel’s propitiator. Like Cao he rated the floor itself. Jani watched him lower slowly, his back straight, his face unreadable. He won’t root for me. Not openly, anyway.

  As the challenged, Jani had the choice of blades. She considered the assortment laid out before her. Long and short, curved and straight, all bearing the stark elegance and implied efficiency that marked classic Sìah workmanship.

  Her earlier self-assurance ebbed as she hefted a couple of the longer blades. The incision in her arm pulled every time she squeezed. When was the last time I fought with a knife? Not stabbed someone, but fought. Like any other martial art, it required training. It also took skill to fight without seriously hurting your opponent. Hantìa had trained for ceremonial bouts like these since she was old enough to walk—her experience showed in her heavily scarred arms. I only know how to cut and run.

  Jani settled for a short, straight sword that resembled a really nasty carving knife. Hantìa bared her teeth when she saw her choice of weapon. She picked up the matching blade and made several skillful cuts through the air.

  Show-off. Jani tilted her blade back and forth. The anodized wireweave, fine as spider silk, shone beneath the lamps like multicolored threads. The razorlike wires would shred as they cut. The wounds she’d receive would sear as though rubbed with salt, while the edges would heal raised and ragged.

  Pain. The prospect worried her. As much as she disliked Hantìa, she didn’t want to fight this fight. Not because she didn’t know what she was doing, and not because she feared the pain. But the aches and twinges she’d tolerated for years were different from the agony experienced when someone cut you with a knife. And kept coming. And kept coming.