by Garth Nix
‘I was delayed by the arch priest I met before,’ I whispered to him as he bowed to greet me, his head close.
‘I understand, Your Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘The duel with Prince Atalin has been scheduled in one hour, in Duelling Chamber Erodh-Azkhom. Do you wish to proceed there now?’
The duel. The present and its needs broke through the warring parts of my personality that were grappling with what Morojal had told me about my future.
I was to become the Emperor. . .
‘Do you wish to proceed there now?’ repeated Haddad.
His words were accompanied by a data overlay indicating that the duelling chamber was within easy walking distance. I could stay and toast my decoration, and probably be toasted, since there were few Princes who had received the Imperial Star of Valour that day. But I didn’t want to stay, and I knew from Haddad’s lessons that it was always advisable to be early to a duel, to allow plenty of time for everything to be checked out in case of dirty tricks. Also, as always with Haddad, just by asking the question he was also suggesting a course of action.
I forced myself to focus on the moment.
‘Yes,’ I replied, and strode out through the crowd, acknowledging the occasional waves and salutes as I went by, nearly all of which came from members of other services, or the few other Naval officers who also wore the Imperial Star of Valour.
Most of the other Naval Princes seemed keen to ignore me, so they might celebrate their own, lesser decorations without comparison.
Outside the garden, away from the crowd of Princes, Haddad led me across a lawn toward a sunken pathway bordered by hedges.
‘My apprentices have secured this path,’ he said quietly as we approached. ‘And I have another team at the duelling chamber now—as does Prince Atalin’s Master Vivaldra. Can you tell me what was the import of Arch-Priest Morojal’s meeting with you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I trusted Haddad more than anybody else. In the Empire at least. ‘I have been selected as a candidate for the Imperial Throne.’
‘Ah,’ said Haddad. ‘I wondered.’
‘Did you?’ I asked. ‘I had no idea.’
‘My first Prince was a candidate, twenty-two years ago,’ replied Haddad. ‘Prince Emzhyl. She was chosen for Adjustment and then a few years later became a candidate. I notice similarities in your own capabilities and career path, Highness.’
‘She could be the Emperor now!’ I exclaimed.
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Haddad.
‘Do you know anything about the challenge that candidates face?’ I asked eagerly.
‘No,’ replied Haddad. ‘Prince Emzhyl told me she was chosen as a candidate . . . and then the next morning she was gone, and I was reassigned.’
‘Oh well,’ I sighed. ‘I guess it was too much to hope for some advance knowledge.’
‘You should concentrate on the forthcoming duel, Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘Though you have had some practice with bolt-and-cable guns, I fear that you are far from a master. Do you recall the basic strategies?’
I nodded. Bolt-and-cable guns fired penetrating bolts that would stick in almost anything—flesh, bone, rock, Bitek building materials—and trailed an immensely strong but thin cable that remained connected to the gun until it was released by the firer. A duel with the weapons was conducted on a miniature mountain two hundred metres high built within a duelling chamber. The mountain, with its four peaks and many cracks and crevices, provided a challenging battlefield where the bolt-and-cable guns were needed for climbing, swinging, and moving about as much as for shooting at an enemy. Each gun contained ten bolts and Bitek spinnerets that would produce five hundred metres of cable.
We would each start on top of one of the minimountain’s peaks, just out of the bolt-and-cable gun’s range. Whoever was better at manoeuvring their way around the mountain and could get close enough to the other and get off an effective disabling or killing shot would win.
In Atalin’s case, I knew that a killing shot of mine would probably mean a final death for her, if Morojal’s words could be trusted. I couldn’t stop thinking about this as I walked with Haddad. It changed the whole nature of the upcoming duel.
Could I kill my own sister? My anger toward her had cooled, and I had to recognise that she was no worse than any other Prince. Perhaps she had the same potential that I did, to try to become something better. Maybe, like me, she even harboured secret dreams of breaking free of the mould of a Prince, escaping from the strictures of the Empire. . .
I stopped in midstride to think about that, Haddad moving swiftly around me, expecting to see some threat that I had just perceived.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Haddad,’ I said. ‘I’m just thinking.’
Thinking. Thinking that now that I was back in my augmented body, back as a Prince of the Empire . . . I didn’t want to be.
I had been happy back in the Habitat, as Khem the trader. . .
I certainly did not want to become the Emperor and join the Imperial Mind, whether I was in charge of it or not. Even the temptation that I might be able to do some good as Emperor was false, I knew. The way the Empire did things was too entrenched, and I doubted that I would be able to wrangle the hundreds of minds of past Emperors in the Mind to make any effective changes.
Against these rational thoughts from the part of me that I considered to be genuinely myself there was still that insistent, programmed chorus from some other part of my brain that insisted that becoming Emperor was everything I had ever wanted and that I must do my best to become Emperor as soon as possible.
I clamped down on those thoughts and tried to work out what the hell I was going to do.
The alternative to ascending as Emperor was clearly death or something even worse, and I didn’t want to die. Or experience whatever the ‘worse’ might be.
There had to be some other way. Only I couldn’t see it.
Reluctantly I tried to focus on the upcoming duel.
At least I had developed one certainty with that. Despite my anger earlier when I’d seen that she was to be decorated for killing my Kharalchan friends’ families, I decided that I should do my best not to kill Atalin. This would make the duel even more difficult, but I wanted to try to stay the kind of person that Raine thought I was and that I aspired to be. Atalin might deserve to die for what she had done, but she was my sister.
I was not the right executioner.
Of course, she might kill me. . .
‘You do recall the basic strategies?’ Haddad asked again as we left the sunken lane and crossed a courtyard toward a characteristic Imperial cube, marking the entrance to an underground facility that I saw in the overlay was the Duelling Chamber.
‘I do,’ I replied. ‘Fire as few bolts as possible, and use short cables. Make the mountain do the work.’
‘I advise against the fancier moves,’ continued Haddad. ‘Keep it simple, Highness. No swinging decapitations or the like.’
‘No,’ I agreed. I doubted I could even do a swinging decapitation—where you looped a cable around your opponent’s neck and swung off the mountain while still connected.
Haddad’s apprentices appeared out of the hedgerows and rose up out of the grass as we crossed to the cube, so that I had an entourage around me as we entered the building. After the customary checking of the dropshaft, we descended to the reception area. There, in a hall decorated with huge pictures of mountains from many different worlds, Atalin’s Master of Assassins and a dozen of her apprentices were waiting, though my opponent herself was not yet present.
‘We have inspected the mountain, Prince Khemri, and accept the ground,’ announced Vivaldra. ‘Prince Atalin requests snow and ice, at your pleasure.’
I waved my hand negligently.
‘Snow and ice by all means,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a blizzard.’
Haddad looked at me. Though his face was impassive as always, I detected an aura of censure, or perhaps disappointment.
But I had a reason for asking for a bl
izzard. If after the duel began either one of us accidentally fell off the mountain without the other’s intervention, and was injured or unable to proceed, the duel would be declared a draw. To me, this was an attractive outcome. Though I would prefer it if it was Atalin who fell off.
‘Prince Atalin will accept a blizzard,’ replied Vivaldra.
‘With your permission, Highness, I will check the mountain now,’ said Haddad. I nodded. He gestured to his apprentices. Four followed him, and six moved closer to me. He went toward the ornate ceremonial door opposite, and as it opened, I caught a glimpse of the mountain, and the snow that was beginning to swirl down in answer to my request for a blizzard.
Haddad returned five minutes later, just as Atalin arrived, accompanied by half a dozen more of her Master Vivaldra’s apprentice assassins.
‘The ground is acceptable,’ said Haddad. ‘Though I must point out that the blizzard has reached only ninety-five point six per cent of the standard laid down in Prince Euthrax’s Code Duello, the prescribed rulebook on the Imperial Core.’
‘I’m sure that is sufficient,’ I said. ‘Prince Atalin?’
‘It is of no consequence,’ replied Atalin. She did not look at me but held out her arms so Vivaldra could take off her uniform coat. I did the same, allowing Haddad to remove mine. Atalin then handed over several weapons, which were taken by the apprentices, and I followed suit with my own armoury.
In shirts, breeches, and ceremonial boots we faced each other.
‘I testify before the Imperial Mind that I carry no weapons into the duel,’ announced Atalin, repeating that in mindspeech.
I gave the same declaration.
A priest of the Aspect of the Stern Adjudicator emerged from a smaller door tucked away at the side of the duelling chamber. She wore full ceremonial robes, including the ridiculously tall wicker hat that looked like an upturned basket on her head, and carried two bolt-and-cable guns. These she handed to Haddad and Vivaldra, who examined both, then handed them back to the priest. She approached Atalin and me, bowed, and presented the weapons.
‘You choose first,’ said Atalin.
‘No, after you,’ I said, determined to be no less courteous.
Atalin shrugged slightly and took one of the weapons, immediately checking it with disturbingly fast motions.
I hefted my gun, examined the charge indicator, the Bitek reservoir, the safety switch, and the grips. It all appeared okay, exactly the same as the guns I’d practised with.
‘As the challenged, you shall begin upon the northwest peak, Prince Khemri,’ the priest said to me. ‘And Prince Atalin upon the southeast. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ we both intoned. Our voices were so similar they sounded like one voice. I looked at Atalin, but she did not look at me, instead languidly examining the ceiling.
‘Steps have been activated to your peaks, Highnesses,’ said the priest. ‘They will retract when you reach your positions. The Imperial Mind will announce the start of the duel. Begin.’
Both leaves of the massive ceremonial door swung open. An overlay indicated that I should go through the left and Atalin the right. Ten metres apart, but in step, we marched into the snowstorm at the foot of the miniature mountain of jagged rocks.
Through the snow I saw the beginning of my steps, and I immediately ran and jumped onto them. Whoever got to the top first would have precious time to check out the mountain and plan strategy before the duel began. I intended that this would be me.
Taking the steps four at a time I dashed upward. The snow swirled around me, and I had to adjust my skin, body temperature, and vision as I ran. After thirty or so steps I also took the risk of pausing for a few seconds to remove and throw away my boots. They did not have sufficient grip for the icy steps, let alone for the bare rock. I could take the cold, and the minor abrasions and cuts, better than I could take a fall. Particularly since a fall before the duel properly began would not result in a draw, only a postponement.
Bootless, I climbed even faster, my bare feet providing much better traction. But even so, when I arrived panting at the top of my peak and looked across, I saw Atalin arrive at exactly the same time.
The steps retracted below me, and the Imperial Mind spoke inside my head.
:Commence duel on mark three two one mark <
Immediately I fired my first bolt across to the northeast peak, which was the closest. Stopping the cable at fifteen metres hanging, without cutting it, I launched myself into space, swinging across the gulf between the peaks and onto a rocky ledge I’d indentified in the split second I’d had to evaluate the ground. Cutting free the first cable, I leaped across to a narrow outcrop from the eastern peak and fired again, this time sending a bolt up and over to come down on the southeastern peak from above. I cut the end of this cable at fifteen metres and, taking the end, whipped it sideways and down. Atalin had almost certainly moved, but if she hadn’t, this might knock her off her feet.
A bolt striking the rock just above my head indicated that she had moved. I threw myself down the mountainside, firing a bolt back toward where I thought she was, but also using it to arrest my fall. Swinging across on the line, I scuttled into a shallow cave, eyes frantically scanning the snowstorm.
A dim silhouette leaped above me. I fired twice, sending a bolt ahead of where I thought she was jumping and then another immediately behind, both with short cables. The bolts struck the mountainside opposite, but sudden tension on the second cable announced that I had caught her between them. I dropped the gun to my feet, snatched up the end of the first cable, and pulled the cables together, desperately twisting them around.
Atalin spun a few metres above and five metres across from me, her legs enmeshed in the cable. But as she spun, she took careful aim. I dodged aside as a bolt smashed into the rock behind me. She spun back and I used that second to fasten my two cables to her bolt, pick up my gun, and dodge again.
Before she could fire for a third time, I fired myself, sending a bolt into her right forearm, where it lodged in the reinforced bone. Yanking the cable back, I pinned her arm to her side, and the gun with it, at least till she swapped it to her left hand.
But that took precious seconds and allowed me another shot. This time, I sent a bolt through her left arm at the wrist. Pulling that tight, I fastened both cables to her own bolt again.
Despite this, she continued to struggle, trying to bring her gun up, which was impossible.
‘Concede!’ I called.
Atalin looked down at me, her face furious. Blood was dripping from her wounds. Not much of it, for her internal systems had shut off the flow, but enough to make some of the snowflakes pink.
‘I concede nothing!’ she spat. ‘Kill me if you can!’
‘You’re my sister!’ I shouted over the howl of the blizzard. ‘I don’t want to kill you. Particularly since—’ I tried to say ‘you won’t be reborn,’ but the words wouldn’t come out. Obviously Morojal had restricted that information as well. I simply couldn’t tell Atalin.
‘What?’ shrieked Atalin. She was trying to flip herself up and bite the cables through. She might even be able to do it, I thought, so I spoke quickly.
‘We are going to be announced as Imperial candidates!’ I shouted, rapidly trying to think what I could tell her to make her listen. ‘Of the . . . the thousand! But not if you die now.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Atalin. She hadn’t stopped swinging her legs up and trying to bend her head down. But she didn’t sound quite as angry.
‘Arch-Priest Morojal of the Aspect of the Emperor’s Discerning Hand told me,’ I replied.
:This is correct <
I hadn’t asked, but clearly Atalin had.
She stopped trying to swing her legs and looked down at me in what I could only describe as how I must look when I was really thinking hard about something.
‘Why tell me?’ she asked. ‘Why not
just kill me? It would be one less candidate for you to contend with.’
‘Because you are my sister,’ I said. I meant it too, and I think she could tell that. Even if she couldn’t understand it.
Atalin stared at me for a full three seconds, but her face remained expressionless and I had no idea what she was thinking behind that familiar but at the same time strange visage.
‘I concede,’ she said aloud, repeating it in mindspeech.
:I concede to Prince Khemri:
:Duel concluded <
The wind immediately stopped howling, and the snow lessened and petered out. Steps appeared near me, leading off the mountain. I didn’t start down them.
‘Do you have any memories of our parents?’ I asked.
Atalin scowled.
‘Of course not. And I am not your sister. It is not possible.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Arch-Priest Morojal confirmed that too, though I suppose the Imperial Mind won’t. Tell me . . . how did you come to spend time disconnected from the Mind?’
Atalin turned her head away.
‘It’s a requirement for a candidate,’ I said. ‘So I know you must have done it.’
‘You seem to know a great deal more than you should,’ said Atalin. She let herself spin back to face me. ‘More from Arch-Priest Morojal, I warrant. I spent a year in Imperial Survey. A year disconnected, as far out as you can get.’
‘Then you’ve probably seen normal human families in the Fringe,’ I said. ‘Brothers and sisters and so on. Parents and children.’
Atalin eyes narrowed.
‘I am your brother, like it or not,’ I continued. ‘And I spared you for that reason. Maybe one day you might return the favour. Sister.’
Atalin continued to stare down at me, much as a nonsentient might look at a holographic control display, unable to comprehend it at all.
Priests were coming up the steps, ready to provide medical aid. So were Haddad and Vivaldra and their various apprentices.