Elvenborn

'Yes, well, it's obvious he was an obsessive, at the very least,' said the drawler, dismissively. 'And judging from the disaster of a conversation I had with Kyrtian, yonder, obsession runs in the family blood. All the poor fool can talk about is military matters! History, tactics, battles no one cares about.' A sneer crept into the drawl. 'As if anyone would ever give the likes of him com­mand over so much as a squad of latrine- diggers.'

By now Kyrtian's neck burned, his cheeks were nearly the same temperature, and his jaw and shoulders ached with the strain of tightly-clenched muscles. He gladly would have given half his possessions for the opportunity to come at any of those foppish fools in barehanded combat!

And that's just what they expect from you, he reminded him­self, trying mentally to throw a little cold water on his over­heated temper. They think you 're an atavistic barbarian, and they may very well be waiting for you to stand up and attack them physically! They would have the right to challenge you or bring you up in front of the Great Council.

And that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was what Aelmarkin wanted him to do, for such an attack would prove to everyone's satisfaction that he, Kyrtian, was just as mad as Aelmarkin claimed in his petition. An Elvenlord and a gentleman did not settle differences hand-to-hand. An Elvenlord and a gentleman issued a proper challenge, and settled it as this feud was being settled.

I have to keep my mouth closed and my eyes open and find out just how these things work! he told himself vehemently. So that if I get a chance, I can arrange for these fools to eat their words without salt!

Beside him, Gel stood at wary attention, as impassive as any statue, and as invisible to these fools as any other bodyguard. Gel had heard every word, too—but you would never know it by looking at him.

Copy Gel, he told himself. Stay quiet, if not calm. Wait, and

watch. He knew only that these feuds were settled in trial-by-combat, using slaves as proxies. If his fighters were better-trained than these—

Then it might be worth dealing with these dolts in a way they 'II understand.

Abruptly, conversation behind him ceased, as some signal he didn't recognize warned the idlers that the combat was about to begin. Abruptly caught up in spite of himself, Kyrtian leaned forward with the rest, as the light in the arena brightened, and the lights above their seats dimmed.

5

Two bronze doors, one at each end of the arena and deco­rated with hammered images of armored fighters, opened onto the sands of the arena. Two lines of heavily-equipped fighters paced through them, moving ponderously into the light. There were fourteen of these humans in all, seven to each side. One set was armored in pale green, with a winged serpent badge in brilliant blue on their breastplates and shields, the other in emerald green with the badge of a rearing alicorn in white.

The armor was impressive; the men inside it were less so. Kyrtian studied each of the fighters minutely, weighing and measuring their general strength, noting the kinds of weapons each man carried. He assumed that Gel was doing the same.

'Ancestors!' came another whisper from behind. 'What can be so fascinating about a handful of fighters? Is he so provincial that he's never seen gladiators before?'

Kyrtian's neck burned again for a moment, but he calmed himself quickly. With something before him to study and ana­lyze, he finally managed to think of his own situation in terms of tactics rather than emotions.

Most of them are taking me for a provincial boor, but those are the ones who are ignoring me. The comments might be com­ing from those who are suspicious of me—thinking that the 'provincial fool' might just be a pose. They would be trying to prod me into either doing something typical of a fool—such as lose my temper and insult them back—or to do or say some­thing that will give them more information about what I'm re­ally here for. If I do neither, I'll confuse them further. It's even possible that Aelmarkin is behind the prodding. The possible number of plots and counterplots going on behind his back made him feel dizzy.

And these strangers seemed even more alien to him. How did they do it? How could anyone live like that, spending most of every day in guarding against treachery, and the rest in planning treachery? It would drive him mad in no time. He could not imagine how they coped with the constant paranoia.

Perhaps that is why they spend so much time in debauching themselves. Only by immersing themselves in pleasure can they relax for a few moments. If that was so—he felt suddenly sorry for them. But not too sorry.

The best weapon he had to use against them was the uncer­tainty he represented, the very fact that he was unknown. No matter what Aelmarkin had told them, they probably wouldn't really believe it until they had proved for themselves what he was. They would tend to judge him against the standard of their own behavior. What would one of them do in a situation similar to his? Play the fool? Try and find an ally?

Probably look for an ally or a protector; hopefully by doing neither, he had confused them further. He wished he could talk openly to Gel; of all the times he needed advice—

Then again, Gel might not have any better notion of how to handle these effete creatures than he did.

Well, others have mistaken my caution for a lack of imagina­tion in the past— so perhaps that is what is going on now. I can only hope so; it will make them underestimate me further.

All he really knew was how such situations would have been handled in the far past, as recounted in the history books he spent so much time perusing. In the days of long ago, there had

been less time and leisure for long plots and political machina­tion. The Elvenlords of old had dealt with problems with their own kind in ways that 'human barbarians' would find perfectly familiar.

If one of the First Lords chose to deal with the insults instead of tamely accepting them, he would have called his enemy out for a duel-by-magic.

That makes a satisfying fantasy these days as well—provid­ing you picture yourself as the winner rather than the loser.

In law, that was still an option, but it was one that very few ever took anymore. More than ninety-nine times out of a hun­dred, insults were answered and arguments settled by proxy, in the arena, at the hands of human gladiators like the ones below. Hardly fair, since clearly someone whose means were limited couldn't afford to keep and train as many fighters as someone of greater rank and power, but someone of greater rank and power would also be much stronger in magic than a lesser lord—so it wouldn't make a great deal of difference to the out­come, whether it was settled by combat or magic duel.

It's even possible for someone with weak magic to become wealthy enough to afford first-quality fighters, or to gain an ally with access to such fighters, but nothing increases the power of the magic that someone