Elvenborn

is born with. I suppose combat-by-proxy is marginally more fair than combat-by-magic.

It wouldn't be quite as viscerally satisfying, though.

I wonder how I'd fare if I decided to challenge one of the charmers behind me to a magic duel? Have any of them even bothered to practice and train their power? There was no way of judging how strong they were by the way they were acting, and he really didn't know how strong his magic was in compar­ison with theirs. Going into such a challenge blind would be the stupidest thing he could do.

He didn't use magic except when there was no way to ac­complish something without it. He really didn't have much use for illusions, so he'd never really practiced them, but there was no reason why even an illusion couldn't be used as a weapon. Other Elvenlords seemed to waste a great deal of power on out­ward appearances—for instance, as Aelmarkin had, turning his

manor into an impossible confection that hardly resembled a dwelling at all. But was that the waste that it seemed to be?

Is it a kind of bluff—or even a way of demonstrating power without the risk entailed by combat?

For a moment, he felt a flicker of concern that he hadn't done likewise; should he have created an opulent illusory costume like theirs? What would these people think if they saw his un­adorned home? Did they think him weak, and of little account, because he didn't create and maintain fantastic illusions?

It doesn 't matter, he told himself quickly. No one ever comes to visit who needs to be impressed, and I'm not the only one here wearing ordinary clothing.

He reminded himself that his status, and that of his family, remained secure—because they produced what others needed, and they had no power that anyone else coveted. It was a reas­suring thought, and one that calmed his new-born concerns. He wanted to look harmless and inconsequential; he'd nearly for­gotten that. He wanted people like these friends of Aelmarkin to underestimate him and his family.

He gave himself a mental shake. These people were contami­nating him—he hadn't been among them for even half a day, and already he was thinking about challenges and status, worrying because they thought he was a provincial, insular bumpkin! So what if they did? That was what kept him and his safe! Let them jockey with each other he reminded himself. Let them ignore us. As long as they consider us politically insignificant, but too use­ful to disturb, we 'II remain secure and safe.

Unless, of course, the family holdings looked so prosperous that they became a choice plum, ripe for picking. Certainly Ael­markin thought so; was it possible that some other, more dan­gerous opponent would come to share that belief?

Perhaps—perhaps he ought to consult with Lydiell when he returned home. Maybe it was time to create a few carefully-crafted bluffs. Lydiell was clever; surely she would be able to concoct an excuse for Kyrtian to demonstrate his powers in such a way that would make it appear that Kyrtian had incredi­ble ability. Or, at least, that he had enough magical power to make challenging him more costly than the prize was worth.

Something to make it appear that it isn 't worth upsetting the way things are now, that's what we need. Something to show that there is nothing to be gained and a great deal to be lost in a direct confrontation.

It might be all to his advantage that most conflicts were set­tled in the arena. He knew for certain that in strength and agility, his own worst fighters were the equal of even the best of the fighters down there on the sand—and were superior to most of the men waiting to fight. If it came to a challenge-match like this one, Kyrtian was confident that his side would not lose.

That realization made him relax a little. Really, he was wor­rying for no reason. As long as issues were settled by human gladiators like those below him, he had nothing to fear.

In fact, the more he studied those fighters, the more confident of that fact he became. It was odd; those gladiators all seemed a good bit younger than he would have expected. This was an im­portant match, or so he had been led to believe. So why weren't the two antagonists fielding their older, more experienced glad­iators? What is it that Gel says? 'Experience and duplicity will overcome youth and energy every time.'

He had managed to lose track of what the gossips behind him were chattering about while he mulled over his own situation and studied the combatants. When he turned a fraction of his at­tention back to them, he discovered they were placing bets on the outcome, not only of the whole combat, but on the fortunes of individual fighters. Mildly intrigued, he eavesdropped with­out shame.

'You must know something, if you're betting that high,' the drawler said suspiciously. 'Don't take the bet, Galiath! He's too confident! I think he bribed the trainers to tell him something!'

'Nonsense, he doesn't know anything—he's just bluffing, and I've wanted a chance to get that horse for ages!' replied a new voice, one that Kyrtian thought was slurred just a little with drink. 'I'll take that bet; your racehorse against my red-haired concubine and two jeweled armlets that the one with the two swords draws first blood before he's marked!'

It took a moment for the sense of what they were saying to

sink in, and when it did, he felt a little sick. The idea of equat­ing the value of a human with that of a horse —no, as less than that of the horse ... it hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach just how foreign their way of thinking was to his. He'd known it intellectually, of course, but this was the first concrete example he'd witnessed. Up until now, Aelmarkin's slaves hadn't behaved any differently than his own servants at their most discreet.

I truly am the alien here. If they knew how we treat our hu­mans, they wouldn 't hesitate for a moment to bring us all down. He would be considered a traitor to his race, and worse than the Wizards and the wild humans. He had to remember to keep his guard up!

The two feuding parties finally arrived, with great fanfare, at exactly the same moment. With each of the Elvenlords came an entourage of glittering, fancifully-costumed hangers-on. There were box seats at either end of the arena, directly above the two doors that had disgorged the combatants; those boxes were now occupied by the newly-arrived lords and their entourages. Kyrt-ian found that he could not for the life of him remember their names and Houses—not that it really mattered to him. He would, if he was introduced later, congratulate the winner and be properly sympathetic to the loser. It wasn't likely, though, that Aelmarkin would make such an introduction, unless he thought he had a way of making Kyrtian lose face.

How they took their seats and in what order was clearly as choreographed as an elaborate ritual. Neither of the Lords wished to be seated first, and there was much arranging of the chairs and jockeying of seating before the two Great Lords sat at precisely the same moment. They glared at each other across the span of the arena, before turning away with studied indiffer­ence to speak with a companion.

Now Aelmarkin, as host, stood up; Kyrtian caught the move­ment out of the corner of his eye, and turned j ust enough so that he could watch his cousin without being obvious about it.

'Most noble Lords,' Aelmarkin said, his smooth and imper­sonal words carrying effortlessly above the whispers of those

seated all around him, 'You have determined to settle your dif­ferences in trial-by-combat, and have accepted my offer to host this venture. Are you still of the same mind to accept the out­come of this combat as the settling of your feud?'