Elvenborn

there to receive them prop­erly, or there'll be another feud on my hands.'

With that, Lord Wyvarna turned and led his own entourage out of the arena, leaving Kyrtian standing beside Lord Lyon.

'Well, either you are the cleverest young lordling I have ever seen, or the luckiest,' Lyon observed softly. 'I wouldn't have given you any odds of getting out of that situation intact.'

'The luckiest, my lord,' Kyrtian replied quickly—hoping that he sounded modest. 'I fear that although I had come to this event intending to demonstrate my discovery, I made a pro­found mistake in permitting my feelings to get the better of me, initially. I am, I fear, a very provincial fellow, and this was the first combat-trial I have ever attended. And if I offended you with my untutored manner, I do apologize, for I had no inten­tion of offending anyone.'

And once again, he turned to his cousin. Aelmarkin's expres­sion was so bland it could not have been anything other than a mask. He was probably still infuriated.

'Cousin, I must ask your forgiveness for using your premises as the intended venue for my display, but—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is the only combat-challenge I have ever been invited to, so opportunities have not exactly been thick upon the ground.' He had no real hope that this would pacify Aelmarkin, but at least it would make it look as if he'd tried.

'I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Aelmarkin,' Lord Kyndreth told the stone-faced Elvenlord, with a raised eye­brow. 'I can promise you, this little demonstration is only going to reflect to your glory. If you like, I can even spread it about that you colluded with young Kyrtian here—'

'To what end, my lord?' Aelmarkin asked dryly.

'Ah, well, to a most proper end. You are aware of the dread­ful wastage of fighters we've had in this campaign against the so-called Young Lords. And I assume, given the age and rank of your two main guests, you were aware that I would appear at this combat. Of course you are aware of my keen interest in new methods of training our fighting-slaves faster.' Lord Kyn­dreth smiled; the smile reminded Kyrtian of a large cat with its prey beneath its paw. 'So you decided to help your cousin and yourself at the same time, by giving him a venue to demon­strate the fruits of his hobby for me. Hmm?'

Aelmarkin's expression remained as bland as cream, but he bowed. 'As you say, my lord, and I am deeply grateful to you.'

'No more than I am to you.' This was clearly a dismissal, and Aelmarkin took it as such.

'I must return to my guests, my lord, if I may excuse my­self?' Aelmarkin bowed.

Lord Kyndreth waved him off, and Aelmarkin departed; the line of his backbone suggested further trouble to Kyrtian. But that was for the future; there was a larger and more dangerous predator in front of him still. Aelmarkin was a jackal at best. Lord Kyndreth was a lion in truth and not just in name.

'Thank you again, my lord,' Kyrtian said, meaning it.

'Hmph.' Lord Lyon eyed him as if suspecting further clever­ness. 'Well, I shall be wanting to come visit you within the next few days. I want to discuss your training methods—and other things.'

'I am at your service, Lord Lyon,' Kyrtian replied, stunned. 'I will send a Portal-token to the Council Hall in your name.' Before he could think of anything else to say, the Old Lord had sketched a brief salute and turned away, leading what was left of his entourage off through the exit.

7

Every trace of the bloody conflict that had preceded Gel's fight had been cleared away from the preparation room by the time that he and the other lord's bodyguard retired to it. Even the armor was gone; all that remained was the presence of the liveried gladiators themselves, divided into two tight groups with a careful space between them. Divested of arms and ar­mor, to Gel's eyes they looked absurdly young, barely out of boyhood. The two sets of gladiators hovered at a respectful dis­tance from Gel and Lord Kyndreth's man as they took over the preparation room for themselves. Gel suppressed a smile of amusement; there was more than a touch of hero-worship in those young faces. He and his opponent had not only saved these children from injury and death, they had probably put on the most skillful combat the callow lads had ever seen. He was just glad that he was going to be able to return to his own estate and get away from all those admiring eyes.

As Gel followed Kaeth Jared's example and divested himself of armor, clothing, and walked naked into the white-tiled water-cascade cubicle as if he belonged there, he was thoroughly con­scious of gratitude for being able to clean up after their strenuous bout. With all of the youngsters still watching, awe-filled eyes glued to him, Gel was more than a little uncomfort­able as he plunged under the warm cascade of water and let it soothe muscles that had been asked to work without a proper warm-up. He wondered why the other fighters didn't say any­thing to him—or at least, to Kaeth Jared. They might not know him, but surely they knew Kaeth at least by sight. Well, they've got tongues, he told himself, as he ducked his head under the steaming water and let it pour down his neck and back. If they don't want to use them, that's not my problem.

Kaeth Jared must have been more used to this odd, semi-frightened treatment from his fellow humans, as he acted on the surface as if the other fighters simply weren't there.

On the surface, anyway.

To Gel's experienced eyes, he moved as if he noted and ana­lyzed every move any of them made, however inconsequential. That spelled 'assassin' as well as 'bodyguard' to Gel, which actually made a great deal of sense, considering Lord Kyn-dreth's prominence and the uncertain times. There was no telling if the Young Lords or his own peers might decide to re­vert to the ancient ways of dealing with an obstacle in the form of another Elvenlord. Who better to guard against assassins than another assassin?

Still. It aroused his suspicions. In all his lifetime, Gel had en­countered no more than four assassins, and he himself was one of them.

And I wonder if Kaeth Jared has made the same conclusions about me that I have about him. . . .

The first had been his own teacher, the third had been his teacher's teacher—a succession of trained men to guard the es­tate's lord, just in case. The fourth had been on the auction block, and that particular set of skills hadn't been mentioned in the auction catalog. Although it momentarily tempted him—to have someone else he could trust with his lord's safety—he had said nothing to the Seneschal who had been looking for a few choice youngsters to introduce to the freedom of the estate. It was a bad idea; like his own teacher he would train his own suc­cessor. There was no telling where that man had been, or why he was on the block.

For a moment, Gel recalled his teacher with great fond­ness—Hakkon Shor had not been Gel's father, but he might just as well have been. He'd helped raise Gel from the moment that Gel showed the sort of athletic potential that made him the skilled fighter he was today. Hakkon hadn't had sons, only daughters—not that one of them wouldn't have served per­fectly well as Kyrtian's bodyguard, but none of them took after Hakkon; in point of fact, they were sweet-natured and ab­solutely oblivious to half of what went on around them. Now