Sos. Bob, of the underworld, had made clear what would happen if Sos allowed the empire to stand.
'Tomorrow, then,' Sos said, also defeated.
'Tomorrow-friend.'
'And the winner rules the empire-all of it!' Tyl shouted, and the others agreed.
Why did their smiles look lupine?
They ate together, the two masters with Sola and Soli. 'You will take care of my daughter,' Sol said. He did not need to define the circumstance further.
Sos only nodded.
Sola was more direct. 'Do you want me tonight?'
Was this the woman he had longed for? Sos studied her, noting the voluptuous figure, the lovely features. She did not recognize him, he was certain-yet she had accepted an insulting alliance with complacency.
'She-loved another,' Sol said. 'Now nothing matters to her, except power. It is not her fault.'
'I still love him,' she said. 'If his body is dead, his memory is not. My own body does not matter.'
Sos continued to look at her-but the image he saw was of little Sosa of the underworld, the girl who wore his bracelet. The girl Bob had threatened to send in his place, should Sos refuse to undertake the mission . . . to work her way into Sol's camp as anybody's woman and to stab Sol with a poisoned dart and then herself, leaving the master of empire dead and disgraced. The girl who would still be sent, if Sos failed.
At first it had been Sol's fate that had concerned him, though Bob never suspected this. Only by agreeing to the mission could Sos arrange to turn aside its treachery. But as the time of training passed, Sosa's own peril had become as important. If he betrayed the underworld now, she would pay the penalty.
Sola and Sosa: the two had never met, yet they controlled his destiny. He had to act to protect them both-and he dared tell neither why.
'In the name of friendship, take her!' Sol exclaimed. 'I have nothing left to offer.'
'In the name of friendship,' Sos whispered. He was sickened by the whole affair, so riddled with sacrifice and dishonor. He knew that the man Sola embraced in- her mind would be the one who had gone to the mountain. She might never know the truth.
And the woman he embraced would be Sosa. She would never know, either. He had not realized until he left her that he loved her more.
At noon the next day they met at the circle. Sos wished there were some way he could lose, but he knew at the same moment that this was no solution. Sol's victory would mean his death; the underworld had pronounced it.
Twice he had met Sol in battle, striving to win and failing. This time he would strive in his heart to lose, but had to win. Better the humiliation of one, than the death of two.
Sol had chosen the daggers. His handsome body glistened in the sunlight-but Sos imagined with sadness the way that body would look after the terrible hands of the nameless one closed upon it. He looked for some pretext to delay the onset, but found none. The watchers were massed and waiting, and the commitment had been made. The masters had to meet, and there was no friendship in the circle. Sos would spare his friend if he were able-but he had to win.
They entered the circle together and faced each other for a moment, each respecting the other's capabilities. Perhaps each still hoped for some way to stop it, even now. There was no way. It had been unrealistic to imagine that this final encounter could be reneged. They were the masters: no longer, paradoxically, their own masters.
Sos made the first move. He jumped close and drove a sledgehammer fist at Sol's stomach-and caught his balance as the effort came to nothing. Sol had stepped aside, as he had to, moving more swiftly than seemed possible, as be always did and a shallow slash ran the length of the challenger's forearm. The fist had missed, the knife had not wounded seriously, and the first testing of skill had been accomplished.
Sos had known better than to follow up with a second blow in the moment Sol appeared to be off-balance. Sol was never caught unaware. Sol had refrained from committing the other knife, knowing that the seeming ponderosity of Sos's hands was illusory; Tactics and strategy at this level of skill looked crude only because so many simple ploys were useless or suicidal; finesse seemed like bluff only to the uninitiate.
