With the Knight Male (apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

  Charles Sheffield

  I received the final payment this morning. To: Burmeister and Carver, Attorneys. Payable by: Joustin’ Time.

  Logically, Waldo should have signed the transfer slip. He deserves the money, far more than I do. But given his contusions, fractures, lacerations, and multiple body casts, he is in no position to sign anything. In fact, all the negotiations, arguments, offers, and counteroffers to Joustin’ Time had perforce to come from me. But if Waldo learns anything from his experience—doubtful, given his history—my extra effort on his behalf will be well worthwhile.

  I ought to have been suspicious at the outset, when Waldo drifted into my office from his next-door one, preened, and said, “Got us a client.”

  “That’s nice. Who is he?”

  “She. It’s a lady, Helga Svensen.”

  I ought to have stopped it right there. Every man is entitled to his little weakness, but Waldo’s track record with women clients has been, to put it mildly, unfortunate.

  On the other hand, although the love of money is widely acknowledged to be the root of all evil, the lack of money isn’t too good either. The legal firm of Burmeister and Carver—Waldo and me—was at the time utterly broke.

  I said, “What does this Helga Svensen want us to do?”

  “Nothing difficult. Seems she’s a major player in the pre-Renaissance tournaments that have been so big recently. There’s a royal games next week at the Paladindrome on Vesta, and she wants our help with her performance contract. She also asked me to check out one of the accessories. Wants to know if it can be shipped legally interplanet before she commits to anything.”

  I nodded. World-to-world tariff laws were a nightmare—or, seen from another point of view, a boon for hungry attorneys.

  “What is it this time?” I said. “Bows, swords, tankards? Antique suits of armor? Jousting equipment?”

  “None of them.” Waldo helped himself to a handful of chocolate malt balls sitting in a jar on my desk. “Mainly, she’s interested—mm—in the—mm—blagon.”

  “The flagons?”

  “Naw.” He had spoken with his mouth full, and was forced to pause and swallow before he could say, “The dragon. Apparently it’s a different model from what they’ve been using before. I’m going to meet Helga Svensen over at Chimera Labs tomorrow morning and we’re going to check it out together. Want to come?”

  I did not. The mindless rush of the biolabs to create, through fancy DNA splicing, everything from centaurs to basilisks to gryphons has never made sense to me. On the other hand, there is such a thing as due diligence. If we were going to object to—or press for—import/export restrictions on a dragon, I needed to take a look at one.

  “What time?” I said.

  “Nine o’clock. Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  But I wasn’t. An unpleasant conversation with our landlord concerning past-due office rental delayed me and I did not reach the offices of Chimera Labs until nine-thirty. The aged derelict on duty at the desk wore a uniform as wrinkled and faded as he was. He cast one bleary-eyed look at me as I came in and said, “Mister Carver? You’re expected. First room on the left. The brute’s in there.”

  “The dragon?”

  He stared at me gloomily. “Nah. The dragon’s straight ahead, but you can’t see it. You’re to go into the room on the left.”

  In twenty years of legal practice I had heard Waldo called many names, but “brute” was not one of them. Puzzled, I opened the indicated door.

  The voice that greeted me was not Waldo’s. It was a pleasant, musical baritone, half an octave deeper than his. That was fair enough, because its owner was over two meters tall and topped Waldo by a full half-head.

  She ignored my arrival and went on reading aloud. ” `Article Twelve: Should a competitor fail to appear at the allocated time for his/her/its designated heat, semifinal, or final, he/she/it will lose the right to compete further in the tournament, and will in addition forfeit prior cumulative earnings and/or prize money, unless a claim of force majeure can be substantiated before an arbitration board approved by the tournament officials’—you see, it’s this sort of blather that ties my head in knots—`in advance of the participation of said competitor in any tournament event.’ Now what the devil does that mean?”

  Waldo offered a lawyer’s nod of approbation. “Nice. It means that if you don’t show up for an event, you lose everything unless you can prove to them in advance that you couldn’t possibly show up. Which is, practically speaking, impossible.” He had noticed my arrival, and turned to me. “Henry, this is Helga Svensen. Helga, this is my partner, Henry Carver. Henry is an absolute master at reading the fine print of a contract. If anyone can beat the written terms by using the contract’s own words, he can.”

  While Helga nodded down at me with what I sensed as a certain rational skepticism, I took my chance for an examination of our new client. She was more than just tall. She wore a scanty halter of Lincoln green that revealed breasts like alpine slopes, shoulders wide enough to support a world, and tattooed arms the size of my thighs. Her matching green skirt, shockingly short, ended high up on thighs as sturdy and powerful as the fabled oaks of Earth. Waldo is a substantial man and his recent dieting efforts had been a disaster, but I have to say that next to Helga Svensen he resembled a sun-starved weed.

  Her mind was still on the contract. She flourished the offending document and said, “And this bit is nothing like the usual agreement. `Article Seventeen. Any bona fide member of a participating team, such representative or representatives to be termed hereinafter collectively the contestant, may enter into single combat with the dragon. Should the contestant slay or otherwise defeat the dragon, the contestant will win the Grand Prize; should the dragon slay the contestant, all prize money already won by the contestant will be forfeited. In the event of the simultaneous death of both dragon and contestant, the dragon will be deemed the winner.’ “

  “Sounds clear enough to me,” Waldo said. “You kill the dragon and survive, you win big. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s too generous.” Helga wore her hair in long, golden plaits. They swayed about her plump pink cheeks as she shook her head. “They offer a Grand Prize at every tournament, and nobody has won one in five years—which is how long Joustin’ Time has been in business. But the prize has never been for dragon-slaying, which isn’t too hard. That’s the other reason I’m here. I want a sneak preview of the dragon.” She glanced at a massive left wrist seeking a nonexistent watch. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-forty-five,” Waldo said.

  “Then he’ll be there. Come on—quietly, now.”

  She opened a small door at the back of the room, lowered her head, and squeezed through. About to follow her into a dark and narrow corridor, I hesitated and turned to Waldo.

  “Is this going to be safe? I mean, a dragon …”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can trust Helga. Come on.” He ducked through.

  Was this really Waldo Burmeister, a man nervous in the presence of toy poodles and somnolent cats? I followed him, wondering about his interaction with Helga Svensen before I arrived.

  I didn’t wonder long because other concerns took center stage. The dark corridor ran for about fifteen meters and ended in a great, dimly-lit chamber. I couldn’t see much at first, but a smell like a mixture of ammonia and sulfur made my nostrils wrinkle. I heard a whisper ahead of me, answered in Helga’s soft baritone. She handed something to a dark figure who at once slipped away into the gloom.

  Helga turned to me and Waldo. “Right, we’re promised five minutes. Let’s take a peek.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to. As my eyes adjusted, a shape was coming into focus by the far wall. It was hunched and enormous, at least seven feet high and thirty feet long. I saw scaled legs like tree trunks ending in feet equipped with gleaming talons, a wrinkled body the size of an upturned rowing boat, a long, barbed tail, and a crocodile head. As I watched, two pairs of batlike wings on each side of the body moved slowly up and down in a breathing rhythm. The whole thing was absolutely terrifying.

  “Strange,” Helga said in a puzzled voice. “Looks just like the dragon they used in the last tournament. I killed that one myself, with a spear thrust to one of its hearts—but there was no Grand Prize offered for doing it. What game are the crooks at Joustin’ Time playing now? I wonder if there’s something in the contract that says you can’t wear armor when you fight the dragon?”

  She made no effort to keep her voice down and the dragon heard her. The barrel-sized head with its great jaws turned in our direction. Green eyes blinked open.

  Waldo stayed at Helga’s side, but I began to back away nervously.

  “It’s all right,” Helga said. “You’re quite safe, because it’s chained up. You can see the fetters on each leg and around the body.”

  While she was still speaking, a roaring sound filled the air. Two roiling clouds of blue flame emerged from the dragon’s nostrils and streaked in our direction. They narrowly missed Waldo and Helga, came close enough to me to singe my trousers, and incinerated the leather briefcase that I was holding. I dropped the smoking debris as Helga said, “So that’s it!”

  She sounded delighted as she went on, “It’s a real first. They’ve talked about flame-breathing dragons in the games for years, but they never worked. The last one got the hiccups and blew itself to bits during the opening ceremonies.”

  “You plan to fight that thing?” I said, as I tried to remember what had been in my briefcase. The only thing I was sure of was a sandwich.

  “Not me.” Helga gave a booming laugh, reached down, and patted out the glowing remnants of my case with one enormous bare hand. “Not now that I know what it can do. I’m not crazy, you know! This time I’ll just do the jousting and the hand-to-hand combat. I always do well with those.”

  I could believe that, even without a survey of the competition. As she bent over, sinews like ship’s cables sprang into view in her arms and legs.

  “But you’ll see for yourself,” she went on, “at the tournament. Now, I got what I came for, and I have to be going. Lots to do!” She led the way out of the dragon chamber and dumped a sheaf of papers into my hand as we reentered the front room. “Here’s the contract. After what Waldo told me about you and your fine-print reading, I know you’ll find a way around all the weasel-wording. See you at the royal games!”

  She was gone, with a flash of bare limbs and the swirl of air that denoted the presence of a large moving mass. I turned on Waldo. “At the games? What did you tell her? What did you agree to?”

  He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring raptly after Helga.

  “Isn’t she the most gorgeous thing you ever saw in your life?” he said. “Those blue eyes, that perfect complexion. Did you see those cute dimples? On her face, too. It seems a shame to take payment for services from someone so wonderful.”

  Waldo’s little weakness. He was smitten—again. It was time to tear up the contract, give back the fee, find a plausible excuse for non-performance, and make sure that we didn’t go within a million miles of Helga Svensen and the Joustin’ Time tournament.

  Why didn’t I follow my own sound instincts? Because our landlord had told me that he would wait at our office for payment and if he didn’t get it he was going to crack my skull? Because when Waldo was in love, nothing in the known universe could prevent the romance from running its natural or unnatural course? Because Waldo was holding in his hand Helga’s check for our services, more money than we had seen in months?

  Yes, certainly. All of those.

  But also because, after meeting Helga, I could see no way that anyone else in the games had a prayer of beating her. She was a shoo-in, an absolute cert. When we had paid the rent, a fair amount of Helga’s fee would be left over. Back her to win at the jousting, take those winnings with reverse odds that she would decline to fight the dragon (there is no substitute for inside information), and watch our initial investment compound to the skies… .

  I could see it, I could feel it, already I could taste the celebratory champagne.

  As I was saying, every man has his little weakness.

  Until forty years ago, Vesta was a nowhere place. Plenty of volatiles and a few hundred kilometers across, but still with surface gravity so low you could spit at escape velocity.

  The gravity generators changed all that. Now Vesta, like much of the Asteroid Belt, was prime real estate. Add in the Vestans’ liberal laws toward physical violence, and the Paladindrome had become one of the system’s top sports venues.

  Waldo, of course, wanted nothing better when we arrived at the ‘drome than to seek out the divine Helga. I left him at the competitors’ enclosure and set off on my own little excursion. I had called up the general plan of the Paladindrome on our trip from the Moon, and found that during the first half of the royal games the sword fighting, archery, and jousting would be the main attractions. They were all to take place on a central strip of beaten earth within the main oval of the ‘drome, a straightway two hundred meters long and about fifty meters wide. All around the interior of the oval, temporary structures were being installed to support special needs. At this end of the strip were the armorers’ tents, the stables, the silversmiths, the food concessions, the sideshows, and the competitors’ private enclosure. I noticed that the dragon had his own awning and cage just beyond the end of the jousting strip, right next to the competitors.

  I also noticed that, although occasionally goaded by employees of Joustin’ Time, the dragon did not belch fire. It did not, in fact, do much of anything. Someone must be keeping the beast high on tranquilizers and low on methane until the second half of the games.

  A deceptive practice, but it was working. Competitors strolled up, examined and occasionally poked the dragon with a mace or the blunt end of a pike, and at once went off to sign up for the great Slay-the-Dragon event.

  The scene was colorful and chaotic, and it seemed likely to become more so once the tournament actually started. The competitors might be all female, but the workers and hangers-on were not. I saw a woman arguing furiously with an artificer wearing a cloth apron. As I walked by she ripped off her metal breast plate and threw it to the ground.

  “Look at ‘em,” she screamed. “Look what it’s doing to ‘em. What do you think you are, a lemon squeezer? How am I supposed to fight for three days inside that thing?”

  He growled back, “That’s the size you told me.” He reached a blackened hand toward her exposed anatomy. “If I was to hammer the metal out right here—”

  “Touch that and you’re dead!”

  I averted my gaze and walked on. My own interests lay at the other end of the jousting strip, a part of the oval where you would find the seamier side of the tournament.

  The first section I reached was home to the drinking tents. Judging from the sounds that came out of them they were already doing a thriving business. Fifty yards farther on, in the Free-For-All, I was accosted half a dozen times by beauties of every sex. I politely refused their service, including that of a woman who somehow realized that I was a lawyer and offered me “a contingency-basis go as a professional courtesy.” Their advances were mildly annoying—but not nearly as irritating as what I found when I came to Bettors’ Row. There I learned that shopping for odds would not be possible at the tournament. Joustin’ Time controlled every betting station!

  When you have no choice, you do what you have to. I went to one of the terminals and entered the name, Helga Svensen. The reply came back, No such competitor.

  It was preposterous. I knew for a fact that she was competing in the jousting—I had seen, read, and approved her entry form. It took assistance from a cheerful lady bettor wearing a hat with the printed motto, THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEBT, to help me out.

  “Helga Svensen,” she said. “Oh, she fights in these games as the Warrior Queen. She’s very good, but me, I fancy the Iron Maiden. More tricky.”

  I was already making a complex cascade bet for heats, semifinals, and final on the Warrior Queen, with a double on jousting and a parallel reverse bid for no dragon, so I didn’t listen to her very closely. I vaguely pitied the Iron Maiden if she had to face Helga, and went on with my bet. A bet, I might add, at lousy odds. Joustin’ Time not only controlled this part of the action, the odds that they offered guaranteed a substantial fraction of the stake for themselves. Also, to limit their possible losses they put a ceiling on bet rollover at eighty percent of winnings.

  Even so, when you roll eighty percent of winnings back each time into a new stake, the total return grows fast. I made a note of the final payout and decided that Waldo and I were going to be rich. Of course, Helga had to win, but that was a foregone conclusion.

  As I was receiving my bet confirmation, my neighbor nudged me. “Want to change your mind? That’s the Iron Maiden over there.”

  Four terminals down, placing a bet of her own, stood an enormous black-haired woman. Studying her powerful frame I felt a moment of doubt. I stepped closer, made a point-by-point physical comparison from her bare toes to her braided crown, and was reassured. The Iron Maiden was big, no doubt about it; but Helga could take her.

  My detailed inspection was unfortunately subject to misinterpretation. The Iron Maiden smiled down at me and clasped my arm in a powerful hand.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she said in a strong Scots accent. “You’re a sweet-looking wee man. If you’re interested in me you should speak up, an’ we could find a private game of our own. I bet you never played `hide the scepter.’ You’d make a fine royal prince.”

  I made unintelligible gobbling noises, retrieved my arm, and fled to the relative safety of the wild animal show.

 

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