No One Goes There Now, page 6
Elan waited, not knowing what to expect. Her expression was level, relaxed—almost indifferent. But the penetrant gaze of those striking golden eyes was disconcerting.
At length she said, “Why not?” taking his arm casually.
Elan felt the covert attention of many eyes as he escorted her to Camon’s table, conscious of the picture they must make; he in his Blacks, with the dazzling golden goddess on his arm.
Camon fell all over himself, bowing. Elyses savoir-faire seemed punctured as Elan presented them. “Sera, these are my good friends, Elyse and Camon.”
Her nod was polite but noncommittal. “May I have some bubbly?” she asked simply.
Camon outdid himself pouring, while Elyse, forcing a deeply injured, frozen smile, managed to purr, “One must compliment you on your gown, my dear. And on your skin tone as well; it’s so…exotic!”
“It keeps one from becoming sunburned,” drawled the golden goddess, turning her startling eyes on Elan. “And your name?”
He smiled. “I am called Elan Grey.” Asking his name directly was a breach of etiquette that made Elyse blanch, but Elan rather enjoyed it. It had been fun seeing Elyse get her sharp kittyclaws clipped for a change. He thought a flicker of interest had momentarily illuminated the golden eyes.
“Grey,” repeated the golden goddess. “The Director of Luna is named Grey.”
“My pater,” admitted Elan. “He is now in the outworlds. Might one ask if you are from Luna?” It seemed a roundabout way of learning who she was.
“Among other places,” she said, conceding nothing. “What does one do for excitement here?”
“One dines,” suggested the flustered Camon. “And, uh, there’s pattern dancing in the ballroom, of course,” he said lamely.
“Of course,” she echoed, staring Camon into the fidgets. “I’d heard from reliable sources that the Palace Arena was a lively place. Shall I be disappointed?”
Elan grinned. “It depends on your view of excitement, sera. There will be a number of challenges later in the evening. A brisk bout at swords can be quite exciting, don’t you think?”
A fleeting smile touched the golden lips. “Much more so than pattern dancing, ser Grey. Tell me: are you adept with the sword?”
She was delightfully direct, he could say that for her. “The merest novice,” he disclaimed gallantly.
“Not so,” protested Camon. “Don’t believe him, sera. Elan ranks with the finest blades in the hall.”
“How interesting,” said the golden goddess slowly. “And do you feel sportive tonight, ser Grey?”
Elan was taken aback. She was a fast mover, this golden girl, and spoke quite to the point. He chuckled in self-deprecation. “I’m sure I’d fare badly, milady, though nothing would give me greater pleasure than to entertain one so lovely. There are masters here who would spit me like a plucked fowl.” “Really?” she said with just a touch of sarcasm.
“Then, too,” he explained, “the burden of my trifling government post prohibits casual challenges. I bear Congressional immunity of the lowest order.”
She studied him for several heartbeats. “Perhaps you’re correct, Camon. Ser Grey seems far too modest.” Her inference was obvious.
Elyse made a small moue of shock. Elan felt his face heat. “You have me at a terrible disadvantage, milady,” he found himself saying. “Have I done something to displease you?” “Certainly not! Whatever made you think that?”
“Well, I-”
‘Why do you all act so shocked? I thought men loved dueling. Are you angry because I wanted to tickle you into rushing out there and offering challenge?”
“I…no, sera. Of course I’m not angry,” said Grey in a tone of uncertainty. “It’s simply that…Well, I’ve no reason.” “Do you need a reason?” asked the golden goddess pertly. Elan developed a bemused, baffled squint. “Perhaps you don’t understand, sera. Only professional gladiators fight prearranged duels. The wagering is thick and fast then. Enormous sums change hands.”
“And you’re but an amateur?”
Elan sipped his wine, trying to decide if he’d been insulted. “Yes, I suppose I am just an amateur, though I’d not considered the matter very carefully. Casting challenges about without provocation would earn one a nasty reputation in very little time.”
“I see,” she drawled, looking toward the center ring, now crowded with swordsmen. “Well, you shouldn’t have any problem provoking one of those gentlemen.”
Elan Grey laughed. “True, sera, but…” He laughed again delightedly. “Your pardon; would you be offended if I were to ask why you are so determined to see me offer challenge tonight?”
She studied him over the rim of her glass. “Oh, because it would be exciting, I suppose. I know you, now. I don’t know anyone else in the entire Arena. I like excitement.”
Elan could hardly contain himself. “Sera, in the face of encouragement like that, what else can one do?” He dismissed his chair and bowed.
Their conversation had left Elyse open-mouthed. Camon looked alarmed. “But, Elan; is it wise…?”
Grey silenced him with a look. “Camon, will you honor me by seeing that the lady has everything she desires?” He bowed again over her golden hand. “One hopes you’ll not be impatient if I’m gone for a time, milady. Please enjoy yourself.” He pivoted gracefully on one heel, making a deliberate effort to restrain his gait to that of a casual stroll.
* * *
But, after he left them, Elan began to reconsider. He had been manipulated! He did not like it!
What nonsense! Performing like some cheap gladiator before a painted gaud!
He began to fume, pacing slowly along the promenade beside the center ring, his dark cape perked up by the long, glittering line of his rapier. He was tom between outrage and delight at the sudden ridiculous position in which he found himself. What gall the golden wench had!
The great elliptical hall was jammed now. The promenade was filled with strollers, though the general aspect was somber rather than gay. Black was the predominant color here beside the red cork of the arena itself. Touchy, well-conditioned aristocrats looked pointedly through one another, on the prowl, awaiting the incautious elbow, the casual remark, the haughty stare of challenge. She had been quite correct; provoking something tonight should be a very simple matter.
He covertly scanned the gathered knots of swordsmen as he passed, nodding from time to time to an acquaintance. Many professionals were among them. Overheard snatches of their many conversations echoed the repetitious monotony of a litany, ”—and one parries in sixte, my bold—”
“No, not the coupe; never the coup6 from that position—”
“Yes, Ambrose is fast, but lacks Dolph’s wrist—”
Elan found himself searching the throng. It would be convenient if he could find Claude Graham in this crush. But no, the thought was unworthy. Graham would be too easy.
A moment later it was settled for him. Passing a group of swordsmen, he felt something brush his cape. A voice close beside him said, ‘Why, I believe you jostled me, ser.”
Elan turned slowly. The fellow was poised, rather on the beefy side, with a florid face and the curled, pomaded hair of a dandy. ‘Why, yes,” Elan drawled, “I rather believe I did.”
The other bowed. ‘Well said! Will it be your pleasure to make the Salute of Grievance, or shall I?”
“One moment, Solin,” intoned someone in the crowd, stepping forward.
Florid face hesitated. “Know you this spare man, Pyron?”
“I know of him,” replied the premiere gladiator.
Elan had recognized Pyron Nyemaster at once, of course. He felt prickles of anticipation gather in his shoulders and race along his spine.
“He’s the Grey cub,” informed Nyemaster loftily, not looking at Elan. “It might be best to let him go his way, Solin. He is politico.”
Cub! Elan felt steam rise within him. Damn Nyemaster! He stared into pitiless eyes the lackluster blue-gray of fathomless, sunlit water, stemming the urge to snap his fingers before that arrogant, fine-boned face. Anger made him thick-tongued. “One wonders that ser Nyemaster would stoop to interfere in a private dispute!”
The florid-faced Solin glowered, realizing he’d been cheated of his sport. “Be off, ser twinkletoes! We brook no defiance of Convention in this house!” The man turned away.
“Hold, ser peacock!” ordered Elan. “Our business is far from finished!” His fury had settled into a lightheaded seething. He felt twelve meters tall, capable of pulling steel and spitting the whole smirking lot of them! “What your fatherly friend says is true,” he said evenly, “though I’ve somehow misplaced my Congressional medallion this night. Alas, I’m but a private citizen once more.”
The man called Solin seemed elated. He looked at Nyemaster for instruction.
The premiere gladiator took no pains concealing the fact that he’d been nettled by Elan’s remark. “You could use sharpening, Solin,” he suggested tartly. “Why not? He should prove mettlesome, and seems badly in need of curbing.”
“Should ser Nyemaster care to wait while I dispose of this smallswordsman,” smarted Elan, “I would gladly allow him the opportunity of ‘curbing’ me.”
That brought smiles all around—except from Nyemaster. “I would tread lightly, were I you,” the gladiator warned, stung by Elan’s manner. “I do not like grandstanders overly well. Least of all those who shower challenges, knowing themselves protected.”
Elan, sensing he’d won the exchange, felt the glow of impending combat warm him. Quivering like a racehorse in the starting gate, he stepped backward two paces, bowed low to Solin, and drew his rapier.
“My grief is as that of Thirty,” he challenged in ringing tones. “Here in my hand I hold the Avenger which rights all wrongs…”
A well-modulated voice which seemed to emanate from everywhere could be heard above Elan’s Salute of Grievance. “A challenge, good gentles. Attend a challenge in ring two.”
The smiles had disappeared when Elan announced his grief to be that of Thirty. The duel would be to the death.
Elan completed his Salute, noting the intense manner of his antagonist as he handed his cape to an attendant. Elan’s demand of fatal recourse had surprised, and perhaps frightened him. He had obviously been expecting nothing more than a simple bout.
The Swordsmaster appeared, asking spectators to please clear the center cork of the ring, and faced the duelists. “Is this difference irreconcilable, good gentles, or has it been reconsidered?”
“I shall be satisfied,” demanded Elan instantly. Solin merely nodded.
They saluted the funereal banner of the Imperium together and crossed swords over the Swordsmaster’s outstretched saber, then bounded apart en garde as he dropped it. They recrossed and sprang apart once again.
When they crossed blades a third time, even the most distant onlooker knew it could not end until one of the aggrieved was either legally dead or too badly wounded to continue.
A hush fell over the Arena. The Swordsmaster whipped away his saber and they were face to face.
Elan moved to his right, allowed two experimental beats on the foible, parried an attack in fourth, riposted nicely, and was driven back steadily yet surely toward the wall of spectators.
Florid-face was very good, pressing him, leaving not the slightest doubt that if Elan relaxed but once the man would have him instantly.
But Grey felt he was holding his own. He tried not to think, letting reflexive skills acquired in a thousand hours of sweat and drill take over as he fell into a rhythm formed by the chill snick of metal on finely tempered metal.
The first lesson he learned, seconds later, was that the florid-faced Solin loved composite attacks, most often a feint of thrust, and disengage. Once, after coming corps à corps, the man attempted a flèche which Grey met, surprisingly, with a jump, a hind and a thrust in third. Solin’s parry had been a hair late. It seemed to discourage the man slightly.
And Elan noted his heavy breathing when next they closed in. Was he tiring? He stamped hard with his lead foot at his next attack and speeded up the engagement as much as he could, feeling wonderful.
It ended quickly and, to Elan’s amazement, seemingly without his volition or involvement.
He’d tried an enveloppement, failed, riposted, then tried again but redoubled, counter-riposted and caught Solin high outside.
The man did not stagger. He made a small sound in his throat and dropped like an emptied sack. A red well broke the somber fabric of his tunic as Elan withdrew.
Elan stepped back, came to salute, then lowered his eyes and waited. The examiners were swift and efficient. Elan stared down at the corpse, wondering vaguely at how little emotion he felt.
The Swordsmaster straightened and turned. “Your worthy opponent is deceased, ser. Have you had satisfaction?”
“I am satisfied,” he said quietly.
“Then, how say you: shall he live, or pass on?”
Elan considered it as a matter of form, knowing beforehand that since there had been slim excuse for his “to the death” challenge, he could hardly deny Solin life. If he denied, he knew the man’s friends would shortly be calling on him, one by one, and this man’s circle of friends included Earth’s premiere gladiator, Pyron Nyemaster. If he allowed, he would probably have to face Solin again one day.
“He shall live,” said Elan clearly.
The Swordsmaster nodded. “It is well.” He bowed deeply as Elan left the ring, stopping to bow in acknowledgment of the thunderous applause. He looked for Nyemaster, just in case, but the premiere gladiator had vanished.
After having his rapier cleaned and bathing his face in the privacy of the autolave, Elan made his way back to Camon’s table. The golden goddess was alone. He bowed and sat down.
“You were gone a long while,” she said with maddening nonchalance.
“My sincerest apologies!” he smarted. “I encountered a gentleman who was quite reluctant to die!”
Elan looked at her pert golden breasts, feeling his irritation wither. As always, after swordplay, he suddenly wanted a woman very badly, and this was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen.
She said nothing, watching him pour champagne with an enigmatic light in her radiant, golden eyes.
* * *
Debouching from the lift, Elan Grey stumbled. An infirm step carried him off balance; the edge of the portal did the rest. One of the Public Assassins had to catch his arm or he would have fallen on his face.
He wrenched free with a curse, groping for the rapier which should have leaped out to meet his questing fingers. The motion died as it began. He stared dumbly at the scabbard bobbing untenanted a few centimeters from his left hip.
The second proctor, grinning despite himself, nudged Grey politely. Elan wobbled between them down the corridor. The bright scabbard followed the roll of his hips like an obedient puppy, omniscient, never bumping him, never out of reach.
When the threesome entered the Director’s antechamber, Elan sagged gratefully into a lounge, allowing it to mold itself to the contours of his badly-used frame, and closed his eyes.
The divan immediately took on a very particular, very horrible spinning motion. He knew he was about to be sick. He could not, however, think of anything positive to do about it. The Assassins had already twice refused him antidote.
Voices penetrated his vertigo from the depths of the antechamber. “What is that?” inquired a soft contralto.
“Ninth assistant colonial wastebasket administrator, or some such,” rumbled a sarcastic male voice. “Isn’t the Director expecting him?”
“No-o-o,” trilled the receptionist.
“Well, we got a redhot to pick him up and deliver him here,” protested die Assassin.
“His surname?”
Elan opened one eye. “Ser Elan Grey, charming lady,” he heard himself croak. He clamped the eye shut. The effort made his head reverberate like a thumped tub.
“Grey,” said the woman thoughtfully. “Oh, of course…”
The voices dwindled to a confused monotone and, with profound mental effort, he began piecing things together. He vaguely remembered coming home. A fair start. He had disrobed, thrown his Blacks in the general direction of the autovalet, and…And what?
Ah, yes. Cool blue dawnlight, seeping into his bedchamber, had caused him to throw open the glass wall to the terrace and go out into the garden. There, sprawled atop the balustrade, he had composed an impromptu ballade to the golden goddess who’d said no so damnably often last night, while magic light crept over the mountains and washed the city in half-tones, silhouetting the nearer towers. Fifteen hundred meters below, a billowy ground fog rolling in from the Pacific had obscured the ground, making the monolithic buildings seem to float. He remembered the effect.
Nausea engulfed him. He blanked his mind, breathing deeply until it passed and his thoughtstream continued to untangle.
The Assassins must have come then. Had he let them in? He did not remember. No, they had simply appeared, patronizing and persuasive, urging him to come down and dress. One had pleaded while the other crept around through the shrubbery behind him. Then he had outwitted them.
No, Elan reminded himself; he’d outwitted no one. He remembered slipping as he stood to jump down and escape. Then he had been hanging by his fingernails, looking down, laughing drunkenly until strong hands retrieved him.
They had patiently explained before whom he was to be taken, refusing sobriety lozenges each time he’d asked. But the thought of an audience with the Old One had been very sobering, though he’d not the flimsiest notion why ser Weldon wanted to see him.
Someone shook his shoulder. Terrible waves of pain lanced through his skull. He swung both arms to ward off the tormenter, succeeding only in banging his knuckles on something hard.
“Ser Grey.”
“Go ’way!” The shaking resumed. “What d’you want?”
The Assassin with the large mole on his cheek was bending over him. “If I may presume, ser Grey, you’d better let us help you straighten up now. You’ll be called any time.”
