Context (42 page)

...
fail to meet, or to the
Aggrieved Party’s satisfaction and without reasonable impediment provide
alternative venues, so shall Communicado ex Domensis be called upon said
defaulting Challengee.

Finally, it named the time and
place of Tom’s choosing: exercising the right which had passed to him, since
the challenged party had failed to reply with sufficient speed. And adding the
threat of demotion, at the next noble Convocation, which no man as arrogant and
self-assured as Viscount Trevalkin could possibly ignore.

Harald
and Firlekan were on watch that night, near the Maze of Light and Dark.

‘... two more,’ Harald was
saying. ‘Three nights of mourning, before the Axes and Flames.’

‘You were Horush’s friend, Tom
...’ Firlekan began.

‘But non-carls can’t attend the
ceremony. I know.’

‘And do you know of
Todgeld?’

‘Well, what it sounds like is—’

Harald turned away, shaking his
head, as Firlekan explained: ‘It’s not money, necessarily. But Kraiv will have
to offer reparation to the family.’

‘I see.’

And, unspoken, the extent of the
price he had to pay. But knowing the way carls lived—and died—the cost could
become serious, maybe mortal.

Then, ‘I need to train,’ said
Tom.

‘Do you—?’

‘By myself is fine.’

The two carls looked at the sword
upon Tom’s hip. The weapon which Horush had allowed him to borrow from their
armoury.

Firlekan raised a fist, clenched
hard.

‘Trust blade and blood, my
friend.’

He
trained amid the shifting, blinding light and shadows, danced his warrior’s
dance of life and death against imaginary opponents, laughing strangely to
himself—

A matter of topos-logic. True/false,
good/bad: background-dependent, never absolute.

—
as it occurred to him
that he would survive beyond tomorrow only if the Seer’s visions had not been
subverted, his truecasts mere distorted pictures of an imagined future,
constructed in simulation with techniques which he himself had devised.

Then he went back to his tiny
alcove, scarcely noticing the deference which others paid him now that his rank
was known, and prepared himself for another sleepless night.

And knew with absolute certainty,
when he rose at dawn-shift before his neighbours, that Trevalkin would come
this day.

Blackness.

A sudden shift: startling, eerie
blue. Raw stone wall, looking ghostly instead of solid.

Again: blood red.

Suitable, for a place of death.

Caverns, tunnels—winking into
existence, then obliterated from sight as though they had never been. And the
chill smell: no woody fragrance, no scents of friendly fluorofungus. It would
have been a dead zone, save for the thermal draughts which brought oxygenated
air flowing through from the Bronlah Hong proper.

Shifted, again.

And off to one side, where the
shadows were stable, a small group of people waited. At their vanguard,
slightly apart, stood a tall, straight-backed figure. Then a shaft of yellow
light fell across him, revealing the man’s high cheekbones and long dark hair,
tied back with a platinum band: ascetic features marred by too-full lips.

Viscount Trevalkin was dressed in
grey and black, lace ruffles at collar and cuffs as though he had come here on
a social outing. He drew off his lined velvet cape, and handed it to one of the
two Lords-Minor who were acting as his seconds.

‘So, Corcorigan. What do you call
this place?’

Tom cast aside his own cloak.

‘Some say the Maze of Light and
Dark.’ When he drew the copper blade, light slid like sweet boljicream along
its length, and it left the scabbard with a soft metallic
snick.
‘But I
call it Trevalkin’s Grave.’

‘Perhaps.’ And, over his
shoulder: ‘My Lord Sumneriv, dear chap. The sooner we begin this charade, the
sooner it will end.’

Manoeuvring.

An eternity, manoeuvring.

Shadows
. ..

Backing away, circling. Tom moved
up the scree slope, slipping once but keeping the blade pointed at his
adversary. Trevalkin advanced slowly, stalking, long silver sabre held before
him.

Wait...

Among the watchers, Trevalkin’s
aides and seconds standing in a tight group near one wall, muttering began to
rise. Their initial amusement was fading, as long minutes went by in silence,
with no attack from either man. One of them said, in a carrying voice: ‘Finish
the scoundrel quickly, my Lord Viscount.’

Murmurs of agreement. But
Trevalkin’s expression remained unmoved, as he followed Tom’s retreat.

Lord Sumneriv, who as a nominally
disinterested referee had recited from the Codex Antagonist before signalling
the duel’s start, now called out: ‘With your usual flair, of course, my Lord!’

Stony, the Viscount’s face. He
knew Tom was no swordsman; but he was watchful and alert, predatory, aware—with
a fighter’s instincts—that Tom had other abilities beyond the blade.

Circling ...

Trevalkin advanced —

Light shift.

The world changed as the Maze did
its work once more.

— and stumbled on the loose
footing, briefly opening his guard.

Now!

Tom threw his blade.

Ikken
hisatsu.
One
chance, one kill.

The most ancient of strategies.
Of the three possible timings, the one that takes sudden, decisive courage:
sen
no sen,
to seize the initiative.

Tom
threw
the sword,
knowing this was the moment to gamble everything. It lanced through the air but
Trevalkin beat the blade aside by reflex, sabre clashing against copper sword,
and sent it clattering to the stones.

But Tom was already moving.

Shadows slid, light bloomed and
died again.

The Viscount was fast, adapting
to the perspective shifts.

Target
—

But Tom was faster.

—
and strike.

Tom’s shoulder stump took
Trevalkin in the sternum, knocked him back. Spinning with the momentum,
Trevalkin brought his sabre hilt-first downwards. Hard metal struck Tom’s head
but it was already too late: this was close quarters, as close as it could get,
and no-one could defeat Tom now.

He used fingers into eyeballs,
raking, then clasped Trevalkin’s sword arm, hard, and somersaulted forwards,
taking Trevalkin with him, landing heavily on his back but with Trevalkin
underneath.

‘Ah—’

Head-butt, smashing Trevalkin’s
skull against the rocks.