“Mr. Retief,” a voice hissed. Retief looked down the table. The Ambassador was leaning forward, glaring at him, his face a mottled crimson.
“I’m warning you, Mr. Retief,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve eaten sheep’s eyes in the Sudan, ka swe in Burma, hundred-year cug on Mars, and everything else that has been placed before me in the course of my diplomatic career, and by the holy relics of Saint Ignatz, you’ll do the same!” He snatched up a spoon-like utensil and dipped it into his bowl.
“Don’t eat that, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said.
The Ambassador stared, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, guiding the spoon toward it.
Retief stood, gripped the table under its edge, and heaved. The immense wooden slab rose and tilted; dishes crashed to the floor. The table followed with a ponderous slam. Milky soup splattered across the terrazzo; a couple of odd bowls rolled clattering across the room. Cries rang out from the Yill, mingling with a strangled yell from Ambassador Spradley.
Retief walked past the wild-eyed members of the mission to the sputtering chief. “Mr. Ambassador,” he said. “I’d like—”
“You’d like! I’ll break you, you young hoodlum! Do you realize—”
“Pleass . . .” The interpreter stood at Retief’s side.
“My apologies,” Ambassador Spradley said, mopping his forehead. “My profound—”
“Be quiet,” Retief said.
“Wh—what?!”
“Don’t apologize,” Retief said.
P’Toi was beckoning. “Pleasse, arll come.”
Retief turned and followed him.
The portion of the table they were ushered to was covered with an embroidered white cloth, set with thin porcelain dishes. The Yill already seated there rose, amid babbling and moved down to make room for the Terrestrials. The black-clad Yill at the end table closed ranks to fill the vacant seats. Retief sat down, finding Magnan at his side.
“What’s going on here?” the Second Secretary said.
“They were giving us dog food,” Retief said. “I overheard a Yill. They seated us at the servants’ section of the table.”
“You mean you understand the language?”
“I learned it on the way out—enough, at least—”
The music burst out with a clangorous fanfare, and a throng of jugglers, dancers, and acrobats poured into the center of the hollow square, frantically juggling, dancing, and back-flipping. Servants swarmed, heaping mounds of fragrant food on the plates of Yill and Terrestrials alike, pouring pale purple liquor into slender glasses. Retief sampled the Yill food. It was delicious. Conversation was impossible in the din. He watched the gaudy display and ate heartily.
* * *
Retief leaned back, grateful for the lull in the music. The last of the dishes were whisked away, and more glasses filled. The exhausted entertainers stopped to pick up the thick square coins the diners threw. Retief sighed. It had been a rare feast.
“Retief,” Magnan said in the comparative quiet. “What were you saying about dog food as the music came up?”
Retief looked at him. “Haven’t you noticed the pattern, Mr. Magnan? The series of deliberate affronts?”
“Deliberate affronts! Just a minute, Retief. They’re uncouth, yes, crowding into doorways and that sort of thing. But . . .” He looked at Retief uncertainly.
“They herded us into a baggage warehouse at the terminal. Then they hauled us here in a garbage truck.”
“Garbage truck!”
“Only symbolic, of course. They ushered us in the tradesmen’s entrance, and assigned us cubicles in the servants’ wing. Then we were seated with the coolie-class sweepers at the bottom of the table.”
“You must be mistaken! I mean, after all, we’re the Terrestrial delegation; surely these Yill must realize our power.”
“Precisely, Mr. Magnan. But—”
With a clang of cymbals, the musicians launched a renewed assault. Six tall, helmeted Yill sprang into the center of the floor, paired off in a wild performance, half dance, half combat. Magnan pulled at Retief’s sleeve, his mouth moving. Retief shook his head. No one could talk against a Yill orchestra in full cry. Retief sampled a bright red wine and watched the show.
There was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and collapsed, their partner-opponents whirling away to pair off again, describe the elaborate pre-combat ritual, and abruptly set to, dulled sabres clashing—and two more Yill were down, stunned. It was a violent dance. Retief watched, the drink forgotten.
The last two Yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed, and spun, feinted and postured. And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry, and the other, a giant, muscular Yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins showered—then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre, and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace-and-bow-bedecked Yill. The music stopped with a ringing clash of cymbals.
In utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table. With a shout the seated Yill leaped up and raised a clenched fist. The dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet and resumed his dance as the music blared anew. The beribboned Yill waved a hand negligently, flung a handful of coins across the floor, and sat down.
Now the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table—and the music chopped off short as the sabre slammed down before a heavy Yill in ornate metallic coils. The challenged Yill rose, raised a fist, and the other ducked his head, putting his hands on his helmet. Coins rolled, and the dancer moved on.
He circled the broad floor, sabre twirling, arms darting in an intricate symbolism. Then suddenly he was towering before Retief, sabre above his head. The music cut, and in the startling instantaneous silence, the heavy sabre whipped over and down with an explosive concussion that set dishes dancing on the table-top.
The Yill’s eyes held on Retief’s. In the silence Magnan tittered drunkenly. Retief pushed back his stool.
“Steady, my boy,” Ambassador Spradley called. Retief stood, the Yill topping his six-foot-three by an inch. In a motion too quick to follow Retief reached for the sabre, twitched it from the Yill’s grasp, swung it in a whistling arc. The Yill ducked, sprang back and snatched up a sabre dropped by another dancer.
“Someone stop the madman!” Spradley howled.
Retief leaped across the table, sending fragile dishes spinning.
The other danced back, and only then did the orchestra spring to life with a screech and a mad tattoo of high-pitched drums.
Making no attempt to follow the weaving pattern of the Yill bolero, Retief pressed the Yill, fending off vicious cuts with the blunt weapon, chopping back relentlessly. Left hand on hip, Retief matched blow for blow, driving the other back.
Abruptly the Yill abandoned the double role. Dancing forgotten, he settled down in earnest, cutting, thrusting, parrying. Now the two stood toe to toe, sabres clashing in a lightning exchange. The Yill gave a step, two, then rallied, drove Retief back, back—
Retief feinted, laid a hearty whack across the grey skull. The Yill stumbled, his sabre clattered to the floor. Retief stepped aside as the Yill wavered past him and crashed to the floor.
The orchestra fell silent in a descending wail of reeds. Retief drew a deep breath and wiped his forehead.
“Come back here, you young fool!” Spradley called hoarsely.
Retief hefted the sabre, turned, eyed the brocade-draped table. He started across the floor. The Yill sat as if paralyzed.
“Retief, no!” Spradley yelped.
Retief walked directly to the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau, stopped, raised the sabre.
“Not the Chief of State,” someone in the Terrestrial Mission groaned.
Retief whipped the sabre down. The dull blade split the heavy brocade and cleaved the hardwood table. There was utter silence.
The Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau rose, seven feet of obese grey Yill. His broad face expressionless to the Terran eye, he raised a fist like a jewel-studded ham.
Retief stood rigid for a long moment. Then, gracefully, he inclined his head and placed his finger tips on his temples. Behind him there was a clatter as Ambassador Spradley collapsed. Then the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau cried out, reached across the table to embrace the Terrestrial, and the orchestra went mad. Grey hands helped Retief across the table, stools were pushed aside to make room at F’Kau-Kau-Kau’s side. Retief sat, took a tall flagon of coal-black brandy pressed on him by his neighbor, clashed glasses with The Admirable, and drank.
* * *
“The feast ends,” F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. “Now you and I, Retief, must straddle the Council Stool.”
“I’ll be honored, Your Admirableness,” Retief said. “I must inform my colleagues.”
“Colleagues?” F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. “It is for the chiefs to parley. Who shall speak for a king while he yet has tongue for talk?”
“The Yill way is wise,” Retief said.
F’Kau-Kau-Kau emptied a squat tumbler of pink beer. “I’ll treat with you, Retief, as viceroy, since as you say your king is old and the space between worlds is far. But there shall be no scheming underlings privy to our dealings.” He grinned a Yill grin. “Afterwards we shall carouse, Retief. The Council Stool is hard, and the waiting handmaidens delectable; this makes for quick agreement.”