Everything here in these ways surrounding and radiating from the Field of the Emerald Crown—the arena itself—was devoted to the servicing and supplying of the thousands of First Day contenders in the Tournament of the Lily, and the housing and tending of the dwindling number of winners who stayed on for the following days. There were tiny eating places, taverns, inns; all consciously antique in style, built in imitation of their counterparts left behind long ago on far-off Lily.
“Here you are, Pop, first-class squire,” called a thin red-haired fellow.
“Double up and save credits,” called a short dark man. “First Day contract . . .”
Shouts ran back and forth across the alleylike street as the stall keepers scented a customer. Retief ignored them, moved on toward the looming wall of the arena. Ahead, a slender youth stood with folded arms before his stall, looking toward the approaching figure on the black horse. He leaned forward, watching Retief intently, then straightened, turned and grabbed up a tall narrow body shield from behind him. He raised the shield over his head, and as Retief came abreast, called “Battle officer!”
Retief reined in the horse, looked down at the youth.
“At your service, sir,” the young man said. He stood straight and looked Retief in the eye. Retief looked back. The horse minced, tossed his head.
“What is your name, boy?” Retief asked.
“Fitzraven, sir.”
“Do you know the Code?”
“I know the Code, sir.”
Retief stared at him, studying his face, his neatly cut uniform of traditional Imperial green, the old but well-oiled leather of his belt and boots.
“Lower your shield, Fitzraven,” he said. “You’re engaged.” He swung down from his horse. “The first thing I want is care for my mount. His name is Danger-by-Night. And then I want an inn for myself.”
“I’ll care for the horse myself, Commander,” Fitzraven said. “And the Commander will find good lodging at the sign of the Phoenix-in-Dexter-Chief; quarters are held ready for my client.” The squire took the bridle, pointing toward the inn a few doors away.
* * *
Two hours later, Retief came back to the stall, a thirty-two-ounce steak and a bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais having satisfied a monumental appetite induced by the long ride down from the spaceport north of Fragonard. The plain banner he had carried in his saddlebag fluttered now from the staff above the stall. He moved through the narrow room to a courtyard behind, and stood in the doorway watching as Fitzraven curried the dusty hide of the lean black horse. The saddle and fittings were laid out on a heavy table, ready for cleaning. There was clean straw in the stall where the horse stood, and an empty grain bin and water bucked indicated the animal had been well fed and watered.
Retief nodded to the squire, and strolled around the courtyard staring up at the deep blue sky of early evening above the irregular line of roofs and chimneys, noting the other squires, the variegated mounts stabled here, listening to the hubbub of talk, the clatter of crockery from the kitchen of the inn. Fitzraven finished his work and came over to his new employer.
“Would the Commander like to sample the night life in the Grand Corrida?”
“Not tonight,” Retief said. “Let’s go up to my quarters; I want to learn a little more about what to expect.”
Retief’s room, close under the rafters on the fourth floor of the inn, was small but adequate, with a roomy wardrobe and a wide bed. The contents of his saddlebags were already in place in the room.
Retief looked around. “Who gave you permission to open my saddlebags?”
Fitzraven flushed slightly. “I thought the Commander would wish to have them unpacked,” he said stiffly.
“I looked at the job the other squires were doing on their horses,” Retief said. “You were the only one who was doing a proper job of tending the animal. Why the special service?”
“I was trained by my father,” Fitzraven said. “I serve only true knights, and I perform my duties honorably. If the Commander is dissatisfied . . .”
“How do you know I’m a true knight?”
“The Commander wears the uniform and weapons of one of the oldest Imperial Guards Battle Units, the Iron Dragon,” Fitzraven said. “And the Commander rides a battle horse, true-bred.”
“How do you know I didn’t steal them?”
Fitzraven grinned suddenly. “They fit the Commander too well.”
Retief smiled. “All right, son, you’ll do,” he said. “Now brief me on the First Day. I don’t want to miss anything. And you may employ the personal pronoun.”
For an hour Fitzraven discussed the order of events for the elimination contests of the First Day of the Tournament of the Lily, the strategies that a clever contender could employ to husband his strength, the pitfalls into which the unwary might fall.
The tournament was the culmination of a year of smaller contests held throughout the equatorial chain of populated islands. The Northroyalans had substituted various forms of armed combat for the sports practiced on most worlds; a compensation for the lost empire, doubtless, a primitive harking-back to an earlier, more glorious day.
Out of a thousand First Day entrants, less than one in ten would come through to face the Second Day. Of course, the First Day events were less lethal than those to be encountered farther along in the three-day tourney, Retief learned; there would be few serious injuries in the course of the opening day, and those would be largely due to clumsiness or ineptitude on the part of the entrants.
* * *
There were no formal entrance requirements, Fitzraven said, other than proof of minimum age and status in the Empire. Not all the entrants were natives of Northroyal; many came from distant worlds, long-scattered descendants of the citizens of the shattered Lily Empire. But all competed for the same prizes; status in the Imperial peerage, the honors of the Field of the Emerald crown, and Imperial grants of land, wealth to the successful.
“Will you enter the First Day events, sir,” Fitzraven asked, “or do you have a Second or Third Day certification?”
“Neither,” Retief said. “We’ll sit on the sidelines and watch.”
Fitzraven looked surprised. It had somehow not occurred to him that the old man was not to be a combatant. And it was too late to get seats. . . .
“How . . .” Fitzraven began, after a pause.
“Don’t worry,” Retief said. “We’ll have a place to sit.”
Fitzraven fell silent, tilted his head to one side, listening. Loud voices, muffled by walls, the thump of heavy feet.
“Something is up,” Fitzraven said. “Police.” He looked at Retief.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Retief said, “if they were looking for me. Let’s go find out.”
“We need not meet them,” the squire said. “There is another way . . .”
“Never mind,” Retief said. “As well now as later.” He winked at Fitzraven and turned to the door.
* * ** * *
Retief stepped off the lift into the crowded common room, Fitzraven at his heels. Half a dozen men in dark blue tunics and tall shakos moved among the patrons, staring at faces. By the door Retief saw the thin-mouthed Ensign he had overawed at the gate. The fellow saw him at the same moment and plucked at the sleeve of the nearest policeman, pointing.
The man dropped a hand to his belt, and at once the other policeman turned, followed his glance to Retief. They moved toward him with one accord. Retief stood waiting.
The first cop planted himself before Retief, looking him up and down. “Your papers!” he snapped.
Retief smiled easily. “I am a peer of the Lily and a battle officer of the Imperial forces,” he said. “On what pretext are you demanding papers of me, Captain?”
The cop raised his eyebrows.
“Let’s say you are charged with unauthorized entry into the controlled area of the Grand Corrida, and with impersonating an Imperial officer,” he said. “You didn’t expect to get away with it, did you, Grandpa?” The fellow smiled sardonically.
“Under the provisions of the Code,” Retief said, “the status of a peer may not be questioned, nor his actions interfered with except by Imperial Warrant. Let me see yours, Captain. And I suggest you assume a more courteous tone when addressing your superior officer.” Retief’s voice hardened to a whip crack with the last words.
The policeman stiffened, scowled. His hand dropped to the nightstick at his belt.
“None of your insolence, old man,” he snarled. “Papers! Now!”
Retief’s hand shot out, gripped the officer’s hand over the stick. “Raise that stick,” he said quietly, “and I’ll assuredly beat out your brains with it.” He smiled calmly into the captain’s bulging eyes. The captain was a strong man. He threw every ounce of his strength into the effort to bring up his arm, to pull free of the old man’s grasp. The crowd of customers, the squad of police, stood silently, staring, uncertain of what was going on. Retief stood steady; the officer strained, reddened. The old man’s arm was like cast steel.