“It’s all over,” Fitzraven said tensely.
“Maybe not,” Retief replied. “Not if he plays it right, and doesn’t panic.”
The blond man strained at the arm locked at his throat, twisting it fruitlessly. Instinct drove him to tear at the throttling grip, throw off the smothering weight. But the dark man’s grip was solid, his position unshakable. Then the blond stopped struggling abruptly and the two seemed as still as an image in stone. The crowd fell silent, fascinated.
“He’s given up,” Fitzraven said.
“No; watch,” Retief said. “He’s starting to use his head.”
The blond man’s arms reached up now, his hands moving over the other’s head, seeking a grip. The dark man pulled his head in, pressing against his victim’s back, trying to elude his grip. Then the hands found a hold, and the blond man bent suddenly forward, heaving with a tremendous surge. The dark man came up, flipped high, his grip slipping. The blond rose as the other went over his head, shifted his grip in midair, and as the dark man fell heavily in front of him, the snap of the spine could be heard loud in the stillness. The battle was over, and the blond victor rose to his feet amid a roar of applause.
Retief turned to Fitzraven. “Time for us to be going, Fitz,” he said.
The squire jumped up. “As you command, sir; but the ceremony is quite interesting. . . .”
“Never mind that; let’s go.” Retief moved off, Fitzraven following, puzzled.
* * *
Retief descended the steps inside the stands, turned and started down the corridor.
“This way, sir,” Fitzraven called. “That leads to the arena.”
“I know it,” Retief said. “That’s where I’m headed.”
Fitzraven hurried up alongside. What was the old man going to do now? “Sir,” he said, “no one may enter the arena until the tourney has been closed, except the gladiators and the officials. I know this to be an unbreakable law.”
“That’s right, Fitz,” Retief said. “You’ll have to stop at the grooms’ enclosure.”
“But you, sir,” Fitzraven gasped . . .
“Everything’s under control,” Retief said. “I’m going to challenge the champion.”
* * *
In the Imperial box, the Emperor Rolan leaned forward, fixing his binoculars on a group of figures at the officials’ gate. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance there. This was a piece of damned impudence, just as the moment had arrived for the Imperial presentation of the Honors of the Day. The Emperor turned to an aide.
“What the devil’s going on down there?” he snapped.
The courtier murmured into a communicator, listened.
“A madman, Imperial Majesty,” he said smoothly. “He wished to challenge the champion.”
“A drunk, more likely,” Rolan said sharply. “Let him be removed at once. And tell the Master of the Games to get on with the ceremony!”
The Emperor turned to the slim dark girl at his side.
“Have you found the Games entertaining, Monica?”
“Yes, sire,” she replied unemotionally.
“Don’t call me that, Monica,” he said testily. “Between us there is no need for formalities.”
“Yes, Uncle,” the girl said.
“Damn it, that’s worse,” he said. “To you I am simply Rolan.” He placed his hand firmly on her silken knee. “And now if they’ll get on with this tedious ceremony, I should like to be on the way. I’m looking forward with great pleasure to showing you my estates at Snowdahl.”
The Emperor drummed his fingers, stared down at the field, raised the glasses only to see the commotion again.
“Get that fool off the field,” he shouted, dropping the glasses. “Am I to wait while they haggle with this idiot? It’s insufferable. . . .”
Courtiers scurried, while Rolan glared down from his seat.
Below, Retief faced a cluster of irate referees. One, who had attempted to haul Retief bodily backward, was slumped on a bench, attended by two surgeons.
“I claim the right to challenge, under the Charter,” Retief repeated. “Nobody here will be so foolish, I hope, as to attempt to deprive me of that right, now that I have reminded you of the justice of my demand.”
* * *
From the control cage directly below the Emperor’s high box, a tall seam-faced man in black breeches and jacket emerged, followed by two armed men. The officials darted ahead, stringing out between the two, calling out. Behind Retief, on the other side of the barrier, Fitzraven watched anxiously. The old man was full of surprises, and had a way of getting what he wanted; but even if he had the right to challenge the Champion of the Games, what purpose could he have in doing so? He was as strong as a bull, but no man his age could be a match for the youthful power of the blond fighter. Fitzraven was worried; he was fond of this old warrior. He would hate to see him locked behind the steel walls of Fragonard Keep for thus disturbing the order of the Lily Tournament. He moved closer to the barrier, watching.
The tall man in black strode through the chattering officials, stopped before Retief, motioned his two guards forward.
He made a dismissing motion toward Retief. “Take him off the field,” he said brusquely. The guards stepped up, laid hands on Retief’s arms. He let them get a grip, then suddenly stepped back and brought his arms together. The two men cracked heads, stumbled back. Retief looked at the black-clad man.
“If you are the Master of the Games,” he said clearly, “you are well aware that a decorated battle officer has the right of challenge, under the Imperial Charter. I invoke that prerogative now, to enter the lists against the man who holds the field.”
“Get out, you fool,” the official hissed, white with fury. “The Emperor himself has commanded—”
“Not even the Emperor can override the Charter, which predates his authority by four hundred years,” Retief said coldly. “Now do your duty.”
“There’ll be no more babble of duties and citing of technicalities while the Emperor waits,” the official snapped. He turned to one of the two guards, who hung back now, eyeing Retief. “You have a pistol; draw it. If I give the command, shoot him between the eyes.”
Retief reached up and adjusted a tiny stud set in the stiff collar of his tunic. He tapped his finger lightly against the cloth. The sound boomed across the arena. A command microphone of the type authorized a Battle Commander was a very effective device.
* * *
“I have claimed the right to challenge the champion,” he said slowly. The words rolled out like thunder. “This right is guaranteed under the Charter to any Imperial battle officer who wears the Silver Star.”
The Master of the Games stared at him aghast. This was getting out of control. Where the devil had the old man gotten a microphone and a PA system? The crowd was roaring now like a gigantic surf. This was something new!
Far above in the Imperial box the tall gray-eyed man was rising, turning toward the exit. “The effrontery,” he said in a voice choked with rage. “That I should sit awaiting the pleasure . . .”
The girl at his side hesitated, hearing the amplified voice booming across the arena.
“Wait, Rolan,” she said. “Something is happening. . . .”
The man looked back. “A trifle late,” he snapped.
“One of the contestants is disputing something,” she said. “There was an announcement—something about an Imperial officer challenging the champion.”
The Emperor Rolan turned to an aide hovering nearby.
“What is this nonsense?”
The courtier bowed. “It is merely a technicality, Majesty. A formality lingering on from earlier times.”
“Be specific,” the Emperor snapped.
The aide lost some of his aplomb. “Why, it means, ah, that an officer of the Imperial forces holding a battle commission and certain high decorations may enter the lists at any point, without other qualifying conditions. A provision never invoked under modern . . .”
The Emperor turned to the girl. “It appears that someone seeks to turn the entire performance into a farcical affair, at my expense,” he said bitterly. “We shall see just how far—”
“I call on you, Rolan,” Retief’s voice boomed, “to enforce the Code.”
“What impertinence is this?” Rolan growled. “Who is the fool at the microphone?”
The aide spoke into his communicator, listened.
“An old man from the crowd, sire. He wears the insignia of a Battle Commander, and a number of decorations, including the Silver Star. According to the Archivist, he has the legal right to challenge.”
“I won’t have it,” Rolan snapped. “A fine reflection on me that would be. Have them take the fellow away; he’s doubtless crazed.” He left the box, followed by his entourage.
“Rolan,” the girl said, “wasn’t that the way the Tourneys were, back in the days of the Empire?”
“These are the days of the Empire, Monica. And I am not interested in what used to be done. This is today. Am I to present the spectacle of a doddering old fool being hacked to bits, in my name? I don’t want the timid to be shocked by butchery. It might have unfortunate results for my propaganda program. I’m currently emphasizing the glorious aspects of the coming war, not the sordid ones. There has already been too much bloodshed today; an inauspicious omen for my expansion plan.”