* * *
On the field below, the Master of the Games stepped closer to Retief. He felt the cold eyes of the Emperor himself boring into his back. This old devil could bring about his ruin. . . .
“I know all about you,” he snarled. “I’ve checked on you, since you forced your way into an official area; I interviewed two officers . . . you overawed them with glib talk and this threadbare finery you’ve decked yourself in. Now you attempt to ride rough-shod over me. Well, I’m not so easily thrust aside. If you resist arrest any further, I’ll have you shot where you stand!”
Retief drew his sword.
“In the name of the Code you are sworn to serve,” he said, his voice ringing across the arena. “I will defend my position.” He reached up and flipped the stud at his throat to full pick-up.
“To the Pit with your infernal Code!” bellowed the Master, and blanched in horror as his words boomed sharp and clear across the field to the ears of a hundred thousand people. He stared around, then whirled back to Retief. “Fire,” he screamed.
A pistol cracked, and the guard spun, dropped. Fitzraven held the tiny power gun leveled across the barrier at the other guard. “What next, sir?” he asked brightly.
The sound of the shot, amplified, smashed deafeningly across the arena, followed by a mob roar of excitement, bewilderment, shock. The group around Retief stood frozen, staring at the dead man. The Master of the Games made a croaking sound, eyes bulging. The remaining guard cast a glance at the pistol, then turned and ran.
* * *
There were calls from across the field; then a troop of brown-uniformed men emerged from an entry, trotted toward the group. The officer at their head carried a rapid-fire shock gun in his hand. He waved his squad to a halt as he reached the fringe of the group. He stared at Retief’s drab uniform, glanced at the corpse. Retief saw that the officer was young, determined-looking, wearing the simple insignia of a Battle Ensign.
The Master of the Games found his voice. “Arrest this villain!” he screeched, pointing at Retief. “Shoot the murderer!”
The ensign drew himself to attention, saluted crisply.
“Your orders, sir,” he said.
“I’ve told you!” the Master howled. “Seize this malefactor!”
The ensign turned to the black-clad official. “Silence, sir, or I shall be forced to remove you,” he said sharply. He looked at Retief. “I await the Commander’s orders.”
Retief smiled, returned the young officer’s salute with a wave of his sword, then sheathed it. “I’m glad to see a little sense displayed here, at last, Battle Ensign,” he said. “I was beginning to fear I’d fallen among Concordiatists.”
The outraged Master began an harangue which was abruptly silenced by two riot police. He was led away, protesting. The other officials disappeared like a morning mist, carrying the dead guard.
“I’ve issued my challenge, Ensign,” Retief said. “I wish it to be conveyed to the champion-apparent at once.” He smiled. “And I’d like you to keep your men around to see that nothing interferes with the orderly progress of the Tourney in accordance with the Charter in its original form.”
The ensign’s eyes sparkled. Now here was a battle officer who sounded like a fighting man; not a windbag like the commandant of the Household Regiment from whom the ensign took his orders. He didn’t know where the old man came from, but any battle officer outranked any civilian or flabby barracks soldier, and this was a Battle Commander, a general officer, and of the Dragon Corps!
Minutes later, a chastened Master of the Games announced that a challenge had been issued. It was the privilege of the champion to accept, or to refuse the challenge if he wished. In the latter event, the challenge would automatically be met the following year.
“I don’t know what your boys said to the man,” Retief remarked, as he walked out to the combat circle, the ensign at his left side and slightly to the rear, “but they seem to have educated him quickly.”
“They can be very persuasive, sir,” the young officer replied.
They reached the circle, stood waiting. Now, thought Retief, I’ve got myself in the position I’ve been working toward. The question now is whether I’m still man enough to put it over.
He looked up at the massed stands, listening to the mighty roar of the crowd. There would be no easy out for him now. Of course, the new champion might refuse to fight; he had every right to do so, feeling he had earned his year’s rest and enjoyment of his winnings. But that would be a defeat for Retief as final as death on the dusty ground of the arena. He had come this far by bluff, threat, and surprise. He would never come this close again.
It was luck that he had clashed with this young man outside the gate, challenged him to enter the lists. That might give the challenge the personal quality that would elicit an angry acceptance.
The champion was walking toward Retief now, surrounded by referees. He stared at the old man, eyes narrowed. Retief returned the look calmly.
“Is this dodderer the challenger?” the blond youth asked scathingly. “It seems to me I have met his large mouth before?”
“Never mind my mouth, merchant,” Retief said loudly. “It is not talk I offer you, but the bite of steel.”
The yellow-haired man reddened, then laughed shortly. “Small glory I’d win out of skewering you, old graybeard.”
“You’d get even less out of showing your heels,” Retief said.
“You will not provoke me into satisfying your perverted ambition to die here,” the other retorted.
“It’s interesting to note,” Retief said, “how a peasant peddler wags his tongue to avoid a fight. Such rabble should not be permitted on honorable ground.” He studied the other’s face to judge how this line of taunting was going on. It was distasteful to have to embarrass the young fellow; he seemed a decent sort. But he had to enrage him to the point that he would discard his wisdom and throw his new-won prize on the table for yet another cast of the dice. And his sore point seemed to be mention of commerce.
“Back to your cabbages, then, fellow,” Retief said harshly, “before I whip you there with the flat of my sword.”
The young fellow looked at him, studying him. His face was grim. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll meet you in the circle.”
* * *
Another point gained, Retief thought, as he moved to his position at the edge of the circle. Now, if I can get him to agree to fight on horseback . . .
He turned to a referee. “I wish to suggest that this contest be conducted on horseback—if the peddler owns a horse and is not afraid.”
The point was discussed between the referee and the champion’s attendants, with many glances at Retief, and much waving of arms. The official returned. “The champion agrees to meet you by day or by night, in heat or cold, on foot or horseback.”
“Good,” said Retief. “Tell my groom to bring out my mount.”
It was no idle impulse which prompted this move. Retief had no illusions as to what it would take to win a victory over the champion. He knew that his legs, while good enough for most of the business of daily life, were his weakest point. They were no longer the nimble tireless limbs that had once carried him up to meet the outlaw Mal de Di alone in Bifrost Pass. Nine hours later he had brought the bandit’s two-hundred-and-ten-pound body down into the village on his back, his own arm broken. He had been a mere boy then, younger than this man he was now to meet. He had taken up Mal de Di’s standing challenge to any unarmed man who would come alone to the high pass, to prove that he was not too young to play a man’s part. Perhaps now he was trying to prove he was not too old. . . .
An official approached leading Danger-by-Night. It took an expert to appreciate the true worth of the great gaunt animal, Retief knew. To the uninitiated eye, he presented a sorry appearance, but Retief would rather have had this mount with the Imperial brand on his side than a paddock full of show horses.
A fat white charger was led out to the blond champion. It looked like a strong animal, Retief thought, but slow. His chances were looking better, things were going well.
A ringing blast of massed trumpets cut through the clamor of the crowd. Retief mounted, watching his opponent. A referee came to his side, handed up a heavy club, studded with long projecting spikes. “Your weapon, sir,” he said.
Retief took the thing. It was massive, clumsy; he had never before handled such a weapon. He knew no subtleties of technique with this primitive bludgeon. The blond youth had surprised him, he admitted to himself, smiling slightly. As the challenged party, he had the choice of weapons, of course. He had picked an unusual one.