So he was struck by the clarity of Prelotta’s words, even more than his easy use of them. Prelotta’s native tongue, of course, was quite different from the lingua franca which all the tribes used when they conversed with each other.
There didn’t seem to be any answer expected, however, so he said nothing. After a moment, Prelotta nodded politely and left.
* * *
The duel lasted less than two minutes. Esmond charged immediately, as Adrian had known he would. He evaded Adrian’s first missile easily enough. Cast when Esmond was still over a hundred yards away, his athletic brother had enough time to see the blurring lead bullet and lunge aside.
No matter. Adrian had known Esmond would dodge it. He’d cast the missile simply to rattle his brother. It was one thing for Esmond to be aware that Adrian’s skill with a sling seemed supernatural. It was another for him—even with his incredible reflexes—to barely manage to duck one of those lead bullets thrown at such a distance.
“Supernatural” was perhaps as good a word as any. Center’s visual acuity gave Adrian a degree of accuracy which was far greater than that of any normal slinger, even an expert one. “Visual acuity” didn’t adequately describe it, really. Center’s inhuman capability to translate what Adrian saw through his own eyes gave Adrian the kind of near-perfect aim which the computer itself thought of in terms which Adrian barely understood. “Range finding” was obvious, but how such a term as azimuth applied was a mystery.
The rest came from Adrian himself. Prelotta had seen the truth of it, where most people—even Adrian himself, more often than not—saw only the reedy scholar’s build. He was five and a half feet tall, true, and wiry rather than muscular. But brute strength was actually not necessary for the task of sending a lead bullet flying through the air at a speed which would break bones and shatter skulls. Good muscles and quick reflexes were enough for that—provided the bullets hit where you aimed them.
The second cast brought Esmond down, at seventy yards. Adrian’s brother made the mistake of pausing for a moment to sling his own bullet, which went wild; Adrian’s bullet hit Esmond’s thigh like a sledgehammer.
A less muscular man than Esmond would have been taken out of the fight entirely by that hit. A small enough man would have suffered a broken bone. Esmond managed to lunge back on his feet, hobbling, frantically fitting another bullet to the sling pouch.
Don’t kill him, cautioned Raj. We’ll need him, for a time. Then, sensing Adrian’s mute cry of hurt and protest: I’m sorry, lad. I’m just telling the truth.
Adrian said nothing. There was nothing to say. He fit another bullet to the sling, dodged easily the bullet his brother sent his way, and brought Esmond down for good.
Just as Raj had wanted—not killing him. With Adrian’s accuracy, killing could be avoided. But not even a real demigod could have withstood the strike of that bullet on the chest.
A weaker and less powerful man than Esmond would have been killed outright. Esmond himself would spend weeks at rest, letting the broken sternum heal. Cursing all the while, as he discovered—every time he tried to do something as simple as lift a cup—that every bone in a human body above the waist is ultimately held together by spine and sternum.
* * *
The boy died the next day. Apparently he had suffered internal injuries from Esmond’s beatings, after all. Or, perhaps, his spirit had simply no longer been able to face life’s torture.
Adrian never knew his name.
* * *
It wasn’t all for nothing, said Raj. Your status is phenomenal, now, especially among the Reedbottoms.
All Adrian could do was stare at the walls of his tent. Until finally, hours later, he gave out the cry which had been building since the first moment Raj and Center entered his mind:
Is everything just a maneuver?
* * *
He would spend the rest of his life pondering a ghost’s answer. Never really knowing if he agreed or not.
Yes, everything is a maneuver. No, it’s not just a maneuver.