“I’d ask you the same, but I don’t want to put ideas in your pretty little head. This is what Terrans call a ‘Mexican Standoff.’”
“Mexican. Ack. And how do dese ‘standoffs’ end?”
“Badly, usually.”
Each remained poised, each pondering the purposes of the approaching lander. Reinforcements, perhaps—but for which side? Peacekeepers sent by the Riff? The boots, goaded finally beyond endurance by the destruction wrought by the Deadly Ones? Perhaps the neutral Shadows had joined the fray at last, “against all flags”?
And still Ekadrina did not fire. A wager, perhaps, that the lander brought assistance. But perhaps also prudence. A Padaborn mutually slain in glorious combat with the loyalist champion would be almost as great a coup for the rebels as one that lived and fought. Greater, perhaps, since a dead Padaborn could never go on to tarnish his mon with mistakes. She would much prefer to kill him without being killed herself.
There was a slight wobble in the Tall One’s stance. Her blood gleamed in the long sun of evening when she swayed. The Taiji was weakening.
And not to split hairs, but the scarred man was not so steady on his feet, either. There is only so much adrenaline to go around. But neither did he pull the trigger, despite Ravn Olafsdottr lying motionless nearby.
The lander settled onto the old parking apron and the ship’s guns took aim at both combatants.
Ekadrina Sèanmazy might be loath to create a martyr, but if she thought herself about to die anyway, she might as well take that martyr along to man the ferryboat.
But the Fudir forestalled her. “Had he wanted to kill you,” he cried, holding his left hand palm out, “he would have done that from the air already.”
Calculation arose in the eyes of Ekadrina. She skipped over the motivations of the newcomer and went straight to those of her foe. “And why would you zee me liff?” Her ’Zarmayan accent emerged more strongly when stress had stripped it bare.
“I would see you dead,” he answered, “to avenge the Ravn. But there are things you and I must speak of first, matters that lie only between us. Afterward is time enough to die.”
Ekadrina blinked. “Shall it be a pasdarm, den? One of dose old traditions you and your ilk would o’ert’row?”
“No, I will stalk you and kill you from ambush. Or hire it done.”
“Dat is a hard t’ing. But what a pasdarm it would be! Da banquets, da entertainment. T’ink on da Shadows dat would gadder for da honor to watch. T’ink of dose who would offer demselves for prelim bouts! To be a prelim to da meeting of ’Kadrina and Gesh would win more glory dan top billing in any lesser contest. An ambush? A hired assassin?” She spat on the ground. “Where is da glory in dat?”
Donovan stared at her. She was dead serious. He could almost see the skull emerge from underneath her skin. He could almost smell the smoke of her burning corpse. She was already dead, and only the details of time and place remained yet unsettled. “There is something more than a little mad in your ‘traditions.’ By the Fates! I had thought the Hounds tightly wound, but beside you they are lackaday, de’il-may-care Peacockers. The Hounds may flirt with Death, but you are in love with Him, all of you. You kiss Him on His rotting lips.”
“Evert’ing is relative,” his enemy agreed. “Our lives are short, and fleet in a universe dat does not care. Dey are an insignificant blip in da march of time. So what matter if dey be shortened a tiny bit more? Dat is why we will win da Long Game. Da man who does not care too greatly for his life has da advantage over da man who might hesitate for love of it.”
“The problem with the love of death,” the scarred man told her, “is that it is never unrequited. Tell me, Ekadrina…” And he tapped the side of his head with his free hand. “Did you do this to me?”
The loyalist understood. “I oversaw da work. It was willed by Dose whose will is done.”
“And were there others like me?”
“What do you t’ink? Practice makes perfect.”
“Another day, then?” Donovan returned his dazer to his holster.
Ekadrina glanced at the lander, whose nose-gun twitched suggestively. Then she laughed. “Anodder day, den,” and holstered her own weapon. “And where,” she cried in affected indifference, pointedly looking about the field, “did I leaf my staff of office?”
Donovan sagged against the low stone wall, the air draining out of him.
Doors opened on the sides of the lander and a flock of magpies emerged and took up security positions. That both combatants were battered, injured, and had downed arms did not diminish their caution in the least.
“Comets,” said Ekadrina. “Da old fool, Gidula, shows himself at last. I wonder if he will show da forbearance you have shown.” There was something in her voice that sounded like, If I go down beneath Gidula’s guns, I will not die before I can draw and burn you through.
“I give you my word,” the Silky Voice said through Donovan’s lips. “If Gidula breaks our tacit truce, I will fight at your side.”
Ekadrina looked at him sharply, as if she had heard the shift in personality. “Your word…” she hazarded with a shrug and began pulling first-aid kits from her bandolier and applying them to her hurts. “Tell me dis, Geshler Padaborn,” she added without looking up from her task. “Why are so many of your newfound allies dose who fought against you da first time?”
Sīdáo Zhwì: The Final Interrogatory
“When I awook,” the Ravn says, “Gidula’s lander was beside me, and I was soon aboard his ship, tubed and wired in the autoclinic, for Gidula wished me hale.”
Bridget ban considers her for a long moment. “Yeees…” she says, drawing out the syllable. “I’m sure he did.”
The Ravn’s face grows impassive. “I believe Donovan knows long-first this truth, and keep pretense for that sake. For that I forgive him his last betrayal.”
Méarana plucks a question mark from the strings of her harp. “What the de’il are ye twa randering on aboot?”
“We are alike,” the Shadow tells her, “your mother and I, in so many ways.”
“In too many ways, I think,” Bridget ban adds, low. She turns to Méarana. “Ravn was concealing from Gidula the fact that Donovan had recovered his faculties. Donovan betrayed her by stepping forward as Padaborn to challenge Ekadrina. That, she could not conceal.”
“Ah,” says Graceful Bintsaif. “That explains her scars.”
Olafsdottr runs a hand along her right shoulder and down her arm, and cranes her head to study Graceful Bintsaif. She smiles wanly. “Scars far too easily won to merit honor.”
Méarana frowns. “And Gidula had to be deceived because…” She pauses, and cocks her head. How alike is daughter to mother, not only in that gesture, but in the powers of imagination that the cock betokens. “Ah. He wanted a damaged Padaborn.”
“Yes. He fetch Geshler because his mind destroyed. Billy Chins tell him so. Rebels rally round Gesh, but lose heart when ruined old man falter and fail.”
“A subtle play,” says Graceful Bintsaif.
“Disappointment subtle knife,” says the Ravn. “But subtlety his life’s blood.”
“Was he subverting the Revolution, then?” says Bridget ban.
“Gidula not want Revolution, only Rebellion. The stables must be cleaned, he told me; but not burned down.”