“I had no notion she’d be wandering in the same woods. And this last time, I—”
“You got lost,” said Trond, nodding, expressionlessly. “Again.”
The night was warm, but the young man felt his face go warm. “It may sound like an unlikely coincidence,” he said, defensively, “but you have to remember that I’m an outworlder… a stranger… And besides — how could I have known that she — and you — would be riding along at just that time.”
Trond grunted. He produced an oddly-shaped piece of wood, thrust it into a pouch and did something to it, blew on the end of a stick he’d brought with him from the fire, and, when it glowed red, thrust the device into his mouth and touched it with the ember end. Odd little noises, then a cloud of smoke… and another… the acrid odor made Jon-Joras cough a bit — and then he remembered. Tobacco! Its use had not followed mankind outward to the stars, and even here on its native world it was supposed to be all but extinct. Where had Trond gotten the ancient herb? For surely the Poets cultivated no crops! Most likely he had stolen it.
“Well,” said Trond, on a prolonged note, with a puff, “I’m just telling you what she says. I could think of a lot of ways it might be true… if I was minded to… but I’m not. Why not? Because. Like I say. She’s a mean one, that baggage. As the triolet says—”
But Jon-Joras did not at that moment want to know what the triolet said. He grasped Trond’s knee, and repeated, “Who is she? Who?‘
Trond puffed at his pipe a moment more. “Her name,” he said, “is Lora.”
Lora. “No… It doesn’t mean a thing to—”
“Maybe her father’s name might mean a thing to you.”
“Her father?”
Trond nodded. His pipe made a gurgling sound. “Yes. Tall, thin, ukh-looking man. Name of Hue.”
Away in the night Henner’s voice ceased. There were cheers and applause. Jon-Joras, feeling stunned, feeling stupid, said, “But she hates me. Her father doesn’t hate me.”
Trond made a noise which might have been a grunt or a chuckle. “Don’t fool yourself. Of course he hates you. You’re an outworlder, aren’t you? Well, figure it out. According to him, according to her, if you — all of you — didn’t come here to hunt, the whole system would collapse. It doesn’t pay for itself, that’s for sure. Not hate you? He’s just older, has more control over his feelings, that’s all.”
In his mind’s eye Jon-Joras saw once again that grim, gaunt figure, preternaturally rigid, stalking the halls and walls and ramparts of the great black stronghold of the cold-blooded, castle-keeping Kar-chee; heard the screams of the rogue dragon in the pit, trained by torment — dragons: Hue’s enemy: prepared to fall upon Hue’s other enemy. Once again he saw the figure of the dummy that was no dummy, trussed and tied, then tossed and toothed and torn to bleeding fragments; heard the outlaw’s outraged cry, “That… is what happens to traitors!”
Hue hated him? Yes… it was clear enough now that he must. And what must he think of him now? What, but that he himself, Jon-Joras, freed by the nomad raiders, taking with him the castle’s secret, was himself a traitor? And Jon-Joras imagined himself bound and fastened in the dragon-pit, watching and waiting and hearing and smelling the maddened creature come trampling down the pounded ground towards him…
Nothing could save him from that, were Hue to take hold of him again. He felt his chin tremble and his skin grow cold and wet. If the daughter did not believe that he was accidentally present in the forest along the way to the outlaws’ castle, would the father? Not likely.
“They mustn’t take me,” he muttered, his voice uneven. “Not again. Not again.”
Trond pursed his wide mouth, waved his hand. “Not much danger of that,” he said. “You’re worth more to us by getting you back to one of the states. Provided, of course,” he raised his eyebrows, “provided, of course, you meant what you said. About our, uh, expenses…?”
Jon-Joras assured him that, of course, he meant it. “Jetro Yi, the Hunt Company representative, has an ample fund, sufficient to repay you. Generously. Generously!”
The other man rose, stretched. “That’s all right, then,” he said, yawning. “We’ll get you back, all right. Oh—” A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. He put a hand on Jon-Joras’s shoulder, leaned so close that the reek of his tobacco was strong in the cool night air.
“You know one of ours, by the name of Thorm? Kind of a bandy-legged fellow with bulging blue eyes and his verses don’t scan? No? Well… Anyway… Watch out for him. Kind of carefully. Let’s be getting back to the fire, it’s growing cold.”
The moon continued to wander up the sky and a light mist was settling in the glade. The effect was luminous and ghostly.
“Thorm,” Jon-Joras repeated. “Why should I? I don’t know him at all. Does he know me?”
Trond stopped to rap his pipe against the boll of a tree. “No,” he said. “But he knows Lora.”
Jon-Joras recognized Thorm at once when, as soon as they got back to the fire, the man stepped forward, gave him an ugly look, spat on the ground, then stooped, dug up the clot of earth with the spittle on it, and flung it into his face.
“Well, well,” said Henners, in a tone of pleasant surprise. “This is an honor, young our guest. You may neither realize nor appreciate it, but it is truly very seldom that we accord the dignity of challenged combat, and all that it implies, to those not of our own select group. And certainly not as soon as this. Some might be inclined to disallow it… Eh?” He looked around in a politely questioning manner.
Trond said, “It’s not customary. It’s what you might call an innovation.”
There was a murmur of approbation. “Like free verse,” someone added, disapprovingly. But another voice said, “I wouldn’t be inclined to quibble. The guest’s poesies were really quite acceptable, I thought, from a non-poet — wouldn’t you agree? Voice vote! Voice vote!”
And the Gos outnumbered the Nos.
“Very well,” Henners said, equitably. “It’s go, then — Oh, if the guest accepts. Do you?” he asked. “Do you choose to accept the challenge and all that it implies?”
Jon-Joras felt that he would much rather not; much, much rather not. But he felt unable to say so. And he asked what other choice he had, instead.
Henners cleared his throat, frowned slightly. “I, well, really, the other choice is so very unpleasant, I would really rather not go into it. My word as a rhymer. Accept the challenge. Eh?”
And Jon-Joras nodded. And a cheer went up.
A space was cleared, two wicked looking knives produced, one given to Thorm and one to Jon-Joras. There were ritual preliminaries, but he did not hear them. A chill was on his heart, and with all his chill heart he cursed this the world of his race’s birth and all its bloody ways. Knives! Duels! Combats! What did he know of such things? On his own home world nothing more dangerous than wrestling-
And, “Go!” cried a hundred throats.
Thorm came forward in a sort of dancing crouch that instantly put Jon-Joras in mind of a stance quite popular at the Collegium; finding that the knife in his hand not only felt unfamiliar but was likely to impede him, he thrust it between his teeth, and then, almost automatically, without a second’s hesitation, leapt forward, grasped Thorm by the right ankle, and pulled him off his feet.
A cry of delight went up from the crowd, including one man who was casually whittling the end of a long stick.
Thorm fell, Jon-Joras released the ankle and reached for the shoulders. But Thorm, whose knife was not between his teeth, slashed at him; Jon-Joras swerved, missed the shoulders, felt the knife tear his side. At the moment what he felt was not pain, but a sort of sick surprise.