Deakan shook his head. "Does that mean you have no objections, sir?" the surgeon asked.
"No objections," said Deakan. It seemed to take him a little time to get the words out. His hands shook when he accepted the pistol. Sardec was pleased that his own did not although he could hardly slight his foe for that. It was one thing to draw a weapon in battle with the fury of combat surrounding you. This readying weapons in the early morning, alone, with a single opponent who you must look in the eye, and talk to before the event, was something else entirely. Sardec was surprised how calmly he was taking everything.
Jazeray took the pistol and the measure of powder the surgeon had poured into a bag. He checked the action of the weapon carefully and then primed it. He took a long time about the procedure, apparently all too aware that a fellow officer's life lay in his hands. Briefly Sardec wondered if he had done anything recently to offend Jazeray, decided that he had not, and that he could trust him. That thought, too, brought a smile to his face. He noticed that Deakan was staring at him, as if astonished by his calmness. He had spilled a little powder when readying his weapon, and had to ask for more, if Sardec did not object.
"No objection at all," said Sardec pleasantly. He was starting to enjoy himself in a strange way. His opponent's obvious nervousness would perhaps make up for his own left-handed shooting. Another glance at the surgeon reminded him of the ghoul disease and that, perhaps Deakan would be doing him a favour if he killed him.
Eventually the preparations were complete. The surgeon said; "Sirs, you will both stand back to back and give myself and your seconds time to withdraw. When I say proceed, you will take ten steps turn and fire. If you understand and agree, say aye."
"Aye," said Sardec.
"A…aye," said Deakan.
Sardec watched as the surgeon and his companions withdrew. They all looked more nervous than he felt. He took one last look at their faces and the trees, glanced up at the sky, thought of Rena and then waited, feeling the deadly weight of the gun in his left hand.
He could hear Deakan breathing heavily behind him. A faint flicker of pain passed through the phantom of his right hand, as it sometimes did after moments of stress, then he felt a sense of total freedom and lightness such as he had never felt before. In a few heartbeats, everything here would be decided one way or another.
"Proceed," said the surgeon. Sardec put one foot in front of the other. He was aware of every faint shift in the tension of his leg muscles. One, he counted to himself.
He took another pace and then another. What if Deakan turned and fired early? The muscles of his back tensed as if expecting a bullet to come crashing into them any moment. He kept walking, five steps, six. In his mind's eye a picture of Deakan turning and firing emerged. He pushed it aside. He would do this properly or die in the attempt. Seven, eight, nine, ten. He swung and saw that Deakan had already turned. His pistol was raised. Sardec knew in that moment he was going to die. The game was up. He smiled.
Deakan raised his pistol. His hand shook perceptibly as he did so. Sardec did not bother to raise his own. He watched disinterestedly as his foe, straightened his arm and pulled the trigger. A cloud of smoke. A roar like thunder, too loud in the early morning. Pain seared through Sardec's right arm. He waited for blackness to take him. It did not. He looked down and saw that his sleeve was torn and his right bicep was bleeding. A flesh wound he thought.
Deakan stared at him, his face a study in horror and despair. The situation of a few moments ago was reversed. Sardec briefly considered discharging his pistol into the air, of saying blood had been drawn and honour satisfied. Anger grabbed his heart then, and he shook his head. This offal had tried to kill him, and would have done so, if his aim had not been so bad. Slowly and very carefully Sardec raised his pistol, aiming it right between the eyes that held his gaze. He squeezed the trigger. A flower of blood bloomed on Deakan's forehead, and he fell backwards, dead.
Chapter Twelve
Rik strode into Asea’s chamber. “You wanted to see me?”
The sorceress looked up from the manuscript she was writing. “We have another invitation this evening. Lord Elakar is throwing a ball.” Asea looked strangely pleased.
“A ball?”
“It’s for the new Sardean Ambassador. Everyone will be there.”
“We are entertaining Ambassadors from the Dark Empire?”
“Diplomacy goes on even when we are at war, Rik.”
“So I am starting to notice.”
“Channels of communication must be kept open. It’s only civilised.”
Rik made a face. “How are your lessons going with Karim?”
“He has been lecturing me about using your opponent’s strength against him. He says that most people facing me with a blade will be overconfident, and that I can use that to my advantage.” Rik had a feeling that Asea knew what Karim had told him already. She was merely testing him.
“The same is true in many things, Rik. You would do well to remember that.”
“I will do my best.”
“I have sent for a tailor,” she said. “He shall see you are suitably dressed for tonight’s gala.”
“I already have more clothes than I have ever had in my life.”
“You can never have too many clothes, Rik. That’s one of the first laws of being an Aristal.”
“I suppose we must look our best for our enemies.”
“Indeed we must.” She smiled enigmatically again. What was going on here, he wondered? What did she know that he did not? He knew better than to ask.
Sweet music drifted from the chamber, echoing under the huge vaulted ceiling and swirling through the long tiled corridors. Uniformed officers, civil servants in their gold-braided court best and women in long evening gowns drifted under the sorcerous chandeliers as if propelled by the sounds. Lord Elakar had selected a particularly nice mansion for himself — just behind the parliament building. The previous occupiers were in Sardea, along with Prince Khaldarus. Apparently the redistribution of property had already begun.
The General sat apart from his guests and received them from a throne that was worthy of a king. It was as if he, and not Kathea, was soon to be crowned ruler of Kharadrea. Perhaps he believed in a way that he was. If he knew he was giving offence to the locals, he did not seem aware of the fact.
Rik moved through the crowd, listening to the buzz of conversation.
“It’s amazing that they have the gall to come here,” said one tall Terrarch beauty to her officer companion. "After supporting the enemies of the Queen.”
“Hush,” said her companion, an officer in the uniform of one of the Kharadrean Guard regiments. “They are entitled to be here.” He noticed Rik listening and added. “Even if they are the enemy.”
The objects of all the attention moved across the floor. One was a tall dark Terrarch, garbed in a dark blue court uniform and high leather boots. He was possessed of both languid beauty and aristocratic hauteur. He smiled pleasantly as if he was either unaware or did not care about all the eyes upon them.
The female Terrarch beside him looked surprisingly young. She did not have the polished ageless gleam of most of their women. Her smile had dimples. Her eyes were wide. Her hair was golden and did not look dyed. Her white dress braided with gold made her look spectacular and innocent, an impression Rik knew was all too deceptive. The last time he had seen Tamara she had been dressed as a man and hanging out in a low dive in the town of Morven. He suspected that she had tried and very nearly succeeded at having him assassinated by a near unstoppable undead monster. He was not sure what her reason had been for that, but he could easily find it in himself to resent it.
“What is the governor thinking?” asked another Terrarch woman, her hair silver, her clothing in the same style as some pictures Rik had seen that he knew to be over five centuries old.