Territories, if you must know. Drop the subject. And apologize!”
The man scoffed with contempt.
“Apologize?”
“Or draw your sword!”
He would not sustain another insult from the woman’s verbal debates or this man’s over-bloated arrogance.
The throng seethed with anticipation.
A voice from the next table shouted.
“A duel! Clear space!”
“I don’t fight a helpless…Kordatic child.”
“I’m not helpless.”
Mahzit slowly drew his weapon.
“And you are an insolent Fiza!”
The woman gripped his thigh to communicate her caution over his challenge.
The rogue’s sword bashed against a goblet, spewing liquid and broken glass in all directions.
Voices cried out. People hustled to clear the space. The bully lifted like a riled Korda, bulging muscles rippling, as his sword crossed against Mahzit’s.
“Are you sure, rookie?” he raged loudly. “If you want this to continue, I shall prune your loins with death.”
“Do not exhaust your coffers with empty words!” Mahzit warned.
The blonde placed a hand on Mahzit’s shoulder.
“This cad isn’t worth fighting. Ignore him!”
Suddenly he had no need to impress her. She frowned, and then tilted her head, indicating the upper floor.
“Let’s leave. I prefer my lovers in one piece.”
She wanted him. And that would happen, once he had attended to this scoundrel.
“Later, after I teach this Roku a lesson in manners. He’s insulted Sarleni of Helandi!”
The brute objected indignantly. “I don’t even know the person!”
“She is the Dorta woman you dared to defile—and my sister!”
Cold ice cut across the other man’s face. The eyes hardened, the lips compressed and the man’s blade thrust out.
Mahzit lifted his sword against the other’s blade, letting the point glide into empty air. Flabbergasted by the quick parry, the bully attacked again: this time following his first thrust with a second and third; then a cut to the head.
Mahzit’s blade repelled each jab with minimal effort. He would have accepted an apology; rather than force a fight. Now it was too late to debate the issue.
Several onlookers had pushed the tables back, clearing an area for their duel.
Mainly on the defensive, Mahzit continued to block the other’s sword, foiling every counter attack. This was a drunken man, dangerous; yes. Not worth killing. He continued to parry and avoid the swinging blade dancing in front of him.
A sudden leap caused the man’s sword to come in contact with his arm. Mahzit’s blade sliced across the man’s chest, cutting the officer’s ribbon and leather shoulder strap. The man bellowed in rage.
A hushed gasp of admiration rose from the crowd as a result of Mahzit’s agile riposte. Mahzit took control, weaving his sword and dancing effortlessly around his opponent, making it obvious how easily he could carve this opponent into a trembling mass of screaming flesh.
He actually felt sorry for the fool.
The shaken officer backed away, cursing, at a generous distance, then complained caustically.
“Why must we continue?”
Mahzit had won his point. He’d gain no further profit by continuing the duel. And all he really wanted was some personal time with the woman.
Submitting a gentlemanly nod, Mahzit lowered his blade—a foolish mistake. The rogue leaped in, swinging wide.
A scream of distress sounded from a woman that almost distracted him.
With amazing agility, Mahzit twisted his blade around the other’s, slamming it down.
What happened next was a blur. Without thinking he let emotional fury send him bodily at the other man, knocking them both to the ground.
Voices shouted and men shoved in, swords drawn. Something hit the back of his head, as his opponent was being marshaled off under an escort of several armed warriors.
His adventure in the Pleasure Palace of Bel-loniea had ended when two security guards carried his body away like a limp bag.
Late in the morning, in the cell of the Bel-loniean military guardhouse, he learned the seriousness of his situation. The local authorities had halted the skirmish, and the man he had been fighting had signed charges against him for illegally dueling in public. Mahzit realized he was in deep trouble. The man was powerfully connected and bent on revenge.
What had started as a celebration had turned into a crushing defeat.
His future looked bleak.
CHAPTER THREE
SUMMONS
I. Inner Circle
Authority generates respect from advocates who fear its fury.
Dress and decorum, conduct and discourse pierce bloated egos and prick the tender flesh of status.
Bold defiance stands brazen before wisdom. Thus, even fury balances in favor of justified courage.
—Wisdom of the Ancients
The Proctor’s directive to appear before him came as no surprise. It was only yesterday that Adt had returned to Bel-loniea. He had already spoken with both Romos and Andon Janis. My friend had given us all enough reason to expect the national call to action.
A palace guard escorted me to the Proctor’s study.
The alcove was perched at the top of a spiral staircase leading to this small, practical garret. For it was, indeed a watchtower from where the Proctor had a clear view spanning the central city of his domain.
The supreme authority of Bel-loniea stood behind his desk; an intense expression marking his face. My wife’s grandfather, Proctor Romos was dressed casually in a fine ecru Jilio-skin. He looked relaxed, yet grim.
“Sit!” His simple command was friendly. A nod indicated the padded chair. “Torlo, alarming reports have reached us. I assume you have heard.”
He briefed me on his recent meeting with Andon Janis concerning the microchip from the Messenger, Talni.
“I’ve seen part of the report Adt brought back from the Castle of Doom in Kamina. The danger is obvious. Total secrecy is crucial. Rumors are already circulating though we had hoped to keep minimized. We shall give no credence to any of them.
“However, my Muti said Torlo Hannis will again be a shadow across the future. That same Muti had predicted your influence in our world when you first arrived on Noomas.”
Ironic humor slipped through the Proctor’s smile as he added, “From its lips, I take it seriously. Further details on the subject are classified until Andon’s team has reported back.”
He paused, staring as if attempting to read my face.
“The situation may be beyond our control despite all precautions—most difficult to assess, with the startling news dropping in our laps.
“Uncanny.
“It happens to occur during the most notable phenomenon of our generation, the Three Moons Festival.
“Remarkable.”
Romos shook his head, soberly returning to the crisis at hand. He muttered to himself as if he were summarizing all these