Varris walked out, not hurrying. Alak went to meet him. They crossed blades and stood for a moment, eyes thrusting at eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” asked the refugee in Terran. “If you have some idiotic hope of killing me, you might as well forget it. I was a fencing champion at home.”

“These shivs are gimmicked,” said Alak with a rather forced grin. “I’ll let you figure out how.”

“I suppose you know the penalty for using poison is burning at the stake—” For a moment, there was a querulous whine in the voice. “Why can’t you leave me alone? What business was it ever of yours?”

“Keeping the peace is my business,” said Alak. “That’s what I get paid for, anyhow.”

Varris snarled. His blade whipped out. Alak parried just in time. There was a thin steel ringing in the air.

Varris danced gracefully, aggressively, a cold intent on his face. Alak made wild slashes, handling his rapier like a broadsword. Contempt crossed Varris’ mouth. He parried a blow, riposted, and Alak felt pain sting his shoulder. The crowd whooped.

Just one cut! Just one cut before he gets me through the heart! Alak felt his chest grow warm and wet. A flesh wound, no more. He remembered that he’d forgotten to thumb the concealed button in his hilt, and did so with a curse.

Varris’ weapon was a blur before his eyes. He felt another light stab. Varris was playing with him! Coldly, he retreated, to the jeers of the audience, while he rallied his wits.

The thing to do…what the devil did you call it, riposte, slash, en avant? Varris came close as Alak halted. The Patrolman thrust for his left arm. Varris blocked that one. Somehow, Alak slewed his blade around and pinked the outlaw in the chest.

Now—God help me, I have to survive the next few seconds! The enemy steel lunged for his throat. He slapped it down, clumsily, in bare time. His thigh was furrowed. Varris sprang back to get room. Alak did the same.

Watching, he saw the Caldonian’s eyes begin helplessly rolling. The rapier wavered. Alak, deciding he had to make this look good, ran up and skewered Varris in the biceps—a harmless cut, but it bled with satisfactory enthusiasm. Varris dropped his sword and tottered. Alak got out of the way just as the big body fell.

The nobles were screaming. King Morlach roared. The Master of Death rushed out to shove Alak aside. “It is not lawful to smite a fallen man,” he said.

“I…assure you…no such intention—” Alak sat down and let the planet revolve around him.

Abbot Gulmanan and the monks stooped over Varris, examining with skilled fingers. Presently the old priest looked up and said in a low voice that somehow cut through the noise: “He is not badly hurt. He should be quite well tomorrow. Perhaps he simply fainted.”

“At a few scratches like that?” bawled Morlach. “Master check that red-haired infidel’s blade! I suspect poison!”