Morlach nodded reluctantly. “But not a completed battle,” he said.

“Oh, it was, my lord. What is the proper termination of a duel? Is it not that one party die as the direct result of the other’s craft and skill?”

“Yes…of course—”

“Then I say that Varris, though not poisoned, died as an immediate consequence of my wounding him. He is now dead! For mark you, he has taken vows as a monk—he did this because of the drug I administered. Those oaths may not be wholly irrevocable, but they are binding on him until such time as the Council releases him from them. And…a monk owns no property. His worldly goods revert to his heirs. His wife becomes a widow. He is beyond all civil jurisdiction. He is, in short, legally dead!”

“But I stand here!” shouted Varris.

“The law is sacred,” declared Alak blandly. “I insist that the law be obeyed. And by every legal definition, you are dead. You are no longer Sir Varris of Wainabog, but Brother Varris of Grimmoch—a quite different person. If this fact be not admitted, then the whole structure of Thunsban society must topple, for it rests on the total separation of civil and ecclesiastical law.” Alak made a flourishing bow. “Accordingly, my lord, I am the winner of the duel.”

Morlach sat for a long while. His mind must be writhing in his skull, hunting for a way out of the impasse, but there was none.

“I concede it,” he said at last, thickly. “Sir Wing Alak, you are the victor. You are also my guest, and I may not harm you…but you have till sunset to be gone from Thunsba forever.” His gaze shifted to Varris. “Be not afraid. I shall send to the Council and have you absolved of your vows.”

“That you may do, lord,” said Gulmanan. “Of course, until that decree is passed, Brother Varris must remain a monk, living as all monks do. The law does not allow of exceptions.”

“True,” grumbled the king. “A few weeks only…be patient.”

“Monks,” said Gulmanan, “are not permitted to pamper themselves with special food. You shall eat the good bread of Thunsba, Brother Varris, and meditate on—”

‘‘I’ll die!” gasped the outlaw.

“Quite probably you will depart erelong for a better world,” smiled the abbot. “But I may not set the law aside—To be sure, I could send you on a special errand, if you are willing to go. An errand to the king of the Galactics, from whom I have requested certain books. Sir Wing Alak will gladly transport you.”

Morlach sat unstirring. Nobody dared move in all the court. Then something slumped in Varris. Mutely, he nodded. The armed brethren escorted him out toward the spacefield.

Wing Alak bade the king polite thanks for hospitality and followed them. Otherwise he spoke no word until his prisoner was safely fettered and his boat safely space-borne, with Drogs at the control panel and himself puffing on a good cigar.