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center of the arena whirling a mace, a spike-studded ball on the end of a short chain, and waited for
Farley to come after him.
Oscar was saying something to her, but there was no time to listen or think, no time for anything but
watching. No time for Oscar, even.
Farley of Eikosk, fair and freckled, tall and well made if not exactly handsome, came treading catlike in
fine leather boots. His other garments were simple, but of rich sturdy cloth. He squinted in the sun that
shone on the fine polished steel of his sword and knife. Holding a weapon in either hand, he feinted an
advance to within striking range of the mace, and nodded as if with satisfaction when he saw how rapidly
the spiked weight on its taut chain arched out at him and back again.
Now Farley began to circle, moving around Col Renba first one way and then the other. The mace came
out after him, faster than before, faster than had seemed possible to Athena, and she cried out, unaware
that she did so. Again she cried out, in relief this time, when she saw that the spikes had missed Farley's
fine, fair skin.
Momentarily both men were still, and then again there came a rapid passage of arms, too fast for Athena
to judge. She thought the flurry was over, when suddenly the tip of one of the mace's spikes touched
Farley on the hand, and his dagger flew lightly but awkwardly away. In almost the same moment Farley's
long sword bit back, and now Col Renba backed away, keeping the mace twirling with his right hand, his
left arm curled up as if trying to protect itself from further damage while its sleeve rapidly drenched red.
Each man's left arm was bleeding now, and Farley's at least appeared no longer usable. Along the back
of his hand there showed the white of splintered bone. The bright blade of his long dagger lay buried in
the dust.
When the mace-spinner saw the extent of the damage he had inflicted, and found that his own left arm
could at least be held up out of the way, he stopped backing off and began to advance once again. He
kept the ugly weight of death moving around him in a smooth ellipse. As Col stepped closer, Farley
began to retreat, but only began. As the mace sighed past him his long speed-thrust to the throat caught
Col stepping in. Col Renba died, the mace flying wide from his hand in a great arc, spinning over the
shouting, dodging ring of watchers.
A long moment after the other watchers' outcries had died away, Athena was still shouting. She realized
this and shut up and let go of Schoenberg, whose arm and shoulder had somehow come into her
spasmodic two-handed grip. Oscar was looking at her strangely, and so was De La Torre, who stood
with his arm around a bored-looking Celeste a little distance off.
But Athena forgot about them. Already men were getting ready to fight again.
"Giles the Treacherous-Hal Coppersmith." Coppersmith was the leaner of this pair, and much the taller.
He was content to begin on the defensive, holding his long sword like the sensing organ of some giant
insect. Giles the Treacherous had sandy hair, an air of earnest perseverance, and (like the most successful
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traitors, thought Athena) an open trustworthiness in his face. He was not big, and did not appear to be
exceptionally strong, but still maneuvered his own long blade with an assured economy of effort. Now it
was high, now low, without Athena being aware that it had started to move. Hal Coppersmith had similar
difficulties, it seemed. His elbow was gashed, and then his knee, and then the great muscle in his tattooed
upper arm was cut nearly through. Then nothing remained but butchery. Giles stepped back with an
expression of distaste. A slave limped forward to swing a maul and end Hal's silent, thrashing agony.
"Jud Isaksson-LeNos of the Highlands." LeNos sprang to the attack almost before the signal had been
given, his fierce scarred face thrust forward like a shield. In either hand he held a wide blade, moving and
flashing like the hub-knives on a chariot. And little Isaksson, whooping as if he were overjoyed to meet a
fighter so aggressive, shot forward fast enough to clash with LeNos almost in the middle of the trodden
circle. The round metal shield on Jud's left arm rang like some maddened blacksmith's anvil under the
barrage of his enemy's blows. LeNos seemed incapable of imagining a defensive move, let alone
performing one. He only pushed his own two-handed attack so maniacally that it seemed impossible for
his opponent to find a sliver of time and space in which to counterattack.
At such a pace the fight could not and did not last long. LeNos's driving sword arm was suddenly stilled,
pinned in mid-air on the long, thick needle of Isaksson's sword. The highlander's dagger kept flashing on,
but still Jud's bright-scarred shield took the blows. Then Jud yanked his sword free, of the ruined arm as
he did, and brought it back, hacking, faster and faster, with a violence wilder if anything than his
opponent's had been. LeNos was in several pieces before he died.
"What's the matter?" An insistent voice had repeated the question to her several times, Athena realized.
Schoenberg was gripping her firmly by both arms, and giving her a slight shaking. He was looking closely
into her face. When her eyes focused on his, the expression in his changed from concern to an odd
mixture of amusement and contempt.
"Nothing's the matter. What do you mean? I'm all right." She kept looking for the next fight to start, and
then realized that the priest in charge, Leros or whatever his name was, must have just ordered a recess.
Slowly she realized that she had come near losing herself in the excitement of the fighting, temporarily
losing control of her own behavior as if with drugs or sex. But no, it was all right. A near thing, but she
still controlled herself.
Schoenberg, still looking at her with some concern, said now: "We had better give Carlos and Barbara a
chance to see a thing or two."
"Him?" she laughed abruptly, contemptuously. "This isn't for him. Thank you for bringing me, Oscar."
"Nevertheless I think you've had enough."
De La Torre peered around Oscar at her. "I have, too, for the time being. Shall we walk back to the
ship, Athena?"
"I'm staying."
Her tone was such that neither of the men made any further argument. Celeste meanwhile had moved
next to Schoenberg; she was watching him more than what was going on in the ring. "I'm going, then,"
said De La Torre, and he was off.
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Suomi,.having handed over his sentry's rifle to De La Torre, slid and clambered down the steep slope
from the mesa's top, holding on to the retractable rope that they had secured at the top to make the climb
less dangerous. On this one face of the mesa the slope for the most part was not quite precipitous; there
were some patches of gravelly soil and a bush or two. Already a visible path was being worn.
When he reached the level of the forest Suomi set off immediately in the direction of the tournament.
Athena was there, not just for a quick look, but remaining there by choice to see it all. A purely scientific
interest? Anthropology? She had never been enthusiastic on that subject before today, not around Suomi
anyway. Maybe the tournament wasn't, after all, as murderous a business as he had been led to believe.
Neither Suomi nor Barbara had watched. De La Torre, coming back, had said nothing about it and
Suomi had not asked him. But maybe it was just as bloody as the guide had warned them, and she was
still there taking it in. If she was like that, he had better know about it.
Nothing horrible was going on in the ring as he emerged from the forest and drew near. People were
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