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Chapter Fifteen

Noriko arrived a little later, saying nothing of the errand that had taken her from Gaby earlier in the day. Zeb thought about talking to her, seeing if she'd cheered up from her encounter with Hayato the other evening, but after only a bare few words of greeting she retired to the room she was now to share with Swana. She appeared not to notice that Doc, Harris and Rudi were standing by in full formal dress.

Doc wore a suit in an aquatic blue-green with gold tie and suspenders. The coat, double-breasted, with a double row of gold buttons, hung from the wooden coatrack beside the door. When he put it on, the ensemble would closely resemble a military officer's uniform of Novimagos. He sat reading Weserian newspapers and magazines, particularly their coverage of the Sonneheim Games.

Harris and Rudi were much more restrained in their dress; Harris wore a formal suit and vest in a dark blue, a suit color common on the grim world but which Zeb had seen few people wear here, and Rudi's suit was in a tan-yellow that seemed perfectly in keeping with fairworld costume. Zeb spent some time kidding Harris over his archaic broad lapels, but Harris's smiling, silent indifference to the jibes suggested he'd heard it all before.

Gaby and Ish emerged from dressing as Doc was consulting his pocket watch for the fifth time. The men stood. Harris whistled and said, "Little girl, you look good enough to eat."

Gaby offered a mocking smile and minimal curtsy. She was in a shimmering red gown with a slight train. Sleek and tight-fitting, it was sleeveless, with shoulder straps plunging into a daring bodice in front and offering a view of her back almost to her waist. She wore no jewelry but golden earrings and a single gold bracelet. Her hair was held in place by a decorative hairnet in the same red as the gown, and her lipstick was in a matching hue.

Ish's formal had a higher neckline but was equally form-fitting. It was all in black, and set off by white opera gloves and a simple string of pearls; her hair was piled high. The starkness of her gown made her seem paler than she actually was. Zeb wondered if that was a strategic move.

Doc pocketed his watch and bowed. His tone formal, he said, "We shall be the envy of all Weseria."

Ish offered him a smile. "Even if you are not, you must behave as though you are. Else I shall be very disappointed."

Doc straightened and turned to the others. "Very well. We're away. Zeb, if you, Alastair, or Noriko decides to go out for the evening, make sure that someone remains behind to guard Goodlady Weiss."

"Will do, Doc."

"Grace on you."

* * *

The new Cretanis embassy was, Rudi decided, actually a storefront for nobles with too much money. It was a narrow three-story manor set back behind spike-topped walls. The building edifice was dressed stone, a speckled gray that was polished until it was smooth and reflective, popular only among builders who chose for their constructions to stand out in urban landscapes made up of more flamboyant colors, very modern; but the building corners were rounded, suggesting the mound-style building pattern so common in Old World construction. Rudi offered up a smile of contempt for the stylistic compromise. It seemed gutless, just the thing he'd expect of inbred, waif-thin royal lights of the Old Country.

Gates guarded by tall, lean lights who looked more like swordsmen than gunmen, for all that they had the bulges of pistols deforming the lines of their suits, admitted Doc's crew to a walkway of cream-colored flagstones, then stone stairs between granite columns. At the top of the columns, gargoyles leered down at the stream of well-dressed visitors passing between them.

The building's admitting chamber was long and narrow, decorated by tapestries extolling the virtues of armored, thin-faced noble warriors of Cretanis and their oversized horses. Finally, a set of double doors, opening and closing for each separate group of invitees, admitted them to the embassy's social chamber, a two-story ballroom already thick with besuited and begowned nobles and politicians.

Rudi didn't bother to hide his expression of disdain. All his life, reformers and guards had referred to his clan and others who lived outside the law as parasites living on the productive, deserving population. But he knew that these were the true parasites, clinging to royal titles bestowed in some cases before history began, clamped by ancient law and tradition to lands and properties they didn't deserve to profit from. How he could be here, pretending to be a bodyguard for one of them . . .

"Settle down," Harris whispered in his ear. "You're too cheerful."

"Just give me someone to shoot," Rudi said under his breath. "That's the only thing that can make this night worthwhile."

Harris suppressed a laugh. "There's free food."

"True. A point."

"And maybe someone will point a gun or swing a knife at one of us. Whoever that is, you can shoot."

"Oh, if only I were so lucky."

* * *

Doc bent to kiss the hand of the Queen of Bolgia and then exchanged a few words with her—how beautiful the city, how exuberant the people, how graceful the athletes, how boring the party, how soon before Casnar pulled one of his famous social gaffes and made the evening a memorable one? The queen was a tall woman, dressed in a leaf-green formal gown with an extended train and two small girls to carry it; her hair was black as a crow's feathers and her face unlined, for all she was the same age as Doc. She was of old stock, but a dark rather than a light. Smiling, Doc and Ish moved on.

Doc managed a glance behind. Harris and Gaby were now elsewhere in the party, socializing, joking, talking to the more drunken attendees, hoping to hear unguarded words. Rudi was also gone. Doc felt a little relief, there. Rudi was doing well, and had kept his mouth shut—except for those occasions when he raided the hors d'oeuvres trays carried by servants—but his surly manner had to make people nervous, even in his role as Doc's bodyguard.

There he was now, leaning against one of the white marble columns flanking the doorway, affecting disinterest in the proceedings. This was just as Doc had instructed him to do; Doc needed no bodyguard, but at this gathering needed an outsider who could take note of events in the room while he was too distracted by formalities to do so. Rudi, as experienced at casing banks as most folk were at going to film plays, would be that observer.

"Doc!"

Doc faced forward again, smiled, extended his hand. "Casnar."

His half brother, in contrast with his appearance at the coliseum, immaculate in a formal suit, shook his hand vigorously, then gestured toward the older man and younger woman beside him. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, allow me to present to you my brother, Doctor Desmond MaqqRee, and his companion, Ixyail del Valle. Doc, I present Aevar of House Losalbar, King of Weseria, leader of the Nationalreinigungspartei, and his daughter, Her Highness, Edris."

The king looked much as he had at the other night's parade, and was again wearing the uniformlike suit from that event; his smile fell on Doc like a moonbeam. His daughter was tall for a fairworld woman, statuesque in a manner that tended to draw admiring looks especially from Burians; her long hair, coiled in a style similar to Ish's, was a light brown with hints of blond throughout. Her gown, less daring than Ish's, was of an unusual cloth, a print showing leaves reaching the reds, oranges, yellows and browns of autumn. And despite Casnar's earlier words of her coldness, her features expressed intelligence and amusement.

Doc offered the king a formal bow, then bent to kiss the princess's proffered hand—glove, rather. He could see in his peripheral vision Ish managing a deep formal curtsy. He straightened. "I am honored," he said. "And delighted to meet you at last."

"As I am pleased finally to meet the leader of the famous Sidhe Foundation," the king said. There was no trace of a Burian accent in his speech; he appeared to have learned Cretanis from a native of that nation. "Are you enjoying the Games?"

"Certainly. Though I think I am enjoying Bardulfburg more. As an engineer, I am bedazzled by the range of styles and the skill of construction that have gone into the city's renovation." It was a ploy, merely an appeal to the vanity of the man who was known to be directly responsible for Weseria's civic programs, but it seemed to have its desired effect; Aevar's smile broadened.

"An engineer as well?" asked the king. "It seems there is little Doctor MaqqRee does not do. Are you also an architect?"

Doc nodded. "The Monarch Building in Neckerdam—the New World Neckerdam, I mean—is my design. Most of my designs are houses, though, fashioned for ease of maintenance and low cost in building. My engineering works consist mostly of bridges."

"Still, there is someone you must meet." The king looked about, among the partygoers, and raised his voice. "Ritter! Come here."

A balding blond head popped up from the crowd clustered around the buffet table, then began bobbing toward the king.

"Father, please," Edris said. "It's so unkind of you to inflict Daenn upon polite company." Her voice was the feminine equivalent of her father's—low, rich, with the accent of Cretanis. Given Casnar's description of her, it was also surprisingly warm.

Aevar gave her a little nod of concession. "True. But I suspect Doctor MaqqRee has much experience escaping unwanted attention, and he can discuss architectural matters until his patience wears thin. Ah, here we are."

The balding head had reached them. It was atop a black Sonnenkrieger uniform with general's markings. The man was red-faced—from overheating, Doc suspected, rather than embarrassment—and his features were those of classic Old World nobility: lean, intelligent, an attitude of discipline rather than the more common dissipation. He held his cap under his arm and clicked his heels together as he came to attention before his king.

Aevar gestured to the newcomer. "Doctor MaqqRee, I present to you General Daenn Ritter, Master Planner of Bardulfburg, Chief Architect of Weseria and the Burian League. Ritter, this is Desmond MaqqRee—notorious in the press as Doc Sidhe."

"Grace on you," Ritter said. "Your work in encasing steel frameworks to limit ferrous poisoning is inspirational. It will be what you will be remembered for."

Doc offered him a mirthless smile. "You make it sound as though that will be soon."

"Oh, no." Ritter laughed. It sounded forced, or at least embarrassed. "I just meant that travelling the world, rooting out criminals, these are all good things—but buildings endure. Your true legacy will be that which you have made, and the constructions you have inspired. But please, tell me, why do you insist that your coating process be entirely chemical in nature, when devisement techniques are available?"

Doc suppressed a sigh. Edris had been right. It wasn't nice to inflict General Ritter on polite company.

* * *

It was a chime or more before they could pry themselves from the company of the king and his retinue. Doc managed to catch Gaby's eye and nodded his head toward Rudi; he led Ish that way. Ish made an exasperated noise.

"What is it, dear heart?"

"He did not acknowledge me. Not once."

"Aevar?"

"Who else? His inelegant daughter did, but not the king." Ish brightened. "On the other hand, now that he has insulted me, I may begin to plot revenge."

Doc smiled. "Good thinking. But it begs the question, why did he not acknowledge you?"

"Because . . ." She frowned. "Because I am a dusky. But that is not obvious just from looking at me."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he knows who I am, including my ancestry."

"And in spite of his political skills, he's not enough of a politician to ignore his dislike of your presence to avoid insulting you, and by association, me."

They reached Rudi's side; Harris and Gaby were there half a step before them. "Are we getting anything useful?" Doc asked.

" `Gods forbid there should ever be another war between great nations,' " Harris said, affecting a Burian accent, " `but if there is, it will be won by air superiority.' "

Doc frowned. "Who said that?"

"Head of Weseria's air force. Head of the combined Burian League's air force, now—League members are consolidating their armed forces `to cut down administrative costs.' " Harris shrugged. "I took it to be a bad sign."

"It is a bad sign. We've learned that Weseria's hatred of duskies probably goes to the very top. And I just had an interesting talk with Bardulfburg's chief architect. I asked him if he visualizes the city's revisions in two dimensions or three. He said three."

The others looked at him blankly. Then comprehension dawned on Gaby's face. "He has a model of the city."

"That's right."

Harris waved that fact away. "Who cares? Our enemies, assuming they're associated with the Reinis and even the Crown, aren't going to bomb their own capital city."

"Smoke doesn't always mean fire, Harris, but you can always choke on it," Doc said.

Harris snorted. "You just made that up."

"No, no, it's an old saying."

"Sure it is. You start to lose an argument and you immediately invent a parable or something to shore up your argument, pretending you read it on a clay pot thousands of years old."

Doc sighed, then turned to Rudi. "You're the only one of us who's had the opportunity just to watch events unfold. What have you seen?"

Rudi shrugged. "Your brother's up to something."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Half brother." He looked in Casnar's direction. The prince was bent over the hand of a noblewoman, kissing it repeatedly, with comical vigor, despite her protests and laughter. "What is he up to?"

Rudi shrugged. "I'm not sure. But he has three manners and accords one of the three to everyone he talks to. There's hail-fellow-well-met. That's for almost everyone, including some of the ladies. There's come-hither-darling, like he is with the honeydew right now."

"Both normal behavior for him. What's the third manner?"

" `We need to speak in private.' He leans in close, like they're planning a bank job. His face looks like he's whispering. Whoever he's talking to looks like he's whispering, too. Very serious, no humor to him."

"Show me who he speaks to this way."

Rudi began nodding toward various of the partygoers. "The fat one with the gray whiskers and the drunken walk. He's not drunk, by the way. The raven-haired woman, there, in the green formal with the gaggle of admirers all around her. That eamon in the old-fashioned coat and tie. That man by the window, the one who looks like he's posing for a cameo, `Aren't I the melancholy young noble.' " Rudi's accent became authentically upper class and pretentious. "And a couple more I don't see at the moment."

"You're good with that accent change," Doc said.

"I do a lot of them." Rudi grinned. "Sometimes useful in my line of work."

"Mine, too." Doc looked among the people Rudi had indicated. "Daracy Arreclute, the League of Ardree's Minister of War. Dalphina, the Queen of Bolgia. Pheodor, the Foreign Minister of Odraia. And Eglantine, the young Crown Prince of Loria."

Harris looked uncertain and glanced at Gaby. "Geography's still not my strong suit."

"League of Ardree and Bolgia you know," Gaby said.

"Yeah. Approximately the U.S. and Belgium."

"Odraia is what we'd call western Poland, and Loria is portions of France."

"Thanks."

"Three Europeans and a New Worlder," Ish said. "I don't see any connection between them but the obvious, political alliances."

Doc shook his head, unhappy. "No, they stand out like a hammered thumb in this crowd. They are all representatives of nations that opposed the old Burian Alliance in the World Crisis. Nations that have been calling attention to Weseria since the coup put Aevar on the throne. Cretanis, which Casnar represents, is another of them."

"What's Casnar doing, then?" Ish asked. "Planning another war with the Burians?"

"Possibly anticipating one," Doc said. "I have to find out."

"I'll hold him," Rudi said, "if you want to beat it out of him."

Doc offered a sour grin. "That would certainly cut the last of my fraying ties with my father's other children. No, I won't beat Casnar. I won't even ask him. If he'd wanted me to know, he would have told me already, meaning he's keeping this from me for a reason. No, I'll ask him." His pointed finger indicated the young, broody prince by the window, the one he'd called Eglantine.

"Why will he tell you?" asked Ish.

"Don't let anyone speak to me for the next few beats." Doc closed his eyes and let himself slip into the meditative state he needed for quick and simple devisement.

Almost instantly he could feel it, the hum of power surrounding him, sure sign that he was a finger's breadth from the place where the gods slept their shallow, uneasy sleep. He took that hum into himself and the sounds of the party around him faded.

He could no longer feel Ish's hand upon his arm. He could no longer feel his own hands, feet, arms, legs . . . Only the quickening pace of his heart reminded him that he still lived, that he still had a place on the mortal world.

Hear me, he thought, O Trickster, O Thief, O Seducer In Other Men's Forms. Bless me with your virtuosity. Gift me with your limitless changeability. I pledge a trick, an awful trick, in your name, upon victims who will be shamed and reduced by it. 

What that trick would be, he had no idea. Nor did he have a sense of how patient the Trickster would be in awaiting it. But these were the hazards of dealing with the gods.

He waited, reaching out for any glimmering of communication from the spirit he sought. Nor was it long in coming, a noise that resonated in his mind like a chuckle.

An acceptance.

Thanks to you, he thought, and distanced himself from that mind, from the hum of power. The sensations of his body, the noises of the party returned to him.

He kept his eyes closed. In his mind, he pictured Casnar as his half brother appeared at this party, splendidly attired in a very modern suit in the colors of Cretanis, red for the jacket, pants, and tie, green for the shirt, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Casnar's image floated before him in the darkness of imagination, staring at him, mouth turned as if he were curious about his sudden manifestation in this place.

Doc turned Casnar around and pulled him, donning him like a costume, adjusting him here and there so there would be no wrinkles, no unsightly flaps. Only for Eglantine, he told himself, and told the Casnar he wore. Only for Eglantine. 

He opened his eyes. Eglantine was still there, silhouetted against the window by the brightness thrown up from the lights installed upon the grounds of the embassy. Who's he posing for? Doc wondered, his thoughts flavored by Casnar's likeness. He's angling for somebody's pity. Ah, he seeks the sympathy of a woman. 

He forced himself to abandon that irrelevant train of thought, to keep himself from looking for the object of Eglantine's affection. He started forward, adjusting his pace to accommodate Casnar's build.

If he'd done it right, everyone present looking at him would see Doc as he was. Everyone but Eglantine. If he'd made a mistake, there were now two Casnars in the room for all to see, and that could cause problems.

But he reached Eglantine's side without incident. "Say, old Egg, you're not drinking too much, are you?" he asked, and was pleased to hear the words emerging in Casnar's whisper. "You should be clear-headed."

Eglantine smiled at him. "It's all for show," he said, his speech flavored by the accent of Loria. "Something you know quite a lot about."

"True," Doc said. "I assume you can prove it. You do recall what I told you."

Eglantine gave him a look of mock hurt. "Of course. Two nights from now, Ludana's temple, half-past four bells. Don't worry so much."

"I shouldn't. But I do." Doc gave him Casnar's hail-fellow-well-met clap on the arm. "Until then." He turned away.

When he was halfway back to his associates, he glanced back Eglantine's way. The prince was paying him no mind. In fact, the prince looked more melancholy than ever, and was already deep in conversation with a young woman Doc recognized as a well-known stage actress of Cretanis.

Doc let Casnar's semblance slip from him. He breathed a sigh of relief; the strain of such devisement was considerable, its cessation much like slipping a rucksack loaded with lead ingots from his shoulders.

But he'd taken only two more steps when the weakness hit him. His knees were suddenly wobbly, his head light as though he'd been awake for two days.

He almost cursed. Devisement also took a toll, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. This time it was almost immediate. He forced his legs to behave and continued walking, though every step required his total concentration.

His legs began to buckle again, but suddenly Ish was there, sliding in under his left arm, supporting him. An instant later Gaby slid in under his right arm.

"Smile," Ish whispered. "You're wrapped around the two most beautiful women in Bardulfburg."

Doc did smile. "Don't sell yourself short. In all of Europe, at least."

"Ooh, nicely done, Doc," Gaby said. "For that, I'll wait an extra day the next time I decide to ask for a raise."

"I think it's time to go," Doc said.

The two women got him turned around toward the door and started in that direction. His knees still felt as though they had no muscle to move them, but with Ish's and Gaby's support he was able to move normally, if a little drunkenly.

Behind, he heard Rudi talking to Harris in a whisper. "Did he just pop off a devisement? No preparation, no circle, props or toys?"

"That's right." Harris sounded a little mocking.

"No wonder he catches so many in the trade. Why, that's not fair."

They were only paces from the exit when the doors swung open, not to allow them out, but to admit another group—Prince Hayato and a retinue of three. Doc recognized the three as the men who had been with him at the Temple of the Suns, though the fourth, the man Zeb had kneed, was not with them.

"Doctor MaqqRee." Hayato approached and extended his hand. "It is good to see so diligent and studious a man enjoying himself."

Doc released his grip on Gaby to shake the prince's hand. "I have perhaps been enjoying myself too much. The wines being served are excellent." He returned his arm to Gaby's shoulders.

"Is Noriko not with you? I was hoping to thank her for this afternoon."

"No, I'm afraid she is not. To thank her?"

Hayato smiled. "For agreeing to compete in the Sword of Wo, of course. I do hope she advances far enough to face me."

"I'm certain she will."

Hayato offered a dismissive little nod, then he and his retinue continued on into the party room.

Doc sighed. "Not good."

Ish gave him a worried look. "That she has chosen to compete?"

"No—that she concealed it from us."

"Oh." She and Gaby set Doc into motion again. "I will take care of it."

"You will?"

"Certainly. I am the daughter of a king and queen, as noble as any in that room, and as experienced with diplomacy."

Doc chuckled. "Your form of diplomacy, dear heart, usually consists of a certain delicacy of motion when squeezing the trigger."

She just smiled up at him.

* * *

Alone on the balcony of the room she shared with Swana, Noriko heard the partygoers return. She heard Swana leave the room to join them, clucking for her absurd but well-behaved dog to accompany her. She heard the sounds of the dog's nails clicking on the hardwood floor as it scrambled to keep up.

Noriko heard the murmur of voices, Doc and the others briefing those who hadn't attended the party on the night's events.

She stayed where she was, leaning back in the stuffed chair she'd moved onto the balcony, watching the traffic move by on the street below, watching the pedestrians walk past. She was mere paces from them but, wrapped in darkness, she was invisible to them.

Invisible was best. Harris and the others sometimes made jokes about her imperturbability, her serenity in times of crisis, but she knew that if she were among them now, in the light, they would instantly recognize failure in her face and manner. She could not bear to be shamed that way.

In the other room, talk died down and doors shut. The associates were going to bed. But still Swana did not return.

Someone rapped at her door. Noriko ignored it. But after a second rap, she heard the door open and close. Moments later, Zeb joined her on the balcony.

He leaned against the rail, just a silhouette against a sky faintly lit by Bardulfburg's numberless street lights. "You all right?"

She suppressed a laugh. It would have sounded derisive. Zeb was even worse than Harris that way: He began conversations without preamble, without delicate maneuvering from a traditional form of greeting through intermediate conversational steps to the point where he wanted to arrive. No, he just dropped like a parachutist from an airwing straight onto his target.

"I am well," she said.

"That's good." He was silent for long moments, in which she hoped he would silently admit to conversational helplessness and go about his business, but it was not to be. "Doc bumped into Prince Hayato at the party, but unfortunately not hard enough to do him any permanent damage. Hayato said that you'd agreed to fight him in Sword of Wo."

Noriko closed her eyes. She might have been able to keep the secret all through the Games. But, no, she'd been betrayed only hours after making her choice. She was to have no dignity after all. Perhaps the gods really did hate her. "Yes. But, please, do not tell me it was a stupid thing to do. I know that."

"That's not what I was going to say. But if you think it's stupid, why did you agree to do it?"

"I don't know." Her eyes burned as tears threatened to come. She took a deep breath, an effort to bring herself under control. She'd never cried before another person, not once, since coming to the West, not even when her husband Jean-Pierre had been murdered. She wasn't going to now. "Perhaps I am victim of a devisement. I don't care about beating him."

"But you do want to fight him?"

"Yes."

"So what's your goal, Noriko? In the best possible world, if you fought him and didn't beat him, what would you get out of it?"

"I don't know." Miserable, she shook her head.

"Well, it's just wrong for you to do this alone. Not advisable. I'm appointing myself as your trainer."

She opened her eyes to look at him. He was leaning over the rail now, watching the passing foot and vehicle traffic with the same disinterest she had recently felt. "What do you know of the art of the sword?"

His teeth gleamed in a too-brief smile. "What I know boils down to this: If you see a guy running at you with a sword, put two rounds into his chest to slow him down, then one into his brain to finish him off."

She tried to suppress a laugh, but sound emerged as an amused snort. "Good advice. But not for these Games."

"The thing is, Noriko, Hayato and his people are big on intimidation. We saw that the other night. They'll be working on you psychologically from the moment you show up. Hell, they already are. But they're not going to get anywhere doing that with me around. I've already caved in the rib cage of one of those stupid sons of bitches. They know I'll happily do the rest of them."

"True." Noriko couldn't fault Zeb's logic. That in itself was disquieting. This was her fight, against intruders from her past, and the prospect that it would even inconvenience any of the associates bothered her deeply.

But mingled with that worry was relief. She no longer had to keep this secret from her employer and her allies. "Thank you," she said.

"Nothing to it. Um, my first round is tomorrow morning. I've already checked the schedule—yours is tomorrow late afternoon. After my round, we can get together, do some warm-ups and practice, then go over and see what the Wo boys have to offer you."

"That would be good."

" `Night, Noriko."

"Goodnight, Zeb."

Once he was gone, she settled into her chair, her shame and confusion exposed yet somehow already diminishing, and fell asleep there without meaning to.

* * *

Doc sat against the head of his bed watching Ixyail brush her hair. Such a simple little ceremony, he decided, but one he so enjoyed watching. He relaxed, letting the unnatural exhaustion that had afflicted him at the party fade away.

This room, he decided, smelled of age. Not of dirt, not of sweat—the rigorous cleanliness of the former resident and the building's owners would never allow for slovenliness. But the building was at least two centuries old. The interior walls smelled of paint layers thick, the oldest levels crumbling to dust. The hardwood floors smelled of polishes laid down generations ago and renewed since.

This was something Doc did not often experience in the New World. He missed it, the everyday odor of a place that had been occupied for longer than he had been alive, but it was one of the things he had had to abandon when he was exiled from Cretanis.

Ixyail glanced at him in the mirror and left off brushing her hair for a moment. "What are you thinking?"

He smiled. "Unromantic as it may sound, I was thinking that I wished you were back in Novimagos."

"That is unromantic. But sweet."

He rose and moved to lean over the little metal bin that had been placed in the room for refuse. He carefully positioned his head over it, then snapped his fingers.

A fine gray mist descended from the ends of his hair and flowed down into the bin. It was made up of a day's worth of dust, perspiration, and other foreign matter that had accumulated in the course of his activities. The devisement that drew it from him left his hair clean and renewed, the thick white curtain so many ladies had admired across the years.

Ish made an exasperated noise.

He straightened. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? That's wrong! The most useful devisement ever known to man, and I cannot learn it because I lack the Gift. It's torture to me every time you do it, sheer torture."

He smiled and rose. Moving up behind her, he took the brush from her hand and pulled it through her hair in long, slow strokes. She sighed and closed her eyes, relaxing into his ministrations. "I accept your apology," she said.

* * *

Zeb dreamed of dogs.

First there was the big brute in Rospo's shop, sitting there still, eyeing him, and he was the only person in the shop. He tensed against its attack, but it didn't move.

He saw then that there was blood on the back of its neck, a lot of it, a stream of it to the floor.

The dog whimpered at him, long keening whines, but didn't raise its head from its paws. Zeb looked away.

When he looked back, the big dog and the blood were gone, replaced by Swana's dog Odilon in the same place and pose. But seeing his attention, Odilon rose, its stump of a tail wagging, and approached him cautiously.

Zeb knew that tragedy would soon overcome it, in the form of a speeding car or a pack of bigger animals, and he'd never see it again. That loss made him sad, and the sadness made him angry. He knew it was false. He knew he didn't really care about the dog, but the sadness did not fade. "Go away," he said.

The dog said, "Up with you, lad. Noses need breaking." Its voice was the same as Rudi's.

Zeb opened his eyes. Sunlight was beginning to stream in through the windows. Rudi was already up, sitting on the next bed over, tying his shoes.

"I liked you better when you were a dog," Zeb said.

* * *

Competitors in the All-Out's Round of 16 assembled at the same field where the preliminary round had taken place the previous day. In addition to the competitors, present were coaches, trainers, referees, and a far larger crowd than the day before; Zeb estimated that a couple of thousand people at least were ranged around the competition area.

"They're here for you," Harris said. "All-Out apparently doesn't get this much attention. But word spread like the flu that they had a dusky competing this time. Two duskies, actually, including you and the guy from Wo."

"So a lynch mob showed up," Zeb said. "Great." He continued with his warm-up exercises, bending so that his head nearly touched his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs, pulling in close to stretch leg muscles.

"Who you draw in the first round is a good test for whether the fix is in against you," Harris said, aping Zeb's exercise so their faces, upside-down, were at about the same altitude. "If it's just a fighter, there may be some fairness left in the world. If you find yourself set up against a succession of guys who are most likely to hurt you, even if they don't beat you, before you get to the upper rounds—"

"Then the fix is in," Zeb said. "I pretty much figured that out. You have any idea who the contenders are?"

"Local money is on Conrad Förster. They love him in Weseria. He's a colonel in the Sonnenkrieger in spite of his youth, participated in the coup that put Aevar on the throne—wiped out a group of royal guards to give his unit access to the king's chambers, was wounded and hovered near death, all that schmaltzy stuff. He's responsible for bringing men of Wo here on a regular basis to sort of help combine their wrestling arts with local boxing."

Zeb made a sour face. "Great, an innovator."

"Yeah, and he has won this competition in the national games before. Then there's Geert Tiwasson, a three-time winner, though they say he's a little past his prime. He's supposed to be huge and mean."

"Also local, I take it."

"Yep, though they say his father's family is originally from Ostmark—I think that's where Sweden is. Then there's Tanuki Kano, from Wo."

"The sumo wrestler?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah, I met him. He's going to be rough to take out."

The officials in red called the athletes forward, assembling before an elevated reviewing stand that had been put in place since yesterday's round. They divided the athletes into two groups. Zeb found himself in Group Two and was unsurprised by it. The members of Group One were each given small porcelain chits—white-glazed, some still faintly warm from having been fired earlier that morning—with their names impressed upon them. These they deposited, one by one, in a large black porcelain jar decorated in dull red geometric patterns.

One by one, the eight athletes of Group Two were called forward. Each groped around in the jar, grabbed one of the chits, and presented it to the judges.

Zeb was again unsurprised that he was the last of the Group Two athletes called forward. He took the last of the chits from the jar. The name on it was Tanuki Kano.

When he returned to Harris's side, he said, "The fix is in."

 

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Framed