Rules of Conflict (40 page)

“I’m fine, ma’am.” Jani met Hals’s examination head-on. “Really.”

“You’re not even sweating.” Hals wiped the tip of her nose with
the edge of her T-shirt sleeve just before she dripped on her aerial survey
grid. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Could be heat stroke,” Ischi chimed helpfully.

“I’m not moving around as much as you are,” Jani said. “And I
picked the seat by the vent.”

“Moving hot air is still hot air.” Ischi tugged his blotched
T-shirt away from his skin. “I think we should invite the Vynshàrau to the base
and stick them in the arctic test facility. Crank it
all
the way down.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Hals said.

“Chip ’em out with chisels.”

“That will be all, Lieutenant.” Hals waited until Ischi found
another ear downtable to complain into. “Was it like this in Rauta Shèràa?”

“Worse.” Jani felt her forehead. Slightly damp. A little warmer
than normal. “The only air-conditioning was in the human enclave. Once you
entered the city, you were at the mercy of nature and idomeni utilities.”
I
know the symptoms of heat stroke.
She’d seen it enough in Rauta Shèràa.
I’m
still lucid.
She felt fine.

The general buzz of conversation died as work claimed everyone’s
attention. So intent were they, no one looked up when the door opened.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

Heads shot up. Hals had a better view of the door than Jani. Her
breath caught. “It’s Burkett. He looks sick. Or mad as hell. I can never tell
the difference.”

Jani twisted in her easel seat too quickly and grabbed the edge of
the table to keep from tipping over. “Anyone else?”

“The PM and some Ministers—Ulanova, damn it—Tsecha and all the
Vynshàrau dexxies and a whole bunch I don’t recognize and—oh damn! Cèel’s
there, too!”

Jani balanced on the seat rungs to peek over Hals’s head, and
caught a glimpse of the Oligarch. He was half Nema’s age, lighter-skinned and
darker-haired. They were arguing—you didn’t need to be a trained Vynshà-watcher
to interpret the choppy hand movements and twisted facial expressions. Hantìa
stood with them. Her hairloops had been gathered and clasped. Instead of the
tan-and-grey clothing of a documents suborn, she wore white lightweave trousers
and a sleeveless overshirt. “The better to show the blood.” Jani pressed a hand
to her churning stomach.

“What?” Hals glanced back at her, frowning.

“Remember when I promised not to use my fists, ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to have to take it back.”

“Kilian, what are you talking about?”

“You know that challenge that’s going to be made?”

“The guessing games stop
now
, Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe they will.” Jani watched Burkett break away
from the group and walk along the table toward her, followed by Nema.

Hals leaned close. “What are you talking about!”

Jani slid off her seat. “Twenty-five years later, it’s finally
Hantìa’s turn.”

Before Hals could ask any more questions, Burkett stopped in front
of Jani. “Captain.”

Jani nodded. “Sir.”

“I imagine you don’t need to be told what’s going on.”

“No, sir. Hantìa’s requested permission of nìRau Tsecha to make
challenge. He gave her leave. Then he made the request to you, as my most high
dominant. I’m assuming you’re reluctant.”

“Yes.” With Burkett, uncertainty came clothed as stiffness and an
inability to look one in the eye. “I understand refusal is an insult.” He
stared at a point somewhere over Jani’s shoulder.

“Without cause, yes. Simply not wanting to fight isn’t enough.
Health reasons can serve, but I’m here working, so it’s difficult to argue that
I’m unfit.” Jani flexed her hands. It was safe to say she was already warmed
up. “It’s ceremonial fighting. Doesn’t last long. Injury occurs to the arms,
mostly. The shoulders. Superficial wounds. They leave ugly scars, because of
the types of knives used, but they’re not in themselves dangerous.”

“Nonetheless, I’ve messaged Doctor Colonel Pimentel. Nothing
proceeds unless he’s standing by. I asked him to bring a trauma surgeon, as
well. Something someone said about knives having been known to slip.” Burkett
lowered his voice. “I am deferring to your judgment, Captain. I’ve never acted
as someone’s second before.”

“Sir, Captain Kilian has been at Sheridan less than two weeks.”
Hals’s voice was strained. “She’s spent more than half that time in hospital,
and remains under close medical supervision. She is in no condition to fight
anyone. I don’t care how ceremonial it is.”

Jani looked uproom at the assembled Vynshàrau. She recognized
several of them from her Academy days.
Hey, a class reunion.
“It’s not a
fight to the death. I don’t need to be in top form. It’s simply a declaration.
Hantìa and I are acknowledging to the world that we hate each other’s guts.”
She stared at the female, who turned to look in her direction. Jani nodded;
Hantìa bared her teeth. “That shouldn’t take long.”

Nema, who had remained uncharacteristically silent to that point,
stepped forward. “I have accepted challenge sixty-seven times, and offered
challenge twenty-two times.” He extended his arms and pushed up the sleeves of
his overrobe to his elbows. The silvered remains of old scars, accented by the
occasional red slash of a fresher wound, crosshatched the bronze skin of his
forearms and wrists. “It is an honor to be challenged by one such as
OnìnaìaRauta Hantìa. She shares skein with Cèel, through their body mothers.”
He tilted his arms back and forth. The scars, jagged and raised, seemed to
shimmer in the roomlight. “Such an esteemed enemy is greatly to be wished.”

Hals and Burkett both stared at the wounds. “Hantìa and Cèel are
cousins
?”
Burkett asked. He sounded choked.

Jani looked at Nema, who patted his pockets for his handheld. “In
a way. Vynshàrau family organizations are difficult to explain.” She shut down
her scanpack and stuffed it into its pouch. “Right now, I need to get ready,
and since the opening ceremonies can get a little protracted, I can’t afford to
waste any time.”

Burkett glared at Hals. “I thought you took care of that,
Colonel.”

Hals glowered back. “They gave me
four
hours, sir.”

“I specifically asked for six.”

“Well, askin’ ain’t gettin’ around here, is it!” Hals closed her
eyes. “Sir, I apologize—”

Burkett ignored her. “Captain—”

Jani held up her hands. “I realize you’re both upset because
you’re confused and hot and completely out of your element, but I know what I’m
doing, so there’s no need to worry.” She handed her packpouch to Hals for
safekeeping and ducked under the table. “Let’s try to maintain a united front,
all right, Spacers?” she called out as she emerged on the other side. Nema
bared his teeth and beckoned to her, and she followed him out of the room.

“To which god do you pray, nìa?” Nema pointed to the
cluster of statues and symbols arranged atop the altar. The beads, medals, and
smaller figurines had been obtained from the pockets of members of Diplo and
Foreign Transactions, while the larger pieces had been hastily acquired from
nearby shops by an Ischi-headed strike force. “You have more than we. Such
confusion.” He backed away, so that Jani could step up and choose. They were
the only two in the embassy’s secondary altar room. Normally, both foes would
have offered prefight sacrifice in the same place, but since such a profound
difference in religion existed, the home team had been granted use of the
primary room, a windowed veranda that contained shrines to all the Vynshàrau’s
eight dominant gods.

I, meanwhile, get the closet.
But it was a nice closet,
quiet and cooler than the rest of the embassy. Nema had chosen to accompany
her, a fact that had visibly irked Hantìa and resulted in even more heated
discussion between Nema and Cèel.
He’s declared himself my supporter.
In
the face of his ruler. In spite of Knevçet Shèràa.
I have to fight well.
Her stomach ached from tension.

She picked up a small stone elephant. “Ganesha, the god of wisdom.
I prayed to him when I was little.”

“Ah.” Nema took the tiny figure from her and examined it
thoughtfully. “Why did you stop?”

“I don’t know.” She picked up the teakwood seat on which the
elephant had rested and studied its minute carvings. “Maybe I didn’t think it
helped.” She set the seat back down on the altar. “Sometimes, he’s called
Vinayak, when he’s worshipped as the god of knowledge, and other times, he’s
called Vighneshwer, when he’s honored as the remover of obstacles.”

“Ah.” Nema handed the figurine back to her. “Do you worship any
gods that are less complicated?”

Jani smiled. “My mother is Brh Hindi. My father grew up Freehold
Catholic, and converted to the Hortensian Presbyter just before I left for the
Academy.” A memory of the baptism ceremony flashed in her mind’s eye, and she
almost burst out laughing.
They held it outside. It was cold and the pool
leaked and the minister wrenched his back dipping Mrs. Louli.
“I guess the
answer is no.”

“Then I believe the remover of obstacles would be a good god for
now.” Nema looked around the room. “What does he demand as sacrifice?”

Jani set the elephant back on its seat. Then she stripped some
petals from the blanket of bright orange cymbela that had been draped across
the altar, and sprinkled them before it. “Help me, Lord,” she said, just as she
had when she was eight and asked for the wisdom necessary to pass maths.

She knew her father would be disappointed if he somehow discovered
she hadn’t given his God a chance, so she picked a plain gold cross from the
collection and whispered a quick Act of Contrition. The one formal prayer she
remembered. She knew many informal ones, spoken from the heart, usually a
variation of “please, God, get me through this.” Any God. Whichever one cared
enough to listen. And up to now, she’d managed to survive it all and didn’t
despise herself any more than she ever had, so someone must have thought her
worth the bother.

“We must go, nìa,” Nema said. He watched Jani as she set the cross
back down on the altar. “You feel strong?”

“Yes, nìRau.”

“Hantìa will try to draw much blood. That is her way.”

“I understand.”

“If she fights too vigorously, you must knock her down, as you did
before.”

Jani stared at Nema. His expression was bland, for him. Grim Death
in Repose. “You knew about that?”

“Yes, nìa.” He rearranged the draping of his red-rimmed cuffs. “I
know all.”

“You could have told me.”

“No, nìa.” He walked ahead of her, which since he was her dominant
was a serious breach of protocol. “You prefer your secrets, even if they are
secret only to you.”

“You’ve come to know humanish so well?”

“Humanish have no place in this.” His auric eyes seemed to glow.
“I know Rauta Haárin. I know you.”

The room was oval, windowless, with smooth, dun-colored
walls and floor. A high ceiling, the light provided by simple sunglobes
suspended from helical chains.

The audience had already assembled. Humans filled the banked
seating on one side, idomeni, the other, each following the idomeni convention
of lower ranks to the rear. That allowed Prime Minister Li Cao a seat of honor
on the floor, very close to the action. Closer than she would have liked,
judging from the way she jerked back as Jani walked near the edge of the
fighting circle.

Anais Ulanova sat at Cao’s side, the slight elevation of her seat
denoting her lesser status. “An interesting way to start the day, is it not,
Captain?” No false bravado was detectable in her voice or manner. In fact, she
seemed rather bored. Somewhere in her ancestry lurked women who yawned during
executions.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jani shot an encouraging look toward the back rows.
Hals stared back, grim and tight-lipped. Ischi sat behind her, edgily tapping
his feet. Vespucci chewed a thumbnail. Burkett sat arms folded, eyes on the
floor.

The Vynshàrau side looked even cheerier. As ranking secular
dominant, Cèel sat in a very low seat, mere centimeters from the floor. The
best seat in the house, idomenically speaking, belonged to Nema as ranking
religious dominant and, as such, Cèel’s propitiator. Like Cao he rated the
floor itself. Jani watched him lower slowly, his back straight, his face
unreadable.
He won’t root for me.
Not openly, anyway.

As the challenged, Jani had the choice of blades. She
considered the assortment laid out before her. Long and short, curved and
straight, all bearing the stark elegance and implied efficiency that marked
classic Sìah workmanship.

Her earlier self-assurance ebbed as she hefted a couple of the
longer blades. The incision in her arm pulled every time she squeezed.
When
was the last time I fought with a knife?
Not stabbed someone, but
fought.
Like any other martial art, it required training. It also took skill to fight
without seriously hurting your opponent. Hantìa had trained for ceremonial
bouts like these since she was old enough to walk—her experience showed in her
heavily scarred arms.
I only know how to cut and run.