Rules of Conflict (41 page)

Jani settled for a short, straight sword that resembled a really
nasty carving knife. Hantìa bared her teeth when she saw her choice of weapon.
She picked up the matching blade and made several skillful cuts through the
air.

Show-off.
Jani tilted her blade back and forth. The
anodized wireweave, fine as spider silk, shone beneath the lamps like
multicolored threads. The razorlike wires would shred as they cut. The wounds
she’d receive would sear as though rubbed with salt, while the edges would heal
raised and ragged.

Pain. The prospect worried her. As much as she disliked Hantìa,
she didn’t want to fight this fight. Not because she didn’t know what she was
doing, and not because she feared the pain. But the aches and twinges she’d
tolerated for years were different from the agony experienced when someone cut
you with a knife. And kept coming. And kept coming.

Augie likes that kind of pain.
She could sense him in the
back of her mind, telling her exactly where she needed to strike. He didn’t
fight for the beauty of the process. He didn’t fight to make declaration, or
honor any god. He fought to hurt. He fought to kill.

The status of humanish-idomeni relations again depended on what
she feared, and how she felt, and where she aimed.

Please God, don’t let me kill her.
Any God. Whichever one
cared enough to listen.

As if on cue, hushed conversations silenced. All eyes shifted to
the two females standing in the middle of the room.

“
We will begin now,”
Hantìa said in informal High
Vynshàrau, her voice level and without gesture. She circled Jani, arms opened
wide, slightly bent at the waist.
Hain.
The Stance of Welcome. A great position
if you wanted to be gutted.

Get it over with.
That was augie talking. Jani blocked him
out. “
Yes
,” she answered, forcing herself into the same stance as
Hantìa. “
We will begin now.
” The soles of her trainers squeaked against
the bare floor as she maneuvered. That and the pound of the blood in her ears
were the only sounds she heard.

She played it safe at first, blocking Hantìa’s tentative initial
thrusts, restraining the urge to come in behind the blocks and do damage of her
own. She knew Hantìa, a skilled fighter, would try to draw her in.
She wants
a quick shot.
A chance to cut near an elbow or a wrist, to nick a tendon
and impede Jani’s ability to wield her weapon.

Hantìa struck repeatedly. Jani parried attack after attack, each
more confident than the last. Her incised arm ached. The impacts Hantìa threw
behind the blows forced her back, left her off-balance. Open.

I am not weak.
Yes, she was.
I’m—not tired.
Yes, she
was.

Sweat flowed. Her knees trembled.

Her hands dropped.

Hantìa struck. Blade in. Blade out.

The gash tore Jani’s left arm from elbow to wrist. The wireweave
worked its magic, making vessel-grown nerves sing as though real. One note.
High and long. Rose-pink carrier welled and dripped, squelching beneath her
shoes as she dodged Hantìa’s follow-up.

“
Bring your hands up! Cover—!”
Ischi’s shout, silenced
mid-warning.

No coaching allowed.
Jani raised her hands just in time to
avert another blow. Carrier flowed down her arm and coated her hand. It didn’t
clot as quickly as blood. It would remain liquid for the balance of the fight.
She’d drop her knife if she tried to switch hands.

Her heart pounded. Skipped a beat. A side stitch stabbed like an
internal knife. Hantìa’s face wavered. The room darkened.

Jani’s heart skipped again, then slowed. Like new life, the pain
ebbed. She knew why.

Hantìa again closed in, arms spread wide, torso exposed.

You owe me!
augie shouted.
Hit her now!

Jani ignored the fatal opening. She blocked another thrust with
her injured left arm. Found her chance. Slipped her blade through.

Hantìa jumped back, blood streaming from the hack across her right
bicep. Her dominant arm. Jani saw her wince as she tried to grip her blade.
Heard the mutters from the Vynshàrau side of the room, the muffled “yes” from
hers. She could hear the rasp of Hantìa’s pained-tinged breathing. See every
bead of sweat on her face. Smell the syrup sweetness of the carrier mingled
with the metal tang of blood.

Time slowed. Motion. Jani saw Hantìa’s answering blow coming as if
she’d announced it. She swept aside the blade edge with her right arm, driving
the Vynshàrau back toward the wall, taking the cut as she knocked the knife
from her hand.
Follow it in.
She did.
Grab her around the neck.
She did, the slickness of her left hand forcing her to grip Hantìa’s throat so
tightly she could feel the pulse.

Either side of the neck. Just under the jaw. Do it. Do it!

Jani pressed Hantìa against the wall. Pushed tip of blade against
hollow of throat. Saw, for one fleeting moment, the alarm in the Vynshàrau’s cracked
marble eyes.

Then she stepped back. “
Declaration is made.”
She switched
the blade to her left hand. No matter if it slipped now. Edge to right forearm,
taking care to avoid the bandage. Back. Forth.

Somebody screamed. It wasn’t her.

“Finished!” Nema bounded to his feet. “A marvelous fight, and
truly. Full of hate—a glorious thing!” He swept toward them, eyes alight. “My
Eyes and Ears’ first declaration. When she turns my age, her arms will look as
mine, I predict!”

“I’d be dead by then.” Jani opened her left hand and let the blade
fall. Metal clacked softly against coated flooring.

“No, no, no. You will be most gloriously alive.” Nema picked up
the blade, turned to his side of the room, and lifted it above his head. His
eyes focused in Cèel’s direction, he lowered it slowly and wiped the edges on
his sleeves, leaving behind ragged smears to complement the neat red trim.

Hantìa approached her. “You are cut more than me.” She sounded
disappointed. “I should demand rematch.” She grasped Jani’s left wrist and
turned it, examining the wounded animandroid flesh. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Hantìa nodded, her tone as clinical as John’s at his most
detached. “Mine, also.” She studied the cuts on Jani’s other arm, touching the
self-inflicted one that signaled the end of the bout. “The wound you gave
yourself is worse than the one I gave you.”

“No surprise there.”

Jani turned, catching herself just before it devolved to a wobble.
“Good morning, Doctor.”

Pimentel scowled. “Good morning, Captain. It’s been hours.” He
wore medwhites instead of summerweights. A woman stood behind him. She wore
medwhites, too, and a stunned expression. She also toted a sling bag. Without
being asked, she reached into the bag, pulled out a stylus, and handed it to
Pimentel.

“Let’s see how far gone you are.” He frowned as he stepped around
the carrier drying on the floor. Then he activated the stylus and flicked the
light in Jani’s eyes.

Red light. Pulsing. This time, she wobbled.

“We have to get you out of here now.” Pimentel pocketed the stylus
and gripped Jani by the elbow.

“No!” Nema’s hand locked around Pimentel’s wrist. “She cannot go.
There are ceremonies. There are—”

“NìRau ti nìRau.” Jani slipped her fingers around Pimentel’s wrist
and pried Nema’s fingers away. “I’m wearing a security chip on a time release.
I have to go back.”

“But your first
àlérine!
”

“NìRau.” Pimentel massaged his abused wrist. “She should never
have left the base in the first place.” His voice shook. “She is sick, weak, in
the first stages of augie overdrive, and if I don’t get her back to Sheridan
within thirty minutes, there isn’t a pin block in existence that will stop her
from going into shock.”

“
À lérine
must be properly closed.” Cèel swept through the
Vynshàrau gathering. On closer examination, his face looked familiar. If Val
Parini could be jaundiced and stretched, he could pass for the Oligarch’s twin.
“You forced this, Tsecha. Now we are to be cheated of what small order we could
have salvaged.” His English held only the barest born-sect throatiness. His
clipped disapproval was more easily detected.

Nema rounded his shoulders. “My nìa won.”

“No finesse. No beauty. She beat back nìaRauta Hantìa like Haárin.
Like humanish. The fight ended before it began.” Cèel’s chin jutted. Since he
had typical Vynshàrau bones, he had a lot to jut. “I could declare it no fight
at all.”

In other words, your girl lost, so you’re kicking the gameboard
over.
Jani fingered the bout-ending wound on her right arm. “If that was no
fight, why am I bleeding?” She held up her arm in front of Cèel’s face. He
didn’t look at her, of course, but he knew she was there. “
I found opening.
I disarmed. I won.
” She slipped easily into the stylized posture of High
Vynshàrau, despite the growing agitation caused by augie’s dressing up and finding
nowhere to go. “
I should challenge you for questioning me.
” She raised
her left hand, palm facing down, and turned her head to the right in injured
pride. “
I do challenge you for questioning me.”

Vynshàrau and humanish fell silent.

Cèel looked at her in his periphery. His eyes were unusual for a
Vynshàrau, neither brown nor gold but a pale sea green that contrasted sharply
with the tarnished gilt of his skin. “You have no right or cause to challenge
me,” he said in English. “You do not understand hierarchy.”

“But lousy sportsmanship, nìRau, I understand perfectly.” She
turned her back on Cèel’s puzzled glower. “Ask my teacher to explain it to you.
He has the handheld.” She headed for the exit. Pimentel hurried after her,
followed by his colleague.

Nema cut past, around, and through to catch Jani up. Desjarlais at
his best never moved better. “Your first declaration.” He sounded giddy.

“Hantìa had been training as a Temple archivist.” Jani touched the
wall every so often just to make sure it was there. “Instead, she’s here as an
examiner. You forced her to change her life’s work. Then you brought her here,
because you knew she would challenge me. You knew if she did, it would force
Cèel to acknowledge me because they share skein. Gotten devious in our old age,
haven’t we, nìRau?”

“You are angry, nìa?” Nema’s voice wavered in disbelief.

“You set me up.”

“You must assert yourself as my heir, nìa. You must fight for your
acceptance.”

“I am not your heir! I will never be your heir!” She darted out
the doors and toward the first vehicle she saw, a Service grey triple-length
with a caduceus and two silver stars etched on the rear door. She turned to
Pimentel. “Carvalla’s staff car?”

“It’s fast.” Pimentel closed in behind her. “Hals told me what
happened. Somebody at the JA is going to get their ass handed to them on a
plate.” He yanked up the door and pushed Jani inside. The other doctor followed
close at his heels; Burkett, to her surprise, brought up the rear. He yanked
the gullwing closed. The vehicle shuddered.

“Let’s go!” Burkett thumped the privacy shield with his fist. The
skimmer lumbered out of the courtyard, then picked up speed as it hit the
skimway.

“How are you feeling?” Pimentel again flicked the stylus
in Jani’s eyes. Muttering darkly at whatever he saw, he dug into the sling bag
and pulled out a larger scanner with an attached sphygmomanometer cuff.

“Flicking red lights in a challenge room—you’re lucky Cèel didn’t
ask you to choose your weapon.” Jani rested her head against the seat back. The
smooth leather felt odd. Damp.

“So is he.” Pimentel wrapped the cuff around Jani’s right arm, but
as soon as he hit the contraction pad, the pressure caused blood to well in the
gashes. “I need to close those wounds.”

Jani sniffed. The upholstery smelled, too, like wet rodents. “You
can’t close them. They have to heal naturally.”

Pimentel punched at the scanner pad. The device squeaked in
protest. “It looks like someone went after your arms with a piece of sheet
metal.” He took the blood pressure reading, then stripped off the cuff. “Even
with your augie, they’re going to scar.”

“They’re supposed to.” The smell intensified. Her stomach churned.
“The uglier the better. It means your hatred has been well and truly declared.”

A ripple of dismay crossed Burkett’s face as he watched Pimentel
scrabble with his equipment. “What did Tsecha mean when he called you his
‘heir’?”

Jani found Burkett’s queasiness amusing, which told her how badly
off she was. “You’re aware of my medical history?”

A sharp nod, followed by hesitation. “You’re turning into one of
them.”

“No, not completely. I’m hybridizing. The ambassador thinks after
I hybridize completely into a half-human, half-idomeni, I can begin training as
his religious replacement.”

“Chief propitiator of the Vynshàrau!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You won’t have to worry about that once Gene Therapeutics gets
started on you,” Pimentel muttered as he and the trauma surgeon took turns
attaching pin blocks leads.

“My God.” Burkett rested his head against the seat back. “I hope I
did the right thing letting you fight Hantìa.”

“You would have insulted the Oligarch if you hadn’t.” Jani paused.
The damp rat smell had ramped to an appalling stench, and she tried to breathe
through her mouth and talk at the same time. “Then who knows, he might have
challenged you.” She smiled. Cruelty could be fun, with the right target. “I’d
brush up on my bladework if I were, sir. You may need it.”

Burkett looked at her. Outside, the workday was just beginning for
most inhabitants of Chicago, but his long face already showed the effects of a
head-on collision between a rough morning and an afternoon that promised more
of the same. “You held your augie in check during that fight. I could tell.”