Red Seas Under Red Skies Read Online Free PDF Page B

opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow—what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.
    â€œGentlemen,” said the younger duelist’s second. “Please. Can there be no accommodation?”
    â€œIf the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation,” added the younger duelist. His voice was high and nervous. “I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—”
    â€œNo, there
cannot
,” said the man standing beside the older duelist. “His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact.”
    â€œâ€¦with the
merest recognition
,” continued the young duelist, desperately, “that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—”
    â€œWere he to condescend to speak to you again,” said the older duelist’s second, “his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a
bitch
, and would inquire as to whether you’re equally capable of biting like one.”
    The younger duelist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.
    â€œI am forced,” said his second, “I am, ah, forced…to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand…back-to-back.”
    The two opponents walked toward each other—the older man marched with vigor while the younger still stepped hesitantly—and turned their backs to each other.
    â€œYou shall have ten paces,” said the younger man’s second, with bitter resignation. “Wait then, and on my signal, you may turn and loose.”
    Slowly he counted out the steps; slowly the two opponents walked away from each other. The younger man was shaking very badly indeed. Locke felt a ball of unaccustomed tension growing in his own stomach. Since when had he become such a damned softhearted fellow? Just because he preferred not to watch didn’t mean he should be afraid to do so…yet the feeling in his stomach paid no heed to the thoughts in his head.
    â€œâ€¦nine…ten. Stand fast,” said the young duelist’s second. “Stand fast….
Turn and loose!
”
    The younger man whirled first, his face a mask of terror; he threw out his right hand and let fly. A sharp twang sounded across the green. His opponent didn’t even jerk back as the bolt hissed through the air beside his head, missing by at least the width of a hand.
    The red-jacketed old man completed his own turn more slowly, his eyes bright and his mouth set into a scowl. His younger opponent stared at him for several seconds, as though trying to will his bolt to come flying back like a trained bird. He shuddered, lowered his crossbow, and then threw it down to the grass. With his hands on his hips, he stood waiting, breathing in deep and noisy gulps.
    His opponent regarded him briefly, then snorted. “Be fucked,” he said, and he raised his crossbow in both hands. His shot was perfect; there was a wet crack and the younger duelist toppled with a feathered bolt dead in the center of his chest. He fell onto his back, clawing at his coat and tunic, spitting up dark blood. Half a dozen spectators rushed toward him, while one young woman in a silver evening gown fell to her knees and screamed.
    â€œWe’ll get back just in time for dinner,” said the older duelist to nobody in particular. He tossed his own crossbow carelessly to the ground behind him and stomped off toward one of the nearby chance houses, with his second at his side.
    â€œSweet fucking Perelandro,” said Locke, forgetting Leocanto Kosta for a moment and thinking out loud. “What a way to manage things.”
    â€œYou don’t approve, sir?” A lovely young woman in a black silk dress regarded Locke with disconcertingly