Malcolm grinned. "This isn't a dojo, Miss Margo."

"And it sure as hell ain't a high school match," Kit added dryly. "We're here to see how you can fight. If you want to discuss customs and courtesies in the competitive arena, go talk to an etiquette master."

Malcolm rose easily. Margo scrambled to her feet, mastering a huffy glare on the way up. "All right," she muttered "Let's see you try that again. This time, I'll be watching."

Malcolm moved in fast and grappled her, using classic Greco-Roman grappling styles. The unexpected move completely flummoxed Margo. She staggered backward, trying to extricate herself from wrestling holds she didn't have the strength or technique to break.

"Hey! What is this?" She tried stamping on Malcolm's instep. He picked her up, leading to chuckles from across the gym. Interested spectators had halted all pretense of continuing any workouts.

Kit suppressed a grin, wisely deciding that laughing at her would be a mistake. Wordlessly, he separated them. Margo stood glaring and huffing for breath. Malcolm offered a polite bow which she ignored icily.

"All right," Kit said, stepping off the mat once more, "let's see what else you can do."

She turned that alley-cat glare on him-and Malcolm came in fast. But this time he didn't catch her off guard. Margo snapped out a beautifully executed snap kick, lifting her knee and extending her leg so fast it was difficult to follow the motion. Her foot brushed Malcolm's cheek. That kick would've scored wonderfully on the sporting circuit. If she'd kicked him in the nose or forehead, she might even have rendered him unconscious.

Unfortunately for Margo, neither Malcolms nose nor his forehead were in the right spot. He kept coming. Margo's heel sailed straight over his shoulder. Before she could snap back from the unexpected move, she found herself on the floor, in exactly the same position as before with Malcolm between her knees.

"It's not fair!" she wailed. "That would've knocked him out!"

Kit nodded. "Yep, if you'd actually kicked hell out of him, it probably would've. But you didn't."

"Look, I don't want to break your friend's face!"

Malcolm chuckled. "I appreciate your concern, Miss Margo." He let her up, and she rubbed her wrists, then eased a strained muscle in her thigh.

Kit said, "Take five."

He went back to the equipment room and found sparring helmets, gloves, and padded shoes, then returned to find Mango glowering silently at Malcolm. "Okay, this should be pretty much like what you used in karate competitions."

She eyed the equipment dubiously.

Oh, great. "Let me guess? You never did any full contact competitions?"

"Well, no," she admitted. "We always pulled the punches short and made sure the kicks didn't connect. Our high school didn't have money for this kind of stuff."

Kit thought dark thoughts at any school administration that would allow kids to risk injury in a "sport" that was designed to cripple and kill, then showed her how the padded helmet worked. Similar to the leather helmets boxers wore, it was made of soft plastic, with a big pad across the forehead and down the sides of the face, straps under the jaw; and a pad that extended around the sides of the head a bit. Malcolm strapped on his own helmet, then slipped into shoes and gloves while Margo struggled with hers.

When she was ready, she said uncertainly, "I still don't want to cripple him or anything."

Kit nodded. "Just make him go oof and I'll be happy"

"Okay."

Once again, Malcolm charged in, giving her almost no time to react. Margo executed a side check kick and hit him right across the pelvis. He said "oof!" and stopped abruptly. As he folded over, Margo hit him just above his right ear with her left fist. Another sharp "oof!" accompanied the punch. Margo struck with her right fist across the back of the skull on his way down. A third ludicrous "oof!" tore loose. When his face hit the mat, a final, muffled oof ..."prompted grins all across the gym.

Margo said sweetly, "You mean, like those four?"

Kit just looked at her. "Aren't you going to finish him off?"

From near Margo's feet, Malcolm muttered into the mat, "Oh, God, don't encourage her."

Kit chuckled and nudged him with an unsympathetic toe. "C'mon, Malcolm, get up and do it again. This doesn't prove she's any good, it just proves you've gotten overconfident."

Margo huffed and crossed her arms.

Malcolm scraped himself off the mat and stood up, moving a little awkwardly. Kit grinned. "What's the matter, Malcolm? A little slow on the rebound?"

"You," Malcolm muttered, "are a pain."

"Every chance I get.

Malcolm charged without warning. Margo threw up another check kick, but Malcolm stopped short, leaving the kick whistling through empty air. By the time she'd finished executing it, she was turned away from him. Malcolm rushed in gleefully. Kit winced and braced himself for Margo's wail of protest Her back was toward him as Malcolm rushed forward

Then she astonished them both.

Margo stepped toward Malcolm. When he hit her, Margo brought her elbow straight back with the forearm parallel to floor, fist clenched, palm up. She leaned into it and hit him in the solar plexus. He snapped forward with an ugly sound that caused Kit to grimace in sympathy. Margo dropped as he did, then grabbed him around the neck with both arms and jerked him forward. Poor Malcolm landed dead on his backside with Margo balanced lightly on her feet behind him. She grabbed his hair in her gloved fist and punched him in the base of the skull with her right hand, pulling the punch so that it just popped him.

While Malcolms eyes and nose streamed wetness, Margo said even more sweetly, "You mean finish him off like that?"

Kit crossed his arms to hide his amusement. He didn't want Margo getting cocky. Poor Malcolm was blinking and struggling manfully to dry his face with his gloves. "Well, that's one," Kit drawled, "but in a real situation, you always need to kill or cripple at least twice."

"Twice?" Margo echoed. "Oh, so he doesn't surprise you when you think he's down."

When she made to finish Malcolm off again, Kit waved her back.

"No, Malcolm is clearly finished. This time."

The freelance guide glared at Kit as though to say, "Malcolm does not want to play any more. Malcolm is in pain and will pay you back for this, good buddy"

Kit shrugged as though to say, "Who knew?"

Malcolm had struggled to his feet. "You..." he wheezed at Kit, "...should be damned glad Bull doesn't allow litigation lawyers in La-La Land."

"So I should," Kit said mildly. "And so should you. Go one more time."

"Cripes, Kit, what're you trying to do? Give Rachel Eisenstein more business?"

Margo was literally preening.

Kit's grin was entirely unsympathetic. "The day Margo puts you in the hospital is the day I'll eat your shoes. C'mon, buddy. Brace up."

Margo gave him a making bow, carefully keeping her eyes on him. Malcolm groaned and settled himself. "All right," he muttered. "We'll just see."

Malcolm, forced into the role of attacker by the requirements of the sparring session, came in again -- but this time, he surprised her. Malcolm came at her like a trained Tai Kwan Do fighter, throwing a beautiful front snap kick of his own. It knocked her back with an unladylike sound Malcolm charged in flailing, punching with both fists, one-two, one-two. Margo staggered back, moving away, bringing her arms up as he tried to hit her. Then she threw up a hook kick, sweeping his arms down out of the way with her foot. Before he could recover, she punched him twice in the face, using the momentum of her forward motion. As he backed away from her, Margo threw her shoulder into his chest, knocking him backwards. Then she really surprised Kit --- not to mention Malcolm. She grabbed the back of his leading knee and snatched it up past her own hip while continuing to push with her shoulder. Malcolm smacked the mat flat on his back and gave out an ugly "whoof!"