"I would be delighted to oblige, Red Lord," he said carefully, "but I have recently endured a long and debilitating sickness-not contagious, no need to worry!-and I'm not really up for a sword fight at the moment."

"If you will not stand against your accuser, Lord Fox, we must rule that his claims are founded in truth and judge accordingly," the Red Lord said. "How can it be otherwise?"

"Perhaps I could designate a proxy?" Jack asked.

"In the kingdoms of the Faceless Lords, no such practice exists," the Red Lord intoned. "Why, you might choose a proxy based on nothing more than sheer physical skill for the purpose of gaining an unfair advantage!"

"That would never occur to me," Jack said, pure sincerity in his voice. "It was the farthest thought from my mind." He licked his lips and rubbed his hands nervously at his hips. "What of a battle of wits, then? Or a contest of balancing plates upon our heads? If Lord Panther is challenging me, don't I as the challenged have the privilege of choosing the weapons?"

"All true gentlemen know well how to argue with their blades," the Red Lord said, "and, if you have the strength of your convictions to shield you, no harm can possibly come to you. Now will you meet Lord Panther's challenge or not?"

Jack let the silence stretch so long that the gathering crowd began to grow restless. He might have ignored them despite the approbation in their eyes, but his gaze fell on Illyth. Even through the mask, he could see the mortification in her downcast face and slumping shoulders.

He couldn't disappoint her on the first night of the Game. "I accept the challenge," he declared in a ringing voice. "Lord Panther has allowed your fine drink to addle his wits, my lord. I would rather not fight a man in such a state and did earnestly make every effort to avoid this passage of arms. I only hope that I can avoid injuring him in some lasting way!"

"Not only do I call you a thief, but a braggart and a buffoon!" Panther said. "By Tyr's sainted ears, don't you ever shut up?"

A servant trotted up to the Red Lord, bearing a large wooden case. He opened it and bowed, presenting two fine, matched blades to the Faceless Lord. The cloaked figure studied the swords for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction.

"Clear a circle fifteen paces across, in the center of the floor!" he commanded. The crowd surged back in response to his voice. Conversation fell to an excited buzz as the players whispered and speculated.

Jack found himself standing on one side, a gleaming sword in his hand, watching Lord Panther stalk back and forth, working his muscles to loosen up. The other man seemed bigger, stronger, and not anywhere near as drunk as he should have been.

"Jack, please be careful," Illyth begged.

"I cannot abide his insults," Jack said calmly. "Justice must be attended to."

The Red Lord moved to the center of the circle and raised his hands. "Gentlemen, shall three touches serve honor tonight?"

"Fine," grunted Lord Panther.

"Of course," Jack replied.

"Excellent. Whoever leaves the circle, loses his weapon, or asks for quarter shall lose on the instant. When I lower my hand, you may commence." The Red Lord backed away, his arm high. Then he dropped it like an executioner's axe.

"Have at you!" Panther bellowed. He leaped forward, lashing out in a head-high cut that might have decapitated Jack outright if the smaller man hadn't ducked under the swing. Jack riposted with a sturdy thrust straight ahead, but Lord Panther twisted his lean hips and allowed Jack's point to glide past without making contact. Panther countered with a backhanded slash under Jack's blade, and now Jack had to leap as far as he could straight up into the air, drawing his feet up under his body and grunting with effort. "Ho! Stand still!"

"Careful!" Jack said. "You might hurt someone."

He dashed aside, and spent the next ten or twenty heartbeats darting round and round inside the circle, trying to stay ahead of Lord Panther's powerful swings. The man was no casual student of swordplay-he was well acquainted with what he was doing, and he didn't seem to care if a "touch" took off one of Jack's limbs by mistake. When Jack tried to stand his ground, the man launched a reckless flurry of slashes and thrusts that instantly threw the rogue into complete defense, ducking and parrying to keep Panther's blade at some safer distance. He decided he'd picked the wrong man to pickpocket.

"Stand and fight!'' the lord roared.

Two quick passes of the blades, and then Lord Panther hammered through Jack's guard and slammed the blade into the thief's upper thigh, a blow that spun Jack to the ground and made the dueling sword flash a brilliant white light. The bystanders gasped and roared in delight.

"One touch for Lord Panther!" the Red Lord cried.

Stunned, Jack gingerly felt for his wound, expecting to see his blood pouring out of a gash half a hand deep, but he felt nothing, other than a deep, shocking sting. He rolled over and looked at his leg. There wasn't a mark on him. The swords, he realized. They're enchanted! They don't cut!

"Do you yield?" his opponent snarled.

"Hardly," Jack said. He pushed himself to his feet. His left leg would stiffen up later, but for now it held his weight well enough. He could take a sting or two. "A child's blow, feebly struck. I permitted it so that you would not lose your spirit."

"Excellent," the Panther said. "I shall endeavor to strike you harder then!"

"Continue!" the Red Lord commanded.

Lord Panther charged up fast, his blade flashing, but this time Jack dived forward and rolled up underneath his opponent's guard. He felt Panther's sword miss the crown of his head by inches, whickering past his ear, and then he stabbed the point of his own blade into Panther's groin. The blade flashed white and jolted in Jack's hand, imparting its painful message.

"Ha!" he cried.

The audience groaned in dismay. Lord Panther made a strangled sound and dropped to his hands and knees beside Jack.

"Basely struck," he gasped.

"One touch for Lord Fox," the Red Lord said. Some in the audience hissed in disapproval. "That was an ignoble blow, sir."

"My apologies, lord," Jack said, scrambling to his feet. He hopped away on his good leg, grinning devilishly. "I thought my opponent was shorter. Would you care to yield?"

Lord Panther climbed to his feet and stood a moment with his hands on his knees. "I'm not ready to yield yet," he said slowly. With great care, he straightened up and swung his blade slowly left to right, right to left, as if reminding himself of its weight.

"Gentlemen, continue," the Red Lord said.

This time, both combatants circled cautiously. Thrust and parry, thrust and parry, the blades clanged against each other with shrill rings. Jack held his own for a time, although he recognized that Panther was a better swordsman than he-and then Lord Panther launched a feint that caught Jack squarely on his weakened left leg, and as Jack's knee buckled, Panther reversed his attack and whipped the blade of his sword fast and hard against the back of the rogue's head.

White lights exploded in Jack's eyes. He tumbled to the marble floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His right ear was filled with a roaring sound that wouldn't go away, and the sword went skittering from his hand across the stone. He lay on his back, staring at the bright lights popping in front of his eyes for what seemed to be just a moment. Then he drifted down into deep, soft, darkness.

The next thing Jack knew, he found himself staring up at a lovely, pastoral scene of green fields and dancing nymphs, his skull aching as if it had been split in two. He was in a small, dark-paneled room, resting on a large, soft divan. The ceiling was painted elaborately and finished with a lovely gold filigree, framing the picture above him. There was no sign of the Red Lord or Lord Panther or any of the other guests.