"There were two things," Macurdy said, "that I was supposed to do on this campaign. One was to punish the empire for laying waste to Kormehr, and for the Rape at Ferny Cove. The other was to get a treaty of peace to last forever, with a pledge of trade without tariffs, and an exchange of ambassadors. I've been told you're the emperor's chief counselor; I came to talk terms."

Quaie snorted derisively, drawing annoyed glances from the rest of the staff and a sharp look from Cyncaidh.

"You understand," Cyncaidh said, "that my authority is limited. Any terms we might work out will be tentative, pending the emperor's signature. Who on your side needs to sign?"

"Just me. My authority's good."

In the name of all those kings and chiefs?! Even with the Dynast behind the man, Cyncaidh was surprised. And momentarily uncomfortable with it. It greatly expedited matters, but it felt-almost indecent for things to be so simple. "Are you hungry, Commander?" he asked. "Perhaps you'd like lunch first."

"I ate in the saddle."

"Then I suggest we begin an exploratory discussion now."

"Good. I'm ready."

One might almost be hopeful, Cyncaidh told himself. No arrogance, no posturing, no petty jockeying. He gestured at the men around the table. "While the authority here is mine, Commander, these lords may have questions or suggestions, or information to contribute, and they will witness any tentative agreement we may come to. On my left are Lord General A'raiel, Lord General Quaie…"

At Quaie's name, Macurdy got so abruptly to his feet, he knocked over his folding chair, freezing the others where they sat. "You expect me to sit down with the Butcher of Kormehr? The Rapist of Ferny Cove?" He hawked, and spat on the floor. Quaie sent his own chair toppling backward then, hand on his saber hilt. Macurdy, in response, reached for his.

For just an instant Cyncaidh was dismayed, then realized that neither man's aura showed rage. Macurdy's showed what might be satisfaction, Quaie's restrained glee. Cyncaidh understood Quaie's motivation: the man was famous as a fencer, a master of the saber.

"My lords!" he said sharply, "control yourselves!"

Each man stopped short of drawing his weapon.

"This peasant has insulted me in words and act," Quaie answered coldly, then turned his glare to Macurdy. "I challenge you to duel."

Cyncaidh was prepared to veto this; he had the authority, and the political repercussions of frustrating Quaie's bloody intention were far more acceptable than those of Macurdy's death. And surely Quaie would win. "My lords-" he began firmly, but Macurdy overrode the words.

"Among civilized people," Macurdy said, "if one challenges, the other chooses the weapon. Are you civilized, Quaie?"

Cyncaidh held back then. Macurdy had something in mind. Best to wait, see what this meant, and step in later if need be.

Quaie was taken aback for only a moment, for he was an expert at spear fencing too, and no other alternative occurred to him. He smiled mockingly. "By all means, human. I've been training and dueling for more years than you've lived. Choose as you wish."

Macurdy held up his large hands, thick palmed, the fingers hooked. "Hands," he said calmly. "We'll fight with bare hands."

Cyncaidh expected Quaie to refuse. Wrestling was popular among ylver in pre-adolescence, but not later, while fist fighting was considered uncouth, suited only to slaves. And Macurdy was clearly far stronger than Quaie. So the ylf lord's answer bewildered Cyncaidh. "Perfect! Perfect!" Qauie said. "Hands it will be!"

"My lords," Cyncaidh said firmly, "I cannot allow this."

It was Macurdy, not Quaie, who foiled him. "Chief Counselor," he said, "if you disallow this, I'll ride back to my army today."

Quaie smirked. "Indeed, Lord General, let the boy take his punishment. He will learn from it." Then he turned and walked out the door, Macurdy close behind. And for almost the first time since adolescence, Cyncaidh had no notion of what to do in a situation. He simply followed them into the sunshine, his staff dumbfounded at his heels.

"And how," said Quaie, "do we decide the victor? Shall we fight till one of us cannot continue? Or surrenders? I do owe you the option of quitting, I suppose."

"We fight till one is dead," Macurdy answered.

"Ah. To the death then." Quaie removed his tunic and undershirt, Macurdy following suit. Then they faced off, Quaie tall, slender and sinewy, Macurdy nearly as tall and strongly muscled. Cyncaidh had no idea what Quaie had in mind. His fists weren't even clenched; his hands were poised half open.

"Tell me when you're ready," Quaie said.

"I'm ready."

Quaie stepped forward, at the same time ducking, and his left hand darted toward Macurdy. Macurdy's right fist drove in a compact, hooking arc, striking Quaie hard on the side of the face, smashing him backward. For a long moment the ylf sat stunned and blinking on the ground, blood trickling from a gash on one cheekbone. Even before he got to his feet, the cheek had begun to darken and swell, as if the bone was broken. And the smirk was gone; Cyncaidh saw fear and rage in Quaie's aura now.

"Always look up, Quaie," Macurdy said mildly.

When Quaie got up, Macurdy moved in again. A hammer fist shot out, striking Quaie on the nose, and once more the ylf went down hard, blood flowing freely.

"That's called a left jab. The one before was a right hook."

Quaie stayed down seconds longer this time, gathering his wits and resolution, then rolled to hands and knees as if to get up. But instead, as he began to rise, he lunged at Macurdy's legs. Macurdy started to step backward, but Quaie grabbed his left knee with both hands-and Macurdy roared with pain, flinging backward and landing on his buttocks.

Now it was Quaie who stood. Shock fingers! Clearly his talent went well beyond the ylvin norm, regardless of his public attitude. And to interfere now, after the humiliation and injuries he'd suffered, would bring severe censure, Cyncaidh realized, even from the many who disliked Quaie. The Emperor would have no choice but to dismiss him, not only as chief counselor, but from the Council and military command.

Blood flowing from his nose, Quaie began to circle Macurdy. "You see," he said, "the hands are good for more than striking blows." Macurdy swiveled on his tailbone as if to kick out in defense. Quaie feinted a grab, drew a kick by Macurdy's right foot, and snatched it. Again Macurdy roared with pain, rocking backward.

Quaie let him go and began circling again. Macurdy, pale and twitching, had trouble pivoting now. Quaie could easily have gone for his temples, where the shock would have killed, but he preferred to gloat first. "I've heard that shock fingers applied to the genitals shrivel them forever. When I've paralyzed you, Commander, I'll try it."

Cyncaidh took a single step toward Quaie; shock fingers couldn't harm him, prepared as he was, and he couldn't let this continue, regardless of the consequences to himself. But he moved too late. Macurdy, still dazed, had raised a hand toward Quaie-and from it a fist-sized ball of glowing plasma appeared! For just an instant it floated there, then shot out to strike the ylf in the midriff. Quaie shrieked and flung backward, his abdomen a gaping, steaming, messy hole, to lie bulge-eyed, conspicuously, bonelessly dead. The onlookers stood stunned, slack-jawed.

More than Cyncaidh and his staff had witnessed the fight and its uncanny finish. Various soldiers, though keeping their distance, had paused in their activities to watch and listen more or less covertly. Now they stood frozen, mouths open. Cyncaidh, suddenly aware of them, shouted, "Soldiers! If you have things to do, get about them! If you don't, I'll see you're given some!"

They scurried like rabbits.