Duke Raskod of Issos also had heirs, two sons and a daughter. One of the sons was feeble-witted, and neither of them was with him at Castle Ranit. Instead he'd brought his famous harem, or at least part of it. Blade counted six good-looking young women taking the air outside a closely guarded tent. Duke Raskod himself was nowhere in sight, but this didn't surprise Blade. The Duke was known all over the Crimson River lands for his laziness. He wouldn't be up much before breakfast unless his camp caught fire.

The thought of breakfast made Blade aware that he'd worked up an appetite touring the camps. He mounted his horse and rode back to the castle. On the way he saw a man walking alone beside the road. From a distance he looked so much like Chenosh that he drew rein.

«Lord Chenosh! May I offer you-oh, sorry.» The man wore a merchant's garb, covered with dust and patches. He also stooped slightly, and his mustached face was much darker than Chenosh's. Blade rode on.

Blade ate an immense breakfast, alone except for Chenosh, who came in as he was nearly finished. Chenosh was freshly bathed, impressively dressed, and generally looking more like a Duke's heir than Blade had ever seen him. At least he would have looked this role if he hadn't been so obviously nervous. He ate little, drank less, kept looking everywhere except at Blade, and nearly jumped out of his seat at every unexpected noise. Blade was glad to see that someone else in Castle Ranit was also on edge!

As Chenosh finished eating, the trumpets and drums sounded to summon everyone to the dueling field.

Duke Padro's numerous enemies all admitted that he had at least one skill. He was an expert with the Feathered Ones, so much so that he hardly needed a Master of the Feathers. It was Duke Padro of Gualdar himself who strode forward onto the dueling field, carrying Gualdar's chosen champion. His Master of the Feathers followed at a respectful distance.

Padro set down the silk-covered cage, removed the cover, and let out Gualdar's champion, Posass. Posass was smaller than Cheeky, but beautifully groomed, with a silk vest and a belt of gold links. He was sleek and almost fat compared to Cheeky, but he moved well. Blade could also pick out the scars under the elegant feathers. Posass hadn't become the champion of a demanding master by sitting in his cage.

Now Blade strode forward, Cheeky riding casually on his shoulder. When they reached the center of the field, the monkey jumped down.

Duke Padro pulled at his mustache and stared at him.

«That is your champion?»

«Do you doubt the word of Duke Cyron of Nainan?» said Blade.

«No, I-«Padro's olive skin turned darker. «This isn't a joke?»

«No, it's a Feathered One,» said Blade. Padro's confusion was understandable. Cheeky's feathers looked even worse than they had when Blade found him, and skilled makeup by Chenosh made him look not only half-starved but diseased. He sat quietly at his master's feet, listlessly picking at a bald spot just above one knee.

«As you wish,» said Padro. «But if there is any joke today, it will not be one the men of Nainan will find amusing. I want to double the Duke's wager, and give odds of three to one.»

Blade did quick mental arithmetic. The Duke's wager on a duel of champion Feathered Ones was two thousand gold marks. That was a respectable sum for even Duke Cyron to find, and it would cripple Padro. Four thousand marks would nearly cripple Cyron if Cheeky lost. To be sure, Padro could never pay twelve thousand if he lost. Cyron would own him body and soul. Still, the duel had suddenly become more dangerous for Nainan than Blade liked.

He was turning to look at Cyron when a harsh voice shouted from the other side of the field. «Three to one, with that to fight? What's wrong with Posass, Padro? Or is it something wrong with your heart?»

Blade recognized the voice, and wanted to cheer. It was Duke Garon of Ney, who openly despised Padro as unworthy of his rank. He couldn't have picked better words to drive his young rival into doing something stupid, or a better time to say them.

Padro's smooth, carefully manicured fingers writhed like snakes. They were itching for a sword, or perhaps Garon's throat. Then Padro took a deep breath. «Well, Lord Blade. Have you the power to agree? Eight to one it will be, if you'll raise the stake to six thousand marks.»

Losing six thousand marks would hardly leave Duke Cyron with two brass coins to rub together. On the other hand, forty-eight thousand marks was more money than any three Duchies in the Crimson River could pay. If Cheeky won, Duke Cyron would own not just Gualdar but everything in it, down to the Lords' underclothing and the newest-born lamb on the poorest peasant's holding.

Blade didn't want to agree to something like this without consulting Cyron. But he felt Padro's eyes on him, and from across the field Duke Garon's as well. Delay might look suspicious, at a time when the smallest suspicion could spoil everything. There was nothing to do but agree. «I speak for my Duke,» he said. «He will pay six thousand marks if your champion lives up to his name. You, of course, will pay eight times that if our Cheeky is better than he looks.»

Padro's only reply was a snort of laughter which told Blade clearly what he thought of that possibility.

The necessary oaths were taken quickly, with Cyron, Blade, and Breeder Romiss swearing for Nainan. Padro, his Master of the Feathers, and Duke Garon swore for Gualdar. Blade couldn't understand why Garon would join in an oath taking on the side of an enemy, until Alsin explained.

«Garon has no love for Padro, but he also has little gold of his own. As an oath sharer, he will profit by Padro's victory.»

«And lose by his defeat?»

«Yes.» Alsin grinned unpleasantly.

By now it was another of the Crimson River's hot summer days. Blade stepped aside and held a final «talk» with Cheeky. Don't take too many risks, was the message he tried to send.

Thank you, but I have my pride, too, was how Blade understood the reply. He caught an image of Cheeky standing in front of all the other Feathered Ones at the Breeder's castle. They were all making gestures of submission. Maybe Cheeky didn't understand everything that was at stake for the humans in this fight, but he knew what he wanted to get out of it. He wanted the respect of the other Feathered Ones who had scorned and despised him.

For the first half-hour of the fight, Cheeky played the fool. It was hard for anyone except his master to be sure he was trying to fight at all. Posass started the duel by turning his buttocks and waving his tail in contempt for such a wretched opponent. Cheeky didn't quite make the gestures of submission. That would have been conceding the fight on the spot. He did continue to sit quietly, however, picking at his bald spot and looking everywhere but at his opponent.

Then Posass charged, holding his jeweled dagger high so as to end the fight with a single quick downward stab. At this sight Cheeky seemed to panic. He squealed like a frightened piglet, jumped completely over his opponent, and landed behind him. A shout rose as everyone saw he now had a clear stroke at his opponent's back. He didn't even draw his dagger, but instead ran to the far side of the field.

He stopped only a few yards from Duke Garon, who laughed savagely. «Send someone back to your castle to start counting out the marks, Cyron!» he shouted. Then he spat into the field, narrowly missing Cheeky. Blade grinned. Garon couldn't have done anything more calculated to provoke Cheeky to fight even harder.

Cheeky now drew his dagger and ran back out onto the field, but kept well away from Posass. It was Posass's turn to sit quietly. He seemed to be having trouble figuring out what was going on.

«Is your champion slow-witted?» Blade shouted at Padro. «Doesn't he know there's a fight on?»