Serpentines lowered the five to the broken ground behind the armored bulk of Del Azarchel, standing patiently.

None of the men carried lights, and this told Menelaus that they were the nycloptic. Menelaus saw silver capes of solar sail material, startlingly bright in the blood-hued gloom against the dark silk of their uniforms. Heavy amulets of dull metallic red gleamed on their wrists. These men were dressed as members of the Hermetic Order, and had bodies, like theirs, able to adjust to a range of environments, and eyes that changed at night to be nocturnal.

It seemed it was the fancy of Del Azarchel to dress these new servants, whoever they were, in the uniform, style, and equipment of his old shipmates of the Hermetic Expedition, some eight thousand two hundred eighty years ago. As if the Beefeaters guarding Buckingham retained the dress and weapons of the nomadic hunting bands of the middle Neolithic: tunics of mastodon leather, spears tipped with leaf-shaped flint.

Montrose found that odd, even chilling.

On the other hand, the armor Montrose wore, and his massive pistol, came from the same year, so he understood the impulse to freeze some of the waters of the river of time, and keep preserved in ice something of the long-dead past, even the uniforms of dead men. Odd, yes, and chilling, but very human.

3. Witnesses and Seconds

Montrose was in his armor, wondering how he had been able, when he was a young man, to stand wearing it for such interminable lengths of time without suffering the desire to scratch. Of course, he never before fought a duel having come just that hour dripping from a rapid-healing coffin, with the bones in his newly unbroken arm still tickling and aching. Always before it had been some enemy selected by his law firm, and the killing had been, to him, merely a task. More difficult and dangerous than some, but just a task.

It had not been personal. It had not been the culmination of countless millennia of unfolding destiny.

The two men, and their Seconds, now advanced on each other. Their footsteps were the only sounds in the area. There were no sounds of birdcalls or nocturnal animals seeking their dens, because all living things within a mile or so had died when the depthtrain tube had been used as an orbital launcher, or when the earth-current had ignited. However, in the distance, nine or ten miles away, clouds gathered against the far side of the Bell, and, cooled by the touch of the outer hull, had begun to precipitate. The rain could be heard, faint and far, washing against the endless height of metallic hardness, and, lower, against the broken hilltops and ice fields. Higher on the Bell, another set of clouds had gathered, but they had snowed, not rained, and an irregular streak of white, like a snowfield of a far mountain peak, could be clearly seen painted against the towerside, gleaming in the brighter light of the higher air.

Montrose spared no glances for this, nor any of the other sights which might possibly prove his last sight evermore. He walked forward, stomach boiling with emotion, his eye not leaving the dark and mocking eyes of his opponent. Neither man had donned his helm yet. Neither man was carrying the cubit-long six-pound sidearm that served him as his dueling weapon.

Midmost stood Alalloel of Lree, to act as judge of honor. Next to her rested two coffins, to act as doctors. Their lids were open, medical fluid warm and hyperoxygenated. Receiving kits attached to the coffin hulls were opened like Swiss Army knives, arms unlimbered and needles shining.

Alalloel was garbed in a skintight jumpsuit of sea green, dark green, and aquamarine, trimmed with black flecks and foam-white surging through rippling patterns set to slow pulsations, ornamented with studs of nacre; but over this was thrown a wide two-leaved cloak of silver hanging from shoulder boards so large as to make her seem childish and frail.

Montrose looked more carefully. It was not a cloak. These were artificial wings of amazingly intricate construction. These must be a version, designed for the human body, of the wings Soorm said he had seen the whales who met her in secret wear.

They were made of silvery feathers that seemed both organic and metallic. Near the base of every vane, atop what would be the calamus had it been an organic feather, was an optical sensor made of logic crystal. There were golden Locust-type tendrils along each rachis of each feather, and other smaller receivers and nodes and ports forming the barbs. When Alalloel shrugged, the wings opened in a splendor of shimmering white, as the wings of an albino peacock, bright with countless eyes.

Montrose noted Del Azarchel staring at the wings for a fraction of a second longer than Del Azarchel would have done had he recognized them. Interesting. Montrose felt his heart begin to beat more strongly, and wondered what emotion was causing it.

It had been a while since he had felt this way: the emotion was hope.

It had been agreed to appoint five Seconds for each of them. Montrose nodded at Mickey, who looked somehow splendid and terrible in his Witching robes, and even the ridiculous decorations of his tall hat looked menacing in the eerie red gloom, as if possessed by hidden powers.

With him stood Sir Guiden the Knight Hospitalier, Scipio the Cryonarch, Soorm the Hormagaunt, Expositor Illiance. Mickey introduced himself and his fellow witnesses to the duel, speaking in Latin. It had been negotiated and agreed that all conversations were to be in this dead language, as most here either knew it, or could follow it with aid of a talking box.

Sir Guy was wearing his hauberk woven of fine, nigh-microscopic five-linked rings. His hood and tunic were black, and his dark surcoat blazed with the white cross of Malta. Gauntlets were on his hands and greaves on his shins. He had turned his smart-ink tattoos to their neutral setting, glow off, and his skin seemed flesh-colored, merely with a rough texture of many fine, dark lines under the skin. Montrose could not recall ever having seen the man’s real face before. His undisguised features were so sad, so calm, and bathed in such an aura of peace, that Montrose understood why he hid behind decorations. It was a face that would neither terrify foes nor inspire the battle-fury in followers.

Scipio’s skull was now whole, and no trace of savant circuits remained in him, for the Iatrocrats had miraculous techniques to accomplish the regrowth and restoration of lost neural tissue and bone cells in a single night which had not existed, or even been dreamed, when Scipio last had lived. From his apparently limitless wardrobe he had had buried with himself, he now wore a uniform of the Cryonarchy from his native decade: a conservatively cut suit of gray and soft green, decorated with scallops and roses, over which was flung a black tabard emblazoned in white with the heraldry of the Endymion Hibernation Syndicate: a sleeping youth in the arms of a crescent moon, cradling an hourglass.

Soorm was splendid in his naked fur. Before he climbed to the field of honor, the Nymph Aea and Suspinia the Chimeress had volunteered to brush the otter pelt of Soorm until it glowed like black ink. He had needed no medical care, but he had spent the night in the coffin nonetheless, making little tweaks and minor innovations to his many innate biological weapons.

The serene little Blue Man appeared dressed in a small hauberk of mail, with coif and hood, and a misericorde tucked through his belt, and his surcoat was the white of a neophyte, his cross the red of a crusader. He bore no sword as yet, nor spurs. He was introduced not by the name Expositor Illiance, but instead was called Squire Lagniappe.

Montrose would have liked to have had the brave Alpha Daae here with him, to represent the Chimerae; or have had a Linderling on hand to record every nuance of the events through their nodes. Indeed, Vulpina had demanded, and Keirthlin had expressed a desire, to be allowed to act as witnesses to the gunfight, but Menelaus Montrose told Keirthlin that women who see such things have a darkness that comes over their soul and does not depart, a thing that makes them less able or willing to be softhearted, wifely, or maternal.