"Tomorrow," Janacek promised, "it must be deadly." He drank again.

"I would wish otherwise," Vikary said with a rueful shake of his head, "but I fear you speak the truth. The Braiths are too full of anger for us to fire into the air."

"Indeed," Janacek said with a small smile. "They took the insult too deeply. Chell Empty-Arms, at least, will not forgive."

"Can't you shoot to wound?" Dirk suggested. "Disarm them?" The words came easily, but it was odd to hear himself say it. The situation was so totally outside his experience, and yet he found himself accepting it, becoming strangely comfortable with the two Kavalars and their wine and their quiet talk of death and maiming. Perhaps it meant something, to be one of the kethi; perhaps that was why his unease was fading. All Dirk knew was that he felt peaceful, and at home.

Vikary looked troubled. "Wound them? I might wish that too, but it cannot be. The hunters fear us now. They spare korariel of Ironjade because of that fear. We save lives. That will not be possible if we are too easy on the Braiths tomorrow. The others might not hold back their hunting if they thought that all they risked was a small wound. No, sadly, I think we must kill Chell and Bretan if we can."

"We can," Janacek said confidently. "And, friend t'Larien, it is not so easy or so wise to wound an enemy in duel as you might think it is. Disarming them, well, you jape us. That is virtually impossible. We fight with dueling lasers, friend, not with war weapons. Such side-arms fire in half-second pulses and require a full fifteen seconds to recycle between firings. You understand? A man who hurries his shot, or makes it needlessly difficult, a man who shoots to disarm-he is soon dead. Even at five meters you can still miss, and your enemy will kill you clean before your laser is ready for a second shot."

"It can't be done?" Dirk said.

"Many people are only wounded in duel," Vikary told him. "Far more than are killed, in truth. Yet in most cases this is not the intended result. Sometimes yes. When a man fires into the air, and his enemy decides to punish him, then horrible scars can be inflicted. But this does not happen often."

"We might wound Chell," Janacek said. "He is old and slow, his sidearm will not rise quickly to his hand. But Bretan Braith is another matter. He is said to have a half-dozen kills already."

"He will be my concern," said Vikary. "See that Chell's laser stays dark, Garse, and that will be enough."

"Perhaps." Janacek looked toward Dirk. "If you could cut Bretan only a little, t'Larien, in the arm or hand or shoulder-give him a single painful gash, slow him a bit. That would make a difference." He grinned.

Despite himself, Dirk found that he was returning the smile. "I can try," he said, "but remember, I know damn little about dueling and less about swords, and my first concern is going to be staying alive."

"Don't fret over the impossible," Janacek said, still grinning. "Just do as great a damage as you can."

The door opened. Dirk turned and looked up, and Janacek fell silent. Gwen Delvano stood framed in the doorway, her face and clothing streaked with dust. She looked uncertainly from one face to the next, then came slowly into the room. A sensor pack was slung over one shoulder. Arkin Ruark followed her in, carrying two heavy cases of instruments under his arms. He was sweaty and panting, dressed in heavy green pants and jacket and hood, and he looked much less foppish than usual.

Gwen lowered the sensor pack to the ground gently, but her hand kept its hold on the strap. "Damage?" she said. "What was this? Who is going to do damage to who?"

"Gwen," Dirk began.

"No," Janacek interrupted. He stood very stiffly. "The Kimdissi must leave."

Ruark looked around, white-faced and puzzled. He threw back his hood and began to mop his forehead beneath his white-blond hair. "Utter trash, Garsey," he said. "What is this, big Kavalar secret, eh? A war, a hunt, a duel, some violence, yes? I would not pry such things, no, not me. I give you privacy then, yes, yours to keep." He started back toward the door.

"Ruark," Jaan Vikary said. "Wait."

The Kimdissi paused.

Vikary faced his teyn. "He must be told. If we fail-"

"We will not fail!"

"If we fail, they have promised to hunt them. Garse, the Kimdissi is too involved. He must be told."

"You know what will happen. On Tober, on Wolfheim, on Eshellin, all throughout the Fringe. He and his kind will spread lies, and all Kavalars will be Braiths. It is the way of the manipulators, the mock-men." Janacek's voice had none of the savage humor with which he had jabbed Dirk; he was cold serious now.

"His life is at stake in this, and Gwen's," Vikary said. "They must be told."

"Everything?"

"The charade is over," Vikary said.

Ruark and Gwen spoke simultaneously.

"Jaan, what-" she started.

"Charade, life, hunting, what is all this? Tell!"

Jaan Vikary turned and told him.

"Dirk, Dirk, you cannot be serious. No, I do not believe it. All along I have thought, well, yes, that you were better than them. And you say this to me? No, I dream. This is utter folly!" Ruark had recovered somewhat. In his long dressing gown, green silkeen embroidered with owls, he looked more like himself, although he was woefully out of place amid the clutter of the workroom. He sat on a high stool with his back to the dark rectangular screens of the computer console; his slippered feet were crossed at the ankles, and his chubby hands held a tall frosted glass of green Kimdissi wine. The bottle was behind him, sitting next to two empty glasses.

Dirk was on top of a wide plastic worktable, his legs folded under him and his elbow resting on a sensor pack. He had cleared a space for himself by shoving the pack to one side and a stack of slides and papers to the other. The room was in incredible disarray. "I don't see what the folly is," he said stubbornly. Even as he spoke, his eyes were wandering. He had never seen the workroom before. It was about the same size as the living room in the Kavalar compartment, but seemed much smaller. A bank of small computers lined one wall. Across from it was a huge map of Worlorn in a dozen different colors, stuck full of various pins and markers. In between were the three worktables. This was where Gwen and Ruark pieced together the bits of knowledge they hunted down in the wilds of the dying Festival world, but it looked more like a military headquarters to Dirk's eyes.

He still wasn't quite sure why they were there. After Vikary's long explanation and the acrimonious discussion that had followed between Ruark and the two Kavalars, the Kimdissi had stomped down to his own apartment, taking Dirk with him. The time had not seemed right to talk to Gwen. But no sooner had Ruark changed clothes and quieted his nerves with a slug of wine than he insisted that Dirk accompany him back upstairs to the workroom. He brought along three glasses, but Ruark himself was the only one drinking. Dirk still remembered the last time, and he had tomorrow to consider; he had to be sharp. Besides, if Kimdissi wine mixed with its Kavalar counterpart the way the Kimdissi mixed with Kavalars, it would be sheer suicide to drink one after the other.

So Ruark drank alone. "The folly," the Kimdissi said after one sip of the green stuff, "is you dueling like a Kavalar. I say it, I hear myself, I cannot believe it! Jaantony, yes, Garsey by all means, and of course these Braiths. Xenophobe animals, violent folk. But you, ah! Dirk, you, a man of Avalon, this is beneath you. Think, I beg you, yes, I beg, for me, for Gwen, for you yourself. How how can you be serious? Tell me, I must know. From Avalon! You grew up with the Academy of Human Knowledge, yes, with the Avalon Institute for the Study of Non-Human Intelligence, that too. The world of Tomas Chung, the home base of the Kleronomas Survey, all that history and knowledge all about you, as much as is left anywhere except perhaps Old Earth or Newholme maybe. You are traveled, cultured, you have seen different worlds, many scattered folks. Yes! You know better. You must, no? Yes!"