On the dais, still reclining as he gulped superb white grapes, His Benevolence had begun to show signs of interest for the first time. The veil of boredom had left his yellow eyes, an expectant grin split his lips hungrily. Here was an unscheduled diversion of the first order.
Guerlan wore a long, thin rapier for a weapon, it had come with the costume, or he'd never have thought of wearing it—nothing like this fantastic nightmare could possibly have occurred to him. "Why did they have to choose me!" He groaned inwardly. But with a swift movement he drew the blade and stood en garde. He sensed dimly that it was a true weapon, flexible and needle-sharp, not a costume-toy. And once he had it in his hand, all his relentless, austere training in fencing and sword-play came flooding in his mind. It was not considered sportsmanlike to hunt Irreconcilables with atmo-pistols, only swords and spears were used—but the end was the same for the defenseless rebels.
Dimly Guerlan was aware of the dispassionate voice whispering in his ear, "Watch out for tricks ... and win! The penalty will be far less severe."
Guerlan wondered if his unknown acquaintance of the frigid voice meant that his rebellious words had reached the awesome figure on the dais, and that by winning he might be shown mercy. But he had no more time to think irrelevant thoughts, for with a cry of drunken fury, his accuser struck without preamble, slashing downward in a mighty blow calculated to have cloven anything in two. But Guerlan smiled contemptuously at the transparent maneuver; he merely shifted sideways and flicked his rapier, and the sword slid harmlessly along the shining columbium steel rapier. But the pseudo-pirate had no intentions of giving up the initiative, he whirled the saber over his head and again brought it down in a glancing blow that would have sheared through Guerlan, and the young scientist again parried it with such precision that the razor-sharp blade slid off singing to one side.
It was a superb struggle, and His Benevolence had directed his palace minions to clear space for his unobstructed view. He now held a gigantic uncut, but polished diamond to one eye, which he alternated with an emerald and then a ruby, watching the battle through various colors. An immense golden platter of viands and fruits slowly disappeared down his capable maw.
Suddenly Guerlan closed in. His rapier flashed with vertiginous speed, flicking in and out, so rapidly that it barely seemed to touch the brawny forearm of his attacker, but when it came away it left a flowing gash from elbow to wrist. With a bellow of humiliation and rage, the pirate-costumed scientist lunged with a tremendous slash, but his sword-point speared the air and before he could recover his balance, Guerlan drove his rapier deep into the fleshy shoulder.
His attacker was silent now, an ominous rage contorted the brutal face from which he'd torn the golden mask. He had but one single idea, to kill and kill quickly. Laughter and jeering shouts rose around him. As did the acrid odor of blood mingling with the exotic fragrances that cloyed the atmosphere ... his own blood! His reaction to the audible scorn of the other inner circle scientists was instantaneous. He came in whirling his saber until it was like a silver vortex, then he brought it down in a savage slash to shear Guerlan's head off his shoulders. But the youth leaped back, engaging the Pirate's sword at the same time and with a strange flicking motion accomplished faster than the eye could catch, he twisted suddenly at a precise instant and sent his attacker's sword flying through the silent hall.
It was an all but forgotten, ancient Italian trick whose origins were lost. But the Scientist of the Inner Circle, sweating under his gaudy pirate's costume knew nothing about Italian fencing tricks—he only knew that one moment he'd thought to shear his opponent's head off his shoulders and the next he was disarmed. A look of sheer horror came into his blood-flecked eyes and next an uncontrollable scream escaped his lips. That sealed his doom. Guerlan saluted and made no motion to finish him. But from the fabulous dais where the jeweled stairs were like a flowing stream of fire, a mocking, infinitely sardonic laugh chilled every scientist present in that room.
"Our unfortunate brother is afraid, he is tired, is he not Bejamel? After such an ordeal he deserves sleep ... soothing 'Blessed Sleep!'" Again that demoniac, perversely cruel cachinnation that travestied laughter, while the scientist, grovelling now, babbled in a frenzy of appeals for a mercy that didn't exist. He was led screaming to a side door and then once more there was silence in the hall.