Retief shook his head. No one could talk against a Yill orchestra in full cry. He sampled a bright red wine and watched the show.
There was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and collapsed, their partner-opponents whirling away to pair off again, describe the elaborate pre-combat ritual, and abruptly set to, dulled sabres clashing—and two more Yill were down, stunned. It was a violent dance.
Retief watched, the drink forgotten.
The last two Yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed and spun, feinted and postured—and on the instant, clashed, straining chest-to-chest—then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as the music mounted to a frenzy.
Evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow for blow, across the floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out.
And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. The other, a giant, muscular Yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins showered—then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace and bow-bedecked Yill in the same instant that the music stopped.
In utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the seated Yill.
With a shout, the Yill leaped up, raised a clenched fist. The dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet.
Retief took a deep gulp of a pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to watch. The beribboned Yill waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful of coins across the table and sat down.
The challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. Retief caught his eye for an instant as he passed.