Behind him, his samurai-praetorians stood in gleaming ranks, the light of their power glaives reflecting from their burnished helms. All around the circular Arena of Justice stood his retainers, his servants, his bondsmen and vassals. In a curtained box of their own were his wives and concubines, all eager to see the spectacle begin. The only person who showed no eagerness at all was the man out there on the arena sands, standing between two armoured guards who maintained a firm grip on his arms.
The Baron advanced. "Let justice be done," he declaimed.
All around, the murmurs of conversation died down, until the Baron's voice was the only sound under the high stone dome of the ceiling.
"Let justice be done," he repeated, "in the grand tradition of our forefathers, who left Old Earth's weakness to carve a truer path among the stars. Let justice be done in the old ways, in the true ways, by the strength of a man's sword arm and the honour of his cause! We come to witness justice against this -" he sneered "- this person, who has given us more than one name, the better to show his faithlessness! Well, it does not matter how many names he wears - there is only one heart beating behind them, and that heart will be stilled today. Does the accused have any words for us?"
The man on the sands raised his head. He had an unpleasant face, the Baron thought, with oddly slanted eyes and a mouth too small for lips so plump. "I'm a Federation citizen," he whined, "you've got no right -"
"Right? Right? He talks of rights!" The Baron forced a laugh. "Will your Federation help you? Or will it hide behind its Prime Directive, as it always does? This is the Grand Imperium! You have no rights here except what you can take and hold!"
The man made no reply. The Baron took another step forward.
"We are not barbarians. We are not unjust. You will have the chance to vindicate yourself. I declare this - I, Baron Erwin Fitzwilliam Mugabe, Knight of the Order of the Chalice, landholder of the New Balearic Islands under his grace the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector. That is my name, man of the Federation. I charge you with trespass on my territories with criminal intent, of smuggling and tariff-breaking. And I will prove my charges on your body in trial by combat!"
And he leaped, from the vantage point where he stood, landing with both booted feet firmly planted in the arena sands. He repressed a wince as the jolt sent twinges through his knees. He was getting old - too old for many more of these, that was certain. Sooner or later, he would have to choose a champion from among the samurai-praetorians - and that would have to be a careful choice, of a man talented in combat, but loyal and without personal ambition....
Of course, that might not matter. Not when he won this combat, and took this man's assets, including his ship - a finer vessel than the Sector Duke owned. Oh, and let the Duke try to claim it from him, a prize won in trial by combat - he would go to the Grand Emperor's Court and appeal for judgement by tradition, and if all went well, he would come out of it with the Duke's own ermine on his shoulders....
He shook his head. A pleasing fantasy, but first he had to win this fight.
He strode across the sand, his cape swirling behind him, black and silver - like his own hair, now. He stood before the Federation weakling and glowered at him. His harsh features and bristling eyebrows were particularly suited for glowering, he knew that... and he knew it again, as the man cringed visibly before him.
He gestured to the two guards. "Release him, and fetch the weapons." To the man, he said, "Turn craven now, turn to run, and you will be shot down in your tracks. Do you understand?"
The man nodded, and swallowed loudly.
"Trial by combat!" the Baron bellowed. "The only true test! I pledge my life, my honour, all my holdings, and by that pledge I hold you guilty as charged! I will prove my honour on your body, and you will forfeit all that you have, in death and infamy!"
The guards had gone to the sides of the arena, and now returned, bearing the power-swords with them. The Baron stepped back three paces. "Take your weapon, and prepare for combat."
One guard came to him, offered him a power-sword. The Baron took the weapon, felt the familiar heft of it in his hand. He thumbed the actuator switch, and arcs of electricity began to flow between the two metre-long tines of the sword, to discharge in showers of sparks from the needle-sharp points. The Baron raised his sword in the obligatory salute.
The man from the Federation swung his power-sword awkwardly in his hand for a moment or two; then he, too, found the actuator, and copied the Baron's gesture.
"These foils have all a length?" he said, and smiled.
The Baron frowned. "The weapons are identical," he said shortly. Something about his opponent had changed. Where he had been confused, cowed and cringing, now he seemed - poised, almost... confident. His feet had shifted position, the Baron noticed, into a fencer's stance.
In many a previous trial, the Baron had used his skill with the power-sword to beat and burn his opponents, forcing them, whimpering, to cry for mercy and accept whatever terms he chose to set for his clemency. There would be none of that today. This man's assets would be his, this trial would end in death. And, the Baron now realized, there would be no toying with this victim - he would have to move fast and kill quickly.
He lunged. The fool was no doubt waiting for some formal signal -
He lunged, but his opponent slipped away, and his power-sword traced a sparking line through empty air. The Baron turned, fell back into guard - and just barely parried the return strike, the power-swords meeting in a blaze of energies. The impact nearly knocked the Baron's weapon from his hand. The man from the Federation was strong, as well as fast.
And the smile on that too-small mouth with the too-full lips was savage and merciless.
A flurry of blows, tines ringing on tines, lightning crackling until the sand on the arena floor began to lift into the air, drawn by the static discharges. The Baron fell back, panting and trying not to show it. His opponent was not even breathing heavily.
This had to end, and end quickly. Already, he could hear mutterings of disquiet from the spectators - He darted forwards again, stabbing at the man's face. Blind those eyes, and he could kill at leisure -
The man's power-sword clashed against his in a parry that became a bind. Sparks flew and metal creaked as the weapons ground against each other, and then there was a loud double bang, and the electrical flashing abruptly stopped.
"Overload," the Baron wheezed. He pulled back. "The circuit breakers tripped - we must wait a minute or so, while the weapons reset -"
"Oh, why bother?" said the other. "These things may not be charged any more, but they're still nice and pointy."
And he lunged, faster than the Baron's eyes could follow him, and drove the sharp points of his dead power-sword into the Baron's throat.
Agony flooded the Baron's body and blood flooded his mouth. Through dimming eyes, he saw the savage exultation on his opponent's face, felt himself lifted, bodily, into the air on the points of the weapon - and then he felt nothing more, ever again.
---
The man from the Federation flung the Baron's corpse away from him, and it landed on the sand. It made a dull, muffled sound, which was still the only noise in the arena.
"I believe I stand vindicated," the man said. "Trial by combat. As he said, the only true test. I have proved my honour on his body. And now I claim... all that was his." His voice had grown hard and commanding. "All that was his is now forfeit to me, under the law of the Grand Imperium." His searching gaze swept the ranks of the dead Baron's retainers, settled on one. "You. High Seneschal."
The official stepped forward, cleared his throat nervously. "It will take some time," he began, "to, ahh, calculate and evaluate the Baron's assets and arrive at a fair financial settlement -"
"Did I ask for a financial settlement?" the man demanded. "I claim all that was his. That is now mine. His lands, his assets, his title. I find the Federation doesn't have the scope for a man of my talents. I think being a Baron in the Grand Imperium will be much more to my taste. At least," he added, "for a start."
The High Seneschal licked his lips. "You claim... all the assets, privileges, and perquisites? The rank and the powers... of the Barony?"
"Is that not the law of the trial by combat?" There was a dubious muttering of assent from around the arena. "Oh, yes," the man said, "I claim the rank and powers. And all those assets, privileges... and perquisites." He smiled at the wide-eyed concubines in the curtained box. "It needn't be unpleasant, I assure you."
"There are - certain formalities," the High Seneschal said faintly.
"No doubt. Expedite them." The man walked up to the wall around the arena, reached up, grabbed the top and pulled himself up. Another minute, and he had clambered up onto the high point where the Baron had stood. He grinned at the stolid ranks of the samurai-praetorians.
"The - alleged - offence," the High Seneschal said nervously, "involved - the use of multiple names. How - how are you to be styled, my lord?"
"My lord," said the man. "Yes, I rather like the sound of that. I had to adopt a cover identity in my dealings within the Federation - that's where the confusion arose, no doubt. But I will rule this Barony in my name." His eyes gleamed. "Kalevar Thrang."
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