Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [53]
Of course, to figure all that out, Kobar had to be guilty as hell, not only of the murder but of the theft of Fortune’s Light as well. Riker had satisfied himself of that fact—a limited accomplishment if he didn’t live to tell of it.
And judging by the look in Kobar’s eye, he had every intention of silencing his accuser before he could make any accusations.
Riker looked past his antagonist, scanned the faces in the crowd. Where in blazes was Lyneea?
“Why don’t you tell me what the problem is,” he suggested. “Then we can work it out.”
There was no point in confirming the Impriman’s suspicions. If he had any doubts, Riker was going to nurture them.
Kobar smiled. “Can we? I doubt it.”
“Surely you’re not thinking of killing an unarmed man?” Riker lifted his chin to indicate Kobar’s companions. “All three of you?”
That drew a murmur from the clutch of onlookers. Kobar’s smile faded, and he pointed his knife at the weapon stuck in the support pole.
“Take it out,” he said. “Then you’ll be armed, too. And I promise my friends will stay out of it.”
Riker didn’t want to accept the weapon. If he did, it would mean a fight to the death; that was the nature of street duels on Imprima.
And the advantage would almost certainly be Kobar’s. Riker could tell from his comportment that he’d done this sort of thing before—obviously with success.
Of course he’d never fought Riker before. But even if the human came out on top, his victory would be a Pyrrhic one. Killing an official of Madraga Rhurig would draw attention to him, blow his cover wide open, and maybe make further investigation impossible.
Not to mention the fact that Kobar’s friends would want to avenge his death. That, too, was the nature of street duels on Imprima.
“Come on,” Kobar jeered. “What are you waiting for?”
Riker shook his head slowly. “No,” he said evenly.
Kobar’s eyes narrowed. “I always suspected you humans were cowards.” He spat. “Now I’ve got proof.”
But Riker wouldn’t take the bait. He just stood there.
Not that he wouldn’t have liked to take up the knife. He was itching to give Kobar a taste of what he’d done to Teller. But we can’t always do as we like, can we?
“No,” he said a second time, as much to confirm his own resolution as to announce it to his enemy.
What blossomed in Kobar’s eyes looked like genuine anger. Coming forward, closing the rest of the gap between them, he shifted the knife to his left hand. Then, with his right, he dug his fingers into Riker’s tunic, grabbing a fistful of the thick material.
“You’ll fight me,” said the third official of Madraga Rhurig. “No matter how cowardly you are, you’ll fight me, or so help me I’ll gut you where you stand.”
They were almost nose to nose now, Kobar’s gaze getting hotter and hotter. The human returned it as calmly as he could. Easy, Riker. It’s still three against one. Your best chance is to wait this one out.
Then he felt the knife point in his ribs. At first there wasn’t much pressure behind it. But after a couple of seconds, it began to dig in.
“Well?” said Kobar.
Would he carry out his threat or was it a bluff? The human wasn’t sure.
Even in the cold of the open-air market, he could feel a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Riker’s mouth went dry as the knife point moved abruptly, cutting through his tunic. It must have cut flesh as well, because he felt a sharp, burning pain.
For a moment, he believed that Kobar would gut him after all, that the old Riker luck had finally given out. Then the Impriman let up on the pressure. Opening the fingers of his right hand, he let go of Riker’s tunic.
Finally he turned his back on the human and walked out of the booth, wiping blood—Riker’s blood—off his knife onto his trouser leg.
It’s over, the human told himself. And it seems I’ve won.
Suddenly Kobar turned and regarded him again. He spoke to his companions without looking at them.
“Drag him out of there,” he snarled. “He may think he can