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At that moment the comlink signaled for attention. The Mor Glayyd excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He must have activated a muting device as well; none of the others heard any part of the conversation. When he turned back, his face had become emotionless.

“It seems we lack time for your explanation, Captain Solo,” he said. “The outworlder Gallandro and his second have appeared at the gate and will await me in the armory.”

Steeling himself with Think of cash!, Han said, “Why don’t I meet him for you?” When he saw he was going to get an argument out of this proud boy, he rushed on. “Remember your sister and your duty to your clan. Forget the point of honor; this is real life.”

“Ewwen, please do,” Ido implored her brother. “I beg it as a boonfavor to me.”

The Mor Glayyd looked from one to another, almost spoke, held himself. “I couldn’t yield this obligation to any member of my clan,” he finally said to Han. “But my death would leave my sister and my kinsmen at the mercy of the other clans. Very well, I shall put myself in your debt. Let us repair to the armory.”

The private lift chute carried them down quickly. The armory was a series of cold, echoing, vaulted rooms crammed with racks of energy guns, projectile firearms, and muscle-powered weapons along with work benches and tools with which to service them. Their footsteps resounded on stone as they made their way to a shooting range.

At the far end of the range and along the walls holotargets hung in the air, waiting to unfreeze into attack-evasion sequences. But it wasn’t holotargets that were scheduled to be shot. At the nearer end of the range waited five people.

Han was fairly sure he could identify them—worlds with such an archaic and formal dueling code demanded about the same roster. The woman with the weary look on her face and the professional medipack slung from one shoulder would be the surgeon. In a gunfight at close quarters, Han doubted that her duties would extend beyond pronouncing the loser dead.

The older man in Glayyd household livery would be the Mor Glayyd’s second; he had a lean, scarred face and was probably an instructor in arms or some such to his clan leader. Another man, in what Han had come to recognize as Reesbon colors, would be the other second. There was a white-haired elderly man standing aside and trying to conceal his nervousness; he could only be the match’s judge.

The last member of the group was easiest of all to identify. Though Han had never seen him before, the sight of him set off internal alarms. He was slightly taller than Han but seemed smaller and more compact. Holding himself easily and gracefully, he wore a somber outfit of gray trousers and high-collared tunic with a short gray jacket over it. A trailing, supple white scarf, knotted at his throat, fell in graceful tails at his shoulder and back.

The man’s graying hair had been cropped quite short, but he had long mustachios hanging at the corners of his mouth, their ends gathered and weighted by tiny golden beads. He was just in the process of removing his jacket. An intricately tooled black gunbelt encircled his waist, holding a blaster high up on his right hip. He didn’t observe the common practice of studding his belt with a marker to indicate each opponent he’d beaten; he didn’t look as if he needed to.

But it was the man’s eyes that had set off most of Han’s alarms, making him absolutely certain of the man’s profession. The eyes were a deep, clear blue, unblinking, unwavering. They examined all the newcomers, remained for a moment on the Mor Glayyd and came to rest on Han, making a chilly estimate of him in a moment. The look the two exchanged left little to be said.

“As challenged party,” the Mor Glayyd’s second was saying, “Gallandro has chosen a face-off draw rather than the measured paceway. Your favorite weapons have been prepared, Mor Glayyd. All weapons have been examined by both seconds.”

Still meeting Gallandro’s eyes, Han took the final step. “I have a call on the Mor Glayyd’s time. It’s my right to intervene for him, I hear.”