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Wedge saw Hallis trying to move through the crowd to get to the leading edge. Farther around the rim of the crowd, he saw the perator standing, his retinue giving him a little pocket of space.

“To the perator,” the announcer said. Both Cheriss and the challenger, Depird, bowed to the perator and flourished their blades in an identical pattern, a circle bisected by a cross; Cheriss’s blade was now powered up and the symbol of her flourish glowed blue for a moment before fading.

“Honor or death,” the announcer said, and took a step back, putting him at the edge of the open space.

Depird wasted no time. He moved forward, not a rush but a fast stalk, until he was almost within range of a thrust from Cheriss’s long blade, and raised his blastsword to a high guard, well above his head, its point unerringly aimed at Cheriss’s head; as he advanced, Cheriss took a pose with her knife hand forward, her blastsword hand back, her predatory smile still in place.

Depird took a step in and thrust with his dagger, inviting a counterblow from Cheriss’s blastsword, but she swept the attack away, striking the back of his hand with her own dagger hand. Depird followed through with a thrust of the blastsword, which she took on the curved guard of her sword. When his point hit her guard, there was a crack like a blaster rifle firing, and smoke rose from a darkened patch on her guard.

With a flick of arm and wrist, Cheriss disengaged her blastsword from Depird’s, then swung her guard up in a punch that caught Depird full in the jaw. He staggered back, his expression outraged, and Wedge could see that a patch on his jaw was blistered—doubtless from the heat the guard had absorbed from his attack.

The crowd reacted, some members applauding, some murmuring in a disapproving tone. Tomer said, “Cheriss is considered a gutter-fighter, vulgar by the standards of the blastsword art. With this court, the fact that she wins most of the time is her primary saving grace.”

Depird shook his head as though to clear it, then began to circle Cheriss. She waited for only a quarter circuit before attacking, a step forward followed by a thrust from her blastsword—and then it was on in full, Depird catching her assault on his blade and attempting a riposte, Cheriss blocking that move with the guard on her dagger and returning a full-extension thrust that caused Depird to leap back nearly into the leading edge of the crowd. Every motion of the swords was accompanied by an arc of light from their tips; every impact of a sword tip hitting a weapon guard or blade was accompanied by the sharp crack of energy emission.

“It’s a very pretty sort of competition,” Tomer said.

Wedge didn’t bother to glare; Tomer’s attention was fully on the fight. “You mean, it’s a very decorative way to get killed. You’re awfully unconcerned.”

Tomer shrugged. “This is their planet, Wedge. Their way of life. It’s for me to understand it … not to try to change it.”

Cheriss, backing away from an especially aggressive advance, caught Depird’s blastsword blade centimeters below the tip with her dagger. She swung it out of line and brought her own blastsword point to bear in a single, beautifully fluid motion. Depird tried to check his forward motion but couldn’t—his body arched away from her blade but he ran upon it anyway. There was a sharp crack, a shriek of pain from him, and he was thrown to the floor on his back. He lay there writhing, a blackened patch on his tunic at the center of his chest, smoke rising from it.

Cheriss, barely winded, set her dagger on the floor. She turned to smile at Wedge, then extended her hand toward him, palm up; a moment later, she turned it palm down.

“You get to choose,” Tomer whispered. “Palm up means she spares him. Palm down means she kills him. Palm up will suggest excessive sentimentality on your part—not something the Adumari hope to see in a fighter pilot.”

Wedge stared at him. “You think I should let him die?” he whispered.

Tomer shrugged. “I’m not expressing an opinion. Just analyzing actions and consequences.”

Wedge put on