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Hobbie came bounding up the stairs, leading a handful of men and women in the eye-hurting livery of the building. All wore sheathed blastswords but carried some sort of sidearms in their hands. “It’s a no on our blasters,” Hobbie said. “Until we leave the building.”

“Rules,” said the foremost of the liveried men, “are rules, I fear. But you will suffer no more inconveniences while in our building. Are we here to be witnesses to your kill, or do you wish them given over to the Cartann Guard?”

Wedge frowned at the man, who appeared to be about twenty, very fair, very exuberant. “Do you mean it’s legal for me to just kill them?”

“Of course. You beat them fairly. Unconventionally, but fairly. And until you kill them, release them, or hand them over, the duel is not done.”

“It wasn’t a duel. It was an assassination attempt.” Wedge finally remembered to turn the power off on his blastsword. “I turn them over to you for the Cartann Guard. These men were paid to kill us; perhaps the Guard will want to find out by whom.”

“Of course,” the young man said. “We will hold them if you wish to depart.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Do you wish to take trophies?”

Wedge glanced at Cheriss. She said, “What’s theirs is yours; you have won. What they carry, I mean. You cannot claim what is in their homes, at their moneykeepers’.”

“I see.” Wedge glanced among his pilots. “Red Flight, arm yourselves. Blastswords and sheaths. If we’re going to have this happen again, I don’t want us to have to rely only on fists and vibroblades.”

Cheriss smiled at him. “You did very well with fists and vibroblades. You are brawlers. I like that. Cartann swordsmen are too effete.”

“Thank you, Cheriss.” Once he, Tycho, and Hobbie had their new blades buckled on, Wedge led the way past the helpful building guards and down to the street.

It had grown dark and cool outside in the hours of their dinner appointment, and now the streets were filled with shadowy figures and the occasionally wheeled transport. Even more rarely, a repulsorlift-equipped transport would cruise by a few meters overhead, its complement of five or ten passengers idly watching the pedestrian traffic below. Wedge kept his face down, the better to keep passersby from giving him a closer look and recognizing him.

“Cheriss, you heard his coins clinking over all the noise of the fight?”

She nodded.

“And you took out two of the enemy. That’s very good work.”

“Thank you, General.”

“With all your talents, and your obvious respect for pilots, why aren’t you a pilot yourself?” Wedge asked. He saw a little hesitation in her expression and added, “If it’s personal, just tell me it’s none of my business. I won’t be offended.”

“No,” she said. “It’s just—it’s not something I feel shame over.” Her miserable expression suggested she was lying. “But I can’t learn to fly. Ever. When I go up in aircraft, even when I’m on a high balcony, I become dizzy. I panic. I can’t think.”

“Vertigo,” Wedge said. “So you concentrated on the blastsword instead?”

She nodded. “It is a dying art. Oh, most nobles carry blastswords in public, and many commoners like myself. But the art as they practice it in their schools is stylized. They train with blaster power set to shock instead of burn, and they have rules that make some sorts of blows illegal. I, on the other hand, researched the blastsword art of centuries ago, when it was still very prestigious. I learned about alternative secondary weapons and using the environment against my enemies.” She brightened again. “I can tell that you haven’t trained with the blastsword … but it’s obvious you know how to fight. The maneuver with the banister, Major Janson’s use of the cloak, Colonel Celchu’s skill with his fists—I would love to learn what you know.”

“We’ll trade, then. Teach us what you can, in the time we’re here, of the use of the blastsword, and I’ll let my merry band of reprobates teach you about the back-alley maneuvers they’ve learned.”

He turned to catch the eyes of the other pilots, to make sure none of them had an objection, and saw that Janson was glum. “What