Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [61]
Turr Phennir and his pilots were at the center of their own knot of people. One of Phennir’s pilots, a tall redheaded man, had his hand out before him as if grasping a TIE fighter’s yoke; his hand shook as though he were firing on a target, and his eyes were wide, animated. The group around him made noises of admiration. Phennir was not paying attention; his gaze was on Wedge.
“Before the day’s events begin,” called a courtier, “a diversion. Ground Champion Cheriss ke Hanadi accepts a title challenge from Lord Pilot Eneboros ke Shalapan.”
“That explains where Cheriss is,” Tycho said, and craned his head for a better look.
The crowd in the vicinity of the perator moved back to make an open circle; Wedge headed that way.
Cheriss was already in the center of the circle, stretching, going through a few practice thrusts and lunges with her blastsword’s power off. Her appearance was different from the way it had been in the previous blastsword match; her intensity was there, but she wore no predatory smile. She also looked tired, a little disheveled, not her meticulously neat self.
Into Wedge’s ear, Hobbie said, “She’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday.”
Beside him, Janson nodded. “Not like her. Such a clean girl. Even when she’s stabbing people.”
“Quiet,” Wedge said. “There’s something wrong here.”
Her opponent, at the edge of the crowd, was very tall and lean, with an elaborately curled brown mustache and a goatee that tended more toward blond. Friends or assistants to either side of him were binding up his flowing sleeves so they would not interfere with his motions. When he was ready, he nodded to the speaker, who in turn caught Cheriss’s eye. She thumbed on the power of her blastsword and its tip began leaving blue trails through the air. Her challenger also flourished with his blade, its tip leaving traces of a more purple-blue behind.
The announcer called for salutes to the perator, then signaled for the fight to begin.
It didn’t take long. The challenger moved in with a thrust that was little more than an initial probe. Cheriss swept it aside and, in the same motion, threw herself forward, a daring counterstrike that left her exposed … but caught her enemy in the rib cage. There was a crack and a flash of blue light, and with a cry her challenger went down.
Cheriss looked to the perator.
The ruler of Cartann shrugged and put his hand out, palm down—the signal that the defeated man should die.
Cheriss slowly shook her head and turned her back on the defeated man and the perator. She moved into the crowd, leaving the fight behind. The audience parted for her, many of its members offering a low noise of surprise.
“Did she just do what I thought she did?” Wedge asked. “Give the perator the choice on what happened to her opponent, and then defy him?”
“That’s what I got out of it, boss,” Hobbie said.
The perator was scowling now, but lost the expression when a minister stepped up to him and began talking. In moments, the ruler had apparently forgotten the fight, and friends of the challenger picked the injured man up to carry him from the hall.
Wedge moved through the crowd in pursuit of Cheriss. When he caught up to her, she was speaking to the man who had announced her fight. “… standard acceptance for ke Seiufere,” she said. The man nodded.
“Cheriss, a moment of your time?”
She glanced at Wedge, and he was taken aback by what he saw in her expression. Before she had always been so animated, so full of energy and cheer; now her eyes seemed dull, lacking passion or interest. “A moment, yes,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
She offered an indifferent shrug. “While I have been acting as your guide, I have let other duties pile up. Such as attending