Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [67]
Tycho nodded and gathered Cheriss up in his arms. In seconds both pilots were gone.
Wedge and Janson straightened and turned to look at Thanaer. The Cartann pilot was executing the same lunge over and over again for the enjoyment of the crowd.
“You jumped out ahead of me,” Wedge said. “This was my fight.”
Janson smiled. “Notice that, did you?”
“You don’t think I can take him?”
“I know you can.” Janson’s smile changed from simple merriment to the cold, reptilian satisfaction he sometimes demonstrated when he finally got a target lock on a difficult opponent who richly deserved to become one with deep-space vacuum. “But there are three important reasons why I should take this fight and you shouldn’t.”
“Such as.”
“First, the professional reason. You’re the diplomat, the focus of what’s going on. Should something go wrong, you’re not expendable. I am. Second, a personal reason. You’d do this out of duty. Me, I’m going to enjoy it.” He took off his belt and shrugged his way out of the jacket, exposing bare arms and the vibroblade sheath strapped to his left forearm. He handed both garments to Wedge and picked up Cheriss’s blastsword.
“Third reason?”
“Also personal.” He glanced past Wedge into the crowd. “I’m not sure what all went on last night … but you can consider this an engagement present. Or whatever.” He turned from Wedge and stepped out into the circle, raising the blastsword high.
The audience roared.
“Before you die,” Thanaer said, “I’m going to teach you the consequences of insulting your betters.”
Janson smiled back at him. He gestured toward the woman who had pronounced the palm-down death sentence on Cheriss. “Thanaer, I have to admit, your widow sure is pretty.”
The announcer interrupted their exchange. “We have a non-title ground challenge. Our new ground champion, Lord Pilot Thanaer ke Sekae, accepts the challenge of Major Wes Janson of the New Republic diplomatic envoy.”
There was little applause from the crowd this time. Wedge sensed a breathlessness to their expectation. He shared it.
He didn’t realize Tomer had joined him until the diplomat spoke. “Something of a no-win situation,” Tomer said.
“Explain that.”
“If Janson loses, obviously, your diplomatic party is reduced. Fewer pilots, fewer objects of admiration for the Adumari. The Imperials aren’t obliged to reduce the size of their party. If Janson wins, well, Thanaer is very well respected here. Very much beloved of the court of Cartann and the perator.”
Wedge shook his head. “Recalculate that, Tomer. If Janson loses, a man who does good things dies. If Thanaer loses, a man willing to gain some points at the cost of the life of a young woman dies. Are you capable of seeing the difference?”
Tomer sighed. “I think you and I speak very different dialects of Basic.”
“For once we agree.”
“To the perator,” the announcer said. Thanaer turned toward the exit by which the perator departed and saluted in the ritual circle-and-cross pattern. Janson followed suit, his salute a sloppy one.
“Honor or death,” the announcer said, and retreated into the crowd.
Thanaer assumed an on-guard pose.
Janson switched Cheriss’s blastsword to his left hand. “Wait! Look at this.” He waved it furiously in the air before him. “Look! A bantha!”
The glowing trail left in the air by the tip of his blastsword did, in fact, resemble a child’s scrawled impression of a bantha.
Wedge frowned. Janson wasn’t left-handed. It wasn’t a good idea to leave himself exposed this way—his sole ready weapon in his off hand.
Thanaer just stared, his expression confused.
“Not familiar with banthas?” Janson shrugged. “Try this.” He waved again, creating an unrecognizable snarl of glowing blue lines in another volume of air. “An Adumari farumme! Here’s another one.” He waved again, and the result, had