He was just in time to witness an important piece
of Sargolian social practice.
A young warrior, surely only within a year or so of receiving his knife,
was facing an older Salarik, both on their feet. The head and shoulder
fur of the older fighter was dripping wet and an empty goblet rolled
across the table to bump to the floor. A hush had fallen on the immediate
neighbors of the pair, and there was an air of expectancy about the
company.
"Threw his drink all over the other fellow," Rip's soft whisper
explained. "That means a duel--"
"Here and now?" Dane had heard of the personal combat proclivities of the
Salariki.
"Should be to the death for an insult such as that," Ali remarked, as
usual surveying the scene from his chosen role as bystander. As a child
he had survived the unspeakable massacres of the Crater War, nothing had
been able to crack his surface armor since.
"The young fool!" that was Steen Wilcox sizing up the situation from the
angle of a naturally cautious nature and some fifteen years of experience
on a great many different worlds. "He'll be mustered out for good before
he knows what happened to him!"
The younger Salarik had barked a question at his elder and had been
promptly answered by that dripping warrior.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104