By the time David reached his majority, he would have to have either social graces or fencing skills, or he would end up dead. It would almost have been better to leave him in Lower City than that.

Blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh-why are you such a disappointment?

No, it was wrong to blame the boy. Curdova had read about other feral children, raised among animals.

Thank goodness that the lowers at least had language; otherwise, David wouldn't have even been able to talk.

The fencing-master idea held some promise, though. Train the boy well, let his sword become an almost living extension of his body, then let the sheep worry about offending htm.

And none of these local bourgeois fencing masters, either, more concerned with style and scoring of touches in a first- or second-blood affair than the realities of death duels. Make the boy a lion; let him be so good, so skilled, that everyone would fear that challenging David Curdova meant a casual decision for a fight to the death.

He raised his phone. "Get me Amos van Ingstrand."

"Yes, senhor."

In a few minutes, Amos van Ingstrand was on the phone, his voice trembling only a little. The fat s.a.d.i.s.t was worried about Curdova's holding a grudge for the way he had treated David's kidnapper and the little girl. Curdova's only regret was that One-Hand had died easily, and as for the girl... who cared about how the animals treated each other?

"What may I have the honor to do for you, senhor?" Van Ingstrand sounded more scared than usual.Idiot. Having van Ingstrand killed-even speaking harshly to him-would be a tacit acknowledgment of David's former status. And that would result in much laughter in Elwere.

"Where would you go to hire a swordmaster? I want the best."

"The best fencing masters that there are work fori Elwere, senhor. I really couldn't say who is best. But I could find out for you, if you'd like," he added quickly.

"No. I don't want somebody who is good at teaching a pupil how to put a scratch on an opponent's arm.

I'm looking for a teacher for my son; I need someone with a bit more experience in rough-and-tumble.

An Alsatian, perhaps?"

"With all due respect-"

"Keep it short, van Ingstrand. I'm busy."

"Then I'd advise against an Alsatian, senhor. Not if you're really after someone to teach rough-and-tumble fighting. I thought you wanted somebody who could help with Elwerean duels.

Perhaps to teach your n.o.ble son." There was a trace of choking in van Ingstrand's voice; apparently he still held a grudge against David. Or he was afraid of Curdova's retribution.

Miguel Curdova didn't correct van Ingstrand's misapprehension. Why bother? The fat man's professional opinion was another matter. Van Ingstrand understood violence; Curdova wanted to tap that knowledge.

"Why?"

"I once hired one to train some of my men, senhor. It didn't work out; their training is too formalistic. By the time an Alsace-trained swordsman is finished saluting his opponent, the opponent has usually had ample time to book pa.s.sage offplanet." Van Ingstrand added a light chuckle to punctuate the weak joke.

"For serious fighting, better a clod with a truncheon than an Alsace-trained swordsman."

"Your suggestion, then, is...?"

"If you're serious about getting somebody good in less... formal combat, I'd suggest you send for someone from Earth. Perhaps La France, or Nippon... or, if you don't want a Terran, send off to Metzada, perhaps."

That had a nice ring to it. Get a topnotch Metzadan Master Private, one experienced in combat on low-tech worlds. Have him teach the boy.

He. disconnected without the formality of a goodbye.

That just might work. Only a few years left until David reached his majority; let him reach it as an uncouth lion, instead of a socially skilled sheep.

He punched for his secretary.

CHAPTER TEN:.

"I Have to Get Out of Here..."

You know what the trouble with rich people is? They don't have enough to do, so they end up with notenough time to do it in. Honest.

Let me take you through a day in Elwere. A kind of a special day, actually...

Morning. Well, there really wasn't a morning in Elwere, not for us Elwereans.

For most of us, that is. Those on the Cortes Generale, like my father and my aunt Therese, rose with the sun, if not sooner. While all of the work and most of the decisions were handled by machines, lowers, or buzhes, there were some things that we had to do for ourselves. Or, actually, that the Cortes Generale had to do for us.

Deciding on the quant.i.ty and destination of processed valda oil was the big one, of course, and that was an ongoing process. Valda is handy stuff, granted, and indispensable in surgeries anywhere there are humans-did you know that one out of ten thousand surgical patients used to die in surgery, just from the anesthetic?-but Orogan valda oil is only almost indispensable. A couple of centuries ago, some bright boy on Earth developed a recombinant strain of E. coli that produced minuscule amounts of valda oil.

The bright boy's name was Ernest Castuongway; he developed the strain in his own labs, fully expecting to end up with the n.o.bel, the Clairmont, and a hefty bank account. Castuongway got the first two, and sank the money he had received with both prizes into manufacturing the artificial stuff, but he died broke.

Seems that the bacterium is a real b.i.t.c.h to breed; it doesn't like to reproduce, but it sure does like to die.

Still, the Thousand Worlds could manufacture its own valda oil; the trouble is that it would cost just over ninety-three tweecies per liter.

So? much of the Cortes' time is given to setting the price of valda, keeping it at just over one hundred fifteen tweecies per liter FOB Oroga.

I know. It's awfully simple math: 115 ' 93.

True. Which means that the Thousand Worlds should get valda oil more cheaply by making it than by buying it, particularly when you add in the transportation costs.

But should is different from is. Every once in a while, another bright boy on one of the Thousand Worlds planets talks about setting up another manufactory, at which point the Cortes Generale nods its collective head and talks out of the side of its collective mouth about how the price can't be lowered. At which point the bright boy does set up his manufactory, and the price of Orogan valda drops to about eighty tweecies-delivered-until he goes broke.

That used to happen all the time. It doesn't anymore. One of the jobs of the Cortes Generale is to keep orders low enough so that n.o.body tries to stockpile long enough to drive our price permanently down.

That's what my father does for a living.

Neat work, eh?

But I was telling you about my day.

Morning. Well, morning began with a light breakfast in my rooms, either followed or preceded by a lengthy shower. And then a half hour of exercise, closely monitored by my suite's computer. (There is no central computer. Were there, the real power in Elwere would be exercised by the people who operated it, not by the residents. Instead, there were literally hundreds of thousands of dedicated computers, all manufactured and programmed offworld, bought after compet.i.tive bids. When one malfunctioned, we turned it off and waited until a buzh mechanic came to replace it. Simple black-box stuff; we could havedone it ourselves, if it wasn't beneath our station.) Then, another shower, closely followed by another breakfast.

After that, it was almost noon, and time for school. At first, Father had me in a group cla.s.s, but I didn't fit in with the d.a.m.n Elwerie-with my younger coresidents. It wasn't just that I was too far behind in every subject-we could have lived with that-I didn't have the social interactions down. What finally ended that was my habit of touching my face when I'm thinking. I knew that was uncouth, but I couldn't help it.

Carlos always used to scratch at his cheek when he was thinking, and I must have picked up the habit.

So, I went to school in my suite, usually running lessons off the screen, occasionally visited by one of the three buzhes who had the high honor, distinct privilege, and well-paying job of instructing Senhor David Curdova on the fine points of mathematics, literature, deportment, fencing, dancing, history, languages (my Schrift was a lot better than Sylvia Kodaly's, my language teacher. She spoke Schrift with an audible lisp, which I didn't think was possible), and, of course, economics. Whenever possible, I'd rush through the lessons, so that I could spend some time alone in what was supposed to be my bedroom, but which I'd converted mainly into a workshop.

After school was luncheon, usually eaten in his rooms with my father, my aunt Therese, my cousin Emilita, or another of my relatives, all of whom would pointedly ignore my lack of social graces.

And then I was free.

Or, almost.

"Father? Can we talk about it now?"

He dipped his already-clean fingers in the blue china fingerbowl, then dried them on his napkin. "No, David. The matter is closed."

My cousin Emilita pretended not to hear as she nibbled at her sweetcake, tossing her head to throw back her shoulder-length light-brown hair. She was awfully attractive; then again, I'd always had a preference for dark skin and high cheekbones, Gina being an exception.

Emilita wore a short dress made of what looked like strands of silver beads that sometimes clung together, sometimes parted. While many Elwerie girls run to fat, she kept herself slender, and her body always on at least partial display. It must have taken constant exercise for her to stay in shape; while she always ate slowly, she ate like there was no tomorrow.

Aunt Therese raised her eyes toward the ceiling for a moment, then sighed. "Kill van Ingstrand for the boy, Miguel. Why not? Does the sight of blood suddenly bother you these days?" While Aunt Therese was only a couple of decades older than my father, she looked much older. Sort of like a fat, aged, three-days-dead corpse.

Her tongue tended toward the sharp. Strongly. I liked her, and the feeling was mutual. She had loved my mother, and the affection seemed to have been transferred to me.

He scowled at her. "Therese, leave it be. I've supported van Ingstrand when others wanted him out. It would be dishonorable to change my stance, merely because..." He looked over at me. "... because of irrelevant matters."

"Don't be more of a fool than you have to be, Miguel. Unless you do it, David will, once he reaches hismajority." She smiled warmly at me. "Won't you, David? Can't say as I blame you." She sniffed. "To think, putting out a reward for the death of an Elwerean."

"Leave it be, leave it be. The less it's talked about, the sooner it's forgotten." He glanced at his fingernail.

"I've eaten enough. Best to keep a bit hungry. Enrico Mengual and I have a minor affair this evening."

"Just first blood, no?" She sipped at her tea, eyeing him over the rim of the cup.

"Yes." He fingered the scar over his collarbone. "Although I'm tempted to give him a scar that will run from his navel to his kidney."

"Who gave offense? As though I have to ask."

"I did."

"I knew it, you-"

"By concatenation, Therese, by concatenation." He raised an eyebrow.

Knowing that he was taking over my duel didn't slow; Aunt Therese down. "You did, eh? Over what?"

"The usual," Father said, pointedly not looking at: me.

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"Aunt Therese," I said, "it was my fault. Again."

She peered at me. "What happened this time?"

I shrugged. "I had a run-in with Erik Mengual, and he challenged me." d.a.m.n overbearing Elwerie-I hadn't meant to spill the gla.s.s of wine on his tunic, and he wouldn't accept my apology. Said he didn't think I meant it.

And, dammit, I had so been sincere. I knew that Father would end up fighting the duel for me, and I wasn't trying to get him cut up, despite our constant arguments over Amos van Ingstrand.

Father nodded. "When I replaced David, Enrico decided to exercise his right to replace Erik." He smiled thinly. "But wait until year after next. Erik reaches his majority, and he'll calm down." He snorted. "Or end up cooling down. To room temperature." He turned to me. "If you can do so subtly, please remind Erik that he reaches his majority before you do, and that he'll be subject to my sword then."

Aunt Therese stared first at me, and then at him. "Wonderful, Miguel. Just wonderful. You constantly harangue the boy for being socially inept-as he is," she said, softening her words with a smile, "and then you ask him to give a veiled warning. Are you looking to have another duel with Enrico? Wouldn't it be better to finish this one first? Or don't you have enough to do?"

Emilita reached over and patted my hand under the table. "Cousin," she said, smiling tolerantly, "you promised to show me this sword that you're so proud of, that you claim will win the compet.i.tion at Latch Festival." She rose, adjusting her dress modestly, then gestured a goodbye first to her mother and then to my father as she slipped on her teak half-casque. Awkwardly, I mimicked her, and followed her out through the door.

Emilita was several years younger than I-I checked the birth records-but she seemed older. Almost everyone did."David," she said, as we walked down the carpeted public corridor toward the elevator, "you really shouldn't annoy him about it." She nodded a polite greeting as we pa.s.sed a scowling fifty-year-old, one of her friends whom I didn't recognize.

"I want van Ingstrand dead." And I want things to feel better than they do, I thought. This was ridiculous. I'd spent my whole life dreaming about what it would be like to live in Elwere, and now I was here...

And all it was was another place. A comfortable one, granted; a safe place, agreed. But just another one, not intrinsically better than where I'd lived before. Just cleaner, richer. The comfort, the not having to worry about where my next meal was coming from, that was nice. Very nice. It should have been enough. Why wasn't it?

"Wait a few years." She pressed her thumb to a touchplate; almost immediately the doors whisked open and we walked in. "You'll be able to handle it on your own. If you still care to. Which I beg to doubt."

She moved aside to let me touch the plate. It immediately flashed green, which was just as well; the service staff had only about half the cars programmed to recognize my prints.

"My rooms, please," I said, staggering a bit as the elevator lurched sideways, then dropped. Despite years of Carlos' teaching and prodding, I still didn't have the map of Elwere solidly in my head; I never knew which way the d.a.m.n elevators were going to go.

She scowled. "You don't have to be courteous to circuitry. It's there to serve."

"Like lowers."

"Of course." She nodded, genuinely surprised that I'd point out the obvious. "Except that circuits don't have a choice. The bourgeoisie and the lower cla.s.ses do."

Some choice. The only wealth on Oroga came out of valda, and Elwere owned the valda. While some individuals among the lowers and buzhes could make their living elsewise, it all came down to having to serve Elwere, either directly or indirectly.

I've got to admit that didn't bother me. I was on the inside for once, and I liked it that way.

Still, there was an ache in me, a feeling of loss. Whether it was over Marie and Carlos, or whether I was missing the flashes of cherat with Eschteef, I don't know.

It could be that- "David?" Emilita frowned up at me. "What is really bothering you? Other than van Ingstrand." She dismissed the notion of van Ingstrand's being worth worrying about with a toss of her head.

I shrugged. "I don't like Father fighting my duels for me."

Father was just too proud. He'd insist on subst.i.tuting for me, but wouldn't insist on upgrading the duels to second blood. If he'd done that, I probably wouldn't have been challenged so often; the notion of facing Miguel Ruiz de Curdova in a first-blood affair didn't intimidate as many people as I wished it would have.

First-blood duels weren't all that dangerous; the worst result was likely to be only a few minutes of pain.