"Are you sure this is the place?" asked Caligan uncertainly of his minder, looking around uneasily at the decrepit and unadorned buildings of Sigil's warehouse district as they walked along. Wisps of curdled smoke from the Foundry, seemingly drifting here in order to die, had settled on rooftops and walls long enough to leave a grayish, oozelike wash on the building's exteriors. If it were not for the mortal threat hanging over him, he thought, he probably would never have come here at all. He fingered the tie of the black and silver armband he wore and asked, "So. What's the chant on this Bolim, anyway? What kind of a warrior is he?"

His minder, an imposing hulk of a tiefling named Blett who had been scouting ahead, lowered his hand from the mass of spiky protrusions that was his face and answered sourly, "He's no basher. Keeps to himself, so his name don't spread very far. But he's good at what he does. Has to be. Dark is he once ran with the Fivers, though he don't talk about it. I only know what I do ‘cause I met him at the Festhall..." Blett chuckled -- a sound not unlike gravel being shaken inside a heavy box. "We started drinking stuff that was eating the bottom out of this granite jug-"

"I get the picture," Caligan snapped, picking his way around a large mud puddle. "But if you're the body who knows him, why am I here?"

"You're here because one, you don't know the first thing about this contest you're in, and two, the guy won't even consider helping any cutter he don't meet in person. He owes me a turn; that's your introduction, and no more. You're gonna have to explain the situation, and humbly ask him to teach you the rules." Caligan's almond eyes bulged at the prospect of that. "What now? The Deep Dwarves are a proud race, and it might-"

"I am NOT going to BEG help from any DUERGAR!" the elf almost squeaked with indignation. "I'd rather slit my own throat than-" his ranting was stopped short by a deep, angry growl like gravel being ground to powder, and one of Blett's massive arms reaching out to grip the elf's shoulder. The viselike grip left Caligan immobile and looking pained.

"Have a care, berk," the tiefling rumbled. "You're not peeling at a card table for bub anymore. I'm calling in personal markers trying to keep you alive, and you'd best be appreciating the pains I'm going through." He held his client a moment or two until the elf nodded numbly, then released him. It took Caligan a moment to regain his balance, and longer still to regain his composure.

"That was uncalled for," Caligan said weakly. "If I didn't think you'll be unemployed in a matter of hours anyway, I'd fire you." They resumed walking, Caligan trailing hesitantly after his minder.

"Just taking appropriate measures," the minder rumbled. "Look. You made a move on the wrong gambler, and you paffed it. That's not my business. But if you're going into a death-match, it's my job to make sure you at least know the pikin' rules." Blett pointed down the row to a nondescript warehouse some distance off with a small black and silver banner hanging near the door. "There we are. Looks like one of the contestants tonight wanted some space to move in."

The two made their way in silence toward the warehouse. Then the elf, in hushed tones, said, "Thanks. I appreciate the turn."

"Just pay attention in there," he grumbled.

He looked up at his minder for a moment. "You don't like me much, do you, Blett?"

"Caligan, I'm a minder. You're not paying me six glow a day to like you. Now, you're going to meet with Ovi Bolim, give him the chant of this, and hope to your Powers he helps you past what I can. He's the best there is at One-Pass. Dark of it is he's the one brought the piking game to Sigil in the first place."

With a soft word and a nod to the doorman, the pair made their way into the warehouse. Caligan was surprised to see the number of spectators gathered to see the contest. They passed the long, makeshift tables of the Fated, yammering their odds and collecting wagers. Beyond the throng were a set of improvised bleachers , and beyond that a line of hay bales cordoned off a large open space in lieu of a proper fighting pit. Blett towed him past the betting lines in order to get them good seats up front, and Caligan sulked a moment or two before noting the rest of his surroundings. "Keep your eyes open," rumbled his minder, looking over the audience seating. "He's usually here. We're looking for a dwarf, gray-"

"Grayish skin, little pointy beard? I see him." Caligan pointed out beyond the hay bales.

Blett's spike-ridden jaw went slack for a moment. "Oops."

"Oops?" Caligan asked. "What do you mean, ‘Oops'?"

The minder shrugged. "Well, if he gets killed, I guess you'll know what not to do." Caligan did not find that a very large comfort.

The two combatants had taken up positions at either end of the area, and stared tensely at each other, weapons at the ready. One was a black abashi, its muscular body greased for combat, its poisonous tail lashing angrily from side to side as it eyed its opponent. The other, the one they had been seeking out that evening, was a lean duergar half the baatezu's height, who wore only a plain gray shirt and leggings, and held a pole arm in a relaxed guard stance. Tied around his brow was a black headband with a large red circle in the center. Against the back wall between them was a low table with a guttering candle on it -- one of three available 24-hour timers, Caligan remembered -- and beside it stood a somber-looking man bearing the Guv'ner's insignia on the pauldrons of his armor and a silver armband: the referee. Both contestants kept a close eye on each other and the flickering stub of candle.

"Well, if nothing else," Blett confided in a whisper like two mill wheels grinding together, "this'll be a good example for ya. The deep-dwarf's powerful into playing clean and by the rules. It's a ceremony, like. He don't do it for jink, like the others, though he takes the purse like everybody else. He's in it for personal honor."

"What's to stop the other one, then?" asked the elf.

Blett rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Piking clueless," he muttered to himself. "The abashi follow rules, too, Caligan. Just cause he ain't as pretty as you an' me don't mean he's got no sense of fair play. Besides," he added, pointing to one corner, "the enforcers make sure it don't go down dirty."

Caligan followed his minder's gesture and noticed the glint of red armor in the shadows. Surprised to see them here, he began looking around for others, and spotted a second on the other side of the makeshift arena, and then a third glint of armor up in the rafters above the timer. "Harmonium? Why are they here? Isn't this technically illegal gambling?"

"Not all Harmonium are goody two-shoes. And legal or no, there's a set of rules here need enforcing."

Caligan nodded. "Oh." He indicated Ovi, watching the flickering timer. "No armor?"

"No armor, no items. One-Pass is supposed to be about skill, not gear."

"I see. Why do they call it ‘one-pass', anyway?"

"There's a couple theories. Chantin' I heard, and it seems to me the right one, is that it's an old ritual combat, where warriors with grudges would run headlong at each other with swords to settle their differences. One pass is all it usually took." Caligan nodded and was about to ask another question when Blett silenced him. "It's starting."

The Guv'ner charged to oversee this contest carefully unrolled the protection scroll he had brought in with him, and a swirling, translucent globe surrounded him to shield him from the action. Beyond the stands, the Fated noted the movement in the arena, raised their arms and declared the betting closed. The clamor died down, along with the sound of jink changing hands, and the gamblers moved to find seats as close as they dared to the contest they had wagered on.

"You are both aware of the rules of this contest," the Guv'ner intoned. "Your attacks have both been chosen, and told to me. To kill the opponent in any other way results in loss of honor and loss of contest. When the winning blow is struck, the matter between you ends. Be at your guard; and serve your honor." In response, the gray dwarf swept his weapon to attention, bowed respectfully to the referee, and resumed his guard. The baatezu merely grunted.

The candle sputtered once, twice, and finally went out.

A cheer went up from the crowd as the black abashi threw up an illusory curtain of flame between itself and its opponent, then teleported directly behind the dwarf, intending to rake him with its claws. The dwarf, though, had not been deceived, and dove clear of the attack. Tumbling to his feet, the dwarf struck back with a swipe of his own weapon.

The baatezu, noting the speed of his foe, threw wide his wings and opted to take to the air. The dwarf moved to the center of the arena for room to maneuver. Wheeling about, the creature swept down on the dwarf, swiping with its claws and lashing out with the poisonous stinger in its tail, while trying to avoid the swinging pole arm. The onlookers cheered with each successive pass. After two unsuccessful attacks, it took advantage of a change in the duergar's stance, and drove its stinger home, deep into the dwarf's right shoulder. The crowd roared.

"Ooh, that's got ‘im now!" Blett commented. The elf was uncertain whom he meant.

The dwarf reacted by grabbing firmly onto the tail with one hand, and began to drag behind the baatezu, which was now pumping its wings to get away. The sudden added weight lowered its altitude nearly to the ground, and, as the cursing baatezu set its wings to pull its load into the wall, the dwarf brought the pole arm around in a great arc and severed all but a stub of the creature's tail. Unbalanced and unable to maneuver, the black abashi crashed headlong into a support beam on the warehouse wall, cracking it and making the whole building shake. Screams and cheers went up from the audience.

Over the noise, Caligan hollered, "What's this about a killing move? Nobody explained that part."

"Remember that Guv'ner you talked to when Odran challenged you? He's your referee. Each contestant picks a special move to finish the opponent off, tells it to the ref. That move's the only way to win. I'm thinking the abashi picked his natural weapons for this one."

The creature clambered slowly to its feet with an angry roar, and turned to face the dwarf. "You washed-out little turd! You're in the dead-book now."

"You fight rike an ord thief," replied the dwarf with a grunt, wresting the stinger from his shoulder and casting it aside. "Ord, tired, and stoopid. We end this."

The baatezu gestured obcenely, and a gout of flame shot up from beneath its opponent's boots. The dwarf dove for cover. Throwing its wings wide, the abashi howled; Caligan clutched a protective amulet in fear and dove off the bleachers as a great many of the remaining spectators began scrambling for the exit, screaming. His minder was part of the stampede for a few moments before regaining control of himself; Blett's rocky shape became a boulder around which the wash of panic flowed, and then the minder slowly made his way along the wall back to his client.

"I thought you said he could only use his chosen weapon!" yelled Caligan accusingly over the din. "He's using magic!"

"No, he ain't. That there's a racial talent of the abashi. They're allowed," Blettt answered. "Just like what the dwarf's doing."

Caligan looked out to see that the duergar had vanished from sight. Raging, the abashi began causing fires to spring up at random spots on the arena floor, but none of them revealed the dwarf's whereabouts. Still shaking off the impact of his crash, and unsteady from the loss of its tail, the baatezu moved into the center of the arena. "Come on out, you worm! Show yourself!"

An impact on the ground behind the abashi brought the dwarf back into view. Having run and set his pole arm into the ground, he vaulted up and slammed heavily into the back of the baatezu's head. Arms windmilling and the stub of his tail flailing uselessly, the creature lost its balance and crashed forward into the dirt.

In an instant, the dwarf was on top of the black abashi, and a flash of silver lashed from his hand around the creature's thick neck. Gagging, the more powerful creature clambered to its feet, throwing the duergar off of its shoulders, but not dislodging the garotte about its throat. The gray dwarf fell down between the abashi's wings, and hung on grimly, using his own dead weight to tighten the noose around his opponent's throat.

"Hold!" called out the referee, but the baatezu continued to flail about, clutching at the wire biting into its neck and trying to dislodge its foe - but its own wings got in the way and its claws could not reach the dwarf. "Hold!" he called again, and suddenly the duergar released his grip, dropping to the arena floor. Caligan was shocked. He'd had the creature on the ropes! Now he was just giving up?

The abashi, suddenly free of its burden, wheeled around to claw its foe, but when he saw the referee stepping forward, and the glint of red armor moving to close on it, the creature stayed its attack. Instead, it yanked the weapon from around its neck and churlishly threw it into the dirt.

The Guv'ner turned to face what remained of the spectators, and declared, "The chosen blow has been struck -- garotte about the neck. This contest, and the honor, go to Ovi Bolim."

The dwarf once again gave the referee a respectful bow. Beyond, among what remained of the audience members, jink began changing hands. Emerging from their protective cover, Blett looked over at his client. "Well?"

Caligan swallowed hard, nodded. Like it or not, the dwarf was most likely his best chance for survival. "All right."

"Come on, then. We can't talk to him now, but I know where he'll go to celebrate."

They approached Ovi in the Hammer and Anvil an hour or so later, spotting him when he entered in the company of several other Sensates. Drinks were trotted out to him by the owner himself before all of them had settled in around the group's customary table. Blett's introductions had been brief; he'd simply said that Caligan was his client, and that he had a problem. The duergar simply shoved two glasses at them, and stated in a startlingly thick accent that out of respect for Blett's honor, tonight's celebration ended at the bottom of his current drink.

Caligan's stomach was still flopping around like a fresh-caught salmon (Blett told him what had been in the granite shot glass just afterward), but after his minder's warning never to refuse any kind of duergar hospitality, he'd had to at least try to drink what was set before him. The Sensates that had made up the dwarf's retinue had been amused to no end to see an elf delicately nosing a shot of dwarven spirits, but after a long moment and a murderous warning glance from Blett, Caligan had tossed it back, figuring it was as good a chaser for his pride as any. Shortly after, the duergar excused himself from his companions, and invited Caligan to follow him downstairs where they could speak privately. As he had headed down, Blett had caught his arm and rumbled, "He's talking to you now; your introduction's all myturn with him will cover. Don't paff this." The note of warning in his voice did not portent well for the meeting.

He followed the duergar down a sturdy flight of stairs and along a tight, low hallway to a heavy door near the end, and realized why his minder had opted to stay above -- his bulk simply would not have permitted his following. "You wirr prease remove your boots," declared the dwarf, and did just that with his own footwear, placing it carefully on a reed mat outside the door. Caligan followed suit, and Ovi opened the door to reveal a flimsy screen across the doorway. Ovi slid that aside, ushered him in, and slid the screen back into place.

"Sit." The duergar indicated a floor mat, and Caligan sank down hesitantly upon it, crossing his legs underneath him. He felt naked without his boots. As he did so, Ovi nodded his satisfaction and brought out a small tray with what seemed to be a tea set upon it. His movements as he prepared the tea were practiced, precise, and oddly graceful because of it.

"You may speak in your native tongue, if it will put you at ease," the dwarf said, and Caligan jumped in spite of himself.

"Y-You speak Elvish... Smoothly," answered Caligan, trying to play his shock off as pleasant surprise.

"You are kind to say so," Ovi replied. The syllables, though harsher than usual and flavored with a drowish accent, still seemed incongruous with the shape of the speaker. "In my trade, one should always be able to ask directions."

"Indeed. But I think Common will be fine."

"As you wish. So. Honorabre Brett-san brings you to me," he said, as he stirred the tea with a small wisk. "I must concrude that it regard your contest, yes?"

"Yes. I'm caught up in a One-Pass contest with a cutter named Odran."

"Mmm." Ovi nodded wisely. "I know of him. Indep. He has much zanshin. Very dangerous." Ovi replaced the wisk, then turned one of the bowls slowly in his hands so that the design on it faced his guest. "When did you right the candre?"

"I'm sorry, the what?"

"The candre. The timer," Ovi aked, offering him the tea with both hands. "When did it start?" Caligan took the tea uncertainly, unsure where this conversation was going.

"Oh, that. We, um, opted for the hourglass instead. That was two hours after peak." He sipped the tea nervously, and it did not help to quiet his stomach. "Uh, this thing is to the death..."

The duergar's eyes lit up at that. "Ah, a true shin-ken sho-bu. Not rike these farse contests for pride, or for coin. There is great honor in this contest. Who carries your honor this night? Who is referee?"

"A Guv'ner called Brannen Quillbreaker. I-"

Ovi nodded with a satisfied grunt. "He is a man of honor, just and fair. You do werr with him."

The surroundings, his upset stomach and this small talk about his impending doom finally proved too much for Caligan. "Um, look, I don't mean to undermine your opinion of me, but I don't know a damn thing about what's going on." He clambered to his feet and began pacing as if trapped. Ovi remained seated, following him with his eyes. "Two days ago, I peeled Odran for his spot on the leader board over at the Annex. Feeling cocky, I accepted his invitation to a rematch at this game called One-Pass, and before I knew it, somebody was telling me I had twenty-four hours to get my estate in order. I don't even know the ground rules. All I really know for sure is that Odran intends to split me open like rotted fruit. I am no duellist, and I'm in way over my head. I'm scared. And I'll most likely die if you don't help me."

The deep-dwarf scrutinized him for a few uncomfortable moments. "So," he said flatly. "You wish go straight to business."

"Yes, I wish go straight to business," the elf snapped, and instantly regretted mimicking his host. "Sorry. I'm just... worried."

Ovi grunted, expressionless. "There is wisdom in knowing one's rimitations. What do you want of me?'

"I want you to teach me the rules of this One-Pass, to consult with me on my options. To find some way for me to keep my head attached to my shoulders. They say you brought this game here, that you know it better than anybody."

The dwarf nodded. "It is a tradition of my peopre."

"Then how do I back out of this?"

"You do not!" Ovi looked deeply offended and angry. He pointed an accusing finger at the armband Caligan wore. "Right now you have no house, no honor, no pride, so I cannot name you coward. But I wirr not herp an honorress rat, a tunner-vermin who sneaks away when charrenged! Good day to you."

Caligan became instantly apologetic. "I- I'm sorry. Forget it. I'm sorry I brought it up. Please reconsider... Odran is a mighty swordsman, and all I know is the business end of a deck of cards. It'll be a slaughter, my slaughter, without your assistance. I can't fold, and I can't fight without dying. So what can I do?"

Ovi considered for a while, looking at him with narrowed eyes, and Caligan sweated. Finally, after a long hush, he grunted, "Ten percent."

Caligan swallowed hard. "Ten percent of what?"

"Your wager. Your estate."

"You realize what you're asking. Between you and the referee, I'll be losing one fifth of all my worldly-"

"You are paying him to be impartiar," Ovi snapped. "You are paying me to care about what happens to you. Ten percent is my fee."

Caligan considered that, and hung his head. "We have a saying where I come from," he sighed. "‘A live peasant is better than a dead noble'. I... agree to your terms." Awkwardly, he crouched down and seated himself on the mat again. "Now, how do I stay alive?"

Ovi watched him a moment before answering. In the quiet of the room, one could almost hear Ovi's mind re-evaluating the elf before him. At last, he nodded, and replied simply, "You win. You rand your death-brow before Odran rands his."

Ovi sipped at his tea while Caligan digested that.

Ovi and Caligan spent the next few hours discussing Caligan's life and experiences, his skills, and the nature of the events leading to his current contest. They composed lists of his strengths, and (what seemed to Caligan) much, much longer lists of his weaknesses and shortcomings. The more of Ovi's questions he answered, the more convinced he was that he was doomed. The elf's anxiety grew the longer they sat and talked, and Ovi's questions grew more and more cryptic until he finally asked, "Now. Who are you, Carigan-san?"

"I'm sorry?" Caligan asked.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"I'm Caligan Swiftrider. Son of-"

"No. Who are you?"

"I'm a high elf from the primeworld realm of-"

"No. Try again."

Caligan looked suspiciously at the dwarf, who seemed to be rapidly losing patience. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"You rie," the dwarf said flatly. "You do understand question, and you do not wish to speak your true answer. Sword. Sperr. Knife, rope, what? Speak!" Caligan looked bewildered, and Ovi leaned forward over the small tea table on his fists in a threatening posture. "Where is your strength? Answer! Who are you?" Ovi yelled at him, inches from his face. "Have you not heard any of your own answers? This is shin-ken sho-bu -- constest with real sword! To survive this, you must be true to what you are!" He stabbed the elf with two fingers in the chest, pushing him backward. "Here! Onry in this way wirr you win. Now! Who are you?"

"I don't know!" cried the elf. "I don't know what you want me to answer! I'm a courtier and a gambler, not a warrior! I'm better suited to trading quips, not blows! I'm not fast, I'm not strong, I don't know any potent spellcraft and I'm hopeless with weapons. I hide when steel is drawn. If it weren't for my wits, my luck and my choice in minders, I'd be peeled and in the dead book long since. You don't think I know that? I know." Caligan hung his head, at a loss for saying anything else. "I know." Ovi moved, and Caligan flinched, expecting the dwarf to yell at him again.

Instead, Ovi sat back with a satisfied grunt. He turned to the cup of tea before him, took a sip, and set it back in place again.

"Good," he said at last. "Now we work on strategy."

The gamblers convened at the doorway of the manor house on the edge of the Lady's Ward, and servants ushered them silently into the great hall where the contest was to take place. The Fated had their apparatus propped up on borrowed tables and leaned up against walls, chanting their mantra of the latest odds. Caligan stood by the great hearth and studied them, torn between disgust over what they had turned his home into and his irrational desire to go over and find out what odds he was pulling. He had only invited the booking agents he knew personally, and out of professional courtesy they had taken pains not to destroy too much of his home. The number of spectators, however, many of them fellows from the Annex, had made no such arrangements with him, and tramped in with food, drink, and Powers knew what else. At the time of arrangements, Caligan had thought having the home-ground advantage quite clever of him. Now he was beginning to reconsider.

He glanced over at the timer, brought in with the Guv'ner who would referee. Quillbreaker had been mildly surprised to hear about his choice of winning blow, but noted it as an appropriate and allowable maneuver. Though he was sworn not to reveal anything about Odran's activities, Brannen had taken a moment to thank him for summoning him that morning, after breakfast. The referee had, of course, been at his beck and call from the moment the glass had turned; that was part of the honor-bearer's duties in this contest. If the number of times the Guv'ner had yawned was any indication, though, Odran had exercised that ability several times last night.

With about half an hour to go, Odran and his retinue arrived. His shaved head and ugly, froglike sneer repulsed him; it had been part of the reason he'd tried to take his spot on the leader board. Odran was the kind of man you watched the hands of -- you always expected them to be holding a poisoned knife. Caligan glanced over at the timer, then back at his opponent. The duellist was stripping down from his street clothes, handing his cloak to one attendant, his sword belt to another, his waistcoat and jewelry to a third, until he was attired as simply as Caligan, in linen shirt, pants and boots. No jewelry was allowed, as they might have protective enchantments on them. Likewise, both duellists' weapons were to be checked by the referee to be mundane in nature. As Odran prepared, Caligan heard the sound of wagering grow more active.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Caligan," called the fighter with an ugly grin. "I'm glad you picked this arena. It gives me a chance to look around my new home."

"I offered it out of courtesy to my fellow gentry," Caligan replied, indicating the spectators gathered in the hall. "Why should I stink up someone else's kip with your presence?" Odran only glowered in response.

The high elf went back to studying the makeup of the audience. Blett loomed over by the doorway, still as a sentry; he knew this matter was out of his hands. He had even returned today's wages. At first, Caligan hadn't been certain how to interpret that gesture; he later concluded that it was out of deference to the contest itself, not as a severance of ties to his client. There was his old friend, Kindari, and there, Lady Tryna, with her usual assortment of men in tow -- he wondered which way his friends had wagered. Tryna caught his eye and waved, but bit on her lower lip like she always did when bluffing; that meant she favored Odran, then. Well, he couldn't blame her. Then in the crowd, he spotted Ovi, moving down to the front from one of the wager tables. Caligan inclined a slight bow in the dwarf's direction, and Ovi respectfully returned it. Those aware enough to note the exchange began drifting toward the tables again.

The sands in the glass began running short, and the two contestants were soon called forward to their places. Caligan grasped the handle of the court sword he had selected and stepped forward. Now or never, he thought, and wished a quick prayer to the gods of his homeworld -- not that they could help him, he knew, but it couldn't hurt.

Odran advanced, but did not carry a weapon. Instead, the servants that he had brought with him all held out a variety of different weapons for Odran to take. The duellist smirked. "You show your hand too early, Caligan. You always did."

"And you talk too much. You always will."

"The spies you sent last night will do you no good," he hissed. "I changed my winning blow over a dozen times. Your intelligence is useless."

"And shame on you for waking up such a good gentleman as Brannen here. All you really did was fatigue our referee."

"He won't have to stay alert for long," Odran growled.

The referee stepped up between them and the two fell silent. "You are both aware of the rules of this contest. Your attacks have both been chosen, and told to me. To kill the opponent in any other way results in loss of honor and loss of contest. When the winning blow is struck, the matter between you ends. Be at your guard; and serve your honor." Caligan performed an awkward salute with his weapon, and his opponent chuckled contemptuously. One of his servants stepped forward with a broadsword, and with a flourish, Odran saluted the honor-bearer, then the audience, and assumed a guard stance. Caligan followed suit. The crowd fell silent.

With a whisper, the last grains left the glass.

"You tricked me into fighting you today," began the elf in a clear voice, so that everyone could hear. "To play me for a fool -- or so you thought."

"It's just like you to keep talking while I carve you into pieces," Odran spat, and steel met steel in a powerful attack that sent Caligan reeling backwards. He barely hung on to his weapon. The duellist began to chuckle, and Caligan, swallowing hard, began to back away.

"But you will find I'm not such easy prey," the elf warned, sounding doubtful. "And all your planned attacks-"

Odran interrupted him with a feint at his head, then his side, then head again, and while Caligan was reacting, aimed a powerful slash along his belly. Caligan jumped back, and just in time -- the sword's tip cleanly cut the fabric of his loose shirt.

"-will come to naught!" he called, losing his nerve and making a dash for the far side of the room.

"Hold still and die quickly!" bellowed Odran, and followed aftter, aiming another swipe at him.

The crowd began to gasp and cheer as Caligan ran about the room, throwing furniture in the way and hurling whatever was near to hand at the fighter chasing him. "I duck! and dodge! I must elude your chop!" he called, narrating his actions. He dove behind a sturdy wooden chair and Odran, roaring with a mighty swing, lodged his sword deep into the chair back. "You cut! and thrust! and I try to defend!" While Odran wrestled with his weapon, trying to pull it free, the elf bounced up and around the chair, and couldn't resist the opportunity --He slapped the frog-faced duellist in the buttocks with his court sword as he ran past him, and Odran let out an undignified yelp of indignation. The crowd loved it, and began sounding its appreciation with laughter and catcalls. Caligan allowed himself a moment to savor his change in fortunes. He was surviving this!

Caligan began to play to his newly-won audience, and turned to strike a courtly pose. "But soon will come the time when you must stop, because-"

His quip was cut short by a solid blow across the jaw. While he had been looking at the spectators, Odran had left his sword to close with him in hand-to-hand. While Caligan reeled, half-blind with sudden pain, the fighter pressed his advantage, punching and kicking him in the ribs and head. Caligan, all wind knocked from him, collapsed to the floor.

Odran knelt down beside his opponent, and hoisted the elf's head and shoulders off the floor, grinning. "Do you have anything else to say, before I kill you?"

Caligan winced, spat blood, and stammered, "T- the contest..."

"Is OVER!" yelled the duellist, and slammed Caligan's head against the polished stone floor.

Odran's face was a death's head grinning in triumph. Odran left him on the floor and moved to retrieve his weapon from the chair.

Caligan spat out a bloody tooth. "...Soon comes... To an end," he said, fighting to get his breath back.

The high elf's lack of fight suddenly registered with Odran. He freed his sword and fixed his opponent with a suspicious glare. "What are you up to?" he asked.

"Odran! Fool! Look hard at what you see!" answered Caligan, moving painfully toward cover again. "A wiser man would think on what he hears..."

The fighter's leering face went slack as Caligan's strategy finally dawned on him. "Oh, no. No, you don't!"

"For while you swing, intent on striking me-"

"SHUT UP!" howled Odran, and with a grunt of effort hurled his broadsword end over end at Caligan, who was forced to duck -- as were the onlookers, who screamed and dove out of the way. His weapon was lost in the throng.

"The blow I make is ringing in your ears!" declared Caligan, looking bloodied but resolute.

"No! I won't accept this, I won't!" hollered Odran, and charged him. "I'm not hearing this, not another word, no no no no no no..." Caligan sidestepped the clumsy attack, and wheeled around to face him again, but to his surprise found his opponent with his hands clamped over his ears, still muttering "no" under his breath over and over. Caligan glanced at the referee, then back at Odran and at the assembled crowd; he saw Ovi nod his approval.

Caligan closed with his opponent, trying to pry his hands away from his ears, and a scuffle ensued. The elf's nose was bloodied, and his clothes torn; Odran, curled up on the floor, was still blathering. Caligan was bitten twice and kicked several times in the shins, ankle and head before he regained his court sword and drew blood on Odran. The duellist had little choice but to clamp one hand on the wound. Standing over him, Caligan drew a deep breath and bellowed the final couplet inches from his opponent's ear:

"Now, imbecile, Take heed of what I say: For Caligan just won the duel today!"

"Hold!" called the referee, and a cheer went up from the onlookers. "The chosen blow has been struck -- an improvised poem against the opponent's pride. This contest, and the honor, go to Caligan Swiftrider." A cheer, more of shock than of elation, rose from the crowd. The two combatants' servants rushed in to tend to their charges' injuries.

Odran swatted his away and stormed over to the elf. "You reedy little shit, you cheated!"

Caligan managed a pained but triumphant smile. "The referee says otherwise."

"You bribed him! This whole contest is forfeit!"

"Be careful at whom you aim your accusations," warned the Guv'ner ominously. A quick hand gesture beckoned one of the Mercykillers nearer to witness the discussion. "The contest was fair, the move legal."

"Pike that!" yelled the human. "He's supposed to use a weapon! He violated the spirit of the game-"

""I did use a weapon," replied Caligan wearily. "My wits. It's called the Poet's Blow. It hasn't been used for a dwarf's lifespan or so, but there are documented contests in which it's been used. As for the spirit of the contest, it's always been one contestant's strengths against the other's weaknesses... I can't help it if you're a brilliant swordsman but a total dunderhead."

Odran's froglike face contorted with rage. "You shit, I'll kill you!" he screamed, and lunged to attack him. Caligan saw the flash of steel appear in Odran's fist, but pinned as he was in a crush of servants, could not move to avoid it. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut against the incoming blade.

But the blow never landed. The rumble of gravel being ground to powder nearby caused Caligan to open his eyes, and he saw the massive shape of Blett's arm gripping the duellist's wrist. In Odran's fist was a stiletto dagger, mere inches away from Caligan's face. Odran's mouth was working, but no sound escaped. His eyes bulged out in pain.

"Contest is over," Blett said, addressing the Mercykillers closing on the group. "I take it from here." With a glance at their Guv'ner, the three quietly acquiesced.

With a grateful look to his minder, Caligan stepped away from the group and thanked everyone for attending. The event over, many of the gamblers began filing out, ushered by the servants. Many of the booking agents, however, and associates to whom he owed sums began forming up their own line for a private word. Caligan scowled at the prospect of the feeding frenzy that would ensue. Odran's hard-won estate would be divided up among them, and he most likely wouldn't see a coin of his new winnings.

His moment of triumph rapidly souring, Caligan turned his attention to the action behind him. Odran, still immobilized in Blett's grip, was getting his wounds tended to by his manservants. Feeling petulant, Caligan swatted the bandages out of the closest one's hands. "Stop that," he ordered. "You worked for his estate. That just became my property, which means you now work for me. You, carry the message back to the house and tell them to change all the locks. Then bring the keys back here. You, go with him and locate all the records of his holdings. I'll want to review them tomorrow. And you four... You're his carriagemen, are you not? Let him walk." Allowing himself a smile of satisfaction, he motioned to Blett. "Throw him out. Drop him off in the Hive somewhere."

Blett nodded and headed out the archway, towing the now whimpering human like a rag doll hanging from one massive fist. He paused a moment at the door, and looked back at his employer. "I'll be collectin' the day's wages when I get back."

Caligan nodded. "Six divines. I know."

"Nine," the minder corrected. "You can afford it." Dragging his human load in tow, Blett ducked out the doorway.

"Not for long," the elf muttered, glancing back at the line.

"He stirr does not rike you," said a voice nearby. Caligan looked down to see his mentor scowling at him.

"Ah, Ovi!" he smiled. "Glad to see you stayed. I won, did you see? A wonderful strategy, to be certain. I hope you placed a wager on me... You deserve the extra jink."

"I did. I bet on Odran, and rost two Rady," the dwarf said. The smile on Caligan's lips died. "I have come for my fee."

"You didn't expect me to survive, either. Well, that certainly speaks volumes about your coaching technique."

"You refused a guest under your roof medicar attention."

"What, him? A guest? He'd just tried to kill me!"

"Everyone invited to your home is guest. You have no concept of hospitarity!" Ovi declared. "You deny him the onry things remaining to him -- his soundness of body and his honor."

"That's right," Caligan spat. "And you know why? Because I don't like him." He rolled his eyes and waved over a servant to pour him a goblet of wine. He felt as if he needed it. "Look. If you don't like my behavior in my own home, you can crawl back into your little hole in the tavern basement. If you want the money, little man, join the line, but don't lecture me any more. I tire of it."

Ovi glared at him, his jaw clenched tightly. Finally, he pointed an accusing finger and declared in a clear, low voice, "You have rearned no resson this day. I name you honorress dog, Carigan Swiftrider. Stay away from One-Pass contests. If ever I see you there, then we wirr have a true shin-ken sho-bu. And then, berk, we wirr see how you fare."

Caligan opened his mouth to issue a scathing reply and a counter-challenge, but when he turned around to face the duergar he discovered that his former mentor had vanished, presumably into the empty air. "Oh yeah?" he said, almost to himself. He stewed for a moment, having no one to direct his anger at, before realizing that such talk had been responsible for almost getting him killed in the first place. He decided that discretion, this day, was the better part of valor, and closed his mouth without saying another word. Though he would never admit it, Caligan had indeed learned a lesson from Ovi Bolim, and one of the hardest for a gambler to learn: to quit while he was ahead. One pass with death had been enough.

For today, anyway.