“On the third day out from port, the youngest suitor had such a dream by night as young men have. When he woke he touched the pillow near his head and found it warm, and when he lay down to sleep again, he winded some delicate perfume—the odor, it might have been, of the flowering grasses the women of my land dry in spring to braid in their hair.

  “An isle they reached where no men come, and the youngest suitor went ashore to search for the lark. He found it not, but at the dying of the day stripped off his garments to cool himself in the surging sea. There, when the stars had brightened, another joined him. Together they swam, and together lay telling tales on the beach.

  “One day while they were peering over the prow of their ship for another (for they traded at times, and at times fought also) a great gust of wind came and the angel’s hat was blown into the all-devouring sea, and soon the brown cloth that had covered her face went to join it.

  “At last they grew weary of the unresting sea and thought of my land, where the lions ride our cattle in autumn when the grass burns, and the men are brave as bulls and the women fierce as hawks. Their ship they had called the Lark, and now the Lark flew across blue waters, each morn impaling the red sun upon her bowsprit. In the port where they had bought her they sold her, and received three times the price, for she was become a famous vessel, renowned in song and story; and indeed, all who came to the port wondered at how small she was, a trim, brown craft hardly a score of paces from stem to rudder post. Their loot they sold also, and the goods they had gained by trading. The people of my land keep the best destriers they breed for themselves, but it is to this port that they bring the best of those they sell, and there the youngest suitor and the angel bought good mounts and filled their saddlebags with gems and gold, and set out for the armiger’s house, that is so remote that no one ever comes there.

  “Many a scrape did they have upon the way, and many a time bloody the swords that had been washed so often in the cleansing sea and wiped on sailcloth or sand. Yet at last come they did. There the angel was welcomed by the armiger, shouting, and by his wife, weeping, and by all the servants, talking. And there she doffed her brown clothing and became the armiger’s daughter of old once more.

  “A great wedding was planned. In my land such things take many days, for there are roasting pits to be dug anew, and cattle to be slaughtered, and messengers who must ride for days to fetch guests who must ride for days also. On the third day, as they waited, the armiger’s daughter sent her servant to the youngest suitor, saying, ‘My mistress will not hunt today. Rather, she invites you to her bedchamber, to talk of times past upon sea and land.’

  “The youngest suitor dressed himself in the finest of the clothes he had bought when they had returned to port, and soon was at the door of the armiger’s daughter.

  “He found her sitting on a window seat, turning the pages of one of the old books her mother had carried from her own home and listening to the singing of a lark in a cage. To that cage he went, and saw that the lark had a ring of gold about one leg. Then he looked at the armiger’s daughter, wondering.

  “‘Did the angel you met upon the strand not promise you should be guided to this lark?’ she said. ‘And by the best road? Each morning I open his cage and cast him out upon the wind to exercise his wings. Soon he returns to it again, where there is food for him, clean water, and safety.’

  “Some say the wedding of the youngest suitor and the armiger’s daughter was the finest ever seen in my land.”

  The Hour of the Sheep

  Tiero eyed his vprint with disfavor, then shook his head. Talking into the vprint would indeed be faster. Much faster. It might even be less laborious, though Tiero was not a good talker and knew it; but the manuscript that would sprout from the vprint would be wordy. Diffuse. Difficult to follow, and perhaps impossible to follow.

  No.

  He took up his pen and the little ivory-handled pen knife Mother had given him in the year before her death. He would write his book—the book the President-Protector had suggested—with this. Reading what he had written into the vprint (no doubt with a few additions and corrections) would produce a decent manuscript that might be sent to a publisher.

  For his book would be published. There could be not the slightest doubt of it. Any book suggested by the President-Protector would find an eager publisher. It would be published; and he—Tiero, now called the greatest swordsman alive—would look an arrant fool unless it were insightful and decently written.

  Decent. Decent writing was the key. Decent must be his watchword. He was no literary artist! Any attempt at fine turns of phrase, at thrilling descriptions, would be—

  It had been his father’s story. How did it go?

  “The temple in Attenis had a beautiful statue of the goddess, Tiero. Naked, not only her outstretched hands but her whole posture offered blessing and forgiveness to an erring humankind. The people loved her and wished to make her statue more beautiful still, so they covered her lovely body with a gown of purple silk and put polychrome beads around her neck. For a time her feet puzzled them, since they were one with the block of marble upon which she stood. At last they cut the soles from a pair of black leather pumps and cemented them to the feet of their image of the goddess. When they had added a brown hat with a long scarlet feather, they declared their work at an end. And every visitor to Attenis was shown their beautiful goddess.”

  Recalling his father, Tiero smiled down at the pen-point he was shaping. His father had been a schoolmaster, and a good one. A fine, fine man, who had taught him how to shape a pen—with ten thousand other things. How proud Father would have been to see his son at the President-Protector’s court! His son conversing with the President-Protector himself!

  “First tell them what you’re going to tell them, Tiero. Then tell them. And when you’ve told them, tell them what you’ve told them. That is nine-tenths of teaching.”

  He read over his first, still incomplete, chapter before dipping his pen in the shining black ink his father had favored.

  So it is that we must master the five hours of the sword if we are to be safe in the streets and to make the streets safe for others. Permit me to review them. The Hour of the Sheep is that of relaxation. We are not on guard, and should danger come, we will go down to death as a sheep to slaughter. The Hour of the Sheep we must leave behind before setting our hands upon the door-pull. It is the hour of sleep, and too often of walking sleep.

  The Hour of the Lion is that of watchfulness. When we walk abroad, the lion must pace at our side, invisible but ever-present. We see no danger and have no reason to fear it, yet we look for it everywhere. Are the tall man before us and the small man behind us allied against us? We must consider this, and consider, too, the most effective means of resisting their alliance. Where is the light, and where the shadow? Have they a confederate in a dark doorway?

  The Hour of the Tiger is that of heightened awareness. When it comes, we no longer face merely hypothetical foes. Some action of our foes has betrayed them. Three men, let us say, have crossed the street to intercept us. We have identified them. We are in a position to predict their weapons and tactics, and perhaps to identify their leader. Our hands seek our hilts, and our eyes protection for our backs.

  Swift comes the Hour of the Bull, rushing upon us! Our foes have commenced their attack. Now their leader confronts us, the knife in his hand hidden by his coat. A henchman stands behind him, ready to support him. A second circles behind us. Our minds are our best weapons, always. A ready mind for a red blade! We are not sheep to stand empty-eyed, awaiting the blow.

  At once: the Hour of the Wolf. They find themselves engaged. We ourselves fight them, wolflike snapping and thrusting, and wolflike slaying man after man. Behold the empty eyes of our foes, those who thought to surprise us, themselves surprised!

  Tiero wiped the point of his pen with a scrap of flannel and cast his mind back to the table of contents he had planned and written with so much care. Best to begin the next chapter now, to get it well launched while he might still write by daylight.

  The Foe, His Tactics and Weapons

  When we fight a duel, we are at pains to learn all we can about the man we are to engage. Has he fought on previous occasions? If so, what have witnesses to say about his skill, his methods, and his preferred attacks? Has he studied at a school of arms? If the answer is no, we will be prone to relax—perhaps to relax overmuch. If it is yes, what is it that school teaches?

  Beyond those simple questions lie many another. Is he old or young? Is he lame? Short of breath? Courageous or cautious? And so on.

  If we are to defend ourselves on the streets, still more if we are to render those streets safe for the defenseless, we must learn all we can about those who have made them dangerous.

  Tiero paused to dip his pen, but did not dip it. How would it look, this book of his, when it was displayed in the bookshops? When it stood among the other books on his shelf? Would he, as its author, be consulted as to the style of the letters? The binding?

  Yes, absolutely. He was writing it to please the President-Protector, and the publisher would surely know—would not publish the book unless he did, for that matter. Such an author would be asked, and his every suggestion followed. A plain typeface, in that case, neither florid nor feminine. (And he must be sure to dedicate the book to President-Protector, and make absolutely certain that his dedication was included.)

  As for binding…

  He let his eyes rove over his own books, bound for the most part in dark cloth or darker leather. Vellum! He had seen a vellum-bound book somewhere, surely. No doubt in a bookshop. A leather thin but tough—like a good swordsman—and tan in color, like the face of a man who spends the greater part of each day outdoors. That was it. The title gold-lettered on the spine: SWORDS FOR PEACE. Beneath it, in letters somewhat smaller, TIERO OF TRIN. Almost, it seemed that he could see it before him.

  He dipped his pen.

  We should learn something of their weapons as well. Few if any will have swords. Long knives are the weapons most favored, and thus a weapon we must understand best if we are to be prepared. Yet our foes wield another weapon more important still.

  If our minds are our own best weapons—and they are, never doubt it—are not the minds of our foes their best weapons also? We may deride the foes we find in the streets as men of little education, but they too have learned. They know how and when and where robberies and murders are best carried out. And too often it is they who find us. Let us learn what they know.

  Full of thought, Tiero wiped his pen and returned it to the cylindrical vase that held half a dozen others. When his book was printed and sold, would not he be asked, not once only but again and again, about his own encounters with thugs in the streets? clearly, he would. It could not be otherwise.

  Yet there had been none. For half a minute or more he reflected on his career. Lessons at the greatest of all schools, and assiduous practice. Three duels, all against famous opponents. Two score matches with foils and two score wins—after which he had been acclaimed everywhere as the greatest swordsman of all. Thus his interview with the President-Protector. Thus the President-Protector’s suggestion. Three fights on the close-cropped greens of dueling grounds. Forty or more mock fights, always on the boards of some estrade.

  And here he was, wielding the pen instead of the sword. Reciting, like any other student, his masters’ secondhand opinions.

  It would not do.

  Rising, he drew his sword. Its dial showed it at full charge. The white ray-skin that would keep his hand from slipping, even if it were drenched with blood, remained tightly glued to the metal of the hilt. His thumb found the demon-stone, and his blade leaped forth, aglow with fell Tyrian energy in the dimming room. A meter. Two meters. Three. A meter and a half. Two.

  Satisfied, he released the stone.

  It would take him an hour or more to get from his own well-appointed and almost luxurious lodgings to that very quarter of the city he had scrupulously avoided all his life. By that time, day and even twilight would be of the past. But first—

  A necklace, the largest he owned, with a tourmaline at its center that might be mistaken for almost any other jewel in a bad light. Rings for his left hand, where they would not interfere with his swordcraft. Earrings, too. Dangling earrings sparkling with small gems. Silver and brass, raked from a drawer and dumped into the soft leather bag dangling from his belt, provided the appearance of ready wealth.

  · · · ·

  It was called the Questing Quarter, that part of the city. Questing because it was (or had been) here that men went looking for women, and women for men. Because it was (or had been) here that people of every station came in search of strong drink. Because it was (or had been) here that gamblers came to lose the little wealth that remained to them or that they had been able to borrow. Fifty years before, it had been popular and fashionable. It was worn, hard, and a trifle dirty now. When it was frequented by persons of quality, as it sometimes was still, they were generally men who hoped that poverty and perversion might season lives grown stale.

  Swaggering into a tavern, he ordered a double brandy. His eyes challenged every man there while he sipped it, and he left feeling certain that he would need his sword before he had gone another block.

  Nothing of the sort occurred. For a time he wandered the streets of the quarter in search of the darkest and most deserted. All of them proved dark, and none were deserted. Once a drunken roisterer nearly vomited on his boots; he skipped quickly to one side and reflected that it was his closest approach to danger.

  Half a dozen well-dressed men went into a house whose tightly drawn curtains leaked a pinkish light. He joined them, accepted another brandy, took a chair in what had once been a reception hall, and watched as nearly naked strumpets paraded one by one among the chairs and ottomans.

  One was little more than a child.

  One was fat.

  One had red hair, and freckles half concealed by powder.

  One had a scarred cheek.

  One was ten years older than Tiero himself, if not more.

  One had been struck in the left eye not long ago; the bruises had just begun to fade.

  One was extremely tall, and thin to the point of emaciation.

  One had long golden hair—darker toward its roots.

  One was somewhat drunk. She was the last to be taken, leaving Tiero alone with the oldest, the thinnest, and the redhead, who said, “Me, right? Come on. I’ll show you my room.”

  He shook his head and rose.

  The oldest said, “It has to be one of us, unless you want to wait until one of your friends is through.”

  “None of you,” Tiero told her, “nor will I wait.”

  The thinnest tapped the wall with her knuckles. A door opened at once, and a big man with a cudgel entered. Leveling his left forefinger at Tiero, he said, “I don’t want no trouble with you.”

  Seeing that the big man was watching his right hand, Tiero drew his sword with his left, little handicapped by the rings that flashed from all four fingers. His thumb found the demon-stone, and the blazing energy of his blade severed the cudgel half a finger’s width from the big man’s hand.

  “You shouldn’t play with things like that,” Tiero told him. “You might be hurt.” The point of his blade nudged the fallen cudgel, which burst into flame.

  Outside, he walked the street in the Hour of the Lion, letting himself lurch and stagger a trifle—something the brandy made easy—but always aware of his surroundings, and particularly aware of anyone walking behind him. Time passed. The moon rose, rendering the dark streets less dark. There were fewer walkers now, and far fewer jitney coaches threading their way among them.

  He entered a gambling den, tired, not quite sober, and firmly resolved that this would be his final stop of the night. A few large bets—after which he would leave, still apparently rich and ripe for the picking.

  He made two and won both, dumping the gold his bag could not contain carelessly into his pockets. If this would not do it, nothing would.

  Nothing did, clearly. A block, two blocks, three, and he was forced to turn away from the hurrying traffic and honest commerce of Bargain Avenue.

  A woman screamed and he whirled, not conscious of having drawn the blade that flamed in his grip. He had thought himself about to be attacked, supposing that the woman had screamed to warn him. In that, he had been wholly mistaken. A dozen doors behind him, the woman was struggling furiously in the hands of two burly men. A third held open the door of a black coach larger than any jitney. Tiero shouted something—or perhaps, nothing—and sprinted toward them.

  A moment later, she was sprawling in the filth of the street, and swords burned in her captors’ hands. Tiero parried a clumsy thrust, and severed the arm that had held the threatening blade.

  His second antagonist proved a worthy opponent. For a full two seconds their blades flashed and clashed like the lightnings.

  The second man fell, his wounds spurting blood. As he did the door of the black coach slammed shut. The driver’s whip cracked and the coach rattled away, all four horses plunging forward under the lash—galloping before they had taken four strides.

  Tiero sheathed his sword and helped the weeping woman to her feet. She kissed him, damping his face with her tears, and shook with sobs until the jitney he had flagged down for them had put the Questing Quarter behind them. At last she gasped, “I was so fr-fr-frightened! I st-still am.”

  “You’re safe with me,” Tiero told her. “Who is he?”

  “A s-suitor. That’s what he c-calls himself. I… I knew his first w-wife. Oh, you won’t believe me! I know you won’t!”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “Sh-she k-killed herself. It’s what they s-say.” The sobs broke out anew.

  “He drove her to it?” Tiero had heard of such things.

  “She—oh, I’m so g-glad we don’t have a mirror. I’m a mess. I know it! Don’t look at me.”