Steel clashed in bright, ringing tones.

Spinning inward, she slashed at his thigh. Hatsume skipped away, beating her edge aside with another clash of blades. Chop, riposte… parry, slash, turn, lunge.

He surprised her, blade driving in with the point rather than turned to use the edge. It nearly slipped her guard, close to giving Hatsuwe first blood and the honor he so desperately craved.

She leaned away from the deadly edge at the last second, and it carved nothing but air.

Overextended and so sure that he had had her, Hatsuwe pulled back too slow. It gave Yori the chance to slip away and come back on her own guard, waiting, while he inspected the bright edge for a trace of blood and found none.

A fresh surge of rage building behind Hatsuwe’s eyes, the two combatants circled each other warily.

What little work had been ongoing during the fight now sputtered to a complete halt. Two samurai—friends of Hatsuwe—watched with forced dispassion, their faces carved out of ferrosteel. The crew of the Ryū Hokori were not so well trained in hiding their emotion. Some obviously worried at the delay in their routine, taking their duties very seriously. Most, though, watched with dread fascination the skill being displayed by both samurai, and for the prospect of blood on the deck.

And there was one other witness as well. A Nova Cat warrior who had been jogging around the cavernous ’Mech bay when the samurai entered. He stood off to one side, leaning against the feet of a BattleMaster, sweating quietly and watching with sharp, gray eyes.

One by one Yori’s mind found and dismissed them all, again pushing her toward the trancelike state that came only with clarity of purpose. She was very aware of her own body. The cool draft pushing around the cavernous bay, puckering the skin on her arms with light gooseflesh. The aching throb of her left knee, from when she had twisted away too hard in their first exchange of cuts.

She saw Hatsuwe reaching for that same state of mind, and failing as the woman continued to match him as an equal. To him, her name would not have mattered. She had insulted his pride, and he would have his honor back.

First blood. That had been the agreement. But Yori wondered at the other samurai’s lack of control. The murderous gleam in his eyes.

He held his sword back and away from her now, in the silent position. Not letting her see the strike until it was well on its way. She waited, sword held low before her. Resting.

Hatsuwe stepped left, she countered right.

Backing up. She followed.

And he attacked, as she had known he would, trying to catch her in midstep.

The katana cut the air cleanly, coming around in an overhead arc that could easily have taken off her arm had she not whipped her own blade up in time to defend. The force of the blow was impressive. Enough to jar Yori’s arm all the way up to her shoulder, and force her back a step.

Another blow followed, coming in low and sideways. Then a desperate lunge when he thought she had committed to a strong, defensive stance.

Yori parried each blow, relying on swiftness against Hatsuwe’s greater strength. She felt his measure now. Knew he would run her through or—better—take her head if he could. There would be many apologies to the coordinator and Warlord Toranaga, of course. All honor would be repaired. But she’d be dead. That was Hatsuwe’s goal.

She wouldn’t allow it.

Sweat matted a few strands of hair to her forehead. It trickled into the corners of her brown eyes, burning. Yori backed off, giving ground now as she traded time against Hatsuwe’s tiring muscles. Letting him believe that he had her cornered. Another flurry of sword strokes, more ringing tones as steel battered against steel. She slashed, looking for an opening, pulling her stroke just a bit such that she would wound, not maim.

He batted her aside, hard. And she stumbled.

His lunge came just as she had predicted. Trusting too much to his reach and strength of arm, as he had twice before when he thought he could gamble on a quick end to the match. Forgetting the basics, which always always demanded that a warrior remained centered and in control.

Yori stumbled, shuffling to one side, but she kept her center—her own wa–intact.

Turning his lunge aside with a quick brush of her own sword, she slashed up and in, resting the edge of her katana against Hatsuwe’s neck just beneath his strong chin. He froze, sword held out to his side, never flinching as she used the tip of her blade to pick him up. One little slip…

Yori twisted her wrist, nicking him along the jaw. Nothing worse than a shaving cut, actually. But the bright, bright red drop of blood that christened the tip of her sword was plain enough as she held it in front of his face.

“IIE! THAT IS ENOUGH!” The voice slammed across the bay like a PPC blast. “What goes on here?”

Warlord Matsuhari Toranaga filled a nearby hatch-frame, the mantled shoulders of his overcoat nearly touching the metal edges. One of three warlords who assisted the coordinator in ruling the Draconis Combine, he was the only one to invite himself along on this journey to The Republic. If not the most powerful man in the realm at the moment, he was second in strength only to the Warlord of Benjamin. Excepting the coordinator, most would say.

But for the few who quietly rated Vincent Kurita a distant third behind both men.

Toranaga carried a sheathed katana in his right hand, as was his personal style, with only his sword of honor, the wakashiri, tucked into the cloth wrapping he used as a belt. He wore tabi socks and sandals, and stepped with a solid pigeon-toed stride that kept him perfectly strong at all times. His coarse dark hair showed touches of gray streaking back along his flattop cut. His heavy scowl threatened the entire bay.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. The crewmen did not return to work. Instead, they brought themselves to a respectful deep bow, which they held as the Warlord of New Samarkand stomped his way across the bay. All four samurai snapped to attention. Yori and Hatsuwe homed their swords with quick, efficient flourishes. The samurai bowed, not so deep as the crewmen, and each in relation to their family status within the Draconis Combine.

Yori, of course, bowed deepest of the four.

“I asked what goes on here,” Toranaga said again. “The Coordinator of the Draconis Combine rests on the Dragon’s Pride and no one—no one!—dies on this vessel without the express order of Vincent Kurita.”

Hatsuwe deepened his shallow bow just a touch. “A matter of honor only, Matsuhari Toranaga– sama. A disagreement.”

Toranaga finally nodded a curt bow, and the four samurai straightened. No one else moved in the entire bay. Except the Nova Cat warrior, Yori noticed. He had remained near the feet of the assault-class BattleMaster, and hardly at strict attention. Now he stepped forward.

“Toranaga– sama,” the Nova Cat called out. He approached the warlord with hesitant strides, obviously involving himself unwillingly. Yori recognized him now. Kisho. The mystic traveling with them to Terra. “With your permission?” he asked.

The warlord gave the young man a regal nod.

“I will bear witness that the fight was conducted with due honor. There was no insult meant to the coordinator.”

“You approved this contest?” Toranaga asked. By their position, Nova Cat mystics owned certain authority over rituals, both within their Clan and inside the Combine. A relationship that had developed over nearly a century of integration.

“I witnessed it. This is the only reason I speak.”

The warlord turned back to Hatsuwe. “This matter is between yourself and Yori?” Hatsuwe nodded. “Apologize,” the warlord instructed Yori, turning his glare onto her.