Del Azarchel said, “I thought of this means of killing him long, long ago, back when he was still Exarchel. For most of human history, I did not have to cultivate persons capable of acting like judges that would be both acceptable to Montrose and my external self. In times of old, there were many candidates. Since the Long, Golden Afternoon of Man, however, that number dropped sharply. Usually, I am much more subtle, and do not need to interfere in someone’s life to the degree that he notices. In your case, I was rushed. You see, I had just come back from my defeat and humiliation in Sagittarius, and found a period of history that had gone blind, and no one’s predictions were valid; and I saw the Fourth Sweep was coming, and the Revisionists and Vindicators readying themselves to revive the insanity of interstellar war—all this clogged the future like dark clouds before rain.” Del Azarchel spread his hands. “If ruining your life allows me to arrange either the death of Montrose or the salvation of Rania, what is one human life compared to my happiness? If you were truly enlightened, you would see the wisdom of the trade. In time, you will forgive me, or you will be forgotten, and in either case, the matter is of no moment to me. Will you serve as judge of honor?”

Norbert swallowed hard, and used a mental technique to disperse his anger, which he saw to be pointless in this circumstance. Cooly, he said, “I will, if that is acceptable to both sides. The custom in my home parish is that you each send your seconds to me, and the three of us, the judge of honor, the second for the challenger, and the second for the challenged, agree on weapons, time, place, terms, and conditions. The audit will have to be made of the self-destruct sequences, and every archive where you might hide a backup copy of yourself.”

Montrose said, “I will forgo any audit of Jupiter, but still will allow him to audit me, if he feels it needed.”

Jupiter said, “I will trust Montrose at his word. There is no copy of him unwilling to risk his life when Rania is at stake—and if there were, he would not be worthy of killing. And there is no storage facility to hold me anywhere in human space, for why else would I go to such lengths, to make a copy of myself at 20 Arietis?”

Norbert said, “The audit is part of the duel. Even with a brief audit, it will take us more than a year to prepare, since I know there are cities full of servant-beings floating in the heavy seas of Jupiter, not to mention potentate and archangelic moons and human colonies orbiting in the ring system. They will all have to be evacuated. Montrose will have to set his affairs in order, including an amount of time needed to pass his cliometric plans to the Foxes. And Jupiter has to agree to my wage.”

“What wage do you ask?” asked Jupiter.

“No matter who wins this duel, the interdiction against Rosycross is lifted, and I am free to return home.”

“Agreed,” said Jupiter.

“Agreed,” said Montrose.

“Let us meet here again in such bodies as have been agreed upon, and such weapons, in exactly one year. You may send your seconds to me at your convenience.”

4. The Field of Honor

A.D. 51555

Some mist had blown in from the sea during the hours of night, and the sun had not yet risen to disperse it, when the two met on the field. This was a tall knoll, taller than the surrounding graveyard, but clear of standing gravestones or statues.

Jupiter’s second was Io, a kenosis of the Archangelic being occupying the logic diamond core of one of Jupiter’s moons, one of the few moons the Master of the World had failed to topple into Jupiter’s bottomless atmosphere back in the day when Jupiter was first born, and it escaped being borne away as part of the Black Fleet when Cahetel approached. Menelaus Montrose selected Cazi to act as his second. Both assumed the forms of their primaries, Cazi looking like Montrose, and Io looking like Del Azarchel, because it was thought not in keeping with the high and gentle dignity of the fairer sex for women to partake in the dark deeds of men driven by merciless honor and hate and shame to acts of bloodshed. They were dressed in dark coats with tails, and tall cylindrical hats of black silk.

Jupiter also occupied a form identical on a cellular level to that of Del Azarchel, save only that his beard was full and white, as were the hairs of his head.

The Judge of Ages and the King of Planets were dressed in the heavy armor of the duelists from the Second Space Age, a time so old that no records survived, save what was carried in the memory of these souls gathered here.

Norbert the Praetor was dressed in his native rustic Rosicrucian garb: a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat programmed to tilt its brim toward the sun; anti-flare goggles; tunic, overtunic, pantaloons; tall boots equipped with folding stilts and serpentines for wading bogs and fending off wormlike ground-vermin; and flung over all was a poncho of wisdom cloth able to make itself thick or thin, generate warm or cool air, as the weekly seasons passed, mirrored against unexpected flares, with a collar so absurdly tall that it could be folded up past cheeks and ears and (in case a farmer lost his hat) be tied together above the crown of the head. On the front and back was an image of a four-armed cross issuing from a five-petaled rose.

Of old, wisdom cloth contained a stepped-down version of the mind of the wearer, able to take control during emergencies, or give encouragement and apothegms to keep a soul loyal to his chosen archetype, or store additional sub-personalities in memory pockets, but Norbert was too chary of the insanity of Tellus to expose even an etiolated version of his mind to the cacophonous neural-electronic environment here.

Instead the cloak was invested with the personality and dark humor of a brigand, a bard, and a bailiff from his home parish. The three had been triplet brothers: one had executed the other but then drank seawater and died, unable to bear the dishonor cast on him when he heard the mocking ballad the third had written. The boneyard would not accept the body of a man who slew himself in this fashion, nor, so anagnosts averred, would heaven admit his soul. Their whispers in the ears of Norbert reminded him of the weight of his duty on this day, and restrained something of his cocksureness.

The original Del Azarchel stood by as a witness, trying to appear solemn, but chuckling occasionally.

The only surgeon to whom all parties could agree was Sgaire, the Great Swan of Malta. Two trees, a white and a black, ripe with medicinal fruit and surgical worm-things of all descriptions, grew up from the soil at his command in the hours between midnight and dawn. The graveyard statues lower down on the hill frowned and turned dark eyes toward these trees, but the Swans had ancient rights when standing on holy ground denied to other races, and no complaint could be lodged. Sgaire was slender of face and slant of eye, which were emerald green in sclera and pupil and luminous iris and never blinked. His hair of neurosensitive strands, which was long as the hair of a woman, was tossing and flowing as if in zero gee. Sgaire stood twice the height of a man, and planted his legs, and turned them white with biosuspension techniques, so he did not grow weary as he waited for the deadly event. His tabard was white, and a great black cross adorned his chest.

Now the seconds approached Norbert.

Norbert spoke: “Even at this point, if any reconciliation can be had, the two parties can withdraw without dishonor, without any loss of face. The xenomathematicians confirm that the Cold Equations, which apply throughout the universe, have defined violence to be not within the self-interest, rightly understood, either of the slain or the victorious. It is not a rational behavior.”