The dark side of the sun - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,52

gushed out of the ground and fell over a rock outcrop into a deep blue pool. A small pagoda had been built amid beds of golden lilies, shot with copper.

She sat down and patted the seat beside her, then spoke to the giant.

‘Lady Sharli say to tell about yourself,’ the drosk said. She was throwing a two-foot knife in the air and catching it by the blade.

He did. There were long pauses when the giant translated, and he had plenty of time to watch a little brass spider which scuttled out of a cranny a few feet above his head and, taking up a position on a steel twig, swung purposely outward.

Sharli was a good audience, and possibly the giant was a good interpreter. The girl gasped at the account of the fight in the Bank, and laughed and clapped her hands, weaving a golden haze in the air, when he told her about the escape by sunpuppy.

The spider climbed another twig and swung again.

‘Empress say, were you not scared?’

Dom tried to explain the predictions while the spider completed several more jumps. He hadn’t finished before the spider had completed a web of fine copper wire and retired to a twig, paying out two tiny power cables behind it.

Dom told himself that he was being too expansive, too sure of himself. But Sharli was gazing at him wide-eyed. It was too much to resist. Besides, her perfume was going to his head. He was acutely aware of the giant lady’s maid behind him, and the horse, too, had sniggered once or twice.

While he was demonstrating his grav sandals by flying a figure-of-eight above her head a small mechanical fly blundered into the spider web. There was a minute blue flash.

Prowess in catching and steering windshells was being explained while the spider slowly dismantled the protesting fly with two spanner-like legs.

Another horse galloped between the trees. At the controls was Tarli, almost hidden in an armour made of leather slabs in a complex overlapping pattern. He removed his fearsome helmet, wiped his forehead with his gauntlet, and smiled brightly at Dom.

‘Greetings, step-uncle. I thought you might be here. I hope you have not been overly bored?’

‘Not at all,’ said Dom airily. ‘Er, your costume …’

Tarli raised his eyebrows. ‘I have been sham fighting. You do not fight sham on Widdershins?’

Dom thought of one or two fights he had seen on the jetties, when four-foot-long dagon-knives were used. ‘It’s usually for real on Widdershins,’ he said. ‘Sham?’

Tarli unslung a long bundle from his horse and drew out a sword as tall as he was. The handle was leather-bound, with no superfluous decoration. The blade was invisible, except when it caught the light, when it showed up momentarily as a thin green sliver.

‘Shamsword,’ he explained. ‘The blade is, of course, only a few microns thick, forged as a molecule in the special sword-light of dawn. Strong, too. Perhaps you are a good swordsman?’

‘I can use a memory sword,’ said Dom. He drew his own and demonstrated. Tarli took it gingerly.

‘How does it work?’

‘There’s a little matrix field projector in the stud that can generate up to a dozen shapes.’

Tarli handed it back. ‘Not an honourable weapon,’ he said sadly. ‘You would perhaps like a sham battle?’

He laughed at Dom’s expression and pulled two wooden lathes from his bundle. ‘For practice,’ he explained. ‘So novices don’t lose too many appendages in the learning. I am the second-best shamuri on Laoth.’

Dom felt Sharli’s eye on him.

‘Okay,’ he said miserably. After all, he could handle a sword by proxy on the tstame board, even if it was only a two-inch skewer wielded by a mommet. And they were only wooden poles.

Tarli unpacked another helmet and some pieces of leather body armour, and Sharli helped Dom into them.

‘You’d better explain the rules.’

Tarli smiled. ‘This is only stick sham. Anything goes, but you’ve got to use the stick. Sharli will give us the signal.’

The girl, who had been watching them with interest, shook her head and spoke sharply to her brother.

‘She says we’ve got to fight for a prize. My sword against your grav sandals. I don’t think that’s fair.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dom. He bent down and began to unstrap his sandals. Tarli sighed and laid his shamsword on the seat alongside them.

Sharli waved a small handkerchief.

The poles met in mid-air, once, and they circled each other warily.

Dom felt emboldened and tried one or two lunges, which slid harmlessly off the other’s pole. Tarli smiled, and spun his