GUNSLINGER GIRL

Occupational Hazards

By

Robert Frazer

"Marriage, in life, is like a duel in the midst of a battle"

-Edmond About

Simon dreamed. Indeed, all told, he was something of a dreamer. All his life, dreams had welled up through him like a spring of imagination, the fountain that enlivened a planescape as vivid and bright as it was surreal and distorted.

He used to write dream diaries – still kept them in a box, in fact, as they were worth a rueful chuckle from time to time. Melted clocks? Fish vomiting tigers?

Salvador Dali had nothing on that shit.

There had been some cachet in it, for a time. When he was a kid, the class had clustered around him with shining and excited eyes, eager for his latest cartwheeling cavorting caper across the checkers and over the cliffs of exotic, evocative, endless Nod; by the time he reached high school it got him instant admission to George's circle, who in that well-heeled neighbourhood was the only one who knew how to get hold of pot.

His dad hadn't cared much for it – but then, his dad had had difficulty in animating himself for anything. His mother, though – she had seized upon it with glee, poring over his diaries with rapt absorption, seeing her son dressed in the splendid accoutrements of genius, iridescent insight spouting forth from every startled envisioning, the dreams proof of an imagination of such richness and depth that it could never be fettered or restrained.

The dumb bitch.

She'd pushed him onto creative courses, where his talent could flourish, where the stream could be tapped and released into a fertile flowing river. Like a river, he'd gone along with it, like water moving along the path of least resistance – but after that the analogy had pretty much fallen apart. His writing was, charitably, "modular" – more accurately, a ramshackle and rickety hotch-potch of stock tropes bolted together with all the integrity of a pile of Sticklebrix. He attempted art, but lacked the patience to follow it through. At least with writing a sentence, however trite or dull, was a complete thought – but attaching one line to another scribble only produced a formless patch of worn cloth, good only for tearing apart in frustration with no pattern apparent after an hour of effort. And acting…

…well, the director had said that his technique was avant-garde.

Imagination was one thing… expression was quite another.

So, with Simon's overbearing mother having completely squandered her son's youth, worth and career potential in draping an artistic fantasy around her like a fashionable scarf, Simon now made his living by killing people.

Not that the situation proved to be anything so trite and facile as a 'loss of innocence' deadening his soul and infilling his childhood. Just because on a few scattered occasions Simon had depressed a switch which had initiated a chemical reaction that propelled a piece of metal along a lateral course through a warm body that subsequently cooled did not stop him dreaming. He dreamed undimmed, as much and as broadly as he had always done.

Except tonight.

It wasn't that he did not dream, or forgot his dream – his sleep was not skipped time. It was rather that he dreamed of nothing, that his sleep was like wakefulness with his eyes closed. There wasn't even the sensation of floating or being adrift in darkness; it was simply a flat wall in front of him.

If Simon had been superstitious or religious (and religion was no more than a socially-acceptable superstition), he probably would have seen this as some portent of impending doom and approached the day a blubbering, snivelling, impotent ruin. Simon had, however, long since dismissed his dreams for what they were – no more than conjurations of brain chemistry, the static of molecules rubbing together building a charge and letting odd neurones spark – and so he was not so encumbered. Indeed, his rational mind was elevated, recognising that his body was turning all of its fuel away from extraneous reactions like causing dreams and instead storing energy for what was to come. It didn't unnerve or undermine him.

It only reinforced the need to win.

Simon's eyelids flicked back and open as he heard the thin squeal of the car trunk's hydraulics swinging up and clear. Jacopo, his agent, had brought in the day.

"Avete dormito bene?" Jacopo asked.

"Ho dormito perfettamente, grazie" Simon sighed his reply, as he sat up and shook the blanket off of him. The back of the car was surprisingly roomy – with the rear seats lowered, one could lie out comfortably and fully. Not unlike a hearse.

Simon winced internally, frustrated at having betrayed his former resolution not to be deterred by unnecessary allusions. He took his attention away from the vehicle he was in to what lay outside – and noticing Jacopo's concerned expression, Simon cracked a grim smile. "Nice of you to care." He said, in English.

Jacopo's face flattened, then he drew back from the boot to stand upright, and scowled fiercely. "I just want to make sure that you put on a good show today." He replied to his client, also in English – but the accent did not mask the hate in his voice. "I've lost a lot of money on you already; I'm not forfeiting this commission as well, just because Yankee Doodle Limpdick in front of me can't perform."

"Please, Jacopo!" Simon protested, with not a little sarcasm, as he got out of the car and began to stretch. "It's a new day, can we not foul the air this soon?"

It was indeed a new day, although the day itself had yet to be made aware of that. Around him was supposed to be the rolling hills of Tuscany, but the undulations followed the dense layer of early-morning mist like the creases in a duvet. Feeling anything of the landscape through its cushioning barrier was impossible.

Jacopo preferred profit over poetry, and so he was not inclined to dwell on such artistic allusions. "Just come. They're already waiting for us up at the house." He muttered, slamming the car trunk closed again. Simon shrugged and followed his agents up a stony track. They were passing through a vineyard – stalks of grape vines loomed up through the mist on either side of them, in the dull and diffuse light taking on the characteristic of memorial obelisks and headstones. It was another uncomfortable allusion which preyed on Simon's conscience despite his earlier resolutions, and it was something that he was subjected to for quite a while, as it was a long walk to their destination – the estate must have been quite substantial because it took something like quarter of an hour to arrive at the house.

After hopping up a few stone steps the pathway opened out into a broad, flat square of lawn, whose full extent he could see now that the morning was taking hold and beginning to burn off the mist. The house lay across one edge of the lawn, while the other three sides looked out over the vineyard – the estate owner could cross immediately from his garden to inspect his crop.

The scene was no longer a quiet, close one, though. In the shadow of the house was a large group of perhaps twenty people – no, it was better to call them a score, for they were an assembly of aristocratic sorts who would appreciate that little serif-flourish of sophistication. They were both men and women, youthful and elderly, and a few visible foreigners were amongst their number. Mostly they continued to talk quietly amongst themselves, but a few caught Jacopo and Simon's unheralded arrival in their peripheral vision and turned to watch them move on to the lawn. Simon shuddered involuntarily under the attention: the glances weren't curious, they were appraising.

There was a scattering of other figures on and across the lawn. Mostly tramping around its edges were the broad-shouldered, thick-necked, grim-set types that could be dressed in t-shirts and board shorts, or monocles and tweed jackets, or pantyhose and powdered wigs, and would nonetheless never be mistaken as anything other than crew.

Distracted by the guards' motion (and acutely conscious that they would be turning all that broad-shouldered thick-necked grim-set attention on him should he stray off-script at all), Simon didn't notice anyone else at first, but when Jacopo raised his hand in greeting to someone off to one side he noticed Benete, another agent who he had met from time to time – and beside him, his client… and Simon's adversary.

Simon's eyes widened in surprise when he saw who his opponent was. Ryba! There was something – he'd taken markers off of her twice. Once had been in a 'Tag' match. She'd been trying to take advantage of the no-wounding rule in that game type and was shielding her vest with one arm, causing Simon to rip a chunk out of her forearm – fortunately, Simon hadn't lost one of his own markers for that foul because the judges had ruled that Ryba had been deliberately obstructing. The scar was still visible. The second occasion had been during a standard freestyle match – Simon had been aiming for a killshot but missed, bashing a hole out of the wall beside her head instead. It had been enough to scare her into capitulating though – and not a little invective and abuse when she realised who she had surrendered to.

This was problematic – Ryba would certainly be improved a certain degree of clarity when it came to directing her shot in the upcoming standoff, and indeed the wordless black look she shot across the lawn felt like someone painting the tarry stain of a hunter's mark onto him.

There was no opportunity for pre-match pleasantries or offers of sportsmanship, as once Jacopo and Simon's arrival had been properly noted everyone's attention was called by the ringing of a bell.

Stirred by the sound, everyone began to arrange themselves more neatly. The guards arranged themselves regularly along one edge of lawn, opposite the large group of civilians who would be the event's audience. A few more guards rustled off into vineyard to set up a broader perimeter on the off-chance that any trouble would arrive (not that it ever did, but prudence was key to good business). The audience set themselves into a pair of more regular, staggered lines, so that everyone could get an uninterrupted view of Jacopo and Simon, and Benete and Ryba – agent and client, squire and knight, armourer and gladiator, fratello – as they stood in the centre of the lawn to receive the Master of Ceremonies.

From a set of patio doors leading onto some decking at the edge of the lawn – hardly the grandest dais, but it still left him raised and clearly in view – came a man. He was approaching middle age, his hair had thinned and he was developing something of a belly, but he had tough, leathery skin which spoke of much time in the outdoors and bright eyes – although high intelligence came across as low cunning when it was combined with his unsettling smile, alternately a dismissive smirk or a predatory grin.

He was dressed in a business suit – and not an especially elaborate and expensive one, either. His clothes were simply plain proper pinstripes, neat but nondescript, that any middle-manager anywhere in any business might be dressed in. Only one detail, almost as minisicule as a single loose thread, betrayed who this conventional character really was. A small ribbon was pinned above his jacket's breast pocket, consisting of three horizontal bars – a central green stripe between two yellow fields, a design which signified the bearer to be a Master of the Order of Merit for Labour, the Italian Republic's knightly order for excellence in commerce and industry. It was a studied vanity – the man had gone to great effort to convey himself as an 'ordinary man' while constantly displaying that he was exceptional. Simon wasn't sure what he hoped to achieve by the display. An attempt to be personable? A reassurance to the gladiators that even the lowly could achieve great distinctions?

Or was it just condescension?

"I am Giorgio." He announced, as if that was introduction enough, before descending down onto the lawn and approaching Simon and Ryba. As he did so, some servants came out of the door carrying chairs for the elderly members of the audience, and Simon took the time to inspect the grand master of these games – in a more intense light now that Simon was closer to death than he'd ever been.

Simon was never quite sure why Giorgio hid his surname. It couldn't be to conceal his identity – anyone with a little patience and the Italian edition of Who's Who would have found his photograph before too long – so maybe he was trying to add some cheap mythic quality to proceedings, or fancy himself with royal styles.

Giorgio looked at Simon and Ryba carefully, his inquisitive expression unfazed by their sullen glowers. His inspection completed, he smiled in a way that suggested satisfaction, and then turned around to address the audience, gesturing expansively.

"My most esteemed patrons – those of our honoured company, and guests from distant climes – may I have the privilege of approaching your fine gathering, and present before you Simon Coe of Burlington, the State of Vermont; and Ryba Sedlacek of Jihlava, the Czech Republic." He motioned an arm towards each of them, before bowing deeply. Jacopo and Benete also bowed; their clients managed nods.

Even if Simon and Ryba were the subjects, this was certainly Giorgio's show. No sooner had the introduction finished than he launched off on a speech.

"We are all privileged people, to have the opportunity to walk on Italian soil." He began. "It can truly be said to be the centre of the human world – both ancient in its history, and international in its scope – from Rome, to the interest of many powers through the medieval period, and now to it bearing the foundation stone of the European Union. Uniquely, it grants this land not only a limitless depth of civilisation, but also one not corrupted by arrogant insularity, and so it may commune with other great cultures." Giorgio nodded to the foreign members of the crowd, whose smiles seemed to say that it was alright to be deemed inferior provided you were gentle with it. His ability to parlay centuries of invasion into benign "interest" also displayed a talented capacity for humbug.

"A corollary of this is that Italy is a prism through which we can perceive progress; the standard by which we can judge our worth as a society. People who dwell here have the gift of perspective. And," now, Giorgio's purple prose was choked off by a sob, "it is a tragedy to say so, but it shows us painful things as well as pleasurable ones. This world is one in decline."

This was the point in the speech where Simon and Ryba were both told to step forward and say together, "That is why we are here."

"And I thank them for it, I truly do." Giorgio continued. "For people like these are key to restoring our sense of worth. Against the venial concerns of the modern day, they are infusing us with a powerful sense of our past, delivered in the most impressive and lasting way."

Giorgio paused for a moment, to let the anticipation build. He blinked. He inhaled. He smiled.

"The Gladiator Games!" He threw out his hands in explosive effusion. The spectators clapped and cheered, as though the very concept was phenomenal.

Giorgio's face split open in wide-eyed, genuine delight as he saw the reaction. For a moment he tottered back, as though carried away by the waves bursting out along the lawn, or that he was intoxicated by the heady sound: but then he recovered, steadied and his outstretched arms raised up like a conductor with his cue. He rode the wave; caught it; controlled it; pinched it; lowered it; flattened it; and his hands fell back to his sides in quiet calm.

"We are bringing the world back to Rome," Simon said, "And nothing so facile as merely 'Empire', without distinction. It is the Rome of the Principiate, before the debasement and decline of the Dominate."

"It is not the Rome of the Circus," Ryba added, "but the Rome of the Coliseum, in all its glory and splendour – its marvels of architecture and engineering, its social achievement, its cornerstone of trade and development—"

"—and its little hint of excitement, too." Giorgio grinned.

It was clearly scripted, but if anything that only made the audience love it more – watching people kill each other for entertainment wasn't snuff, it was a performance, theatre, opera.

"The two here before us prove that this is a character and a quality which need not be confined here in Italy – an international spirit flourishes, dissolving borders and ethnicities." Giorgio enthused. "And they also prove the elevated nature of our practise. The violence, while it must remain as an edge of threat to spur strong hearts to stern action. Is not an end in and of itself. The sport of the challenge is key, and to that end our gladiators each have a set of markers which they can trade when the battle turns against them, gracefully and decently capitulating. When those markers are exhausted, they may come here.

"To stand before you all.

"To compete.

"To fight.

"To find glory in your gaze, and honour in your memory."

Giorgio held his silence for a moment – a solemn moment of remembrance? For all those now fertilising the vineyard? – and then turned around to address the gladiators themselves. "What paths did you take to lead you down this road?"

"I took a shot in my side during a game three months ago." Ryba said, her eyes locked straight towards the spectators. "The judges of the Gladiator Games paid my hospital bills, and now after three months' convalescence I have returned to have an opportunity to begin reciprocating for their munificence." The crowd cooed appreciatively.

Giorgio turned expectantly to Simon. Simon shrugged. "Some guy had me cold, so it was either giving up my last marker, or getting my brain-meats splattered over the wall."

Jacopo immediately seized Simon's arm in a painful, crushing grip. "Are you trying to screw this up?" The agent hissed in a savage whisper. "Are you trying to scare the life out of me? Be less damned casual!"

As it happened, though, Simon's show of surly insolence had been interpreted as bluff, breezy, rugged humour, and the gathering laughed at it. Simon took the opportunity to prise his agent's frantically tight grip from his arm. "Stop fretting, Jacopo. You don't want to give me a dead arm just before I have to shoot, do you?"

Jacopo relented, still grumbling, as Giorgio came in for his next segment.

"As well as the thrill of combat, we are here re-establishing the gentlemanly, dignified, elevated practise of the duel – a battle which not only gives the opportunity to find honour, but is inherently an expression of honour, is required by honour," he raised a finger in a demonstrative flourish, enunciating a point. "And honour is the fount of chivalry, which extols the mind and body to bend in harmonious concert to art, to courtesy… and to war."

"What if I don't want to fight?" Ryba piped up. It was definitely scripted – Simon couldn't tell how far the woman bought into Giorgio's exhibition, but at the very least she clearly had no qualms with the principle of the duel itself, as Simon could feel the daggers from her eyes continue to stab into him.

"Then you are merely leaving yourself weaponless against your enemy." Giorgio explained.

There was a moment's expectant silence. Simon grunted as he felt Jacopo's elbow jabbing into his side, and a wordless hiss rasping out of the corner of his mouth.

"What happens if we both wish to resign?" Simon remembered.

"We shoot you both, and we're a bit shorthanded." Giorgio smiled.

A low chuckling murmur rippled out from the assembled spectators, the joke warmly familiar, an easy catchphrase.

"I believe everything is in order then – no time like the present!" Giorgio's light manner was deliberately constructed to relieve the audience after the 'briefing' that had just been given.

A servant emerged from the house, carrying a long but narrow varnished wooden box. Giorgio took the box from him, unlocked it with a small key fished out of his pocket, and opened it before the two 'gladiators' to reveal the tools of their trade. Two identical automatic pistols, each with one single round beside them, lay on a bed of red velvet in the case.

"Choose your weapon." Giorgio intoned.

Simon considered the magnificent, ridiculous, absurd things for a moment, and then took a slow, deliberate stride backwards. Giorgio frowned. Jacopo seized. A rustling shiver of tension seized up the spectators. A few of the scattered guards shifted their feet—

"Ladies first." Simon gestured towards Ryba. Giorgio's smile returned and the crowd shook out its tension in light laughter, everyone enjoying the chivalric suggestion which spoke well of the gladiatorial spirit. Except the gladiators themselves, of course – Simon suspected some sort of double-bluff where whoever chose first would through some psychological suggestion be given a defective weapon for "added excitement", and from the savage scowl Ryba pulled at Simon he could tell that she hated being put on the spot. As if to set herself apart from Simon and show her contempt for his chicanery, she stalked up to the box, yanked out one of the weapons and almost pulled out the velvet when clawing for her round, all with angry, exaggerated movements.

Everyone loved the show.

When Simon had retrieved his own weapon, Giorgio motioned them over to a small white line on the grass. The two gladiators shared one last look – there was no comradely or sporting spirit there, only silent, sullen challenge – and then stood back-to-back on either side of the line. They touched together, but nothing passed between them.

Giorgio stood with the dividing line, legs planted apart, hands clasped behind his back. He tipped his head to the gladiators; to the guards; and to the ground. All was in order.

"Load!" He cried out in a sharp, clear voice.

Ryba and Simon both pulled back the slides of their pistols and slotted their single rounds into their ejector ports.

"Prime!"

The two gladiators pushed forward their slides, and pulled back the hammers.

"Miss Sedlacek, are you ready?"

Ryba bent her arm so that his pistol barrel was pointed at the air, and unclipped her safety catch. "Ready."

"Mr. Coe, are you ready?"

Simon did likewise. "Rah-rah-rah." He chanted ruefully.

"Very well." Giorgio paused for a moment, letting the charge of anticipation crackle for a moment more. Then, he let it burst and arc, for without any further introduction or instruction, he began to call out the paces.

"One!"

Simon took two strides straight forward, away from Ryba.

"Two!"

He did so again.

"Three!"

And a third time.

"Four!"

Simon wondered about all the choices in life that had led him here.

"Five!"

He felt a profound, intense hate for Giorgio, and all the others arrayed behind him, ogling and slavering. The notion of making a game out of death was nauseating.

"Six!"

That hatred was so powerful, though, because it was magnified by self-hatred. Simon knew he couldn't really criticise these people – they had only provided an opportunity for something, and he had volunteered for it. He had chosen everything leading up to this.

"Seven!"

Paradoxically, the fact that he couldn't criticise these men and women became a justification for hatred in and of itself – cruel logic constraining him from something that he wanted to do allowed the loathing to curdle and become toxic, as if his hypocrisy was their fault, for creating the environment in which his own flaws could be exposed in the first place.

"Eight!"

That toxic feeling burnt through something inside of Simon. No-one had coerced him, no-one had forced him before now: so why was he letting himself be led today? Why was he suddenly tugging his forelock, as if beguiled by the lurid am-dram theatrics of Giorgio's self-absorbed show? Why was he walking when Giorgio called out the numbers? Why was he jumping through the hoops?

"Nine!"

Resolution formed inside of Simon. His own choices had led him here: his own choices would just as easily get him out.

"Ten!"

The crack of a report stung past Simon's cheek, its slipstream slapping against him with a whiplash. For an instant Simon feared that he had been hit after all – but only for that instant. He turned around.

There was no cheering, or clapping, or breaths mustering for a celebratory song – the spectators were leaning forward leeringly, on tenterhooks. Ryba, for her part, was still in her shooting position, half-twisted in a one-handed snap-fire pose, staring stupidly at the smoking muzzle of her pistol.

Maybe the hammer-beat of anxiety built up during the march had shaken her pistol. Maybe Simon's status as an old enemy had clouded her judgement. None of it could excuse that she had blundered embarrassingly. The fundamental error. The beginner's mistake. The amateur level. Duels are never about how fast you shoot – only how fast you aim.

Ryba twitched out of her stance. She stared at Simon with almost bulging eyes, as if fear was stripping her down to animalism. Her jaw worked and ground, trying to form entreaties which were never given voice because she knew that they were futile.

She'd had chances.

She'd had plenty of chances.

And when she had, through her own actions, through no-one's fault except indisputably her own, had squandered those chances, her masters, in their magnanimity, had granted her one more – a fount of support and aid that was undiminished despite all of the indulgences they had patiently granted her before.

Now, that last chance was gone.

Ryba fell onto her knees.

She had had every accommodation.

Ryba put her other hand onto the grip of the spent pistol, as though through sheer will and force of pressure she could crumple it into a second bullet to fire with.

She'd been given a fair crack of the whip.

The barrel was shaking. The pistol grip was shaking. Ryba's hands were shaking. Ryba's shoulders were shaking. Ryba's whole body was crumbling into ruin. It would be a mercy to finish her, merely the blow of the wrecking ball which knocked apart the husk of a decrepit, condemned building.

She had just tried to kill him.

Do it execution-style.

Simon smiled thinly, levelled his pistol-

-and then turned and pointed it at Giorgio. There was no gloating or glorying, no valedictory speech about the worm turning, no desire to see the one who thought that he was in control crumple and beg and have a taste of the misery he inflicted on his 'wards', only the cold certainty in his hands of the one true thing, beyond rank and wealth, which dictated real power. Time for the big moneyshot—

Simon's hand exploded.

He blinked dumbly at the pumping stump of his wrist for a moment.

Then he only saw the ground rushing up to meet him as a lancing pain doubled him up through his abdomen. Two separate rifle reports blew out each of his eardrums, smashing his head down and grinding it into the dirt as he kowtowed in front of his masters.

Giorgio blinked, and then exhaled, very slowly, gradually and regularly, until his lungs were empty. He turned around to the house, and called out to it. "Thank you, Vincenzo!"

The sniper leaned out of one of the windows. "Not a problem, guv." He tipped his hat in salute.

Simon wasn't quite dead yet. Gutshot, and with his annihilated hand, the distinction may have been an academic one, but nonetheless the last of his life was being extruded from him excruciatingly. He lay curled up foetally on the grass, twitching and spasming, clenching and contracting around himself like a worm pinned down under the hot light of a microscope. He was emitting sounds that were not quite screams, not quite squeals, but strange, juddering, staccato gasps. His one dignity that if the foetid smell beating out from him was indeed because he soiled himself, it was at least concealed by the foul smell of the rancid bile spilling out of his rent gut and ruptured liver.

Frowning at the dying Simon distastefully, Giorgio turned his back on him and left him to suffer, while turning back to the audience who wished to congratulate him on arranging yet another splendid show rich with drama, and his courageously facing down the treasonable scrub of a Yankee dog, whose idiocy surely knew no bounds in the way that he threw away a sure victory in a fit of pique. Ryba for her part simply threw herself down into the grass, prostrating herself in silent submission before Allah, Buddha, Ganesh, Richard Dawkins, Thor, and whatever god may have been listening to her cry for salvation.

After five minutes or so of conservation where he supervised the transferring of bets, reassured a frantic Jacopo that Simon's indecorous activity could not be predicted and would not reflect ill on his integrity as an agent for the Gladiator Games, and politely but firmly quashed protests from some that the books were spoiled because Simon had not fallen in combat with his declared enemy, Giorgio turned back to the house. "Vicenzo," he shouted again, "release our former gladiator over there, would you? I think that he's had sufficient punishment."

"On it!" A faint voice drifted back over to him. A few seconds later, there was another snapping report, and with a thin puff of pink mist Simon shuddered to stillness. Everyone nodded sagely, admiring Giorgio for his mercy, and then brightened again as they realised that the best was yet to come. Now it was the time for the victor's decision! High passions beat about the lawn as earnest discussion set in as to what direction Ryba would choose to travel.

"Miss. Sedlacek?"

The voice of cruel reality pulled Ryba out of her fugue. She did not let herself look up to Giorgio, with all that that would imply – she instead raised herself slowly to her feet, and then tipped her head up. Giorgio was standing directly in front of her, one hand holding a thick manila envelope, while the other was closed into a loose fist, carrying a smaller object. Behind him, a pair of guards were setting up a stretcher to cart away Simon's body – Ryba didn't hate him anymore, suddenly – while a couple of members of the gathering were staring at him with odd, morbid fascination, as though he was some weird creature hauled up from the deep and they were not sure whether some maw would snap shut or tentacle lash out by reflex.

Giorgio pushed forward the hand holding the envelope. "In this hand I have three thousand Euros in cash. A 'golden goodbye', if you will. With that, you can travel anywhere, and set yourself up to enjoy a quiet life. Of course, you will enjoy such propitious bounty – the virtue of a peaceful existence is a self-evident good, and I'm sure that you wouldn't want to... excite matters through such indecorous actions as, say, discussing your career history with journalists."

Ryba swallowed nervously, and nodded.

"In my other hand, is something else of value." Giorgio was not so much speaking as announcing, giving voice in a resonant tone that carried over the field for the benefit of the spectators as much as it was for Ryba herself.

Giorgio relaxed his fingers and showed his palm.

Ryba knew what was coming – she'd read over the procedures of this 'playoff round' a hundred times before. If anything, though, that made what was coming worse. The thought of what was to come had danced in her head, conceptual and formless – and then with one movement it slammed back into tight, confined physicality with staggering force. Resting in Giorgio's opened fist was a small pewter medallion. Not much thicker than a coin, not much wider than an inch, and with no design more nuanced than the image of Enrico De Nicola, the first President of Italy – such that it might easily as dismissed as some cheap commemorative souvenir. Ryba knew different.

"A new marker." Giorgio said, suddenly quiet and personal. He leaned forward, his face deepening with concentration and intensity; the rest of the scene dissolved soundlessly into the early morning mists, and he was pinning his attention exclusively upon Ryba. "An extra life. A pass back into the competition. A fresh credit in the game.

"The choice is yours."

Ryba turned away. Her agent, Benete, watched her impassively. She turned another way. A sentinel line of suited bodyguards marked the perimeter like split-footed obelisks. She tried a third way. The visitors gathered together, an air of expectation stirring up into impatience. On the fourth point, the track leading back to the edge of the vineyard and the cars was unguarded, and clear.

She turned back. "Give me the marker." Ryba growled.

Giorgio smiled warmly, and then bowed his head. "I am your servant." He said humbly – then he flipped the marker like a coin. The little medallion span crazily, hard to spot when it did not glint in the diffuse light – Ryba threw out a hand to catch it, and missed, hearing only a faint pat as it landed in the grass. Grimacing, Ryba went down onto her knees to feel around and find the marker – and then froze with realisation. She turned her head up, from her knees, to see Giorgio standing tall above her.

"Signora Ryba Sedlacek, benvenuto di nuovo al gioco!"

Mistress Ryba Sedlacek, welcome back to the game!

(Continued)