"Riina, do you have a pen?" I said.

  Riina merely nodded, her eyes glued to the com readout. More reading, more planning. Her face was sallow, her eyes embedded in dark circles. Even her wrinkles looked deeper this morning.

  "What do you need it for?" she said.

  "Stupid things," I said, taking a metal ink pen from her. It was beautiful, a heavy, lavender tube that fit my hand like it had been molded for it. "This is nice," I said.

  "My graduation gift," Riina said. "My father got it from his grandmother. It's been in the family for ages."

  I almost dropped it. The pen was ancient, a piece of history. The casual way she'd handed it to me astounded me. I handed it back to her.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Please give me the ink tube," I said. "I don't want to break it."

  The ink tube was a dual pressure lock on a simple polymer holder. Wouldn't drip, wouldn't dry out. I emptied it over the firing caps on my two warded bullets and waited for it to dry. Then I engraved a simple push ward on each using a needle and no pressure whatsoever. I didn't infuse them. That, I'd do when Saradon fired. I put one of the warded bullets in the pistol, the remaining two bullets in my pocket, withdrawing the warded silver plates.

  For a moment, I considered taking them with me. But the Dromoni seemed opposed to wards and magic, not using any in their constructions. Even their dueling rules had mentioned it. And the Dromoni were sure to notice the lack of a fist-sized exit hole if Saradon's bullet struck me. Besides, he wouldn't have wards, and I was fairly sure he wouldn't want to kill me.

  The silver plates bent easily, the wards twisting out of shape and diffusing in a rainbow of blues and greens. I scratched them over to make them unreadable. Nothing to look at, just a barbarian Galactic destroying the tableware.

  No trace remained of the night's activities. I was as ready as I could be. Time to duel.