“Deficiency?” Stile demanded ominously, reaching for his harmonica. He had intended to keep this civil, but this was a sore point.
The Stallion considered. They were within the unicorn circle, but it had not been proven whether that would stop a newly fashioned spell performed in the heat of the Blue Adept’s ire. No creature insulted an Adept, or anything dear to an Adept, carelessly. The Stallion retreated half a step, figuratively. “Shall we say, her color pleases me now, and what pleases me shall not be cause for comment by any other unicorn.”
“An excellent statement,” Stile agreed, putting away his instrument. He had discovered that one unicorn seldom objected to praise or defense of another. It would be beneath the Herd Stallion’s dignity to stud an inferior mare. “Her presence at my side pleases me now,” Stile continued. “Who in thy herd can travel the flying league faster than she?”
The Stallion raised his human eyebrow in an elegant gold arch. “Who besides me, thou meanest?”
Now Stile had to back off diplomatically. “Of course. I meant among mares—“
“I concede that for her size—“
“Is aught amiss with her size?” This was another power-ploy, for Neysa was no smaller among unicorns than Stile was among men.
“It is a serviceable size. I am certain she will bear a fine foal.”
They were sparring, getting nowhere. The Stallion still intended to breed Neysa.
“I think thou didst not entirely withstand the oath of friendship,” Stile remarked. “The mare is more attractive to thee than she was before.”
The Stallion shrugged. It had been Stile’s potent spell that caused the other unicorns and the werewolves to swear friendship with Neysa, and the Stallion did not like to admit to being similarly affected. Yet he was proof against such gibes. “Perhaps. But here thy power may yield to mine, even as mine paled before thine in thy Demesnes.” Stile had set the unicorn back, during that prior encounter. Now the Stallion was having his satisfaction. One offended a creature of power at one’s own risk, even if one had the power of an Adept.
“I need Neysa, this season. How may I obtain postponement of the breeding?”
“This is a matter of honor and pride. Thou must contest with me in mine own manner, weapon to weapon. An thou dost best me in fair combat, thou winnest thy plea. An thou dost fail—“ Stile had a notion how savage such an encounter could be.
“If?” he prompted.
The Stallion smiled. “An thou dost fail, I win mine. We contest not for life here, but only for the proper priority of our claims. I claim the right to breed my mares as I see fit and in mine own time; thou claimest the bond of friend-ship to this mare. It ill behooves us two to strive against each other on any except a civil basis.”
“Agreed.” Stile certainly had no need of a life and death combat here! He had hoped a simple request would suffice, but evidently he had been naive. “Shall we proceed to it now?”
The Stallion affected amazement. “By no means. Adept! I would not have it bruited about that I forced my suit against one who was ill-prepared. Protocol requires that a suitable interval elapse. Shall we say a fortnight hence, at the Unolympics?”
“The Unolympics?”
“The annual sportive event of our kind, parallel to the Canolympics of the werewolves, the Vampolympics of the batmen, the Gnomolympics of—“
“Ah, I see. Is Neysa to compete therein?”
The Stallion evidently hadn’t considered that. “She has not before, for reasons we need not discuss. This year I believe she would be welcome.”
“And no apology to be made for any nuance of color or size that any less discriminating creatures might note?”
“None, of course.”
Stile did not like the delay, but also knew he had no serious chance against the Stallion, who looked to weigh a full ton, was in vibrant health, and had quite a number of victory notches on his horn. The creature was in fact pro-viding him time to reconsider, so that Stile could change his mind and yield the issue without suffering humiliation in the field. It was a decent gesture, especially when coupled with the agreement to let Neysa enter the general competition if she wanted to. Stile knew she could perform the typical unicorn maneuvers as well as any in the herd, and this would give her the chance to prove it at last. She had suffered years of shame; now she could publicly vindicate herself.
“A fortnight,” he agreed. The Stallion extended his hand, and Stile took it. His own hand was engulfed by the huge and calloused extremity with hooflike nails. Stile fought off his automatic resentment and feeling of inadequacy. He was not inadequate, and the Stallion was being honorable. It was a fair compromise.
