Read The Death of Achilles for Free Online Page A

strike and squeezed the prince’s wrist between his finger and thumb — apparently not very hard, but the lieutenant’s face contorted in pain.
    “You scoundr-rel!” the Caucasian shrieked in a high falsetto, flinging out his left hand. Fandorin pushed the overeager prince away and said fastidiously: “Don’t trouble yourself any further. We shall regard the blow as having been struck. I challenge you and I shall make you pay for the insult with your blood.”
    “Ah, excellent,” said the phlegmatic staff officer whom Gukmasov had introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Baranov. It was the first time he had opened his mouth. “Name your terms, Erdeli.” Rubbing his wrist, the lieutenant hissed malevolently: “We fight now. Pistols. Handkerchief terms.”
    “What does that mean — handkerchief terms?” Fandorin inquired curiously. “I’ve heard about this custom, but I must confess that I’m unfamiliar with the details.”
    “It’s very simple,” the lieutenant colonel told him politely. “The opponents take hold of the opposite corners of an ordinary handkerchief with their free hands. Here, you can take mine if you like; it is clean.” Baranov took a large red-and- white-checked handkerchief out of his pocket. “They take their pistols. Gukmasov, where are your Lepages?”
    The captain picked up a long case that had obviously been lying on the table in readiness and opened the lid. The long barrels with inlaid decorations glinted in the light.
    “The opponents draw lots to select a pistol,” Baranov continued, smiling amicably. “They take aim — although what need is there at that distance? On the command, they fire. That is really all there is to it.”
    “Draw lots?” Fandorin inquired. “You mean to say that one pistol is loaded and the other is not?”
    “Naturally,” said the lieutenant colonel with a nod. “That is the whole point. Otherwise it would not be a duel but a double suicide.”
    “Well, then,” said the collegiate assessor with a shrug. “I feel genuinely sorry for the lieutenant. I have never once lost at drawing lots.”
    “All things are in God’s hands, and it is a bad omen to talk like that; it will bring you bad luck,” Baranov admonished him.
    He seems to be the one in charge here, not Gukmasov, thought Erast Petrovich.
    “You need a second,” said the morose Cossack captain. “If you wish, as an old acquaintance, I can offer my services. And you need not doubt that the lots will be drawn honestly.”
    “Indeed I do not doubt it, Prokhor Akhrameevich. But as far as a second is concerned, you will not do. If I should be unlucky, it will appear too much like murder.”
    Baranov nodded.
    “He is quite right. How pleasant it is to deal with a man of intelligence. And you are also right, Prokhor, he is dangerous. What do you propose, Mr. Fandorin?”
    “Will a Japanese citizen suit you as my second? You see, I only arrived in Moscow today and have had no time to make any acquaintances.”
    The collegiate assessor spread his arms in a gesture of apology.
    “A Papuan savage will do,” exclaimed Erdeli. “Only let’s get on with it!”
    “Will there be a doctor?” asked Erast Petrovich.
    “A doctor will not be required,” sighed the lieutenant colonel. “At that distance any shot is fatal.”
    “Very well. I was not actually concerned for myself, but for the prince.”
    Erdeli uttered some indignant exclamation in Georgian and withdrew into the far corner of the room.
    Erast Petrovich expounded the essence of the matter in a short note written in bizarre characters running from the top to the bottom of the page and from right to left, and asked for the note to be taken to suite 20.
    Masa was not quick to come — fifteen minutes passed before he arrived. The officers had begun to feel nervous and appeared to suspect the collegiate assessor of not playing by the rules.
    The appearance of the offended party’s second created a considerable impression. Masa was a