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McDonald R. Dalian's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"Can I borrow a pair of underwear? Mine aren't fit for public display."
The crowd laughed.
* * * *
Valentine stood behind a blanket held up by Ahn-Kha as he stripped.
Zak held out a white pair of shorts. "They look a little odd but they're the best thing for riding. They're military issue up in Indiana for their bike troops. Everything stays tucked up real tight."
"Thank you."
As he tried on the shorts Ahn-Kha spoke. "My David, let me try my luck at this."
"I'm from Minnesota, old horse. Born with a hockey stick in my hand."
"Then you will be careful out there."
"Since when am I anything but?"
"In what year were you born?" Ahn-Kha asked, ears askew.
"Be careful. If it is a Grey One, when they are on all fours and running they cannot turn their heads, or hear very well behind. He will not see you if you come at him from the side."
Neither would a freight train, Valentine thought. Doesn't mean I can bodychecI{ it off its course.
"Understood," Valentine said.
Price paced back and forth as Bee pulled up and chewed on dandelion roots. Valentine wondered where Duvalier had gone. But then a sporting event, even one as deadly serious as this, probably wasn't of interest to her.
The shorts were snug-fitting, running from his waist to mid thigh. The padded white pouch at the groin made him feel like one of the come-hither boys that strutted on the streets of New Orleans.
"Oh, that's cute," Price said.
"Better than the ones with three weeks of trail."
Ahn-Kha dropped the blanket and walked with Valentine, Price, and Bee to the center of the line of spectators. Valentine walked barefoot, testing the field's soil. Some murmured about the burns on his lower back and legs. The Dispatcher stood at the center of the line with the twelve-foot legworm crook, looking like a warrior out of some medieval tapestry.
"I can still order it called off," the Dispatcher said, the words just loud enough to travel to Valentine.
"I can't resist a challenge," Valentine said.
"Well, you look fit enough, 'cept for the limp. Hope you can run.
"I can run," Valentine said.
He tried the crook, an all-wood version of the one he'd seen Zak use. Its hooked end had a rounded point.
"Using metal isn't considered sporting," the Dispatcher said.
Damn, it's awkward. Like a vaulting pole.
"Any rule on length?" Valentine asked.
"Yes, it can't be over fifteen feet."
"How about, say, seven?"
