The Dark Symphony

relationship."
    "But we can talk about this," Guil said. "You're talking about it right now. Let's sit down and—"
    Rosie moved faster than Guil had thought he could, still crouched, grotesque in his postured animalism.
    "I wouldn't let the Populars kill you, Rosie." He backed behind a chair, grasped it in preparation for lifting and throwing it.
    "No, perhaps not" There was madness in his voice. "But don't you see what it would be? How dense are you —you, Meistro's son? I would be a Musician in a Popular world—a
freak
!"
    "The Populars have hunchbacks of their own. Many stranger things than horns and claws."
    "But I'll be a
Musician
, and there will be no changing that I won't be able to compose. I'll have no appreciative audience. I'll be a Musician, deformed or not, in a world that does not appreciate music—indeed, in a world that will have reason to loathe it!" He gasped as if breathing was a torturous process. "I'll be as good as dead."
    "And you will kill me to stop me, tool that I am."
    "I will."
    Guil threw the chair.
    It caught Rosie on the shoulder, though he tried' to duck it, knocked him backwards and down. But he was up again faster than Guil expected. He came over the chair in a leap and hit the floor running. Guil ran too, stopping behind a waist-high bookcase breaking the center of the room. Rosie didn't stop. He jumped over the case and came down on Guil, tumbling both to the floor.
    Guil swung a fist, smashed it into the boy's lips, felt blood spurt over his fingers as he mashed the delicate flesh between the hunchback's teeth. He drew back on the punch just in time to keep from hurting his own hand. He struck again in hopes the whole thing could be ended quickly and without death. But Rosie replied this time, bounced the other boy's head off the floor. Bells bonged majestically in Guil's head, and blackness rang up at him between the
ding
and the
dong
. But blackness had to be denied. It was inviting and would give relief from all this pain, but if he let unconsciousness claim him, Rosie would guarantee his death in the short moments that followed.
    Guil drew his left knee up, fighting a headache that was a razor-nailed lizard in his brain, smashed it into the hunchback's crotch. Rosie howled, rolled sideways, gasping for air, and retched. Vomit spread across the floor. His face had gone ghost white, but still he tried to fight He made it up on his knees despite the heaving spasms that wrenched his stomach, was hit by another fierce wave of pain as his manhood protested what had been done to it.
    "Rosie, please," Guil pleaded. "This is ridiculous. We are supposed to be friends. To hell with your tool-toolmaster relationship."
    But Rosie was not to be appeased. It was too late for his pride to accept defeat, even if he might have decided that he could survive well enough after the revolution. And, of course, he had not even made that decision. He gritted his teeth and stood, staggered toward Guil with his hands reaching to clutch.
    But his hands never made it Guil smashed another fist into the hunchback's chest, again denying him air and sending him backwards to fall into his own mess, blood smeared across his face, his horns unconcealed and glittering bluntly.
    "Rosie, stop it!"
    For a moment, it seemed as if he had balled up the proverbial towel and was ready to toss it in. He stood, swaying from side to side but apparently oblivious to his condition. Shaking like a man with a tropical fever, he removed the Medallion of the Composer from round his neck and held it by the center of the two foot chain. He sucked in his breath and sniffed away the bubbly fluid that had gathered at the ends of his nostrils. Then, moving his feet farther apart in a stance that was meant to give him a firmer base, he began swinging the Medallion like a morning star mace.
    "Put that down!"
    The air sung with its passage.
    Guil was terrified now. He felt that he had a better than average chance when it came to defending himself with his hands, but he could see no escape from a deadly weapon of this sort which allowed Rosie a much greater reach than he would have had bare-handed. "Rosie, this isn't any good. You know it isn't."
    But Rosie had no breath to talk, to answer, to refute or agree. He was worn, but he was committed, and he concentrated all of his energies on the Medallion. He whirled it faster and faster, its sharp edges catching the meager light and glinting wickedly with the reflection. The edges were