Arena

CHAPTER 2

“SO WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR TODAY?”

Garth, scratching the fleabites he had picked up during the night, looked around at the room full of old men, who were stirring as the first light of dawn peeked in through the cracks in the shutters and roof.

“Leave here for starters.”

The raggedy man chortled.

“Here to do whatever it is you came for. Ah, your greater mysterious quest.”

“Something like that,” Garth said dryly.

“I’m coming.”

Garth looked down at the toothless old man.

“I had a feeling you would,” Garth said softly and the raggedy man looked at him in surprise.

“Why?”

“’Cause you can’t stand a mystery. You want to find out what will happen next.”

The raggedy man rocked back and forth on his stool next to the fire, laughing with delight.

“I want to watch the fun. I think someone’s going to get killed out of this and I want to be there. Always a business opportunity in such ventures.”

The old man leaned over the fire and cut off two thick slices of meat from a roast that had been slowly cooking over the glowing embers. He tossed one over to Garth, who snatched it and gingerly tossed it back and forth in his hands until the meat cooled enough to eat. The old man, finishing his breakfast, unbolted the door and peeked out cautiously.

The legless beggar was sitting across the street and waved his hand as if swatting away a fly.

“It’s clear,” the raggedy man announced. “Let’s go.”

Taking a staff from beside the door, he stepped out into the street and then, turning, relieved himself against the building. Garth looked at him disdainfully and then realized that he had to follow suit and stepped up beside the old man.

“You know, this is as good a moment as any for introductions. I’m Hammen of Jor.”

The old man, finishing, buttoned his greasy trousers and then extended his hand.

Garth, finishing as well, buttoned up and looked down at Hammen, who grinned at him, his yellowing teeth looking like jagged, rotting posts in a dark cavern.

Garth tentatively took Hammen’s hand and then did not bother to hide his actions as he wiped his palm on the side of his pants.

Hammen laughed.

“A cleaner handshake than what you’ll get from any House Master.”

Garth could not help but smile.

“Where can I find the Gray House?”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Just curious to see, that’s all.”

Hammen, raising his staff with a flourish, pointed down the refuse-choked alleyway and they were off.

Garth followed behind his self-appointed guide, cautiously looking up side streets as they passed. It was well past dawn and yet the city was still barely stirring, the revelry in celebration of the approaching festival having obviously consumed the energy of the citizens. Hammen stopped for a moment to poke at several prostrate forms lying next to an overturned rain barrel. One of them stirred slightly, the other two remained still.

Garth looked down at them. He could see all three were alive but would soon regret that state of affairs when they woke up.

"They've already been picked over," Hammen announced, and continued on out into a main boulevard that was nearly a dozen fathoms across.

Garth turned and looked back up the street, where wisps of smoke were still rising from yesterday's fun. Around him shopkeepers were just beginning to unshutter their stalls, placing their wares out on tables in front of their doors. A few early risers were already out purchasing food and Garth strode along slowly, unable to hide his amazement at the multitude of goods for sale.

Hammen looked back at him.

"I don't think you've had much experience with cities."

Garth nodded.

"I could see that; no one but a fool would have followed me down a back alley the way you did. Such trust is only found in yokels from the countryside. No citizen of this city would be so stupid."

"Either a fool or someone who could take care of himself," Garth replied coolly.

Hammen looked up at Garth and nodded in agreement.

"I think you can take care of yourself. But survive here? That will be interesting to see."

Hammen slowed and pointed to a fruit stand.

"Ah, my favorite, pomegranates from Esturin." Hammen strode up to the fruit monger, who was setting out bundles of pomegranates, oranges, exotic fillagrits from across the flowing sea, exquisite and delicate lollins, and other glistening delectables of red, green, orange, and deepest blue which Garth had never seen before.

The merchant looked up at Hammen, shook her head with an exasperated smile, and tossed him a pomegranate. Hammen motioned for her to favor Garth as well.

Garth took the fruit and bit into it, smiling as the juice trickled down his throat.

"It's good."

"Never had one before, have you?"

Garth said nothing as he finished off the treat, half-listening as Hammen and the merchant, who were obviously old acquaintances, talked about the news of the city.

"The guards of the Grand Master swarmed through here last night like flies on the scent of offal," the merchant announced, while all the time staring straight at Garth. "Looking for the fighter."

"So did they find him?"

"Oh, they arrested the usual suspects."

Hammen laughed and turned away. The merchant, smiling, tossed Garth three more pomegranates and winked. Garth tucked them inside his open tunic.

"You won a lot of money for these people yesterday, plus you bearded an Orange," Hammen announced. "You can eat free for awhile."

Hammen nodded to the dirty brown pennants that fluttered over many of the stalls lining the street.

"You can see, most folks in this quarter are Brown supporters."

"Why? The fighting Houses mean nothing to them and I'm certain the Houses don't give a good damn what commoners think anyhow."

"How do you know that?"

"I think it's fair to assume such," Garth replied.

"You don't seem to understand much about the human soul, One-eye," Hammen replied. "For most of these folk the Festival is the one thing to look forward to in their lives, that and the hope of a winning lottery ticket. The games are everything.

"You can go to most any stall or swill dive"-and he pointed vaguely over to a tavern which was already full-“and the meanest beggar can recite for you the wins, the spells possessed by his favorite fighter, especially if that man or woman won him a few coppers in the wagers. Win money for the mob and you're a hero."

"Some hero," Garth sniffed. "A fighter now would burn a peasant alive just to test a new spell and feel less remorse than if he squashed a roach."

"What do you mean now?" Hammen asked quietly.

"Oh, I hear the story of the old days, when things were different, when fighters were required to go on pilgrimage, to serve others who needed them."

Hammen spit on the ground.

"The old days are dead, hanin. If you came here thinking different, I think I'll simply leave you right now. I've taken a bit of a liking to you and would hate to see you dead before the day is out. Only a fool would believe that fighters care about the rest of us."

"So why should the people care?"

"That's what I mean," Hammen replied. "You don't understand the human soul. They know the truth, but they'll still cheer their hero on and by doing so feel that somehow they're part of his glory and power. Once Festival starts they're transported to heaven for three days. They can forget the squalor, the sickness, the short brutal lives that consume them. They're out there in the arena, listening to the chanting roar, dueling for power, for prestige, for their lives and for the approval of the Walker, who takes the final winner with him so that he can serve in other worlds. For three days out of the entire year the mob can live the dream."

Garth looked over quizzically at Hammen, whose voice had grown soft, his tone serious, and surprisingly the touch of an accent of high breeding creeping into his words.

"You speak like you've been out there," Garth said, fixing Hammen with his gaze.

Hammen looked back at him and, for a brief instant, Garth felt as if someone other than a raggedy pickpocket and gutter dweller walked beside him. He sensed a distant power as if the man could control the mana, the foundations of power for all fighters, which was derived from the lands and all creatures who lived upon them. Hammen slowed in his walk and Garth sensed an infinite sadness and then like a frost melting away in the light of dawn Hammen became the raggedy man again, cackling, hawking, and spitting on the ground, pointing out the sights of the city to an outsider.

They continued up the street, which was now starting to fill. Garth pulled out the two pomegranates tucked into his tunic and tossed one over to Hammen. Garth bit into the fruit and ate it slowly as they strolled along. They passed by the street of steel and Garth stopped for a moment to watch as the merchants hung out their cheap blades in front of the store. Stopping in front of one, he looked into the gloomy interior and saw the finest weapons hanging inside, the merchant's guards sitting in the shadows. Scimitars, broadswords, and light rapiers caught and reflected the pulsing glow of the forges working deeper within the shop, the smiths hammering out their creations in showers of sparks.

"Good blades in the back, blades with long histories and names for connoisseurs of refined weapons capable even of piercing through fields of spells to draw a fighter's blood," Hammen whispered as if filled with distant longing.

Next came the street of brass workers, and then the silversmiths and workers of gold, each stall guarded by armed men and even an occasional spell caster of the first-rank, who could conjure a single creature of the beyond to kill thieves. Garth looked at the first-rank men and shook his head. Most of them were old men, who had never gone beyond the first-rank since they lacked the skills and the innately given power to harness the mana, to manage and control anything beyond the simplest of powers. In a real duel with another fighter they would lose their single spell in seconds and most likely their lives, thus they were doomed to the back alleys, the guarding of miser hordes and fat merchants. Most of them, he sensed, were scared within their hearts that someday they might actually be challenged by something beyond a peasant with a dirk, and even that peasant was a source of fear.

After passing the streets of metal they came closer to the heart of the city and Hammen looked around warily, watching closely as a squad of the Grand Master's fighters marched by on patrol, their multihued jackets, capes, and trousers shimmering in the morning light. Not one of them looked toward Garth and his companion chuckled.

"Overdressed popinjays. Out looking for you, most likely, and too stupid to sense such things."

Garth noticed that the color of the pennants lining the street had started to change. For several blocks there was a mix of browns, grays, and even an occasional orange or purple.

"We're getting near the center of the city, where the five quarters of the city converge. Directly ahead in the center of the Plaza is the palace of the Grand Master and the barracks of his fighters and warriors. The Houses of the four colors flank the main Plaza."

Garth looked up the street into the main Plaza, which was nearly three hundred fathoms across, and finally saw the towering five-sided pyramid, which was the Grand Master's home. The building stood at least thirty fathoms to a side and soared nearly as high and was sheathed in polished limestone that glowed like fire from the reflected sun. The main palace, in turn, was flanked on all five sides by the dark, squat barracks of his warrior guards and fighters. The entire complex, in turn, was surrounded by fountains, which danced and splashed in the morning light, the columns of water soaring nearly as high as the great palace, the water in the fountains dyed every color of the rainbow.

As Garth reached the edge of the Great Plaza he slowed. On four sides of the Plaza four more palaces were now plainly in view. Each was different; each flew a color of the four great Houses. Fentesk, on the far side of the Plaza, was a heavy, squat structure with massive pillars lining its front, with four great banners of solid orange fluttering at the four corners of what Garth decided was positively an ugly building.

Next to it was the House of Ingkara, this one similar to the Orange House except the tedium of pillars was at least relieved by a great arched entryway from which a purple banner hung. To the other side of Fentesk was the House of Bolk, this one looking like a fortress, with crenellated towers and battlements, and finally, next to the Brown House, was that of Kestha, its front decorated with massive squat statues representing fighters, with their hands raised upward as if about to cast spells across the pavilion against the other buildings.

"Whoever designed the palaces should have been drowned at birth for the benefit of all mankind," Hammen sniffed.

"They're Houses of fighters, not palaces for potentates," Garth replied. "The old Houses were different but things have changed of late and these new ones went up."

"Still, there is such a thing as taste."

Garth started walking toward the House of Kestha, Hammen hurrying to keep pace with him.

"You know, this is really rather foolish of you," Hammen sniffed. "You're a wanted man around this city."

"So much the better."

As they walked toward the House of Kestha Garth slowed, turned, and looked toward the fifth side of the Plaza. The Plaza was lined with squat shops, eateries, and several small palaces of what were most likely well-heeled merchants.

Garth turned and walked toward the buildings and then came to a stop at the edge of the Plaza and looked around.

"This is where the fifth House used to be," Hammen said quietly.

Garth turned and looked back at Hammen.

"The fifth House?"

"Turquoise. Twenty years ago there were five Houses."

"I know that."

"Then you know that the other Houses, led by the old Grand Master and his assistant, Zarel, massacred the House of Oor-tael on the evening of the last day of Festival. They fell upon them in the night, burned the House, and murdered nearly all the fighters."

"Nearly all you say."

"Some supposedly escaped," Hammen replied.

The raggedy man paused and looked up at Garth.

"You were most likely too young then even to care," Hammen snapped, an edge of anger to his voice.

Garth said nothing, looking at the corner of the Plaza, which looked so out of place with the grandeur of the other four sides.

"And the last Grand Master," Garth said, his tone more of a statement than a question.

"Kuthuman? That bastard," and he whispered the imprecation. "Who the hell do you think the Walker is? Where do you think he stole the mana that opened the portals to other worlds. Turquoise was the most powerful of the five and refused to help him in his quest."

Hammen nodded back over to where the House once stood.

"So they killed the Master of Oor-tael, his entire family, damn near everyone, and took their mana."

"What about Zarel?"

"Why are you interested?"

"He's interested in me, isn't he?"

Hammen shook his head.

"Some say that it was Zarel's hatred of the Master of Oor-tael that triggered it all and Zarel who suggested the idea and the Walker finally went along with it, even though Cullinarn, the Master of Oor-tael, was an old friend who had once saved Kuthuman's life."

"So why did he do it?"

"I said before I wasn't sure if you were damn good or simply a fool," Hammen replied. "Sometimes I think it's the latter of the two. When it comes to power, friendship is usually the first thing to die. Kuthuman wanted the power of a Walker; Zarel knew that if he helped him, he would then ascend to being the new Grand Master once Kuthuman left. So Zarel organized and led the assault, the mana of Turquoise was used to pierce the veil between worlds, Kuthuman left, and Zarel came to power. With him all things changed. The Masters of the other Houses had either helped or stood aside while their own was murdered and the bribes afterward flowed like crap out of a force-fed goose.

"The lost treasury of Turquoise paid for that monstrosity of a palace," and Hammen nodded toward the pyramid, and the new Houses. "Everyone profited from the deal."

Garth stood in silence for a moment and then turned away, pressing through the throng that now flooded the Plaza. Approaching the House of Kestha, he finally started to slow when the flagstones beneath his feet changed color from the limestone that paved most of the Plaza to a dark gray slate. Garth paused and looked up at the six towering statues of fighters that dominated the front entryway into the House.

Garth shook his head with disdain and started forward. A hand reached out and grabbed him.

"Just what is it that you want here?" Hammen pressed.

"If you don't have the stomach for it, go home, old man," Garth hissed, shaking Hammen's grip loose.

The crowds were no longer by his side, as if an invisible barrier marked the line in which they could press no closer to the Houses of fighters.

Garth strode across the semicircle of gray stone that denoted the boundaries of the Gray House, moving with a casual ease. He heard hurried footsteps behind him and looked back over his shoulder to see that Hammen was struggling to catch up, his staff clattering on the pavement.

From out of the shadows of the great statues half a dozen fighters emerged. They were dressed in gray tunics and trousers, their capes made of the finest leather and decorated with mystical signs and runes. Dangling from ornate sashes that went from their left shoulder to their right hip were golden satchels for their amulets, spells, and tiny silken packages of earth that contained the mana they controlled from distant lands. The bundles of earth aided the fighter in creating this psychic link back to the power of the land from which his magic grew. They moved toward Garth, walking with a casual, haughty ease and stepped in front of him to block his path.

"Go away, beggar. You walk on our property here," one of them hissed and, placing his hand on Garth's chest, gave him a shove.

Garth stepped back a foot and did not turn away.

"I said go away!"

"I've come to join this House," Garth said calmly.

The six looked back and forth at each other with exaggerated expressions of surprise.

"A one-eyed scarecrow followed by a beggar," the man who shoved him roared. "You insult our House by tracking your filth on our walkway. You'll scrub it with your tongue for your arrogance. But first I want to see your teeth on the ground."

The man stepped forward to punch Garth. Even as he moved in to hit him Garth stepped quickly to one side, grabbing the man by the wrist and flipping him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. As if sensing another blow coming from behind, Garth rolled on the ground, kicking out, catching his second assailant on the side of his knee. There was the sound of snapping bone as the man fell over, howling with pain. Coming back up to his feet, Garth heard a cracking sound and saw from the corner of his eye a dagger skidding across the pavement, a third fighter staggering away, holding a broken wrist while, with a flourish, Hammen caught the man across the small of the back, knocking him over.

The other three started to back up, the one in the middle fumbling with his satchel, pulling something out and then extending his arms out wide. As if from a great distance Garth could hear the roar of the crowd, screaming that a fight was on.

Garth strode forward toward the fighter, preparing to cast, pointing at him.

"Don't! Don't try it. We have someone else to fight now."

The man looked at him, wide-eyed, his concentration obviously broken by the power of Garth's words. He suddenly let out a yelp of pain, for he had made the mistake of drawing upon his mana without immediately focusing it into a spell. Suffering now from mana-burn, he staggered around, clutching both hands to his brow, while Garth watched him with an expression of pity for one so amateurish.

"That man is ours!"

Garth looked back at the Gray fighter.

"Don't do it. I think we have other fish to fry." And he turned away from him as if he was no longer of concern.

A squad of fighters from the Orange House were advancing across the Plaza with purposeful strides. One of them, wearing a cloak heavily embroidered with gold and silver and obviously of higher rank, led the way.

Garth slowly extended his arms in preparation for a fight and the man slowed.

"A witness in the crowd says you were the one who murdered Okmark yesterday. You're ours."

"Then take me," Garth said quietly.

The fighter started to move forward as if deciding not even to bother with a spell.

Garth smiled and pointed at the man. His walk slowed as if he had stepped into an invisible barrier. Cursing, he stumbled backward.

Next Garth raised his hand, pointing to the heavens. A dark swirling cloud took form, buzzing, humming, and dived down. Hornets, as big as a man's thumb, swarmed over the Orange fighters, stinging with such viciousness that blood ran in rivulets down the faces of Garth's foes.

A roaring crowd now ringed the edge of the Kesthan pavement, howling with delight, laughing even louder when some of the hornets diverted away from the half dozen they were tormenting and slashed into the crowd, their victims screaming, waving their arms to ward off the stings. The antics of the peasants and common folk getting stung caused the crowd to roar even louder with delight.

The leader of the Fentesk, bellowing with rage, struggled to his feet and extended his arms, pointing them heavenward. The hornets plummeted to the ground, their wings trailing smoke and flame. But even as they writhed on the ground they still managed to cling to the ankles of their targets, stinging even through boots so that the leader's companions hopped about madly.

Garth waved his hand again and the hornets burst into flames, the fire spreading to the boots of the fighters and tormented peasants in the crowd. The peasants ran off screaming, heading to the fountains to douse their burning shoes, followed by the Orange fighters; only the leader remained.

The leader pulled his arms in tight around himself, his cloak fluttering, and a mist started to form around him. Garth reached into his satchel and then pointed even as the deadly mist started to move toward him. The Fentesk leader staggered, and for a moment it appeared as if a whirlpool was pulsing around him, sucking his powers away into a void. Garth moved his hands back and forth as if stirring the whirlpool, while the fighter twisted and writhed inside the power sink that was drawing his strength away.

He collapsed on the pavement.

Hammen scurried forward to the prostrate fighter and reached for his satchel.

"Only one," Garth commanded. "It is the rule; this was no death fight."

Hammen reached greedily into the man's satchel, pulled out a ringed amulet. "His bind against flying creatures, the one he used against your hornets."

Garth nodded and then looked back at the Gray fighters, who stood gape mouthed.

A loud trumpeting echoed across the Great Plaza and seconds later it seemed to be repeated from inside House Kestha. Already there was a knot of Grays standing around the doorway and seconds later dozens more poured out.

The crowd which had been watching the show pushed and shoved as if a force had struck it from behind. It finally parted as yet more Orange fighters came pouring into the open semicircle around Gray's House. Within seconds half a dozen of them were fighting with an equal number of Grays, several of them conjuring up spells while the others simply pulled daggers and set at each other.

"Master, isn't it a healthy time to leave?"

Garth looked down at Hammen, who was busily stuffing several cut purses into his tunic.

The crowd was roaring with delight, pointing, shouting, screaming with hysterical abandon when blood was finally spilled and a Gray fighter went down clutching his throat, which had been cut from ear to ear. A fireball struck his assailant, even as the man reached down to grab his victim's satchel, sending him sprawling, writhing in flames until one of his companions cast a spell of protection, dousing the flame. Two Gray fighters rushed to help their hemorrhaging lodge brother, applying hands and incantations to stem the bleeding.

Garth ducked low, when from atop the Kesthan palace sheets of lightning snapped down, striking into the plaza, bowling Fentesk fighters over like ninepins. Garth scrambled up against the building and sat down under the shadow of one of the great stone pillar fighters. He reached into his tunic, pulled out another pomegranate, and calmly started to eat.

"Master, please!" Hammen whined, sneaking up to Garth's side and squatting down beside him. "Let's just get out of here."

"Not yet. Why don't you go and arrange some bets for me on Gray."

More trumpets brayed and Hammen looked around furtively.

"The Grand Master of the Arena is coming. It's time to get out of here now."

"In a minute."

From the edge of the swirling mob, which was laughing and dancing about while watching the show, a heavy phalanx appeared. There were at least twenty magic wielders in the middle of the column, the fighters flanked by several hundred crossbow men. At the front of the column rode the Grand Master of the Arena himself, his multihued cape reflecting all the colors of the rainbow.

The crossbow men, with weapons cocked, fanned out around the edge of the gray semicircle, some facing toward the mob, which reluctantly gave back, while the others faced inward, raising their weapons and taking aim on the combatants.

More trumpets sounded and drums rolled. The fight started to break apart.

"Tulan of Kestha, come out!" a herald, standing next to the stirrup of the Grand Master, roared, his voice apparently magnified by some magical power so that it thundered even above the tumult of the crowd, several of whom were now screaming after being shot by crossbow quarrels at close range.

"I'm here!"

Garth slowly turned and looked up. Atop the head of one of the great stone fighters stood a man who he assumed was the Grand Master of the House of Kestha. Garth finished his pomegranate and tossed the ends of it aside.

"This fight must cease or you shall be placed under injunction," the herald shouted.

"Then tell those Orange bastards to stop soiling our pavement with their filth."

The Grand Master turned his mount and looked at the knot of Fentesk fighters, who stood in a circle around their wounded.

"You are engaged in trespass; you must pay damages for violation of the law and leave this place at once."

The leader, who had first fought with Garth and had regained some of his wits, was helped to his feet.

"We were here to seek arrest against a man who murdered one of our brothers."

"Who?"

The leader looked around the plaza.

"Master, please, nowwww!" Hammen whined.

Garth stood up and casually started to walk toward the Grand Master.

"I think he wants me," Garth announced loudly.

"That's him!" Orange shouted. "He's the one who killed one of our men yesterday."

The Grand Master wheeled his horse around, the herald motioning for several crossbow men to train their weapons on Garth.

Garth, ignoring them, turned his back to the Grand Master and looked up to the top of the statue where Tulan stood.

"I came to join the House of Kestha. I stand on land not owned by the Grand Master of this city but rather by the House of Kestha. Will you allow one who fought for you to be taken thus from your very doorstep?"

Tulan looked down over the edge of the statue and then nervously turned to look at a ring of fighters of the highest rank who stood around him.

"Surely you would not bear such an insult to your reputation and honor," Garth shouted, the slightest edge of sarcasm in his voice.

"He's my man and he is on my property!" Tulan finally shouted, though the nervousness in his voice was evident.

The Grand Master reined in his mount just behind Garth.

"This is my city and I am the Grand Master of the Arena."

"Without the four Houses to fight in your arena," Garth replied, looking straight back at the Grand Master, "you will be penniless."

Garth turned and looked back up at Tulan.

"Isn't that so, my lord Master of Kestha."

"That's so, that's so!" Tulan shouted. "Touch him and we'll go on strike for the first day of Festival and so will the other Houses. You have no right to arrest one of us on our own property."

At the mere mention of a possible strike the mob watching the drama started to howl in protest. Garth turned and looked back at the crowd, bowing low to them with a dramatic flourish, and wild applause broke out. He looked over at the Fentesk fighters and saw that even they were backing away from wanting him, out of a higher solidarity to protect their precious rights.

"That man is a Kestha fighter," Tulan roared. "He is on Kestha property and under my protection. There's nothing more to be said."

Garth turned and looked back at the Grand Master, who was gazing down at him coldly.

"I'm sorry to have caused you trouble, sire."

The Grand Master looked down at him with a curious expression, as if using his powers to somehow probe. Garth felt the power swirling around him like a cold breeze. The power pulled away.

"You won't survive Festival," the Grand Master hissed, his words barely audible and, yanking the reins of his mount, he turned and spurred his mount into a gallop, the mob parting before him.

Garth bowed low to the departing Grand Master and then, turning, strode toward the doorway into the House of Kestha. As he passed beneath the shadows of the great statues he looked closely and finally saw Hammen, crouched down low, peering out from behind the colossal feet of the statue nearest the door.

“Stand up like a man, Hammen,” Garth said quietly. “The servant of a fighter of Kestha should show more dignity.”

“Servant, is it?” Hammen said. “The demons take you. You’re a plague. Anyone who comes near you will turn up dead.”

Garth laughed softly.

“I need a servant now. The job is yours for a silver a week.”

“I can make that in a morning in my regular profession.”

“You’ll find the change amusing. I just need you for Festival.”

“The busy season for my profession.”

“If you don’t come, I think you’ll always wonder what you missed out on.”

Hammen lowered his head and mumbled to himself.

“Oh, the devil with it, damn you. All right. But I get sole gaming rights to you outside the arena.”

“Fighting outside the arena is illegal.”

Hammen threw back his head and laughed.

“Like yesterday and just now.”

“Sole gaming rights then.”

Grinning, Hammen swaggered out from his hiding place and fell in behind Garth.

Gray fighters were returning to their House, helping their wounded. They looked over at Garth with open curiosity but none approached him. The doors into the palace were wide open and Garth followed them in and then, out of the shadows, a heavy rotund form appeared. The man stood as tall as he did, at just over a fathom, but Garth estimated that he easily weighed twice as much. Grand Masters were no longer expected to fight in the arena and it was evident that this one had taken that security to heart, and to his stomach as well.

Heavy jowls jiggled as the man drew closer, his fat, sausage-like hands glistening with jewels on every finger. He had power; Garth could sense that. And though it was gone to dissipation, he was still someone who could beat nearly anyone who stood against him.

“Well done, lad, well done,” Tulan roared, coming up to Garth, who went through the ceremony of bowing low.

Tulan grabbed him by the shoulders and raised him back up.

“You stood up to that damn Zarel, that pox-eaten Arena Master. Good show, lad, good show.”

“In service to you, my lord.”

Garth ignored the slight fit of coughing that beset Hammen.

“My servant, my lord. He was robbed of his clothes this morning, thus the rags, and he has been ill.”

Tulan looked over at Hammen who grinned up at him, his yellow teeth showing in a jagged grin. Tulan wrinkled his nose with disdain.

“Somebody give this man a change of clothes and a bath.”

“A bath. Like…”

“Hammen, you heard our Master. Now obey.”

Hammen was led away, looking over at Garth and making a sign against him as if to ward off the evil eye.

Tulan, his hand still on Garth’s shoulder, led him down the main corridor of the House. The walls were of heavy oak, polished to a mirrorlike sheen, racks of weapons set against them, crossbows, lances, morning stars, battle-axes, and swords. Looking up, Garth could see that there were holes set at regular intervals overhead, undoubtedly for heavily weighted bolts which could be dropped down by the flick of a lever, crushing anyone who dared to try and take the palace through the main door. A fifty-pound razor-sharp bolt dropped from such a height would be a powerful argument, even against a spell caster of the tenth-rank if he was caught unprepared. Looking down, he could see that the parquet floor was not in fact solid. Sections of it could easily drop away if unwanted company was standing on it. Pits of snakes most likely down below, Garth thought, or maybe even a Gromashian spiderweb.

“I heard how you killed Okmark. Spell reflection, a powerful tool.” As he spoke, Tulan looked down at Garth’s satchel.

“He was foolish.”

“He was a third-rank; my man Webin. A second-rank should have known better than to be tricked into a street fight like that.”

“How is Webin?”

“Demoted in rank for causing such a humiliation,” Tulan snapped, “his latest spell forfeit.”

Garth said nothing, surprised that any fighter would allow himself to be stripped of a spell without the honor of a fight.

“Oh, I fought him for it,” Tulan chuckled. “Maybe I’ll regenerate his left hand if I have the time.”

The fighters who were walking behind Garth and Tulan laughed coldly.

Tulan led Garth into a room and the most pleasant of smells wafted around him.

“You’re in time for a late-morning repast.”

Tulan motioned him to sit down at the long feasting table, which was cleared but for a serving for one. Tulan clapped his hands and motioned toward Garth. Servants came scurrying out from a side room and quickly set a plate to the right of Tulan.

Tulan motioned for his advisors to leave and, with a hearty sigh, he sat down in a high-back chair at the head of the table. More servants came out, bearing plates with stuffed pheasants, great rings of sausage, a small suckling pig stuffed with cloves and basted in honey, and smoked fish baked with lemons and ginger.

Heavy crystal glasses were set and filled with dark Tarmulian wine, another with pale honeyed mead, and another with a clear wine that sparkled and danced with bubbles.

Tulan took a loaf of bread, tearing off five pieces and tossing them to the great powers that upheld the five corners of the world and followed with five tosses of salt while Garth did the same.

Without wasting a word, Tulan reached across the table and picked up a pheasant. Sighing, he bit into it, and soon devoured the morsel. Next he reached over to the suckling pig and held it up, motioning toward Garth if he wanted part. Garth shook his head, devoting his attention instead to one of the remaining pheasants. Grabbing the pig by the haunches and forefeet, Tulan proceeded to devour the midsection, using a knife only to scoop out the stuffing, which was still steaming hot. Finished with that, he tossed the remains back on a platter and then dived into the thick blood sausages, downing half a dozen before finally turning his attention to the fish, chewing and spitting out the pieces of bone into a silver tray set by his left elbow.

Leaning back, he belched, with a loud sonorous rumble so that Garth thought the high stained glass windowpanes would shatter. As if moving down a line Tulan then drained the three heavy goblets, one after the other, barely pausing for a gulp. Sighing, he belched again and then picked up one of the fish bones to pick his teeth.

Garth, finished with his pheasant, took the glass of Tarmulian wine and sipped at it contentedly.

“If you beat Okmark so easily, you must be equal to at least a fourth-rank, maybe a fifth-rank.”

He paused, looking over at Garth as if expecting a reply. Garth said nothing and Tulan laughed, but it was evident that he was annoyed over Garth’s secrecy.

“The contents of one’s satchel are, according to tradition, known only to the owner,” Garth finally said.

“I need men like you,” Tulan finally said, acting again as if they were old comrades. “Once this Festival is over there’s contracts to be met, cities and merchants to be guarded, wars to be fought and, believe me, those of the House of Kestha get top pay for their services.”

“Minus your commission and the House dues, of course,” Garth replied.

Tulan paused for a moment, looking sharply at Garth.

“Why us, why not another House?” Tulan asked coolly.

“Why not? Do you want me to tell you that the fame of the House of Kestha is higher than all others, that only the best come to you? Is that what you want me to say as if I was a first-rank acolyte who one day had discovered that he was born with the talent to control the mana which creates spells?”

Tulan said nothing and Garth laughed cynically.

“I don’t need the training of this House or any other House. I learned that on my own.”

“Where? I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never heard of a one-eyed hanin, a fighter without colors. Where are you from?”

Garth smiled.

“That’s my business, sire. You know my skill; you saw it out there on the Plaza.”

“It’s my business to know. To check your pedigree, your family lines, to see if you come from a line with strength to control the mana.”

“It’s not your business. Your business is to manage my business, to make both of us money.”

“How dare you!” Tulan roared, standing up and kicking his chair back.

Garth stood up and bowed low.

“Since it is obvious we don’t have a deal, I’ll take my services elsewhere. I think Purple might want me.”

“You won’t step out of here alive,” Tulan snarled, and he started to extend his hands.

Garth threw his head back and laughed.

“You might kill me, sire, but I can promise you there’ll be a devil of a fire in here by the time we’re done fighting and I’d hate to ruin your tapestries; they look like they’re from the Naki weavers of Kish and are worth the fees of fifty fighters.”

Tulan paused and looked over at the great tapestries woven of gold-and-silver thread that lines the wall opposite the stained glass windows so that they could catch and reflect the light. A slow smile crossed Tulan’s features.

“You have an eye for art. That’s good, that’s very good. One eye and you can see better than most of the brutes I have working for me with two.” And Tulan chuckled as if he had made a great joke.

“Sit down, Garth One-eye, sit down. I think I might even like you.” And he made a show of pouring Garth some more wine.

Garth smiled and nodded his thanks.

“Your commission?” Garth asked.

“The usual twenty percent for your services retained by outside contracts, plus ten percent of any purse you win in the arena during Festival. In return you’ll receive your room, board, and the full legal protection of the House. And believe me, the outside contracts for your services will be in your favor.

“Gray fighters can count on higher fees than the other Houses,” Tulan boasted, while patting his stomach. “Our reputation insures that and you’ll be placed with lords and merchants who appreciate good value and will treat you with respect. You must already know that in the last twenty Festivals it has been a Kesthan fighter who won the championship nine times and was thus selected to be the new initiate to the most high power of the Walker.”

Tulan paused for a moment as if fearful that the most powerful of all users of magic might suddenly appear at the mere mention of his name.

“Such a record insures that we are held in the highest esteem by those who contract us and gives us the right to expect certain advantages. There’ll be the finest food, the best of quarters when you are out on contract, and the finest mates of your choosing, provided at no extra fee.”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

“We’ll place you according to your skills and you will answer to no law other than mine”-he paused for a moment-“and Zarel can sit and fume over you and not touch you, something which I think might be a concern right now.”

“Not really.”

Tulan looked over at Garth, not sure if his comment was simple bravado or the truth. Finally he laughed coolly.

“I like fighters with nerves like yours. But do not doubt the power of Zarel. Step out of this House without colors on and a score of his best fighters will swarm over you. You need a House, One-eye; without it you’re dead.”

Garth finally nodded slowly in reply.

“In return you must obey all orders of the House, which means my commands.”

“Agreed.”

Tulan smiled as if already holding the commissions he would receive for placing Garth.

“You are to fight only according to the rules, there are to be no personal grudge fights or fights for personal profit. I don’t need you out there wasting your skills and wagering your spells to no profit for this House.”

“That might be hard to obey.”

“Why?”

“That’s why I joined this House. Half of the Orange House wants me dead.”

“Oh, because of that incident with Okmark?”

“No, other things.”

“What other things?”

“I’m oath sworn not to reveal them,” Garth said quietly. “Let’s just say it has something to do with this,” he added, pointing at the patch over his eye.

“A personal issue then?”

Garth leaned forward.

“Since you are my guild master, I think I can share it,” he said with a conspiratorial whisper.

Tulan leaned forward eagerly to hear the secret.

“It happened several years back. Losing the eye was almost worth it but now that they know I’m here they’ll come for me. That is part of the reason I decided to stop being hanin and join a House. I knew the less than friendly feelings between Fentesk and Kestha meant that at least here I would have some protection.”

“What happened?”

“I seduced the first consort of the Master of Fentesk and also their twin daughters at the same time.”

Tulan, who was in the middle of downing another draught of mead, sprayed most of the contents back out on the table and looked at Garth wide-eyed. His features turned bright red and, laughing, he started to pound the table.

“No wonder he cut her throat last year! How delightful, how absolutely delightful! Tell me, how good were they?”

Garth smiled.

“The honor of ladies, sire.”

“Ladies; hell, all the women of Orange are harlots, especially their fighters. So you got caught and had an eye gouged out before you could make good your escape.”

“Something like that,” Garth said quietly, and as he spoke he looked away from Tulan as if a dark memory had suddenly come to haunt him.

“Fine then, fine. It’ll be a delight to rub Varnel Buckara’s face in this.”

“I prefer not, my lord. For the daughters’ sake. After all, they’re still alive, and reminding him might cause a refreshing of his rage against them.”

“All right then, all right, but still.” And Tulan beamed at Garth with pride.

“You can take the oath in ceremony on the morning Festival starts. Till then you can wear the Gray mantle of an initiate.”

Garth nodded and, looking over his glass, he smiled.

“I eagerly anticipate the honor,” he said quietly.