Destiny: Child of the Sky

27

The gambling complex of Sorbold was the largest group of buildings in the city-state of Jakar, and sprawled threateningly across the southern end of the borough of Nikkid’saar. On days when gladiatorial bouts were not scheduled it lay quiet and more or less undisturbed, except for the occasional delivery caravan and the entry and exit of the slaves and free workers whose efforts kept the complex running. On the days of the fights, however, this end of the borough writhed with humanity and animal life, as tens of thousands jammed the streets around the arena, teeming with the excitement and commerce of blood sport.

Rhapsody could see that Llauron was right about the schedule of events; this had been a day of contest, and an enormous stream of people, complete with its accompanying noise and smell, was flooding back into the roadway around the arena, filling the streets with the sounds of jostling and screaming, laughing and bickering. It was easy to get lost in the cacophony, and she happily did, blending in with the crowd until she found the entrance into the arena closest to the sprawling addition at the rear of the complex. This addition must hold the gladiators’ quarters, she reasoned, and she looked for a point of exit near to the southern gate of the borough, where she had left the horse and where Khaddyr and the reinforcements would meet up with her.

Rhapsody found a sheltered area to wait in as light snow began to fall, turning the streets to mud and the mood of the masses ugly. She watched carefully as she passed the time, noting that there were, in fact, a number of women dressed in clothes similar to those she was wearing under the woolen cloak. Their attire seemed drabber and more modest by comparison, but perhaps it was just a factor of her discomfort with the revealing nature of the disguise.

In addition, the women dressed as she was were often being roughly herded in and out of the complex, occasionally with the sting of a whip. Rhapsody’s blood boiled, and she could feel the fire within her rise to the surface of her skin, but she swallowed her anger at the sight and steadied her resolve. She was here to save the gladiator, not change the culture of Sorbold, however much she may have wanted to.

The streets surrounding the arena contained feeder alleys that led into small courtyards. In each of these central areas that she had passed, Rhapsody saw minor bouts of fighting taking place amid a smaller, loose crowd of observers, peasants and merchants who broke into hooting cheers as particularly bloody hits were landed.

The combatants in these street bouts often appeared to be barely out of childhood, boys and occasionally girls as young as perhaps nine summers, attacking each other with such zealous ferocity that the victor often had to be restrained from gutting his fallen opponent. Rhapsody shuddered as a great cry of delight rose, along with an arching spray of blood, from a contest between two young boys no older than her adopted grandson, Gwydion Na-varne.

The closer courtyards to the arena held the semi-professionals, gladiators in training who were not yet deemed worthy to fight in the arena, but who had already garnered, in most cases, a large and devoted following among the street audience. Gambling was widely evident, with oddsmakers working the crowd furiously, trying to coax from them some of the Sorboldian gold-stones they had brought to wager in the arena itself.

In the last of these courtyards immediately outside the gladiatorial arena stood a large wooden scale, bound in rickety metal and balancing two large disks, scale plates large enough to hold an ox for weighing. Rhapsody recognized this instrument as a cruder version of the ones that stood inside the various fighting pits within the complex. Llauron had explained their use to her as part of their planning.

At the decision point of each major bout, and apparently a few of the street matches as well, a fighter who had been disarmed or injured to the point of not being able to continue was deemed, by the sound of the arena-master’s gong, to be Towrik, or compromised. It was at this point that the crowd turned to an enormous set of scales to decide the warrior’s fate.

The country of Sorbold was situated, for the most part, on the leeward side of the Teeth, making it a dry and arid place, a realm of almost endless sun and desert. The religion of Sorbold, while a See loyal to the Patriarch in Sepulvarta, carried with it a hint of the old pagan days, a devotion to the balance of the natural world. In a land where one overirrigation of a field might mean the permanent loss of a village’s drinking-waterwells, nature’s balance was a matter of life and death.

So it was in the gladiatorial arena as well. With the sound of the gong, a crowd would take up the chant: Towrik, Towrik, Towrik. The reverberation of the word would echo in the arena, increasing in momentum, gaining fury, until the seats began to tremble, or so Llauron said.

While the victor in the bout strode to the Winner’s Rise to await the acclaim and adulation of the masses and the nobility, the unfortunate loser was carried, amid growing pandemonium, to the scales, which had been wheeled to the middle of the arena floor like a great god-of sacrifice, where he or she was unceremoniously dumped onto one of the weighing plates. Two pairs of dray horses with wheeled carts affixed to their hitchings stood, one at either side of the mechanism, each of the scale plates resting atop a cart.

Now the bargaining began. If the fighter was a slave, and valuable to his owner, ofttimes the owner would hold up a slate with a life offering inscribed on it. At the arenamaster’s signal, large, multicolored weights corresponding in poundage to the amount of the owner’s offering would be carried to the opposing scale plate and set in it. Other members of the nobility and, ultimately, the crowd, were allowed to cast their life offerings into the opposing plate as well. Sometimes even other slaves, both women and men, were offered up, particularly when the fighter had established a reputation for skill and profitability.

If the fighter was a freeman, the task of making life offerings was left to the crowd or his admirers among the nobility, proving in a time-honored way the high cost of freedom. As a result, even when they had accumulated a great deal of personal wealth and more than enough bout credits to purchase their freedom, many of the best gladiators chose to remain in slavery, improving their chances that someone would bid to save them when in Towrik. Constantin was not one of them.

When all the life offerings had been made, the arenamaster’s gong rang again, and the two horses were led, slowly, away from the scales. The arena would grow absolutely silent as the crowd waited for the enormous apparatus to weigh the results. Then, if the scales balanced, or weighed in the fighter’s favor, he or she was taken from the massive scale plate by the complex physician’s healers and led or carried away amid a ferocious chorus of mixed applause and hissing sneers. Half the life offerings were whisked away to fill the coffers of the regent whose city-state owned the arena, while the other half was presented, amid tumultuous cheering, to the victor.

If, however, the scales decided against the one in Towrik, an even greater roar went up from the crowd. While the content of the entire plate of life offerings was presented to the victor, the event that was more central to the interest of the crowd was prepared. A large, saw-bladed sword was placed in front of the scales, in the direct line of sight of the regent’s box, while long straps of leather were bound rapidly to the loser’s ankles. The loser was then dumped from the scale plate. The arenamaster waited long enough for the scale plates to balance, a matter of a very few seconds, before ringing the gong one last time.

If the unfortunate fighter could scramble to the sword in the intervening time, he or she could take the opportunity offered, and quickly bring life to an end in a somewhat honorable manner by falling on the weapon. Such feats of speed while compromised were almost always greeted with a chorus of furious hissing, as they denied the eager crowd the true spectacle. For if the fighter did not reach the sword before the gong rang again, the horses were loosed, tearing forth ahead of a sharp spurring and the deafening sound.

The crowd would burst forth in orgiastic screaming, thundering the stands while the unfortunate was dragged to a gruesome and ignominious death, ofttimes the horses being caught and brought to a halt only after the corpse’s head had come off and rolled to a stop. Rhapsody shook off the thought and steeled her resolve, waiting for the right moment to enter the arena.

As night began to fall the streets cleared of their traffic, and Rhapsody crossed the thoroughfare carefully, slipping into the entrance she had marked as most likely to take her where she needed to be. Once inside she clung to the dark wall, moving silently down the fetid corridors until she heard noise echoing before her that she recognized as a convocation of human beings.

She quickly pulled off the woolen cloak and her boots, as she had not seen shoes on the feet of the slaves whom she had observed outside the arena. She looked around for a moment, finally coming in sight of a small alcove, where she hid her cloak and boots, hoping to recover them once she was outside again. Then she put the small bag with the bottle of liquid that Llauron had given her to render the gladiator unconscious into the waistband of her outfit. She noted the clothes of the women slaves; some were revealing, like the ones she wore, but more were simple sets of tunics and knee pants. The women who wore clothes such as those seemed to be of a higher level of training, and often carried bandages or shrouds. Rhapsody wished that she had known about the option, but Llauron knew this culture well, and she trusted his judgment.

She pulled the frosty veil up over her face and followed the corridor into the belly of the arena, stepping past puddles of water pooling from the melting snow blowing in the cracks. The deeper she went, the more populous the corridor became, until at last she was standing outside what was obviously the main subterranean entrance to the arena, one of many hallways leading back into the fighters’ complex.

As she passed the opening she could hear in the distance a deep resonating ring, followed by a surge of shouting: Tovvrik, Tovvrik, Tovvrik. She hurried ahead of the rolling cheers, into the back tunnel and away from the gruesome noise, the sound of celebration.

A crude list of the gladiators and their bouts was scrawled in chalk on the wall of the arch that led to the bowels of the arena. In each bout one of the two names had been struck through. It was not difficult to find Constantin’s; his was the final bout of the evening on the main program, and, from what she could tell of the number system in the language of the Sorbolds, it had been the match that had supplied the most lucrative odds.

Slaves were milling around the musty hallways, carrying food and bottles of medicine, emollients and wine, the women dressed as she was, gathering in a penlike area to the left of the archway. Rhapsody pulled her veiled hood closer and slid into the stream of human traffic, letting it carry her into the pen, hoping she was in the right place.

In a moment her hunch was confirmed. A short, muscular man with thinning gray hair and robes far richer than any the slaves wore appeared at the other end of the tunnel, and as he approached the women fell silent, looking at each other and watching with anticipation. He strode through the tunnel, came out through the archway, and then climbed an area of steps at the forefront of the pen, his eyes alternately scanning the crowd of slave women and the chalk writing behind him.

He turned behind him and shouted to one of the manservants down past the archway, and after a moment another man came from down the corridor and handed him a parchment page. The slave bowed respectfully and referred to him as Treilus; Rhapsody made note and tried to shrink behind some of the taller, more eager women until Constantin’s name was called.

“Assignments for this evening’s healers,” Treilus announced.

Her stomach turned as she watched the process of selection. Most of the women slaves were vying for the opportunity to be chosen, displaying their bodies to their best advantage, and Rhapsody had to remind herself that some duties they faced must be even worse than this one.

Memories of her own past threatened to flood her with the mental equivalent of bile; she struggled to keep those thoughts at bay. Her stomach turned at Llauron’s naivete. Treilus might say he was looking for healers, but she knew a whoremaster when she saw one. Her plan dissipated in a puff of desperation. Rescuing Constantin had just become a secondary concern. Now it was a matter of trying to survive what might be corning.

The first two fighters for whom women were chosen clearly had a connection to powerful people, and the slave women jostled and scratched each other, trying to position themselves appropriately. Then Constantin’s name was called, and the pushing and preening stopped. The crowd of slaves became eerily silent, a sign that Rhapsody felt did not bode well for her.

Swallowing her dread, she dropped the veil that covered her face and hair and moved subtly into better view as Treilus was scanning down his list. When his eyes rose from the document they went immediately to her, and she shuddered as his mouth dropped open and he moved the parchment list in front of his lower abdomen to cover a sudden obvious change in the area. She hoped that his task was foremost in his mind; it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be shopping for his own evening’s entertainment as well as medical care for his gladiators.

Treilus came down off the step and pushed his way through the crowd of slave women until he stood directly before her. His eyes roamed unabashedly over her body as he walked around her, examining her from different angles. When he stood before her again he took hold of the scarf that served as a bodice for her costume and pulled it roughly toward him, looking down at her breasts inside the flimsy cloth. He released the scarf with a coldly professional air, and reached out absently to inspect a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed the golden strands, drawing them across his lips as though he was tasting them or investigating their softness.

He must have found them satisfactory, because he coughed and looked down at her, approval spreading over his face. “I don’t recognize you,” he said in a gratingly high voice. “Who are you? To whom do you belong?”

Rhapsody stared at him, trying to look as though she didn’t understand him. “Can you speak Ancient Lirin?” she asked, in her native tongue. Clearly he couldn’t; the blank look that crossed his face at her response was replaced almost immediately by a delighted smile.

“A captive!” he said, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Constantin will be very pleased.” The slave women looked at each other, some wearing grim expressions, others seeming relieved. Treilus motioned to one of the manservants, who brought forth a bottle of emollient and handed it to him.

“Can you understand me?” he asked in an exaggerated tone. She nodded slightly, trying to maintain her look of mild confusion. “Good, listen well,” he continued, handing her the bottle. Rhapsody stuck it into the scarf between her breasts and gave him a foolish grin; Treilus burst into laughter and rubbed his hands together again. “Oh, you will be perfect,” he said, patting her cheek. “You will be delivered to Constantin’s room, where you will service all his needs. Are you skilled in massage?”

Rhapsody nodded eagerly. “You are a toad,” she said meekly in her best Ancient Lirin.

“Excellent!” Treilus exclaimed, growing more excited. “Remember this, though: whatever else you do, you must be sure to massage the muscles of his back and shoulders before morning. He needs to be returned to fighting condition by tomorrow afternoon. If he is not, I will have you beaten mercilessly. Can you remember that?”

“Of course. May you be blessed with unstoppable diarrhea,” she answered, lowering her eyes respectfully.

“You’d best attend to that part first,” he said, a wicked look coming into his eye. “You might not be in any condition to do so afterward. Go, then, and service him well.”

“I hope you die in pain for what you are doing,” she said in her unique language. “And I hope that I am able to help bring it about.” She bowed and followed the manservant into the corridors that led to the gladiators’ sleeping quarters.

“What a beautiful creature,” Treilus said to the nearest manservant. He dug his fist into his side, trying to quell the sudden wave of gas that was rolling through his intestines. “Have her brought to my chambers in the morning when Constantin is done with her, if she is still alive.”

A knock sounded on the antique door, stirring Llauron from his reverie.

“Enter.”

The door opened and Khaddyr came in, looking unusually breathless.

“You wanted to see me, Your Grace?”

Llauron smiled. “Yes, Khaddyr, thank you for being so prompt.” The Invoker rose from his chair and gestured for his chief healer to enter the room, which Khaddyr did, closing the door behind him. “There’s a supper tray here; please help yourself.”

Khaddyr nodded but did not yet avail himself of food, instead hanging his heavy winter cloak on one of the pegs by the door. Then he went to the hearth and stood before the fire grate, warming himself. The wind had grown chill and bitter, and a storm was predicted. His hands had almost frozen in the time it took to journey here from the hospice.

Llauron poured himself a snifter of brandy. “So how are the patients doing?”

“Most are recovering quite well, Your Grace.”

“Good, good. I am particularly interested to know the conditions of the survivors of the Lirin raid on Lord Stephen’s border patrol this morning.”

“None of them lived, Your Grace.”

Llauron’s eyes opened in surprise. “None?”

“Yes, they were apparently far more grievously injured than we originally suspected.”

The Invoker inhaled the bouquet of the brandy, then took a sip, allowing the liquid to swirl around his mouth and over his tongue. He swallowed. “Even what-is-her-name, Cedelia, that woman with only the leg wound?”

“Yes, Your Grace. It must have gone septic.”

Llauron’s cool blue-gray eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “I see. Were you able to get anything out of them before they succumbed?”

Khaddyr went to the tray and picked up a plate. He began to fill it, glancing back at the Invoker, who was staring out the window. “The usual, Your Grace. They denied knowing why they were in Navarne, or traveling through Avonderre, or participating in any way. All they remembered was being in Tyrian, and then waking up, wounded, on the forest floor in Navarne. I wish they could have been more enlightening.”

“Indeed.” Llauron sat heavily back down in his chair.

Khaddyr took the seat opposite him. “On another topic, when do you expect to begin your journey?”

Llauron drained the brandy snifter. “In a month or so; the date hinges on a few things that haven’t been sorted out yet. I’ll be sure to give you as much notice as possible to make sure things are in order for you while I’m away.”

Khaddyr smiled. “Thank you, sire. I’m sure everything will run smoothly in your absence. I will see to it.”

Llauron met his smile in return. “I’m sure you will.”

“Did I hear the guards say that Rhapsody was here earlier?” Khaddyr rubbed his hands together, massaging the chill from his knuckles.

Llauron folded his hands. She had come through the secret entrance; this was most interesting. The breach in his security was more widespread than he had realized.

“Yes,” he said. “She was here to procure medicinal herbs and salves for Ylorc’s infirmaries. She’s gone back there now. I’m sorry you missed her, but she didn’t want to be away from the Bolg for a moment longer than necessary. Seems they are in the throes of some sort of horrific endemic influenza.”

“What a shame,” Khaddyr said sympathetically. “Can we offer any assistance? I have some acolytes who have completed their medical training; you could send them to Ylorc with the next mail caravan to help in the hospitals.”

The Invoker rose and went to the supper tray. He took a plate and began to fill it, trying to keep up the appearance of an appetite that had utterly vanished.

“What a very kind thought. I’m afraid it’s too late, however. She was terribly upset. When she left Ylorc the bulk of their army had already succumbed; I fear by the time she returns there will be nothing left but a few surviving fragments of the population. Epidemic disease is a terrible thing, but it is even more devastating for primitive cultures.”

“I see. I’m certainly sorry to hear it. Well, is there anything else you wished to discuss with me, Your Grace?”

Llauron turned back to the fire. “No, not specifically. I just thought I’d invite you to supper; it’s been a long time since we’ve had a good chat. I suppose I just wanted to see what my old protege is up to.”