Arena

CHAPTER 1

“STEP BACK, GIVE THEM ROOM!”

Garth One-eye, a thin smile of amusement creasing his face, followed the orders of the raggedy man who had appointed himself as circle master. Stretching lazily, Garth moved to the back of the gathering crowd. The owner of a fruit stand set up in the shade of the building was preoccupied, eagerly watching the excitement, and Garth helped himself to a Varnalca orange. Drifting away from the stand, he pulled out his dagger and sliced the treat open, tilting his head up to drain out the juice, which washed away the dust of the road. He adjusted the patch which covered where his left eye used to be and then moved around the back of the crowd, looking for other such opportunities. Seeing none, he moved in closer to watch the excitement.

In the middle of the street the two fighters, moving warily, paced back and forth, eyeing each other as they pulled off their robes in the chilly evening air. The crowd around them was swelling, pouring out of the alleyways, hovels, and swill houses, shouting and laughing. After all, it wasn’t every day that one could watch a fight for free, even if there was a minor risk of getting hurt when the spells started to fly. Overhead, shutters were pulled open, people leaning out of the windows to watch the fun.

The raggedy man, chest puffed out, strutted about, his spindly, dirty legs kicking high as if he was a true Grand Master of the Arena. With a broken stick in place of a golden staff he drew a circle in the mud.

“Names and Houses?”

“Webin of Kestha,” the stouter of the two fighters snarled, puffing his chest out and thumping it.

“Okmark of House Fentesk.”

“Type of fight?”

“One spell cast which is also the wager,” Okmark said.

Webin nodded angrily in agreement.

The crowd excitedly shouted the names back to those who were too far back in the press to see. Old men, women, and even young boys started to recite the wins and losses of the two fighters and arguments instantly broke out as to which one would win.

The Fentesk fighter, standing a good head taller than his rival, snorted disdainfully at his opponent as he calmly took his robe off and passed it to a street urchin who had sidled up to the edge of the circle. The boy looked at the finely embroidered robe and started to back away. The Fentesk fighter turned, fixing him with his gaze, and the boy stopped.

Okmark looked back at his opponent.

“This fight isn’t really necessary,” Okmark said quietly.

A hooting roar thundered from the mob but Okmark ignored them. He looked straight at the fighter in gray livery and slowly extended his arms, palms turned slightly downward, the gesture of reconciliation with the subtle distinction, however, of not submitting.

Webin spit angrily on the ground and the crowd cheered. Okmark shrugged his shoulders, resigned to what was coming.

The raggedy man continued to strut around the circle, waiting while the two fighters went through the ritual, their heads lowered, arms extended outward, gathering their strength.

“Four to one on Gray. I’ll cover your bets if you think Gray will win,” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd, and instantly there was a frenzied move toward him as the mob started to place their bets.

Garth stood silent, watching the two prepare. It was so obvious. Reaching into the satchel that hung under his right arm, he fingered the few coppers that were still there. It’d make enough for a meal and lodging.

He moved over to the gambler, taking the coins out, waiting quietly. Finally he extended his hand and the gambler looked disdainfully at the bet.

“On Orange,” Garth said, referring to the bright livery of House Fentesk.

The gambler looked Garth up and down and started to laugh, and then fell silent as Garth stared at him coldly.

“I suggest you take it,” Garth said. There were snickers from the bettors gathered around, as if Garth was a fool, but Garth kept his attention fixed.

“I’ll only cover bets in Gray’s favor. Don’t bother me, One-eye.”

Garth ignored the insult.

“Do you work for him? Is this fight a setup?” Garth replied smoothly, still holding the gambler with his gaze.

The man looked about furtively at the crowd, which had grown silent, even though they thought Garth a yokel from the outback for wasting his money on what would obviously be a certain win on Webin’s part.

“One to two,” the gambler replied sarcastically.

“One to four,” Garth replied softly, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his dagger.

The gambler looked around furtively and saw that there was no support from the mob.

“One to four,” the gambler snarled, as he made his mark on a smooth chip of wood and shoved it into Garth’s hand.

Garth turned back to watch the show, arms folded, pulling his robe in tight to keep the chill out.

The crowd quieted down as the last of the bets were placed, all now waiting for the ritual of preparation to end.

Gray finished first. Raising his head, he fully extended his arms and took a step out of the neutral square drawn just outside the circle. Even though Orange was not yet finished with his ritual, Gray raised his hands and the crowd fell silent. Garth shook his head disdainfully. It was a breaking of the rules, but then again this was a street fight, and any who believed in rules in such an encounter was simply too stupid to live.

A mist started to form in the center of the circle, coiling, swirling, and yet still Orange did not move, or even acknowledge that Gray had started his attack. The mist started to twist in upon itself, growing brighter, glowing, the light reflecting on the pale faces of the eager mob. The light suddenly darkened, a cool chill sweeping out.

“An undead,” someone gasped.

In the middle of the circle a decaying form appeared and started to move toward the Orange fighter, who finally stirred, raising his head. Orange stepped into the circle and reached into the satchel dangling from his right hip. Instantly a small cloud appeared over the undead, a sheet of fire flashed out, blinding the crowd, who recoiled backward at the thunderclap roar. A swirl of smoke roiled outward and Garth pulled his cloak up tight around his face to block out the stench of decaying flesh that had just been burned to cinders.

An awed gasp swept the street. Okmark, his gaze still fixed on his opponent, finally allowed a thin flicker of a smile to show.

“I believe, sir, that since I have won, your spell is now mine to claim.”

The Gray fighter looked around at the crowd and Garth could only shake his head with amusement. Only seconds before Gray had been their champion and hero, but their champion had just cost most of them their money. Garth looked over quickly at the gambler and the picture was now clear as the gambler started to drift back to the edge of an alleyway. It had been a wonderful setup, a classic con job on a bunch of yokels in town for the festival and eager for a bet.

Webin looked around anxiously at the mob.

“To the death, to the death!” a shout came from the back of the crowd and the cry was instantly picked up by the mob, which pushed to the edge of the circle, chanting and laughing for blood. Webin, who had strutted so haughtily only moments before, looked back and forth and then toward Okmark.

“Do you want it?” Okmark said softly and, as he spoke, he stepped back into the neutral square at the edge of the circle, indicating his willingness to fight again. Gray hesitated and then, with an angry curse, he reached into his satchel, pulled out an amulet, and threw it to the ground at Orange’s feet. Turning, he fled the circle, pummeled by the crowd, who showered him with curses, mud, offal, and kicks.

Okmark, with a disdainful gesture, reached down and picked up the amulet that had controlled the spell of the undead. He looked over at the boy holding his cloak and took it back. The boy stood waiting, expecting a reward, but Orange ignored him.

The crowd was silent and Garth looked around. The gambler had moved to one side of the Orange fighter and Garth saw the flicker of recognition between the two.

Garth moved to the edge of the circle.

“Pay the boy for his services,” Garth said, his voice carrying through arguments breaking out around the circle as the mob hotly discussed the fight they had just witnessed.

Orange looked over at Garth and instantly there was silence.

“You pay him if you care so much about it,” Orange replied.

“If you don’t feel like paying him,” Garth said, a smile creasing his features, “perhaps your friend over there might spare some of the money you won.” As he spoke Garth pointed at the gambler.

All eyes turned on the gambler, who stood silent for a moment. The man finally reached into his purse, pulled out a silver coin, and threw it into the circle.

“Your winnings, One-eye,” the gambler announced. “Take it and pay him with that.”

Without hesitating, Garth stepped into the circle and a low gasp echoed through the crowd. The raggedy man started to dance excitedly.

“He stepped into the circle; a challenge, a challenge!”

The crowd started to pick up the chant and the gambler smiled.

Garth leaned down, picked the coin up, and, wiping the mud off, pocketed it.

“I still believe you owe the boy a reward,” Garth said.

Okmark looked at him with a cool, superior disdain.

“Spoken in the circle, that’s a challenge,” Okmark replied. “I think, One-eye, that it’d be safer for you to leave now before you get hurt.”

Garth slowly took his cloak off and, as he did so, he stepped backward into the square at the edge of the circle. He held his cloak out and saw that the boy he had been arguing about was there to take it.

“I expect to see it when this is done,” Garth said quietly, and the boy, grinning, nodded.

“If he kills you, can I keep it?”

Garth smiled.

“It’s yours.”

Okmark shrugged his shoulders as if bored with the whole process. The gambler moved to the edge of the circle and stared at Garth for a moment. The raggedy man stepped up to Garth.

“Name and what House?”

“Garth and no House. I am my own.”

The raggedy man started to laugh.

“One-eyed Garth of no House, no House,” and he danced around the edge of the circle, singsonging the words.

“Type of fight?” the raggedy man asked, looking at Garth since he was the one who had made the challenge.

“Single spell and spell as prize, the same as the last fight.”

The ragged man looked over at the Orange fighter, who nodded in agreement.

The gambler, laughing, held his hand up.

“Two to one in favor of Orange, taking only bets in favor of One-eye.”

The crowd did not react.

“All right, four to one then.”

Still there were no takers.

“Ten to one! Ten to one in favor of Orange. I’ll take only bets that this no House, a hanin, will win.”

A shout rose up and the crowd surged around the gambler, placing yet more bets, gambling a copper on the forlorn hope that Garth would win. Garth waited for the frenzy to die down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the silver coin.

“On myself,” Garth announced, and he tossed the coin over to the gambler. The crowd started to laugh.

“A real fighter,” the raggedy man chortled, dancing around Garth. “So poor he bets on himself. A real fighter!”

The crowd laughed and there was another frenzy of betting, for who ever heard of a fighter who was so poor that he would disgrace himself by betting on the outcome of a fight he was in.

Garth lowered his head, extending his arms, gathering in his thoughts, calming them, focusing, remembering and not remembering, clearing away all. He reached outward, probing, looking toward the other’s heart, sensing and knowing until all things dropped away and the land and waters within him were as clear as crystalline snow. The mana, the source of all power of spells, was ready.

He stepped into the circle and looked up.

Orange stepped forward as well. Garth did nothing, waiting.

He did not need to look up to know that a cloud was forming over the circle again, darkening the street, and though he heard the gasp of the crowd, he heard it not. He could feel the tension, the strength drawing out of the Orange fighter, focusing on the power he was drawing upon from distant lands and places-the mana which he controlled-bringing that power into the circle to serve his will. The fireball that Orange was creating started to build with a terrible intensity, bathing the street corner in a hellish light.

Garth looked up and extended his hand.

Instantly another cloud formed above the one created by Orange. A cold gust swept outward. The street was as dark as night. Flickers of light flashed and then there was a swirling of white. Snow, a blizzard of snow, coiled and twisted, devouring the cloud created by Orange. There was a howling of wind and then, in an instant, all disappeared and the evening sunlight again filled the narrow street, reflecting off the sheets of ice that now caked the sides of the buildings. Instantly they started to melt, the cold ice breaking off, showering down on the mob, who covered their heads with their arms.

As the tinkling of broken ice drifted away the street was silent. A scattering of applause and cheers broke out, especially from those who had wagered a mere copper and now would have a silver in their pockets. They had found a new hero and cheered lustily, while those who had thought even that bet to be a waste silently cursed themselves for not having the foresight to play. Those who had lost everything in the first duel were ecstatic as well, since the source of their losing had been defeated.

Garth fixed the stunned Orange fighter with his gaze.

“I believe your spell of fireball is now mine,” Garth said quietly.

Okmark looked at him, gape mouthed.

Garth stood silent, waiting.

Okmark looked over at the gambler, whose expression was one of seething fury as the mob started to close in on him to claim their winnings. Okmark looked back at Garth.

Reaching to the dagger hanging from his belt, Okmark pulled it out and flung it so that it plunged into the ground in the center of the circle.

“To the death,” Okmark hissed.

Garth looked at him and said nothing.

“To the death, damn you!”

The raggedy man looked around nervously, his enthusiasm gone.

“It’s against the law, except in the arena,” the raggedy man hissed. “We could all be arrested if the Grand Master finds out.”

“Gutter sweep, who are you to quote law to me? I demand death!”

“The fight is not over yet!” the gambler shouted. “If he withdraws, Orange still wins!”

“That’s not true!” the raggedy man whined in reply. “The fight was finished. Those are the rules of the circle.”

The Orange fighter turned and looked at the raggedy man. He fell to the ground, eyes rolling in his head, hands clutching at his throat, a sickening gurgling sound gasping out of him.

The crowd fell silent, watching the agonized struggle as the raggedy man rolled in the mud.

Garth took his dagger out and tossed it so that it stuck in the ground next to Okmark’s.

“To the death then.”

Orange looked back at him. The raggedy man gasped out a rattling cough and he crawled out of the circle.

Orange nodded grimly and, ignoring all ritual, he leaped into the circle. Staggered by a blast of fire, Garth stepped back, holding up his arms to protect his face. A small circle appeared in the mud around him and the fire was diverted. Around him he could hear the cries of the mob as they fell back, some of them writhing in agony, their clothes afire. The side of the building behind Garth burst into flames.

Garth raised one of his hands up and a skeletal form appeared in the fire, stepping forward through the flames, toward Okmark. Okmark’s eyes grew wide with fear as the skeleton continued to advance, impervious to the flames, and Okmark stepped back, the fire abating. There was a crackling roar and the ground beneath the skeleton opened up and, with a clattering of bones, the skeleton fell into the fissure which now split the circle in half. Garth nodded and the skeleton rose into the air, hovering, and continued its relentless advance.

Cursing, Okmark now raised his hand, pointing at the skeleton. An explosion rocked the streets and a spray of powdery dust swirled outward. Garth seemed to blanch from the savage counterstrike. Okmark, grinning now, raised his hand and pointed at Garth. A coiling shaft of light came straight at him. An instant later a shimmering mirror appeared before Garth. The blast of light reflected back.

Orange barely had time to scream.

The flame engulfed him. Writhing in agony, Okmark spun around and around, trying to extinguish the fire that would not die. Garth stood impassive, watching, his arms folded. The shrieking died away as Okmark curled up into a blackened ball of smoking flesh and died. The fire winked out of existence, the one who had conjured it having expired by his own spell.

A gasp of astonishment rose up from the crowd, which stood silent, ignoring the fact that the building behind them was crackling, fire racing up its side, while on the street behind where Garth had stood, half a dozen were dead and more than a score injured and crying out their lamentations.

Garth leaped across the fissure, stepped up to the twisted body, and reached down to take the satchel which hung from his belt and, strangely, did not seem to have been touched by the fire.

“You have no claim to that,” the gambler snapped, stepping into the ring. “You are hanin, without House, and have murdered one of the House of Fentesk; his property now belongs to the House.”

“Then try and stop me,” Garth said quietly, fixing the gambler with his gaze. The man stood silent, hesitating, and then drew back.

“I’ll tell them, One-eye. They’ll be looking for you,” the gambler cried.

“Before running off, perhaps you owe these people some money and you owe me some as well.”

The crowd, which had been watching the confrontation in silence, suddenly sprang to life and swarmed around the gambler. As they rushed across the circle some of them fell into the fissure, their wails of anguish cut short as they hit the bottom. Garth reached down and pulled the satchel free. Turning, he looked around and saw the boy still holding his cloak.

Garth leaped back across the fissure, took the cloak, and then reached into his own satchel to find a coin. There was nothing.

From out of the press around the gambler the raggedy man appeared and he slipped up to Garth’s side.

“I got your money for you,” he said and extended a grimy hand, opening it to reveal nine silvers.

“Minus your commission as circle master, of course,” Garth said, taking the coins and then tossing one of them to the boy, who bowed excitedly and ran off.

“But of course. You were stuck with the bill. Gray disappeared and as for the Orange”-the raggedy man looked over at the corpse-“Unless his commission is in your prize.”

Garth reached into Okmark’s satchel and felt around, surprised by the touch of some of the amulets contained within. The man was indeed powerful, more powerful than Garth had assumed. Okmark, however, had been a fool, not to anticipate that an opponent might hold a reversal of spells for something as dangerous as the fire that does not die. The man most likely thought he was dealing with nothing more than a first- or second-rank fighter out to make a reputation and thus did not want to reveal the spells he would use later in the Festival.

Garth touched a coin and pulled it out. It was gold, and the raggedy man’s eyes glistened with greed.

Garth flipped the coin to the raggedy man.

“Your commission from Orange. Now see that he is disposed of with respect.”

“Not my responsibility now,” the raggedy man chortled, and he grabbed hold of Garth’s arm. “His friends are coming even now; perhaps it’s time we moved on to safer parts.”

Garth looked up the street to where the raggedy man was pointing. A phalanx of men was coming down the street, obviously not in a friendly mood. They were all dressed as fighters, with heavily embroidered shirts, loose-fitting trousers of silk that billowed out over the tops of their polished, calf-high boots, their leather capes trimmed with orange fluttering as they advanced with a purposeful stride, their golden satchels, which contained their spells, bouncing on their hips. Behind them came the warriors of the Watch, the men of the city guard who could not use spells but were nevertheless quite efficient at killing.

Garth stepped back into an alleyway, careful not to stride on the injured from the fight, and followed the raggedy man. In the background he could hear what sounded like a riot brewing and then the clattering of a bell as the fire watch finally started to arrive.

The raggedy man looked back over his shoulder just before they ducked down a side alleyway.

“Ah, how I love the Festival,” he announced, while down at the end of the street the front of the burning building collapsed into the watching crowd. A shower of sparks soared into the evening sky, and as the crowd swayed back from the collapsing building, yet more fell into the fissure and disappeared.

They weaved their way down a slime-choked lane, Garth fighting back a retch from the stench of moldering garbage, human refuse, now-unidentifiable dead animals, and, in one case, what looked like part of a person sticking out of a refuse heap. The raggedy man stopped at the sight of the corpse and pondered it for a moment.

“I was wondering what happened to her,” he whispered, and then, with a shrug of his shoulder, he continued to lead the way, finally ducking into the back of a broken-down building of sagging logs, gray with age, and apparently soon ready to go to dust.

As the raggedy man opened the door, Garth looked in cautiously and the old man smiled a toothless grin.

“Don’t trust me, after I fetched you your money and led you out of that mess?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Garth said quietly, narrowing his eye to look into the gloom.

“Ah, brothers, we have company,” the raggedy man announced, and he stepped through the door. In the darkness Garth saw movement and his nose wrinkled at the smell of unwashed bodies. He heard hoarse laughter inside. An old man and then another started to laugh.

“I suggest, One-eyed Garth with no House, that you either come in or move along,” the raggedy man announced. “The Orange are undoubtedly looking for you and are in a less than friendly mood. Besides, the Grand Master’s watch is on the prowl as well.”

As he stepped up to the door his eye started to adjust to the gloom. A small fire burned in an open fireplace to one side, a hunched-over form stirring a pot hanging in the flame. Garth cocked his head slightly, listening intently. With no vision to his left side he had learned to rely on other things. He finally stepped through the doorway and then, just as quickly, leaped back and to one side.

The blow missed him, the wooden staff striking down through empty air. With a catlike move, Garth snatched the man by the wrist and yanked him out from behind the open door, while with the other hand he pulled out his dagger and brought it up under the man’s chin, barely nicking his throat.

“You breathe too loudly,” Garth whispered, “and besides, you stink bad enough to gag a maggot.”

The raggedy man watched the exchange with open amusement, nodding his head with approval.

“You’ll do, you’ll do just fine,” the old man laughed. “Now please let my brother go.”

Garth looked into his assailant’s eyes, seeing the fear, smelling his fetid breath. He flicked his dagger, making a small cut under the man’s chin, then released him, the old man howling with pain, while the others in the room roared with delight.

“You’ll do just fine,” the raggedy man said, motioning for Garth to come over and sit by the fire.

“No more tricks now, I swear it by the honor of my brotherhood.”

The other old men in the room laughed and Garth looked around at them. Most of them looked like scarecrows, several were missing fingers, a few their right hands; one of them sitting by the fire was missing both.

“Pickpockets and cutpurses?” Garth asked. “I’m to take the word of the brotherhood of pickpockets?”

The raggedy man laughed.

“Believe me, No House, it’s as good as the word of any of the fighting Houses.”

There was a murmured chorus of agreement, as if Garth had just offered the most grievous of insults for doubting his host.

The old man motioned Garth to sit down and a moment later a fine goblet was placed before him, the raggedy man lifting a heavy jug from under the table and filling his guest’s goblet with wine and then filling his own. Garth took the drink and tasted it.

“Borleian,” Garth said, obviously surprised.

“Ah, you know your grapes.”

“How did you get such a good vintage?”

“How does a No House, a hanin, know such a vintage?”

“I’ve been around a bit.”

The raggedy man put his own goblet down and looked appraisingly at Garth.

“How old are you?”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

“Hard to tell with one who can control the mana; you could be twenty-five as you look, or you could be near to a hundred. I’m willing to bet twenty-five.”

“Am I supposed to answer you?”

The raggedy man shook his head.

“As a hanin you know it’s suicide to be in this city during Festival. You have no colors and the Grand Master forbids any mana user without colors to be in his city on pain of death.”

“The Grand Master,” Garth said softly and the raggedy man could sense a sudden hardness. “First the bastard will have to find me.”

“He has his ways,” the raggedy man replied, and he looked around at this friends, who nodded their agreement, the one without hands holding his arms up and cackling, his voice twisted with insanity.

As Garth sipped the wine, the raggedy man regaled his comrades with a description of the fight and Garth’s victory. At the end of his tale he reached into his tunic and pulled out half a dozen purses and tossed them on the table.

“You seem to have made a profit from the spectators as well while you played the circle master,” Garth observed quietly.

“Merely a business proposition.”

“Festival must be a good time for business propositions.”

The room was filled with laughter.

“We’re too well known to most folk of this city,” the raggedy man said. “Now for all those fools coming into the city, we’re more than happy to relieve them of some excess baggage. Call it a poor tax if you will. There’s enough to be made in the next seven days to feed us through the winter.”

The raggedy man refilled his cup and then Garth’s.

“So are you here for Festival?”

Garth said nothing, his attention focused on the cup, as if studying the intricate gold inlay.

The raggedy man leaned down low and looked up into Garth’s face.

“How’d you lose the eye?”

“A childhood prank that got serious,” Garth said quietly.

The raggedy man nodded slowly, peering up into his face.

“Looks like it got cut out, from the scar on your cheek.”

“Something like that.”

The raggedy man sat down, silently looking at Garth.

Garth leaned back, drained the rest of his cup, and set it back down. The raggedy man quickly refilled it.

“You know, we could put a patch on the other eye, a loose weave you could see through, and take the patch off the bad one. You’d make a hell of a pickpocket.”

The raggedy man chuckled at his joke and watched Garth closely.

Garth snorted disdainfully and took another sip of his drink.

“But you’re a fighter, not a pickpocket. The way you killed Okmark of Fentesk, a masterful reversal, a rare spell, only a true adept controls such power. He had fourteen wins in the arena and was at least a third-rank. How did a No House like you obtain such a spell?” And as he spoke the raggedy man looked down at Garth’s spell satchel with open curiosity as if he was struggling with the temptation to tear it away and look inside.

Garth looked up from his drink and fixed the raggedy man with his gaze.

The raggedy man extended his hands in mock horror and recoiled backward.

“Never ask a fighter where his victories and powers are won,” the raggedy man said. “I know, I know the customs.”

One of the old men came over to the table and dropped a silver plate down in front of Garth while another brought over a roasted duck from the fire. Garth cut away a leg and munched on it meditatively.

“You’re hungry, that’s obvious,” the raggedy man chortled, watching as Garth sliced meat away from the bird and hurriedly popped the hot slices into his mouth, washing them down with another goblet of wine.

“Are you master of this brotherhood?” Garth asked between bites.

The raggedy man laughed and extended his arms wide as if beckoning Garth to view his domain.

“My brothers here and others hiding in other hovels. The loyal order of pickpockets, with a lineage as august as any of the fighting Houses and just as ancient. And, might I add, with far more honesty.”

“How’s that?”

“The fighting Houses, Fentesk, Kestha, Bolk, and Ingkara, they claim to be the upholders of honor. They are nothing but harlots.” The others in the room grunted their agreement. “Since the night Zarel became Grand Master of all the colors they think of but one thing, the profits to be won by their powers, the mana to be drawn from the lands to support their spells, and the common people pay the price. At least we are honest about it all; we steal and we admit we steal; thus we are honorable men in comparison. At least we do not hide behind the mouthing of platitudes that have lost all meaning.”

The others in the room fell into a solid round of cursing, the insane man without hands cackling out an obscene song about the Grand Master while hugging a goblet that had been fashioned so that he could pick it up with the stumps of his arms.

Garth ate the rest of his meal in silence, listening to the old men pour out their hatred and anger. Finishing the duck, he meditatively picked his teeth with a bit of bone, slid his stool back, and stood up.

“Thank you the for the meal, old man. I think it’s time I moved along.”

“You have a place here for the night.”

“Why?”

“I find you amusing and a bit of a mystery.”

“How so?”

“Amusing that you so easily set up Okmark for the kill and fleeced his gambling manager. At first I thought you were the yokel from the countryside, some boy puffed up with a couple of spells in his satchel thinking to prove something and usually losing his life before Festival has ended.”

“It’s been a long time since I was called a boy,” Garth said coldly.

“Son, to me you’re still a boy. Killing Okmark might have given you his powers, but you now have nearly a hundred sworn enemies of his House looking for you. Beyond that, the Grand Master must have word by now that a one-eyed hanin did the killing. Every warrior and fighter in his command will be looking for you.”

“I’ll get by.”

“Ah, and that’s the mystery. Just what is it that you want here? If you want my advice, I think that you should point yourself south before dawn and put some distance between you, this damned city, and the Festival.”

The raggedy man smiled and held up his hand before Garth could reply.

“I know. You don’t want my advice and you plan to stay and you’ll be damned if you’ll tell me why you’re here.”

“Something like that.”

“Then stay the night. It’s free and I’ve given you the promise of the brotherhood. You won’t be bothered.”

“The Watch!”

Garth turned and saw a legless beggar come in through the door, hopping on the stumps of his legs. The excuse for a guard that Garth had cut under the chin bounded to the door and slipped a beam across it and the room fell silent. In the alleyway all could hear heavy footsteps approaching. After a moment’s pause they moved on.

“We pay the bastards enough to leave us alone,” the raggedy man chuckled, “but you never know who might have paid them more.”

He looked back at Garth.

“I daresay that you are the object of their concern. You’re a criminal, No House. Orange might even have kicked in some money to have your throat cut without any fanfare and the spells they lost returned. If you’re some village idiot who came here thinking about honor and rules, forget about it.”

Garth shook his head disdainfully.

“Typical.”

He looked back around the room.

“Which corner has the fewest fleas and lice?”

Varnel Buckara, Master of the House of Fentesk, set down his inlaid cup of gold and looked over coldly at his host.

“I really don’t like the implication of what you’ve just said.”

“It was your man who started the incident by dueling illegally, first with Webin of Kestha. Distasteful, my good man, distasteful for two fighters to brawl in the gutter for the amusement of the mob.”

“My fighters have high spirits; otherwise, they wouldn’t be fighters. You know that doesn’t bother you in and of itself. It’s the fact that they did it as a public display and your agents could not control the betting that bothers you.”

Grand Master Zarel Ewine laughed, his bulging stomach shaking like jelly. He set his own goblet back down, motioning for the servant to refill it and that of his guest and then to leave.

“As if I need to be concerned about a bit of silver,” Zarel finally replied, leaning forward and fixing Varnel with his gaze. “I got past such concerns a long time ago.”

Varnel said nothing, looking around at the room, the imported tapestries from Kish, the fine wood carvings of the legendary La, the gems that were ringed to Zarel’s beefy hands.

“I serve the Walker in administering the Western Lands, and with it the games,” Zarel continued. “That is honor enough.”

Varnel wanted to burst out laughing with the hypocrisy of that line. But fear stayed him, not of Zarel but of what might be standing behind him now, invisible in the shadows, lurking, waiting.

He looked around anxiously and then realized that Zarel had undoubtedly sensed the moment of fear.

“No, he is not here. Not until the last day of Festival will he come for the winner and for the yearly report.”

“And will this incident be part of the report?” Varnel asked, finally getting to the heart of the matter.

“Ah, old friend, you’ve been generous in the past. There is no need tonight for the distasteful ritual of a bribe to have this forgotten. Consider it a gift. If I tried to stop every fight outside the arena, I would have gone mad long ago. During the rest of the year, what you and the other House Masters do in your own territories is your concern, not mine. During the rest of the year you can kill each other in your own lands as you please, and hire out to whomever you wish. But now you and the other three Houses are gathered in my city for the testing of skills and that is indeed my concern. I can expect an occasional wager fight, but to the death in front of the mobs is for the arena only. Otherwise, there’d be chaos, and that I will not tolerate. I fully expect you and the other Houses to go around brawling, but please do it inside your own compounds. It’s tradition. But public displays are out-that is for the Arena-and if the peasants and finer folk want to watch, they can pay. That’s tradition too.”

And besides, the mob pays to see the fights in the arena but they won’t pay if they can see all they want on the streets for free, Varnel wanted to reply.

“Do we understand each other?” Zarel finally asked.

“We understand each other,” Varnel replied softly.

“Now, on to the other concern. This fighter of no House, this hanin, do you have a description?”

“None of my people were there.”

“Come now, what about your fighter’s gaming master?”

Varnel shifted uncomfortably.

Zarel laughed and took another drink.

“Either your man was an idiot fighting for no reason other than to gain a spell or he had a gaming master there to fleece the crowd. I’d hate to think that all your fighters are idiots.”

“The gaming master was thrown into the fissure by the mob when he ran out of money to pay them back when my man lost.”

“A logical response. And speaking of that, I now have a crack in the middle of one of my main streets that’s a good twenty fathoms deep. Do you know how much that will cost to fix? Also, half a block of slums burned to the ground and nearly fifty people dead.”

“Well, they are only peasants.”

“My peasants; that’s fifty fewer peasants to pay taxes. That’s fifty fewer peasants who, through their mere existence, contribute to the pool of mana. My, my, Varnel, the bill just keeps adding up. I’m not talking bribes here; I’m talking damages. I don’t know how many cartloads of dirt it’s going to take to fill that hole your man created. The funeral costs, rebuilding the block of slums, it’ll be quite a bill.”

“As if you’re going to pay it yourself,” Varnel shot back.

“Damn it, no. You’re going to pay it,” Zarel roared, “and that’s not a bribe. That’s coming out of the bond you and the other Houses set against damages to my city during festival.”

“What about the House of Kestha? He’s the one who started the fight,” Varnel snapped.

“Oh, Tulan and his House will pay too,” Zarel said smoothly.

I bet they will, Varnel thought angrily as he snatched the decanter of wine and poured himself another drink, figuring that at least Zarel was footing the bill for the refreshments and he might as well get the most out of it.

“You should take it out of the hide of this no House warrior.”

“Oh, I will. He’ll help pay for the damages before I have him quartered for fighting in my city without sanction of House. The problem is no one knows who he is or where he went.”

Varnel smiled at that one.

“Surely your loyal subjects should be eager to help the law.”

“Scum. They think the whole thing was vastly amusing. He’s quite their hero, now, for winning them money. Lousy scum. They’re out there laughing in the streets and your House helped start this. Oh, I got the usual descriptions. He was black, he was white, he was yellow. He was tall, short, fat, skinny, pox-marked, fair-skinned, two eyes, one eye. The only thing they agreed upon was that he had no House.”

Varnel sat back and looked away.

“What is it?”

Startled, Varnel looked back.

“Nothing. No, it’s nothing.”

Zarel stared closely at his guest.

“Something I said bothered you.”

“No, just wondering, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“Who is this man? He killed a third-rank fighter. That’s a bit unusual for a hanin. Usually they manage to gain a House or are dead by the time they reach such a level of skill. That means he’s good, as good as a master of the third-rank. And yet he has no color, no House. It’s strange.”

Zarel looked away for a moment.

Varnel was right, it was unusual. Not only that but the fact that the man had vanished without a trace. There was something else as well. A sensing more than a knowing, an innate feeling that something was not quite right, that this was not just another incident, a stupid brawl, that would be forgotten by tomorrow. He couldn’t quite touch what it was, but the uneasiness was a warning that had to be heeded.

“We’ll find him,” Zarel finally said coldly.

Varnel looked up over the edge of his goblet and smiled in reply.