Under the Crimson Sun

CHAPTER TEN

Helsno Calbit was about ready to kill someone.

He was tempted to grab one of the mercenaries’ bone knives and slit the throat of whichever fighter had the most losses, just for the satisfaction.

But no, then he’d have to pay to clean the blood off the stone floors of the cubicles. And all of a sudden, their ability to pay for that was in jeopardy. Bad enough that that hejkin’s green pus was all over the catacomb floors from his burst boils; one of the guards had expressed concern that someone might slip on it, but it was the least of Calbit’s problems.

Of course, he had no choice in the matter. How could he? The king’s chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard wanted Mandred, and that was the end of it. People who went against those who represented the king could measure their life expectancy in seconds.

It had all been going so wonderfully. When he first saw those three goons beating up on the Black Sands Raiders, he immediately started talking to Tirana about ways to get them into the stone carriage. After all, anyone who could take down eight raiders and leave the remaining four scattered to the sands without mounts were people he could count on to give good value in the arena.

Tirana inherited her looks and seductive capabilities from her mother. Thankfully, she didn’t inherit the bitch’s personality. That meant, though, that she could make any man do her bidding with just a few well-placed words.

Calbit had done worse to get fighters for the arena.

He’d only left Urik in the first place because Gorbin’s success was making it damn near impossible to find anyone willing to get in the ring with the bastard. He’d had to travel across the wastes for weeks, hoping that Jago didn’t make a mess of the place while he was gone. All their excess capital-which was damned little-was used to buy slaves, which was why he had to resort to kidnapping. That, and taking some prisoners from a town magistrate eager to clear space in his jail, a transaction that only required a modest bribe. Said bribe garnered him a dozen slaves, and it was the same amount that he paid per head for the merchandise he got from the other slavers.

And then there were Mandred and Storvis, who were quite literally a steal.

It was a pity that the third one died at the hands of the Black Sands Raiders, though Calbit got the impression that the other two didn’t care all that much. Perhaps the one who died was their original owner, and they’d been hoping that his death meant freedom. Or maybe they didn’t like him very much.

Maybe they were in his debt.

Not that it mattered anymore.

For a few days, everything was perfect. Up until last year, even with declining attendance thanks to the sameness of the main event, they were still making a profit. Any and all attempts to change things up were even bigger failures. True, Gorbin wasn’t much of a draw, but no Gorbin nearly resulted in a riot every time. The few people who did show up did so because they wanted to watch the mul pound the hell out of his opponents.

But it became a case of diminishing returns, and last year they were starting to lose profit.

Hence Calbit’s taking his daughter on their extended trip.

Sure enough, they found everything they wanted and more. Mandred was an even more amazing fighter than his singlehanded defeat of the anakore indicated. Within two days, they were back to breaking even, as the crowds poured in, eager to see who managed to defeat the mighty Gorbin.

He was muttering as he walked down a corridor toward the office that he and Jago maintained. “Conscription, my right toe-what’s he trying to pull, anyway? Taking coin away from honest folk …”

“Talking to yourself, Calbit?”

Looking up, he saw that Jago was also approaching the office. The shorter man was rubbing his hands with glee.

“Yes,” Calbit said sharply, “it’s my only guarantee of intelligent conversation.”

Jago just shot him a look.

“Things are finally looking up, and those idiots from the court have gone and-”

“Made everything better. Are you mad, Calbit? I was ready to hand Mandred over to them right then instead of waiting until this morning when the guards came.”

Calbit frowned as they both entered the office. The space had been a guard post when the catacombs were part of the mine. It had no windows, and so had to be lit by torches regularly, but Calbit actually preferred that. After weeks spent trudging through the wastes with the sun beating down on him, being surrounded by cold obsidian and firelight was oddly appealing.

“What are you on about, Jago?” he asked his partner.

“We had to put down the last thri-kreen today. Mandred must’ve bled on him or something. In fact, Douk is the first one he’s infected that hasn’t gone crazy-and that’s probably just because he hasn’t had a chance to yet.”

Reluctantly, Calbit said, “You may be right.”

Jago’s eyes widened. “May be? The guards have barely been able to contain him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s strong enough to break down the cubicle door. Honestly, if we didn’t have Storvis, I think he might’ve already broken out. Ironic, given that breaking out is all Storvis talks about.”

“Well, there’s no chance of that-he’s our best fighter, now.”

“In any event, we’re well to be rid of Mandred. Even with all the other issues, he wasn’t any better than Gorbin.”

Calbit blinked, stared at Jago, then blinked again. “Are you mad?” he finally blurted out after being unable to make his mouth work for several seconds.

“No. Mandred was beating everyone who came at him. Hell, he was beating several people who came at him at once.”

Pointing at the door to the office, Calbit said, “And the audience was devouring it whole.”

“For now, yes.” Jago shook his head. “Once the novelty of Mandred wore off, though, we were gonna be right back in the same hole.”

Calbit hadn’t thought of that.

Jago went on. “Now we have fights without predetermined outcomes. There’s unpredictability again.”

“I suppose. Still, I really wanted Mandred to bring us back into a profitable zone before we’d have to coast.”

“We won’t have to coast.” Jago walked up to Calbit and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re back, my friend.”

Shrugging the hand off his shoulder, Calbit turned his back on his partner. “Stop calling me that.” Calbit had never liked Jago, but he had been the one to put up the initial capital that allowed them to purchase the mine from the king once it was tapped out. Plus, he was much better at working the crowd than Calbit ever was. Jago actually liked to talk to people, whereas Calbit found pretty much everyone save for his daughter to be useless.

“Fine,” Jago said, “but we’re-”

“Excuse me?”

Calbit turned to see his lovely daughter standing in the doorway with another smaller woman with ice blue eyes and curly blond hair behind her.

Very rarely did Calbit smile, but he was willing to do so for his child. “What is it, Tirana?”

“This woman is named Wimma Anspah, and she’s here about Mandred and Storvis.”

The blonde barged past Tirana into the office. She wore clothing with brightly colored ostentation, as one would expect from a woman of Raam, an elaborate dress and equally elaborate shoulder bag. “Are you in charge here?”

“We are,” Jago said quickly. “What is the issue?”

Squinting down at the woman, Calbit asked, “And why is your name so familiar?”

Tirana answered the question. “She bears the same family name as the man who was killed by the Black Sands Raiders.”

The Anspah woman snapped at Tirana. “He was my husband. And from what I’ve been able to piece together from the caravan station in Raam, he died saving your worthless hides.”

The sharp-tongued woman reminded Calbit far too much of Tirana’s mother for his liking.

“As my daughter said, your husband was killed by Black Sands Raiders,” was all Calbit was willing to say.

“Yes, he died, and those two idiot slaves tried to run off.”

Calbit frowned. “What are you on about, woman?”

“She’s saying,” Jago said with a smile, “that Mandred and Storvis are her slaves. Am I correct?”

The woman-Wimma-smiled insincerely at Jago. “Ah, I see you must be the brains of the outfit.”

“That’s enough.” Calbit was losing patience. “State your business, madam, or leave our property.”

“Funny you should mention property, as that is why I am here. You have mine.” She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a parchment. Jago took it from her and unrolled it to look it over. “This is the statement of ownership stating that my husband, Fehrd Anspah, and I, his lawful wife, own Gan Storvis and Rol Mandred. You will produce them immediately.”

“Not really possible, I’m afraid.” Calbit smirked at Wimma, enjoying the fact that, no matter what the end result of the conversation was, she was not going to come out of it with what she wanted.

The new fact did explain why Storvis and Mandred were so tight-lipped regarding the third member of their party. They obviously didn’t want it out that they were his slaves and his death freed them.

Calbit admitted to admiring their plan. It might have worked if not for Calbit’s own greed-that and the tenacity of their owner’s wife.

“And why is that?” Wimma asked Calbit.

Jago interrupted before Calbit could answer. “This statement of ownership is genuine, and it is signed by the proper Raam authority.” He handed the parchment back to Wimma. “Sadly, Raam authority carries very little weight here.”

“Actually, it carries quite a bit. The most recent treaty between Grand Vizier Abalach-Re and King Hamanu has very specific language regarding the disposition of slaves between owners. There is not a templar in Urik who won’t honor this declaration of ownership.”

“You overestimate the power of the templars, my dear,” Calbit said nastily, “mostly because you don’t understand what, precisely, is going on here-or where it is you have stepped into.”

Again the insincere smile came out, directed at Calbit. “It’s a fighting arena called the Pit of Black Death, it’s owned by the pair of you, and your main attraction is a mul named Gorbin.”

“Yes, well, things have changed. Gorbin’s dead-killed, in fact, by your slave.”

Wimma’s mouth fell open. “Did he, now? Well, he was always a most excellent fighter. Which one was it, Storvis or Mandred?”

“Mandred. And therein lies your problem,” Calbit said. “You see, the lord chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard got it into their heads that they could use Mandred for some purpose or other, and so this morning the Imperial Guard took Mandred away to Destiny’s Kingdom. So if you want him back, you’re gonna have to take it up with the king. Oh, and best of luck getting a magistrate to side with you on that one.”

As soon as Wimma looked down at the floor, Calbit knew he’d won.

Then she looked back up again and spoke in a tight voice. “There is still the matter of Storvis. Or did the king take him as well?”

“No, we still have Storvis,” Jago said before Calbit could deny it. Calbit shot him an annoyed look-there was no proof that they had Storvis, after all, and he wasn’t willing to give up the only bright spot he had left. “However,” Jago continued, “we have no great desire to give him up.”

Wimma seemed to stew on that for several seconds. “Perhaps a templar will not side with me in prying my property out of your king’s hands, but out of yours?”

“Go right ahead,” Tirana said from the doorway, and Calbit took pride in how she matched the Raam bitch for haughtiness. “I believe the wait to see a templar for a new case is three weeks.”

“Oh no, Tirana,” Calbit said dramatically, “that’s for Urikites. For outsiders, it’s more like three months.”

“Fine.” Wimma pursed her lips. “What if I made it worth your while?”

Calbit was about to tell her to go frip herself, but Jago didn’t give him the chance. “How?”

“I have come into possession of a mul.” That last word was said with undisguised disdain. “He’s obnoxious, he smells bad, and he eats too much-but he can brawl, and I understand that that’s what you prefer in this place. I’ll gladly trade my slave for him.”

Before Jago could agree, Calbit said, “How big is he?”

Wimma shrugged. “Perhaps a head taller than I?”

Calbit liked the sound of that. They hadn’t had a decent mul in the arena aside from Gorbin in ages, and they always provided the best bouts.

He looked at Jago, who nodded. “Very well,” Calbit said. “Let’s see this mul first, and assuming we like the looks of him, you’ve got yourself a trade.”

Wimma’s smile was far more genuine when she replied, “Excellent.”

They arranged a time and place to make the exchange, and Calbit had been hoping that would be it.

But then Wimma said, “I wish to see Storvis.”

“What for?” Calbit asked angrily.

“I have no proof that my property is unharmed-or indeed that he is truly here. If I do not receive it, I will go to the templars, and I don’t care if I have to wait three weeks, three months, or three years, I will have satisfaction.”

Having lost patience with the woman about four seconds after first laying eyes on her, and not wishing to inflict her on Tirana, Calbit fobbed her off on Jago. “You take her.”

Shrugging, Jago said, “Very well. Follow me.”

Gan wasn’t sure how things could possibly get worse.

Just by thinking that, he knew that things probably would.

They should have just kept walking. Gone around the caravan and let the raiders have their way with them. Maybe they would’ve killed that old bastard Calbit and his treacherous daughter.

Failing that, they should have rejected the slaver’s hospitality. Both he and Rol should have known better than to trust someone who trafficked in human flesh to be in any way compassionate.

Since they’d taken Rol away, Gan had come up with several dozen scenarios that would have removed him from his predicament, with Fehrd actually winning his fight against the Black Sands leader and keeping them from being captured.

But the one scenario he’d been avoiding was the one that would have guaranteed that Fehrd would still be alive and that Rol wouldn’t be all sick and strong and weird and that Gan wouldn’t be stuck in a dungeon fighting people every night.

Because the guilt was too much for him to handle.

It was all his own damn fault for playing in that thrice-damned frolik game.

Fehrd had been right, of course. Fehrd was always right. It was why he was such a good friend and why he was such a spectacular pain in the ass. He had told him beforehand that playing in the frolik game was stupid, and he’d told him afterward that it was stupid, and like an idiot, Gan hadn’t listened to him.

And so Fehrd was dead, and it was all Gan’s fault.

Rol was missing, taken by the Imperial Guard somewhere, and that was Gan’s fault too.

Whatever was wrong with Rol was probably Gan’s fault as well.

He would never see Feena again, but spend what was left of his life fighting other idiots in the arena. He’d been lucky so far, but eventually one of them was going to figure out that all they had to do was approach him from the left, and he’d be doomed.

If he could just see Feena one last time …

The wish was so fervent within him, that when he heard Feena’s voice from the corridor, he simply assumed it to be a hallucination of his rapidly-becoming-deranged state.

“This is where you keep the fighters? I’m impressed-my slaves don’t live anywhere near this well back home.”

Gan wondered why, if he was hallucinating Feena’s voice, she sounded so brutal and nasty.

Jago’s voice came next. “Perhaps he won’t want to leave.”

“I was not under the impression that he would be given a choice.”

“No,” Jago said in response to Feena’s harsh words, “the choice is ours. If we choose to trade your mul for our slave-”

“He’s not your slave, he’s mine.”

“So you insist.”

Gan could hear three sets of footfalls: Jago and the nasty woman who spoke with Feena’s voice were two, with the third likely being one of the guards.

Sure enough, it was the latter who barked at him. “Stand away from the door.”

It was turning into a very odd hallucination.

And then he hallucinated Feena’s voice in his head. Play along, Gan. My name is Wimma Anspah, and Fehrd was my husband, and we owned you and Rol.

When the door opened, Gan saw his sister wearing the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen, and realized that it was no hallucination. His sister had come to rescue him. Untrained as she was, there weren’t many people that Feena could simply project thoughts into without burning their brain out, but the blood tie with Gan made it possible for her to do so.

His first thought was, Rol’s not here-the Imperial Guard took him-

We know, Feena assured him.

And there’s something wrong with him.

Aloud, he said, “You know, I was just sitting here wondering how this day could possibly get worse, and then you go and find me.” He gave Feena-or rather, “Wimma”; obviously she was supposed to be from Raam, based on the absurd outfit-a derisive look.

“It wasn’t difficult, Gan,” Feena said with a vicious smile. “I simply followed the cloud of stupidity that hangs over your head. You thought that my husband’s death would allow you to escape your rightful bondage.”

“There’s nothing ‘rightful’ about being bonded to you and that bastard of a husband of yours.” Gan tried to channel all his self-loathing into bile directed at Feena. He just hoped she’d forgive him-then rejected the notion as ludicrous, since she was the one who wanted him to behave like this.

The good news, of course, was that if Feena was there playing dress-up, it meant that all of the Serthlara Emporium was there as well. It was the first thing to go right in Gan’s entire life since he lost the frolik game, and it killed him that it wasn’t going to go quite according to plan thanks to the Imperial Guard’s apparent interest in Rol.

“Just me now, thanks to you getting the bastard killed.” Feena then turned to Jago. “Very well, I’m satisfied that you have Storvis, at least. I’ll take up retrieving Mandred with the king.”

Jago laughed at that. “Good luck with that.”

“We’ll meet tomorrow to make the exchange.”

The guard slammed the door, leaving Gan to wonder what he was being exchanged for.

Feena continued to hold “Wimma Anspah’s” vicious smile during her entire walk down Obsidian Way toward the Slave Gate and the emporium’s carriage, currently parked at the Three Brothers Stable just outside Urik’s walls near the City of the Dead, Urik’s cemetery.

Only when she passed the City of the Dead-a place she had truly feared she would find Rol and Gan-with its forbidding, rusted iron fence topped with lions’ head posts, did she put her own face back on.

The stable was located just past the boneyard. Feena had thought it an odd location for a stable, but it was near the crossroads where the four thoroughfares that went through Urik all met. Besides, the cemetery’s caretaker was one of the Three Brothers.

As she climbed into the back, Feena said without preamble, “We have a problem.”

Since they were running a game, and since there really wasn’t anywhere in Urik for them to set up shop as merchants, the members of the emporium had to continue to live out of the carriage even after arriving at the city-state. You never knew when running a game who might be needed, so anyone who wasn’t in play had to stay out of sight.

When Feena arrived, they were all sitting in a circle in the center section of the carriage-the only spot that had anything like proper floor space-eating. On either side were the shelves, all tightly packed with the emporium’s merchandise (on the left) and everyone’s personal belongings (on the right), with hammocks for everyone hanging from the roof over the shelves.

Zabaj handed her some jerky as she entered, and she swallowed it hungrily. The sort of role playing that the game required often made her hungry.

“What’s the problem?” Karalith asked before gulping down some water.

Quickly, Feena outlined the situation. She finished by saying, “Gan’s fine, at least. A bit cut and bruised, but that’s to be expected.”

“Whatever your brother’s failings,” Tricht’tha said, “he brawls well. In fact, that arena may be the best place for him.”

“Not as a slave,” Feena said tightly, using some of Wimma’s iron on the thri-kreen.

Komir spoke up before Tricht’tha retorted. “In any case, we need to make this exchange, and then bring down the arena.”

Tricht’tha chittered a curse in Chachik. “What? Why are we doing anything to the arena? The Pit is one of the most beloved arenas in Athas.”

“Because,” Karalith said, “we want the Pit’s owners to be out of business for two reasons. One, they kidnapped our friends.”

“And two,” Komir added, “it looks like we need to game the king once we’ve gamed the arena, and in order to do that, we need the arena to be bereft of ownership.”

Tricht’tha rubbed her arms together. “That doesn’t make sense. If something happens to the owners, the arena becomes property of the state.”

“Yes,” Feena said, “and then the state finds someone to administer it for them.”

Komir and Karalith both smiled. “That’s where we come in.”

“What does that give us?” Tricht’tha asked agitatedly.

“A place from which we can take Rol,” Komir said, rubbing his bald crown. “Right now, he’s a prisoner of the templars. There’s no way we can get him out of there-but if we can talk the king into releasing him back to the arena, and we own the arena, then we’re free to take him along with us at our leisure.”

Only then did Serthlara speak up. “There’s a problem with your plan.”

Feena already knew what it was, but Karalith and Komir looked confused. “What do you mean, Father?” the latter asked.

Staring right at her lover, Feena said, “Zabaj.”

The mul had been sitting silently during the entire exchange, staring daggers at Feena. “You did this without asking me.”

“I had no choice, Zabaj, you know that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” Karalith said, “she didn’t. We thought the provenance claiming ownership of Rol and Gan was sufficient, but we didn’t know that Rol had become their star attraction, or that Rol had been taken. She needed to come up with another solution fast, and offering to trade you was her best bet. Besides,” and she cast a glance at Komir, “her brother needs her.”

Zabaj ignored Karalith and continued to look at Feena. She stared right back. She couldn’t project her thoughts to Zabaj the way she could to Gan, but she was able to project her emotions onto him, and she let him know psionically just how important it was to her.

But she could also feel Zabaj’s emotions, and the mul had very strong feelings on that particular matter.

“I swore I wouldn’t fight in the arena again.”

“That’s not true.” Feena refused to turn away from her lover’s gaze-which was good, as accusing him of lying and then turning away would have been the gravest of insults. “You swore you wouldn’t be enslaved again. You won’t be a slave-at least, not really.”

“Once I’m inside, I’ll be a slave.”

“Until we rescue you,” Komir said. “Zabaj, this will work. We’ve never let you down before, have we?”

“There’s always a first time,” he muttered.

Feena walked up to Zabaj and stroked his cheek. She had yet to remove her gaze from him, nor had she ceased to project her feelings onto him. Aloud, though, she only said one word. “Please.”

They stared at each other for several seconds.

Zabaj finally looked away. “Very well. For you, my love, I will do this.”

“Thank you.”

After kissing the mul on the cheek, she turned back to the others. “I picked up from Calbit that they need more guards.”

Karalith regarded Tritcht’tha. “Time to bring Chrids’thrar out of retirement?”

“Why not?” Tricht’tha chittered. “Haven’t hunted with her in a while.”

Feena shook her head. Where the others all referred to their schemes as “the game” and “gaming” people, to the thri-kreen it was a hunt. That matched with the usual mode of thri-kreen, a predatory race for whom hunting was the primary means of survival.

But Tricht’tha had been the last survivor of her clutch, the rest having died during a particularly brutal sandstorm. Many a thri-kreen would have killed themselves, but Tricht’tha simply sought out another clutch. No other thri-kreen would have her, but she found satisfaction working with the emporium. She claimed to never be suited to the type of hunt that her own people engaged in-the impression Feena got, both from her psionic abilities and from Tricht’tha’s own conversation, was that her clutch might well have starved to death had the sandstorm not gotten them due to their mediocrity as hunters-preferring the type of challenge brought on by the game.

Karalith got up and moved toward the shelves on the left, specifically the one where the spices were kept. “Of course, Chrids’thrar goes nowhere without her flask, and this flask will be full of something special …”