Under the Crimson Sun

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

King Hamanu hated parties.

For a time during his reign, he had banned parties from Urik altogether. He was younger then-only in his first century-and he figured that he was the king so he could do what he wanted.

Eventually, though, as he matured, he realized that he needed-to some extent-to cater to the wishes of his people. Even an absolute monarch as powerful as Hamanu needed his people to be happy. They didn’t have to like everything he did-indeed, they didn’t have to know everything he did-but they were less likely to complain if they had sufficient distraction.

For the upper classes, it was parties such as the one he was attending. In that case, it was less a distraction than a general attempt to keep the sirdars happy. Happy sirdars made for non-complaining sirdars. Hamanu had had his share of complaining sirdars over the years, and he’d grown weary of having to kill them.

For the lower classes, there were the vulgar attractions, most notably the Pit of Black Death. He had been grateful that the Pit had once again become a popular venue, as the arena was a good way to distract the poor from their miserable state.

Which made it that much more annoying that Calbit and Jago had gotten themselves killed. Their fighters had all escaped, and while a few of them wound up captured or imprisoned, most were in the wind.

He wasn’t sure what the occasion was for the party-he had a social secretary whose job it was to find appropriate reasons for the parties and space them out in such a manner that the sirdars were kept happy by their frequency, and that Hamanu wasn’t driven crazy by the same thing. It was being held in a large function room that was often used for state dinners.

Hamanu hated them too.

Currently, he sat in one of his thrones. When his reign began, he had had ornate, ostentatious thrones all over Destiny’s Kingdom. But after several centuries, the desire for showing off his station grew tiresome. He referred to himself as the King of the World-a bit of hyperbole that seemed reasonable in his (relative) youth, and which he was well and truly stuck with-and for many decades, he thought that required a level of finery.

But being so self-consciously royal proved exhausting after a while. Not to mention annoying. So the royal finery became more streamlined, the patterns faded, the colors darkened.

As the king went, so went the people, since he was King of the World, so the people of Urik over the years started wearing more neutral colors as well.

Hamanu’s younger self, he knew, would be appalled. But the simplicity appealed to him now. No one in his court now knew of Hamanu as anything other than a king of uncomplicated tastes.

It also meant that at parties such as this, he wasn’t blinded by the brocade. Meeting with people from Nibenay often gave him a headache, their clothing was so covered in brightly colored stitching.

Plus, as an added bonus, he could easily pick out the people who were not from Urik. There were always several-visiting dignitaries, wealthy travelers, and so on-and he noted two in particular. Both appeared to be half-elves, and they were dressed in wraparound linens that bespoke recent times in Tyr. The woman had several bracelets on each arm.

Their race made them stand out. It was the rare half-elf who could manage to be invited to such a gathering-and indeed, many of the humans and elves in the room were giving the pair odd looks.

One of the sirdars came by with a drink for Hamanu-often the nobility would do so in order to speak with the king-and the king asked him who they were.

“They bore a letter of introduction from Lord Porsich, magnificence.”

Hamanu nodded, sipping his drink absently. Porsich was an ancient dray sirdar who’d died of old age a year earlier. He was only a few years older than the king.

“Do they have business in Urik?”

The sirdar’s face was overcome with disgust. Hamanu almost smiled. “I sincerely hope not, magnificence, but I only know what I have told you-and I’m afraid I only knew that because I happened to be standing near the entryway when they were announced, and they showed the doorman the letter.”

Again, Hamanu nodded, then dismissed the sirdar with a wave.

Sighing audibly, the sirdar ran off.

He supposed the woman was attractive and the man handsome-it was hard for Hamanu to tell anymore. They seemed to be working the crowd.

The woman had found Drahar and was talking with him, though the chamberlain seemed a bit distracted. Seeing that the man was alone, Hamanu instructed a page boy to encourage the man to bring the king a drink.

Minutes later, the half-elf gentleman was on one knee holding out a drink to the king on his throne.

“On your feet,” Hamanu said. “You’ll rumple your linen.”

The young man rose. “Of course, sir. You honor me with your presence.”

“No doubt.”

“Sir” was a standard honorific. Generally, Hamanu preferred “magnificence,” but strictly speaking, he wasn’t Hamanu’s subject, so that particular title didn’t make sense. “What brings a half-breed from Tyr to my city-state?”

“Actually, sir, my sister and I were born here in Urik. However, we were raised in Tyr. Forgive me-I am called Dalon, and my sister is Wrena. We were disowned by both of our parents, and were taken in by a dwarf nobleman of Tyr who took pity on us. He raised us as if we were his own. But he died a few years ago, and we came into an impressive inheritance.”

“And you knew Lord Porsich?”

Dalon winced. “I’m afraid not, sir. Our patron did-but I never met the man. We were sorry to hear of his death.”

“Not nearly as sorry as he was.”

Hamanu noted that Dalon’s laugh sounded genuine, not the nervous laughter that often accompanied the king’s witticisms. It was, he’d found, a good way to judge people, by how they laughed.

“We actually came here on some family business, but we were also hoping to observe the running of a gladiatorial arena. The Pit of Black Death is, in many ways, the metal standard for how to run such a place. Unfortunately …” Dalon trailed off.

“Yes, well, given how things ended, I don’t think the Pit was quite the model of efficiency its reputation indicated.” In fact, Hamanu wondered if Calbit and Jago had gotten so complacent, thanks to the constant winning of Gorbin, that they let other concerns grow lax. Once they lost Gorbin, they lost their ability to run things-if indeed they ever had it.

The king then asked: “Are you thinking of running an arena in Tyr?”

“Possibly,” Dalon said cautiously. “We’d invested in the Stadium of Tyr, but since the revolution …”

Hamanu nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would devalue your investment somewhat.”

“Indeed. Honestly, at this point, we feel we could run things ourselves given the opportunity. Since we had that family business here, we thought we’d see how the best did it.” Dalon took a sip of his own drink. “It’s just a pity that such a great source of bouts is no more.”

“Oh, it still exists.”

“Excuse me?” Dalon sounded confused.

Hamanu shook his head. Laws in Tyr were much different, after all. “With the deaths of not only the owners of the Pit but also their heirs, the ownership of the arena falls to the state.”

Dalon looked intrigued by that. “In other words, sir-to you.”

“Precisely. Have you considered returning to your home city-state?”

Taking another sip, Dalon then said, “Well, since the revolution, there’s very little keeping us in Tyr. In truth, without our patron’s protection, our half-breed status made us targets.”

“Indeed.” Hamanu summoned a page boy. “Bring Chamberlain Drahar over here.”

Drahar still seemed distracted as he came over, the half-elf woman trailing a bit behind. Seeing her, and noticing the significant look Dalon gave her, Hamanu waved his hand toward himself. “Come over as well, my dear. This would appear to concern you also.”

She curtsied and replied, “Thank you, sir. I am Wrena.”

“Dalon’s sister, yes. He’s told me of you. Lord Chamberlain, I wish you to meet with these two tomorrow and interview them about the possibility of their taking over administration of the Pit. It’s one of Urik’s finest centers for entertainment, and I wish it to be a going concern again.”

“Uhm, very well.” Drahar rubbed his temple. “Apologies, I have a bit of a headache. I’ve actually been speaking with Wrena here-you didn’t tell me that you were an entrepreneur.”

“Given that our interest was in running an arena, I thought it best to avoid that topic of discussion. We’d heard that the gladiatorial arena was not your preferred method of spending your leisure hours.” Wrena smiled shyly and looked away as she continued. “Besides, I prefer not to mix business with pleasure. This is a party, not a meeting.”

“Of course. Then let us set up such a meeting-tomorrow in my office, midday?”

Dalon and Wrena looked at each other and both nodded. “That would be perfect. We can always change our lunch to a dinner.”

“Excellent.” Hamanu raised his glass. “To the Pit.”

They all did likewise and repeated the toast.

The King of the World drank his wine with the hopes that he would once again be able to keep the lower classes distracted.

It almost made the party worth it …

Drahar had learned very early in life that one never, under any circumstances, even considered questioning the self-styled King of the World.

That was the only reason he didn’t ask Hamanu if he was completely mad at the party.

Had it been anyone else to suggest that Drahar be the one to test the half-elf siblings to see if they were worthy of administrating the Pit, he would have asked that question. Why on Athas would anyone think that he, of all people, would even know how to judge whether or not someone was qualified to run an arena?

However, his primary job as chamberlain was to facilitate making the king’s will into reality.

So when Cace announced that Dalon and Wrena had arrived for their midday meeting, he took a deep breath and told her to let them in.

They were dressed, he noticed, in much more casual wear than they had been the previous night, having eschewed the formal wear of a state-sponsored party for more practical linens. It was a particularly hot day, so the change made sense, though it didn’t do much to create an impression with Drahar.

As if reading his thoughts, Wrena said, “We know that we’re not quite dressed for the occasion, but bear with us. My brother and I were talking last night, and we agreed that a meeting in an office was no way to prove that we were fit to run the Pit.”

Drahar raised an eyebrow. “Then what did you have in mind?”

“We wanted to show you how good we are at running a fight,” Dalon said.

“Last night,” Wrena added, “you were telling me about a tavern you used to go to when you were a student at the King’s Academy-I can’t remember the name, but you said it had gone into the sewer since then.”

Involuntarily, Drahar smiled. “The Bright Water Tavern,” he said fondly. The tiny watering hole wedged in between a blacksmith’s and a dry goods store in Old District had been the location of many a late-night celebration during his student days. Drahar and his comrades had first gone because they were hungry after taking a trip to the Bright Water Well, one of the oases around which the city-state was first built centuries before.

But it had become a favorite of soldiers and mercenaries, forcing the students to go elsewhere. Not that Drahar would consider a drinking binge in his position in any event, but if for some reason he would, Bright Water would not be where he would go.

“Yes! That’s the place.” Wrena adjusted her bracelets, which she seemed to do unconsciously. “If you could take us there, we could run an impromptu fight.”

“Impromptu?” Drahar felt dubious. Bar fights, he knew, were volatile things. Even the ones in the arena were sloppy affairs.

Dalon was smiling confidently. In fact, Drahar could psionically detect the confidence exuding from him. “We can take two people in this tavern of yours, get them to fight each other in a manner consistent with an arena fight. It’s a mercenaries’ hangout, you said, so there are bound to be grudges. This way they can work it out in a contained manner that doesn’t destroy the bar, and we show you what we’re capable of.”

While those circumstances would indeed be convincing, Drahar didn’t particularly wish to be anywhere nearby when it inevitably failed.

Before he could voice an objection, Wrena said, “Surely you can bring some guards for protection.”

“Oh, that’s a given,” Drahar said. He wouldn’t dream of traveling anywhere in the city without at least four soldiers from the Guard covering him. For such an event, he was probably better off with six.

“Bring as many as you want,” Dalon said brashly. “But you won’t need them.”

For a brief instant, Drahar considered fobbing it off on Cace. That was what assistants were for, after all.

Then he remembered his predecessor’s fate and the fact that the commission came straight from Hamanu.

“The king wants this,” he finally said, “so I’ll go along, but the moment things go wrong, you two are not only out of a job, but I’ll be forced to exile you from Urik.”

“What?” Dalon bellowed, but his sister nodded sagely.

“That’s eminently reasonable,” Wrena said. “Thank you, Lord Chamberlain, you won’t be sorry.”

“I was already sorry the moment I was assigned this ludicrous task,” he muttered.

He summoned Cace, giving her instructions on what to do while he was gone, including hourly checks on the psionists who were studying Mandred and keeping him in check. He also wanted reports from the templars who were researching the “Tharizdun” that the creature mentioned.

When he was done instructing Cace, Drahar stood up. “Well, then. Let us depart.”

Within an hour, Drahar’s palanquin was taking him through the streets of Urik. Dalon and Wrena walked alongside, their head wraps protecting them from the midday sun. Two soldiers were in front of them, with two more in front of the palanquin, and two more bringing up the rear.

Wrena shivered at one point in contrast to the heat, adjusting her bracelets as she did so. “I’ve never been to Old District before.”

Drahar regarded her with annoyance. “Now is hardly the time to express reluctance.”

“She’s not reluctant,” Dalon said quickly with a glare at her. “It’ll be fine.”

The chamberlain started to wonder whose idea it was. Drahar had told Wrena about how Bright Water had gone downhill over the years, and he wondered if she properly conveyed that to Dalon when she told her brother about it.

Once they reached Old District, the palanquin slowed to a crawl-and that was with the soldiers in front clearing a path.

As it was Urik, nobody questioned being told to step aside by a member of the Guard, but the streets in the more ancient part of town were narrow, and it was difficult to maneuver.

Drahar wondered what he was thinking to agree to such a thing.

Then he saw the familiar thoroughfare that led to the oasis, and soon saw the sign that proclaimed the name of the tavern in yellow letters carved into a very old, very jagged wooden sign. For a brief moment, Drahar smiled, remembering the long nights and the hung-over mornings. The first time he ever got sick from drinking was at Bright Water.

Due to the reason for his return, he expected to get sick a second time.

Realizing he had no desire to set foot in the place and risk spoiling some very fond memories, he called out to the lead soldier. “Sergeant Mazro, accompany these two into the tavern and watch them. I expect a full report.”

Komir exchanged a quick glance with Karalith at Drahar’s instructions to the sergeant. It would certainly simplify matters, as a sergeant in the Imperial Guard was less likely to notice subtleties than the chamberlain.

Still, they needed the game to run smoothly.

Karalith had clearly remembered the name of the tavern, of course, and they’d sent Gan and Zabaj there ahead of time. They’d taken the precaution of removing Gan’s eye patch. That was his most distinguishing feature, and removing it made it less likely that he’d be recognized by Drahar.

Mazro walked behind the two of them as they entered.

They’d already been to Bright Water, so Komir knew the layout. The interior was narrow, with the bar to the right-a goliath standing behind it serving the drinks-and three very long tables running from front to back on the left, with three elf barmaids bringing drinks and taking empty tankards away. There was a massive bloodstain on the floor, which people avoided. Large numbers of burly men sat at the tables or at the bar, or stood crowded next to one another (everywhere but near the bloodstain). The ambient noise levels were through the roof, a wall of sound that slammed into them as they entered.

That level went down once people noticed Mazro’s uniform and sword, but not as much as it might have elsewhere.

Komir spied Zabaj standing near the bar with a half-giant and a human, the other two laughing at something the mul said. Gan, meanwhile, was seated alone at a table. That alone was surprising, as Gan was usually the gregarious one, while it was almost impossible to get Zabaj to use more than one sentence at a time.

Gan noticed their entrance-easily covered, as everyone noticed their entrance-and then gulped down the remainder of his drink.

Komir caught snatches of conversation as they ambled through the tavern.

“I heard that the Pit got shut down by the king. Sorta thing you’d expect.”

“Think the orchards’ll do better next year?”

“Actually, y’see, that ain’t the same Hamanu. Y’see, it’s been a new guy every twenty years’r so, y’see, that replaces the last one. We’ve had somethin’ like twenty Hamanus runnin’ the place, y’see.”

“And then the anakore said, ‘You didn’t come here to hunt, did you?’ ”

Komir looked at the sergeant. “Drink?”

Mazro stared at Komir for a second, as if never having considered the possibility. Then he stared back at the entrance to the tavern. “Best not. Even if Dry-hump out there didn’t smell it on my breath, he’d feel it in my head.”

Nodding in understanding, Komir was grateful that Feena had been nearby. She’d loitered outside Destiny’s Kingdom when they went to see Drahar, and had followed the palanquin discreetly all the way to the tavern. Komir wasn’t sure where she was right then, but he hoped she was continuing to use her mind-magic to keep Drahar from detecting any malicious intent. He’d have to cast a spell to truly get inside their heads, but as long as he continued to trust them-or at least trust Karalith-he wouldn’t probe too deeply, so they needed Feena to project a veneer of “Dalon” and “Wrena” to help with the game.

It was Feena’s usual role in the game, and she’d gotten better and better at it over the years. They doubted she’d be able to pull it off with someone of Hamanu’s power, but with the chamberlain, all would probably be well.

Gan got up from his bench and started walking-stumbling, really-toward the bar, on a vector that would take him right past Zabaj and his new friends.

Right on cue, he bumped into Zabaj’s drink-holding arm, knocking his mead to the stone floor.

“Oi!”

“Hey!”

“Watch out, y’imbecile!”

Gan held up a hand. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Really sorry.”

Zabaj moved as if to loom over him, since his job was to start the fight that Dalon and Wrena would manage, but before he could, the half-giant interpolated himself between Zabaj and Gan.

“I don’t give a frip ‘ow sorry y’are, imbecile, y’should watch where the frip y’r goin’.” To accentuate the point, the half-giant pushed Gan.

Gan oversold it, stumbling back much farther than necessary from the shove.

Komir shot a glance at Karalith, who quickly shrugged.

Zabaj, however, tried to step in. “Hranoc, I can fight my own-”

“Nah, see, I’m sick’a the imbeciles. Everywhere I turn, imbeciles. Knockin’ over drinks an’ eatin’ too much food an’ cuttin’ in front’a people on the line f’r the bar an’ I’m just sick of it. No more imbeciles.” He clenched his fist and moved toward Gan.

Again, Komir looked at his sister. Obviously, they’d stumbled into a crazy person. But they had to make the best of it, since he apparently wanted the fight all to himself.

Then Komir looked at Mazro. “This is our best chance.”

The sergeant shrugged. “Go for it.”

“Excuse me,” Komir said, walking so he was next to both Gan and Hranoc, but not actually between them. Karalith, meanwhile, headed outside.

“Whaddaya want? You another imbecile?”

Komir smiled at the half-giant. “No, sir, I’m not. At least, I don’t think so. No, I just want to give you an opportunity to work out your disagreement with this drunken gentleman here without causing damage to a perfectly nice tavern.”

The goliath behind the bar said, “I’m all for that. Take this crap outside, wouldja please? I still ain’t cleaned up from the last fight.”

That, Komir thought, explained the bloodstain. “Come with me,” Komir said.

Hranoc looked at the people he was with. While the others just shrugged, Zabaj said, “I’d rather not get thrown out of the tavern.”

Karalith had-probably with the help of Mazro’s soldiers-cleared a space and was bent over drawing a large circle on the cobblestones outside the tavern with a piece of chalk. The crowd, however, was all standing on the perimeter, kept in line by the soldiers, wanting to see what was happening.

“Consider this an impromptu arena,” Komir said. “Hranoc here will face-er, what’s your name, sir?” he asked Gan.

“Fehrd.”

Komir managed not to wince. It was generally preferred to use aliases that had no specific connection to you. “All right, Fehrd, you stand on that side, and Hranoc, you face him.”

Gan stumbled toward where he was supposed to go. Hranoc laughed. “This oughtta be fun. Always thought I’d do good in th’arena.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” Komir said.

For the first time since the game started, Komir saw Feena. Actually, he heard her first, crying out, “Three copper on the half-giant.”

To his credit, Gan did not react when he heard his sister betting against him.

As they’d hoped, it started a rash of bets.

Hranoc started circling the perimeter of Karalith’s hastily drawn ring. The crowd started to cheer and bellow. For his part, Gan was trying to stay upright-or at least looking like he needed to struggle to do so.

Finally, Hranoc lunged forward, and Gan blocked the punch with an awkward-looking motion that Komir knew was actually quite controlled.

Then Gan kicked him in the shin.

Hranoc stumbled backward much more painfully than Gan had been stumbling, letting out several curses in a language Komir didn’t recognize. At least, he assumed they were curses …

They exchanged blows several times after that, neither really landing a solid hit.

Any time they were in danger of getting too close to the edge of the ring Komir moved to stand between them and the chalk line, gently touching Gan on the shoulder to keep him in bounds. (Had he been fighting Zabaj as planned, he would have touched either of them, but Hranoc was an unknown quantity.)

After about three minutes of sparring, Komir gave a quick nod to Gan.

At that point, Gan grabbed the top of Hranoc’s head with his left hand and held him at arm’s length. With his right, he started repeatedly punching the half-giant in the gut.

For the seventh punch, he let go, which sent Hranoc backward toward the other side of the ring. Then Gan walked over and kicked him in the face, then swept out his feet so he fell onto his back with a thud.

Finally, Gan stepped hard on his gut, causing the half-giant to let out a loud gasp.

“I ain’t no imbecile,” Gan said.

Then he fell over, as if he’d passed out.

“I believe we can safely call Fehrd the winner,” Komir said with a laugh.

There were jeers and cheers alike, and the clacking sounds of ceramic coins changing hands.

Komir looked over at the palanquin, where Drahar was watching with a combination of admiration and disgust. Given what Karalith had told him about the chamberlain’s opinion of arena fights, the latter was understandable and he was grateful for the former. It meant he’d bought it.

“Well done,” was all the chamberlain said before he retreated back behind the palanquin’s curtains.

Komir smiled at Karalith. The first stage of the game was done.

The part of the game that Karalith hated most was the paperwork.

She understood its necessity, of course. In the game, details were everything. That was why they claimed not to remember the name of Drahar’s academy tavern and had him lead them to it. A small detail, but it meant that Drahar wouldn’t even consider that Gan and Zabaj were plants. For that matter, it was why they sent Gash’s original map back.

And it was why she and Komir were stuck with Drahar’s assistant-a very efficient, very straightforward, very boring young woman named Cace-signing contracts that would grant Dalon Zavno and Wrena Zavno the right to administer the Pit of Black Death.

They had spent hours going over the contracts, and Karalith’s eyes were starting to glaze over.

However, when they were finished, Cace’s words prompted her to sit up and notice.

“Now that the deal is in place, the king wishes to speak to you. You may dine at his table this evening.”

“We’ll be honored,” Karalith said with a curtsey.

For the first time since their return to the palace, Cace’s expression changed-to one of disdain as she looked at what Karalith and Komir were wearing. The linen had become rumpled and sweat stained and caked with sand despite all efforts to brush it off.

“You are expected,” Cace said dryly, “to dress formally.”

“Of course,” Karalith said with another curtsey, and then they departed Destiny’s Kingdom.

They had just enough time to return to the carriage, find appropriate clothes to change into, make sure that Gan was okay-he’d bloodied his nose when he “passed out,” pointing out that he usually only fell down involuntarily and wasn’t used to doing it on purpose-and return to the palace, where a steward met them at the gate and escorted them to the dining room.

That turned out to be the same room where the party was held the previous night. Karalith barely recognized it, as the paintings on the walls had all been changed, the long tables along the wall had been removed, and replaced by a large wooden table that sat at least twenty. The only reason she could tell it was the same were the lions engraved in the molding on the doors and windows.

Karalith was long experienced at hiding her feelings-you didn’t last three seconds in the game if you didn’t-but she was hard-pressed not to gape at the table. Wood of that size was obscenely rare. That table was probably worth more than all the gems in the compound combined.

“It’s good to be the king,” Komir muttered, and Karalith smiled.

Several others were attending, many of them sirdars whom Karalith remembered from the party. A couple were dignitaries from other city-states. Unlike the party, where they were mostly relaxed and social, tonight they were all making the most inane small talk, using shorter sentences and ending conversations abruptly.

Karalith understood the difference. At the party, people generally only spoke to the king if they wished to, or if he specifically wished to speak to you. But at an intimate dinner, you had to speak to him.

That turned out to be less of a concern than expected, however, as the king didn’t actually arrive until the dessert course. Which resulted in even more awkward and stilted conversation, as no one knew exactly when Hamanu would show up.

When he did arrive, he focused entirely on eating the cake his cooks had prepared. Karalith found the dessert to be dry and tasteless, but the king devoured it eagerly, getting crumbs in his beard as he did so.

Dessert passed in uncomfortable silence, save for the sounds of chewing, then suddenly, Hamanu looked right at one of the sirdars, an older gentleman who served as the king’s minister of agriculture. “Lord Pammot, why are the orchards underproducing this year?”

Pammot choked on his cake at the question. The sirdar next to him slapped his back a few times and he recovered. “No one can predict the vicissitudes of the soil, magnificence.”

“Odd, isn’t it, how the ministers all take credit when something goes well, but when it goes poorly, it’s an unforeseen circumstance? When we had that bumper crop three years ago, Pammot, you were the first to crow about how well ‘your’ crops did. In fact, you parlayed that into a higher stipend for yourself, as I recall.”

Already pale, the minister of agriculture was turning bone white. “Y-yes, magnificence, that’s true, but-”

“So the reverse should be the case as well. Your stipend will return to what it was when you first started at this post.”

Several emotions played across the sirdar’s face at once: relief that he wasn’t going to be physically punished for the poor yield, annoyance that his income was being reduced, and fear at letting that annoyance be seen by the king.

That fear was justified. “Is there a problem with my decree, Lord Pammot?” the king asked in a quiet voice.

“No.” Pammot all but barked. “Your decree is quite reasonable.”

Hamanu smiled. “ ‘Reasonable’, eh? Yes, I can see how you would think that. But one of the advantages to absolute power is that I’m within my rights to be unreasonable-since I’m the one who grants rights. So perhaps I should do something less reasonable and more fun. Have you executed, perhaps?”

At that, Pammot fainted dead away, falling forward into his cake. A second later, he coughed, having aspirated his dessert. Two stewards came by to help him up.

“Bring him to the dungeons,” Hamanu said. “I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

Karalith and Komir exchanged glances. They were going to have to play the game very carefully.

“Wrena, Dalon, would you like to accompany me on a walk through the palace? I’m sure you didn’t get to see all of it during your other trips.”

Komir cleared his throat. “Only this room and the chamberlain’s office, sir.”

“Excellent. Once the meal has ended, you will both join me.”

“We would be honored,” Karalith said.

“Yes, you would be.” Hamanu smiled.

When the stewards cleared the dessert plates and Hamanu stood, the rest of the dinner party couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Karalith had to admit to finding it very amusing.

They followed behind the king as he left the dining area. He took them through several dank corridors, then down a spiral staircase, eventually winding up in the dungeon area.

“Do you like Destiny’s Kingdom?”

Komir and Karalith exchanged glances, not sure who the question was aimed at. Karalith nodded to him, indicating that he should speak-when in doubt, the male was probably the one being addressed, especially by someone as old as Hamanu.

“It’s quite impressive,” Komir said blandly.

“Of course it is,” Hamanu snapped. “It’s a palace. I sometimes wonder if I should remodel it.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I understand that you’ve agreed to administer the arena. How soon can bouts recommence?”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible to determine that as yet, sir,” Komir said. Karalith shot him a look and he just blinked at her.

So she stayed quiet and trusted him.

“We’ve conducted a full inspection of the amphitheater, and it’s quite subpar.”

That, of course, was a lie-though among them, Zabaj, Feena, Tricht’tha, and Gan were able to provide vivid descriptions.

“I believe that the previous owners were increasing their profit margin by not maintaining the facility’s infrastructure. The equipment has been poorly maintained, the floors are not adequately cleaned-there are bloodstains all over the floors, some of which I suspect date back to the earliest days of your reign, sir.”

Hamanu stopped walking. “This sounds like a very clever way to not answer my question.”

“With respect, sir,” Karalith said, “he did answer the question. His answer was simply ‘I do not know.’ ”

The king stared at Karalith with an expression that she could not read, then he continued to walk down the staircase, bringing them to the dungeon level.

“What is required to change the answer to something a bit more specific?”

“Capital,” Komir said.

Karalith glared at her brother. What was he playing at?

Komir continued: “According to the terms of the contract we signed in the chamberlain’s office, the Urik treasury is financially responsible for any maintenance that needs to be performed that is the result of a preexisting condition.”

Suddenly Karalith was grateful that her brother had more patience than she for minutiae. She hadn’t even noticed that clause in the contract-and it had to be there. Hamanu was too wily a monarch to not check before committing to laying out money.

But it also meant that this particular game might earn them quite a bit-they’d take the coin for the maintenance and repairs, and then disappear, with Hamanu unable to do anything, since his contract was with two people who didn’t actually exist.

Hamanu snorted. “The Urik treasury cannot subsidize the arena.”

“It’s not a subsidy, sir,” Komir said, “it’s maintaining the crown’s own property.”

“My concern is with maintaining the crown’s own army-in fact, it’s my preference to increase it, but our coffers cannot even manage that.”

They turned a corner to see three women and one man all dressed in the blue linens that indicated a mind-mage. All four were concentrating.

“This is one of our hopes for doing so.” Hamanu indicated the cell where the mind-mages stood. “My psionists are currently attempting to figure out how to control this creature. Chamberlain Drahar and Templar Tharson had him and another one removed from the arena you’ve assumed control of.”

One of the mind-mages-or “psionists”-stepped aside at Hamanu’s urging, allowing the king to peer inside the barred window to the cell.

“Take a look,” he said after a moment.

First Komir went to the door, and he noticeably paled. He moved away, stricken, and then Karalith did likewise.

Having lived all her life dealing with the worst Athas had to offer, from surly customers to sand creatures who wanted to kill her, there was very little that could frighten Karalith.

The sight of what Rol Mandred had turned into, however, managed that feat.

If Gan hadn’t made reference to the changes Rol was undergoing when last he saw his friend, Karalith might not have believed that it was him. His skin was slate gray, strange faceted jeweled armor covered his shoulders, his hands and feet were mutated, and his mouth was segmented.

It was the most foul creature Karalith had ever seen-and she had seen the foulest creatures Athas had to offer.

And somehow it was Rol.

“If we can determine how to control that creature, then our army will be a wonder to behold.” Hamanu spoke almost dreamily.

Karalith’s idea started to coalesce in her head. “What if we adjusted the terms of the contract in such a way that benefits you in the long term?”

Hamanu frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Instead of you subsidizing the arena, as you put it, what if we instead consider it an investment?”

That got Hamanu to raise one white eyebrow. “So the money I provide would be repaid?”

“With interest,” Karalith said.

“And what would you require in return for this particular amendment, which doesn’t benefit you in the least?”

“On the contrary,” Karalith said with a smile, “it benefits us tremendously to create good will between us and our new landlord. But, as it happens, there is one thing that we would humbly request, if you’d be willing to give it.”

“And that is?”

She pointed at the door. “Him.”

“He was removed from the arena.”

Komir stepped in then. “And what has he done for you? At least in the arena, he can be earning profit-Drahar and his psionists can continue to study him at the Pit, but he’ll be earning you coin so you can raise that army you want.”

Hamanu stroked his beard. “An interesting proposition. I must admit, having that creature in the arena will be a draw.”

“Exactly,” Karalith said. “You’ll make back your investment within a week of opening. And we’ll continue to provide you with a share of the profits, which you can use to raise your army.”

The king’s face split into a massive grin, one that Karalith would have found disturbing before she saw what Rol had turned into.

And right then, Karalith knew that they had him.