by Ryk E. Spoor
Ghondas quivered; DuQuesne didn’t know much about her species’ body language, but it gave him the impression of fear. She said nothing for a moment, then sank down slightly before raising her tendriled head. ‘‘I assess the risk differently today. Please. Do not press me.’’
Ariane looked as though she was about to argue more, so DuQuesne touched her arm. ‘‘Captain. Let’s go. No point in making her angry, if she’s not willing to deal, it’s her choice.’’
‘‘You think it’s the Shadeweavers already?’’ she asked, once they were some distance away. He could see the lines of worry on her forehead—lines that were starting to show signs that they could become permanent.
‘‘I can’t think of any other reason. Excuses aside, someone like Ghondas doesn’t stay in business by jerking her customers around, and doesn’t negotiate idly. If she broke it off that fast, she learned something that took us from a reasonable business risk to untouchable overnight.’’
And the fun just doesn’t stop. Steve and Tom had gone out for a night in the Grand Arcade. They came back just an hour and a half after they left. There was a puzzled, rather hurt look on Steve’s face, and Tom Cussler’s expression was like a thundercloud.
‘‘What happened, Steve?’’
‘‘I don’t know!’’ he said plaintively. ‘‘I mean . . . we went to some of the shops I’ve been to before, and . . . it was like the best stock would be put away when I got there. If it was visible, I was told it was already sold. The people who would sell to me wanted me to buy and get the heck out of the shop right away.
‘‘Even Olthalis—the Chiroflekir that sold you guys our first alien food—even he didn’t want to talk to me. Finally said ‘it wasn’t safe,’ and told me to get away from his stall.’’
He exchanged glances with Ariane. She sighed, nodded, and turned to the others. ‘‘I think we have to discuss the situation, everyone. I think—’’
‘‘—Anathema has been declared against the Faction of Humanity,’’ the rough voice of Relgof Nov Ne’knarph said, as he and Simon entered the Embassy common room. ‘‘My own Faction does not generally acquiesce to such things entirely, but I was forced to remove my friend Simon from the library, and myself from our Faction House if I wished to continue any conversation with him.’’ The crest of feathers atop Relgof’s head was bristling with what DuQuesne guessed was anger.
‘‘What’s ‘Anathema,’ Doc?’’ Carl asked.
‘‘It’s rather what we expected after that little conflict with the Shadeweavers,’’ Simon said, throwing down his case in disgust. ‘‘A declaration—spread very quietly—that essentially says that the Shadeweavers are very displeased with our Faction, and will be for some length of time. No direct threat, no clear statement of consequences, just the statement that they don’t like us.
‘‘Any Faction can make such a statement, of course,’’ Relgof said. ‘‘However, the Shadeweavers, I must confess, tend to have a vastly greater effect when they declare Anathema.’’
‘‘So we can expect this crap to go on until whenever the Shadeweavers feel we’ve had enough?’’ Ariane looked furious enough to head down to the Shadeweaver Faction House by herself.
‘‘I’m afraid so.’’ Dr. Relgof flip-flopped his filter beard apologetically. ‘‘I, personally, will do what I can—there is very little the Shadeweavers can do to me directly, and if my Faction makes it clear that they are not directly aiding you, they will not push the issue. But very few indeed will dare go against the Shadeweavers. Except, possibly—’’
There was a chime, and one of the green spheres appeared before Ariane. ‘‘Nyanthus of the Faith requests admittance.’’
‘‘Show him in, please,’’ Ariane said.
‘‘ . . . Possibly, as I said,’’ Relgof continued, with a faint smile in his tone, ‘‘the Faith.’’
Nyanthus glided in, his symbiotes flying outward to enfold them all symbolically before returning. Mandallon followed immediately behind. ‘‘It was revealed to me that by now you must have learned of your predicament, Captain Ariane Austin. Know that the displeasure of the Shadeweavers holds no fear for the Faith. Mandallon has offered to be a go-between for you; while he cannot, of course, convince people to venture overmuch, the basic negotiations for the simple necessities can be much eased with his assistance—for few indeed are those who will deliberately insult the Faith.’’
Mandallon curtsy-bowed. ‘‘Indeed, it would be an honor to serve you in this manner. I know not how you have offended those . . . servants of darker powers, but it must be something truly wonderful for them to be so angered.’’
Ariane smiled; DuQuesne knew she liked the earnest young priest. ‘‘I would be glad to have your assistance, Mandallon—’’
‘‘—but,’’ DuQuesne interrupted, ‘‘we’d really like to make sure it won’t cost anything. Being honored is all well and good, but the Factions are still the Factions, aren’t they?’’
Mandallon started slightly, and Nyanthus’s symbiotes jittered. After a pause, the rich ‘‘voice’’ of the First Guide spoke. ‘‘It is true that we cannot serve all people outside of the Faith without some form of return; this is Written in the way of the Creators, that for all services, eventually there is a payment. But we ask no immediate payment, only an alliance, a sense that you owe us gratitude—as surely you yourselves would acknowledge is fair, if this service we do for you?’’
‘‘It certainly seems fair to me,’’ Laila Canning said. ‘‘Really, Dr. DuQuesne, that was quite rude—and I am not usually one to notice rudeness. The Faith have been completely open with us and incredibly helpful—and I owe them a debt I’m not sure I can ever repay.’’ She looked with momentary softness at Mandallon.
‘‘It’s not rudeness,’’ DuQuesne said bluntly. ‘‘Caution. We’re still in a real precarious situation, and picking up debts that we don’t know how to pay—and can’t even count up in simple terms—isn’t a good plan.’’
Simon studied them all narrowly. ‘‘I dislike anything that smacks of rudeness, but I find I must—reluctantly—concur with Marc. We have no way of knowing how long this Anathema will be in effect, and thus no idea of how large a tab we will have to run with your people, Nyanthus. Nor—as Marc says—a true way of making an accounting of that debt. When it involves money, it is a simple matter to determine if the debt is one can assume, but with services and obligations such as these, it is far murkier.’’
‘‘Exactly.’’ Ariane said, with some relief. ‘‘Nyanthus, Mandallon, it isn’t that we don’t appreciate the offer—even with the strings attached. I do, and I think we all do. But the last thing we want to do is end up with a debt which could by itself sour the relations between Humanity and the Faith. And any conflict on the exact extent and severity of that debt could do exactly that—and play right into the Shadeweavers’ hands.’’
Nyanthus stood swaying a moment, and suddenly flowered open, laughing a deep laugh, joined by Mandallon. ‘‘Ah, Ariane Austin of Humanity, you have found an argument worthy of an Initiate Guide! Our very offer is now shown to be, perhaps, a snare set by the Dark Ones, based on our own motives and means. Now surely I must offer you at least some of Mandallon’s assistance free of any burden.’’
‘‘And I, as well,’’ Orphan said, coming in from his own temporary room. The Survivor had very nearly fully recovered, and had been planning to return to his own Embassy the next day. ‘‘For surely the Shadeweavers may be displeased by me, but there is little, indeed, that they could do . . . and I like to believe that the Survivor himself is one that others would not wish to offend.’’
There’s something . . . slightly different in the way he’s standing and talking now. Wish I could put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just the result of facing mental death, so to speak.
Ariane smiled broadly. ‘‘Well, we got this far with, basically, only you two as allies. As long as you’ll stand with us in this, I’m sure we’ll get through it somehow.’’
‘‘Tomorrow I will help you lay in supplies of all essentials,’’ Mandallon promised. ‘‘We should try to do this in carefully scheduled intervals, which will minimize the conflict with the Dark Ones.’’
‘‘Thank you. That will help. If you’ll stay here tonight, we’ll go over everything we need and make a list.’’
Mandallon hefted an iridescent white, curved shoulder bag. ‘‘I had planned on it, Captain. Thank you for accepting this offer.’’
‘‘Don’t thank us until it’s all over. We’ll be thanking you, I’m sure.’’
DuQuesne looked around as everyone began to settle down, and more normal conversations started. Seems that we have a solution to this problem.
So . . . what am I missing? Because sure as God made little green apples, this isn’t going to be that easy.
I can feel it.
Chapter 58
Simon stopped next to Ariane, and watched with interest as the nondescript floor blossomed out into chairs suited for their entire party. Around them, hundreds of other beings were taking seats in this . . . colosseum. He looked over to Mandallon, on his left, as they sat down. ‘‘Thank you so much for arranging this.’’
Mandallon gave a cheerful curtsy-bow before seating himself. ‘‘With all of the difficulties you have had, the First Guide agreed that this was the least we could do to give you . . . oh, an easement, a break I believe you have called it, from the tension. And for newcomers such as yourselves, Challenges are both entertainment and education.’’
‘‘So who are the parties in this Challenge, what exactly is at stake, and what kind of Challenge is it?’’
‘‘Ah, Doctor Sandrisson,’’ answered the mellifluous voice of Nyanthus, ‘‘this is a quite interesting Challenge, and one which I believe has a personal touch for you as well. In our discussions I recall that you mentioned the Powerbroker Ghondas as one who had clearly been intimidated by the Anathema.’’
DuQuesne looked over with interest. ‘‘So this is one of those required Powerbroker challenges? That they have to do every so often in order to retain their posts?’’
‘‘Precisely so, Dr. DuQuesne,’’ confirmed Nyanthus. ‘‘In this case, Ghondas and her people, the Shiquan, have accepted a Challenge from the Vengeance. While, in theory, they could Challenge or accept Challenge from any Faction, including all of the lesser Factions, the Powerbrokers themselves have a sort of . . . traditional pride, in that as a group they consider it to show a lack of courage or dedication to maintain their posts by Challenging anyone other than the Five Great Factions—or, one would presume, the Shadeweavers, though I cannot recall any ever electing that route.’’
‘‘Ouch,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘Given that the major Factions have a lot of resources, that makes these pretty serious Challenges—not just a matter of formality.’’
‘‘Oh, indeed they are serious, Ariane Austin,’’ said Orphan, who had seated himself on the far right of their section—a section right up to the edge of the cleared arena-space below. ‘‘Yet the Powerbrokers have one great advantage over the standard participants in Challenge. Two, actually.
‘‘First is that as they are not, technically speaking, a Faction, they follow slightly different rules. They do not have to select their participant in the Challenge until it actually begins, allowing them to, in fact, pick their champion to best offset the champion selected by their opposition. Between Factions, as you know, the representatives to meet in the Challenge must be determined well in advance of the actual contest.’’
That certainly is an advantage, Simon thought. If you can wait that long, you can have a wide variety of candidates standing by, research your opponent’s weaknesses, and select someone most likely to succeed in that specific Challenge against that specific participant. ‘‘And the second advantage?’’
Orphan gave a relaxed flutter of his wings that Simon associated with a smile; the accompanying buzz-chuckle confirmed it. ‘‘You recall, of course, the problem that one has in choosing, for example, myself to represent you in a Challenge?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ DuQuesne answered, ‘‘The fact that you can grab the prize for yourself if you win.’’
‘‘Exactly. Well, for the Powerbroker Challenge all that is necessary for them to retain their position is that the Challenge itself be a victory for their side. They make no direct demands upon the loser at all.’’
Simon felt his eyebrows raise. ‘‘Oh, my. So in essence they have an immense potential . . . prize, I suppose the term should be . . . to offer anyone who will agree to represent them. Their representative gets to demand a prize for themselves, not for the Powerbrokers, if they win, and is risking nothing if they lose.’’
DuQuesne grunted. ‘‘An edge for sure. They can get just about anyone to play the game for them with those kind of advantages. Doesn’t guarantee victory, but sure does give them better odds.’’
‘‘So what’s the actual Challenge today?’’ Ariane asked.
At that moment, the space within the central arena area, which was roughly three hundred meters across, blurred, seemed to be filled with moving, shifting shadows; a murmur, a susurration of conversation, rose and fell with this, and as it cleared, Simon could see that the central area was now filled with walls making corridors, leading to various rooms and intersections; some were plain empty pathways open to the sky, some roofed over, others filled with what appeared to be trees and brush, some with figures that seemed to be standing at attention in the center. In the middle was a circular area with a beam of light emanating from the top of a tower, about thirty meters high, in the exact center of the circle, with four columns spaced evenly around it. From what Simon could make out, there were two openings into that central area, one on the left, one on the right.
‘‘A Combat Challenge maze,’’ Orphan said, both explaining what they saw and answering Ariane’s last question. ‘‘This pits the contestants not against each other, but against various challenges—physical obstacles, traps, hostile creatures, intelligent opponents—in a maze intended to confuse and distract. The goal, of course, is to get through the maze and arrive in the center, interrupting the beam of light and thus ending the Challenge.’’
DuQuesne grinned. ‘‘Sounds like my kind of fun. And if I get the conditions right, it could still come down to the two participants duking it out.’’
‘‘Oh, yes indeed it could,’’ Orphan said with an answering chuckle. ‘‘If both make it to the center area at the same time, each will, of course, try to interrupt the light beam . . . and to stop the other from doing so. It is not unknown for both participants to manage to prevent each other from doing so immediately, and then having to fight each other until one or the other succeeds in reaching and interrupting the light.’’
There were small open spaces visible at each end of the arena area, clearly the places where each participant would start. Now a figure appeared on the lefthand side; tiny at this distance, but Simon still had an impression of something very large.
‘‘There, the Vengeance’s selected champion,’’ Mandallon said, excitement plain in his voice. As he spoke, the air shimmered before them, and an enlarged, clear image of the far-distant contestant materialized in thin air. It was large, a semi-centauroid form with six armored legs supporting a snake-like body that tapered off into a tail that had bladed spikes at the end, and an upright forward torso with massive, human-like arms and a triangular head with two large glittering eyes and a broad, fanlike crest or shield protecting the neck. The entire creature seemed covered with both scales and hair, and the upright head could have looked Marc DuQuesne straight in the eye; Simon estimated its mass at close to a metric ton. ‘‘Sivvis Lissituras, a Daelmokhan.’’
‘‘Looks nasty,’’ DuQuesne said.
‘‘Quite,’’ confirmed Orphan. ‘‘Sivvis is a very well-known professional Challenge-warrior. As you might
guess, there are a fair number of beings who make their livings by being very good at dealing with multiple types of Challenges and hiring their services out professionally. Despite his large size and—to many—brutish appearance, Sivvis is an extremely clever opponent; his last appearance in the arena ended in victory, and there the Challenge was to solve a mathematically-based light-puzzle in the shortest time. Here, of course, he gets to put his natural skills to the test. Now let us see what Ghondas and the rest of her family have chosen to try and compete with Sivvis Lissituras.’’
There was a distant sparkle at the other end of the colosseum, and a second image appeared in the air. Unlike the hulking Daelmokhan Challenge-warrior, the newcomer was . . . tiny. Simon guessed the height of the creature as no more than a meter and a half. Its body was covered with a smooth, shiny integument more like chitin than skin, mostly a polished white with some areas on the head and arms colored a rich royal purple, and had a body plan somewhat similar to Orphan’s: a smooth, rounded head with wide, reddish-looking eyes, and streamlined inset ears, a small mouth, a well-muscled, almost human body, with strong, three-fingered hands tipped with black or deep purple clawlike nails, two legs ending in three-toed feet, and a long, sinuous tail. It wore a suit of some sort of armor, mostly white/silver plates on the chest inlaid with arcane symbols, layered bronze guards covering the shoulders and making a sort of four-section skirt around the waist and leg area.
‘‘Oh, my, now that is interesting indeed.’’ Orphan tapped his hands together in unconscious affirmation. ‘‘A Genasi warrior. If I read his armor-markings correctly, that’s Tunuvun, one of their best.’’
‘‘Amas-Garao mentioned that species once,’’ DuQuesne said. ‘‘Implied they were pretty tough customers.’’
Nyanthus’s trunk had leaned forward and his symbiotes orbited closely to the new image; it was clear that his interest, as well, had been captured. ‘‘There are some who believe the Genasi are the most formidable warriors in the Arena; unfortunately they are . . . impulsive and often given to acting before reasoning. They also are unusual in that they are one of the races native to the Arena itself, and have as yet no Sphere to call their own.’’