“Also,” she continued, “Zabaj is stronger than you and would be in better shape for the violent part of the plan.”
“Yeah. I guess I was just hoping I’d get to be the one to slit Calbit’s throat. And Tirana’s. Jago, I might’ve let live.” He chuckled. “Though I can take some solace in the fact that Tirana wasn’t really interested in Rol. A welcome change, that.”
Feena, he noticed, wasn’t laughing. Instead, a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I may have lost him, Gan,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Gan whispered.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Well, it kinda is, yeah.”
Feena sat up straight and looked him in the eyes with those ice blue eyes she’d inherited from their mother. “No, Gan, it isn’t. You were kidnapped—that’s not your fault.”
“Yes, actually, it is. If I hadn’t lost that frolik game—”
She interrupted him. “If you hadn’t played the frolik game, you likely would have done something else impulsive and thoughtless.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I speak the truth.”
Gan sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
She lay back down against him. It was good to see his sister again.
They stayed that way, the sounds of Serthlara and Shira snoring in the background, along with Komir and Karalith bickering over which clothes to wear.
He just hoped that they could rescue Rol as easily as they rescued him.
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?�
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“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 re
luctant,” 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.
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