Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  ‘I never realized how big this place was.’

  Rinter’s voice, grating and sounding unnaturally harsh, cut brutally into the deep silence of Pinnatte’s vision. Flooding in its wake came the babble of the gathering audience. Pinnatte grimaced and his hands were halfway to his ears before he remembered where he was. Rinter, however, was too engrossed in the scene below to notice the reaction. Pinnatte took a deep breath to calm himself and looked again at the crystal. It glittered as brightly as before in the comparative gloom, but its strange, penetrating presence was gone. Unexpectedly, he was possessed by a terrible rage that Rinter’s mewling should have torn this wonder from him, and his mind was suddenly filled with a vision of the animal trainer flailing and screaming as he hurled him from the balcony into the arena below – a fitting sacrifice. But, just as suddenly, the mood was gone, leaving Pinnatte oddly empty and a little puzzled that such a violent image should cause him so little concern. He had been subjected to violence many times, and was not afraid to use it himself when he had no alternative, but it was always a regrettable necessity and certainly it was not his way to take vengeful delight in it. And yet the reason he had not attacked Rinter was not because of any moral scruple, but because the light from the crystal stayed his hand. It seemed to be reassuring him, telling him to remain calm; it was not lost, it was merely elsewhere; it had existed always, and would return to him. And it told him other things as well, just as had the carved face. It told him again of a future quite different to the one he would have thought was his but days ago. He took another deep breath. Just a reaction to all that’s happened today, he thought. So many changes. It wasn’t a very convincing explanation, but he’d think about it later. He forced himself to pick up the threads of Rinter’s continuing remarks.

  ‘There must be three times as many people here as normal, and there’s space for as many again – look.’ Rinter was almost having to shout to make himself heard above the clamour coming from every angle.

  Pinnatte followed Rinter’s pointing hand down across the lower balconies and the terraces around the arena. The man’s estimate was probably right, he decided. There were far more there than he had ever seen before, and though the balconies were lined with people, they were far from crowded.

  ‘Where’ve they all come from?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know there was going to be a Loose Pit here tonight and I live quite near.’

  Rinter turned to him questioningly. ‘Never been to one before, eh?’

  Pinnatte shook his head.

  Rinter became avuncular. ‘Loose Pit people are different from ordinary Pit watchers, Pinnatte. Richer, as you can see. More knowledgeable and discerning by far. Connoisseurs, you might say. And very well connected.’ He gave a knowing nod with the last remark, then leaned close. ‘For instance, when I was here earlier with my… colleague…’ He frowned at the sudden memory of Atlon and Dvolci, and cast a quick glance across the hall as if he might suddenly see them. It did not halt the momentum of his new tale, however. ‘When I was here earlier, they were closed because there was going to be something special tonight. But it wasn’t this. Not a Loose Pit. There was no hint of it. They’d have told me right away… me being known here. Don’t ask me why, but this has come about within the last few hours. But those people…’ Without looking away from Pinnatte, he pointed over the parapet, towards the crowd on the terraces below. ‘… are connected. News of a Loose Pit gets to them quicker than if it was being taken by a galloper. I’ve seen it happen before. They come from all over.’ He snapped his fingers.

  Pinnatte inclined his head and pursed his lips by way of acceptance of this information. After allowing for a little licence by the teller, the suddenness of it all seemed quite plausible. The entrances to the passageways they had come along had only been roughly cleared of rubbish and the lighting and signs they had met all bore the hallmarks of hasty preparation.

  Then he wondered whether Lassner was amongst the crowd – whether his Den Master was one of the chosen many who supported these very special events. The thought brought a flicker of bitterness. If Lassner was there, it would doubtless be his, Pinnatte’s, money that the old fool was wasting with his inept wagering. And, presumably, wagers too would be much higher than normal tonight. Almost as though he had accidentally picked up a hot coal, he let the thought go quickly – it was an unnecessary burden. All he needed to think about Lassner now was how to get away from him without causing problems that were likely to pursue him into his new future. Now he was going to enjoy the experience of the first Loose Pit at the Jyolan, and his own first Loose Pit.

  Enjoy.

  This too puzzled him a little. Though he came to the Jyolan fairly frequently, he would not have described himself as a great follower of the sport. In fact, there were times when he found it unpleasant and distasteful, not least the behaviour of the crowd. It touched something in him that he rebelled against. He went there as much for something to do as for any other reason – usually it was not an expensive evening. Tonight, however, continuing the mood that had started to possess him as he had sat on the roof of Lassner’s Den, he was actually beginning to feel excited. Perhaps it was the general mood, or just the strangeness of everything that was happening here. Perhaps it was the prospect of the yarns he would have to tell over the next few months. Then again, he thought more cynically, perhaps just parting with the extra money had induced in him the idea that what he was about to see must be worth paying a lot for.

  Whatever it was, he was glad to be there.

  ‘Any sign of your friend?’ he asked.

  Rinter’s mouth twisted irritably. ‘No. I doubt he’s in here even if he’s found the place. He didn’t have much money and he still needed quite a bit of persuading. I might go back to The Wyndering tomorrow to see if he’s still there. That rat thing was most impressive. I wouldn’t like to lose it.’ He shrugged regretfully. ‘But I’m afraid he might be another lost opportunity now. I should never have let him wander off on his own. He was very…’ He looked at Pinnatte while he searched for a word. ‘Innocent,’ he decided.

  Pinnatte replied with an arch look that made Rinter chuckle craftily. He gave Pinnatte a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Well, better I show him the ways of the city than some unscrupulous individual who wouldn’t have his best interests at heart.’

  ‘Of course,’ Pinnatte concurred with mock solemnity.

  The two men laughed as they turned their attention back to the arena.

  It was the first time that Pinnatte had really looked at the scene below since they arrived and he was immediately struck by the remarkable view of the arena. It was not as good a view as Pitside, of course, but it was much better than he had imagined it would be when the Pitguards had directed them up here. Rinter was not as impressed. ‘I hope they’re big, whatever’s fighting tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be difficult to see any niceties from up here.’ He leaned back from the wall and looked up and down the balcony. ‘Have you seen any blues?’

  ‘No,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘But there’s plenty Pitside.’ He pointed. ‘And they’re signalling up here. There must be some further round.’

  The blues were the ‘officials’ who controlled the wagering at the Pits. Wagering between individuals was expressly forbidden, and though it was common, it was risky. Anyone caught doing it would routinely lose any money and valuables they had on them, by way of fines, and could well be given a beating to emphasize the point. Ostensibly the blues were independent of one another, officially appointed by the Prefect, but everyone knew that they were chosen for their peculiar mathematical skills and, like the Pitguards, were employed by the people who organized the Fights. They were called blues because of the bright blue neckerchiefs that they wore, bearing the insignia of the Prefect in silver thread at one corner. Although it was a characteristic of them that they were loud in proclaiming their honour and honesty, it was a commonplace that they worked together to ensure that the odds remained decidedly in their, and thus their emp
loyers’, favour. Nevertheless, such judgements were invariably forgotten in the heat of a Fight and the blues were never short of customers. They communicated with one another above the din and confusion of the Pits by means of frantic elaborate hand signals involving great manual dexterity and many violent slashing and throat-cutting gestures. Several of them were standing around the Pit, signalling to others on the terraces and up to the balconies.

  Rinter studied them for a while then pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not for me tonight, I think,’ he said. ‘Minimum bet’s too high.’

  Despite himself, Pinnatte was impressed. ‘You understand all that arm-waving?’ he asked with a mimicking gesture.

  ‘Enough,’ Rinter replied. ‘I’ve picked it up over the years.’

  Before Pinnatte could pursue this intriguing discovery a trumpet sounded. Four repeated notes echoed around the crowded hall and the audience fell silent.

  Chapter 15

  Another trumpet joined the first. Then another. The sounds cascaded over one another, filling the hall. Traditionally, fighting pits always opened with a fanfare of some kind. More often than not it would be a teeth-clenching affair of split notes and dissonances, though occasionally it could be martial and stirring. Pinnatte liked that – he responded to music, and a good fanfare thrilled him. So much so, that when he heard one he would walk back to the Den, whistling a tuneless and inadequate descant to its echoing memory softly under his breath.

  But this was such as he had never heard before. It was not merely confidently and accurately played, it had a driving, rhythmic power that seemed to pick him up and shake him. At its climax, he felt as though he was being transported to another place, far above and beyond this shoddy hall with its degradation and its stench of bloodlust and greed. He was wide-eyed and gaping in amazement when eventually the sound faded, and he felt as if every hair on his body was standing on end. How could such magic exist in a place like this?

  Then a biting pain shot through his right hand and, for a moment, suffused him horribly. It was as though his body was rebelling against his elation at the music and it brought him crashing back to normality. Somehow he managed to reduce an anguished cry to a sharply indrawn breath, but he could do no other than seize his hand and hold it tight against himself. The pain began to fade almost immediately.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Rinter asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Pinnatte answered, grimacing. ‘I hurt my hand earlier and just caught it on something.’ Rinter nodded with casual sympathy and returned to watching the arena below. Unexpectedly, Pinnatte found that he was relieved at the other man’s lack of concern. He did not want to show the stain on his hand to anyone; it was his, and his alone. Fleetingly it seemed to him that the pain and the music were associated in some way – as if the pain were indeed a punishment because the music had taken him somewhere he should not be. He did not dwell on the notion, for it made no sense.

  Then the pain was gone completely. Slowly he released his hand, fearful about what he might see when he looked down. He edged back a little from Rinter and, manoeuvring himself into the light from a nearby lamp, nervously examined the back of his hand. To his relief he saw that nothing had changed. There was no sign of inflammation or swelling, still less anything that might have caused a violent and sudden reaction. Indeed, the stain seemed to be a little fainter. Very tentatively, he prodded it with his finger. It did not hurt. He prodded harder. Still there was no pain. Whatever had caused it, there was not even the slightest tenderness now.

  A raucous cheering came up from the crowd, dissipating his lingering concern about his hand. Like the fanfare, the roar grew in intensity and, also like the fanfare, it seemed first to pass through him and then to carry him away. This time however, he was not so much lifted out of himself as possessed by the wild-eyed and ravening excitement that was filling the hall. For the first time, the characteristic stink of the arena reached him. It had a peculiarly vivid intensity, almost as though for an instant he had been given the heightened senses of an animal. It mingled with the smell and roar of the crowd, exciting him still further. He heard, or rather felt himself joining in the noise even before he was again looking over the parapet to see what it was for.

  The cause lay in the floor of the high platform at the centre of the arena, where three curved and overlapping sections were slowly drawing back to reveal a growing circular opening. Pinnatte stiffened as the oval arena became a great eye, with the dark circle that formed its pupil widening as if at the joy of seeing him. As it stared up at him, his own eyes widened in response.

  Then a faint bloody thread was worming in the depths of the darkness. Only slowly did he realize that he was watching someone emerge through the opening. The image of the eye lingered however, until the man stepped on to the platform.

  He was a familiar figure, to be found in all the fighting pits, though Pinnatte was not used to seeing him from such an angle. He wore a bright red, broad-brimmed hat, and a long coat of the same colour decorated with an elaborate gold tracery. In his right hand he held a slender silver staff, half as tall again as himself. This was the Master of the Pit, ostensibly the supreme authority over all matters that occurred in the arena. His decisions were not to be disputed, however arbitrary they might seem, however enraged the crowd. He it was who signalled the beginning and the ending of each fight and who determined the winner when any doubt existed. He also enforced discipline in the arena, the merest touch of his staff causing animals to release even the most tenacious of grips and leap back in pain. More than once, Pinnatte had seen a similar fate meted out to irate owners who had so much forgotten themselves in the heat of the moment as to approach the central platform and argue with the Master.

  Following this tall and dignified figure came two men dressed in tight black tunics and trousers. They too carried staffs though they were shorter than the Master’s. These were the Judges of the Pit, though why, no one knew, for their opinions were neither sought by the Master nor offered to him. Their duties consisted of regaling the crowd with the breeding and fighting pedigrees of the various animals, with goading those that were reluctant to fight, and with dispatching any that were badly hurt.

  Other figures entered the arena next through doors in the side of the central platform. They entered quietly and without ceremony. Carrying heavy staffs and long knives, they were known as the Clerks of the Pit. It was their task to implement any instructions from the Master and to help the Judges with the dispatching of animals – sometimes a difficult and dangerous duty – and to clean up the arena after each fight. Normally they were a motley, ragged group of individuals, but tonight even they wore liveries – pale brown in colour, not dissimilar to that of the arena floor. They were greeted with mock cheers and whistles which most of them managed to ignore.

  The Master extended his arms with his palms upwards and turned round to encompass the entire crowd. The cheering became genuine and very loud, fading only as one of the Judges stepped forward to speak. Rinter and Pinnatte craned forward in anticipation of having difficulty in hearing a solitary voice from so far away. So did everyone else. It proved to be unnecessary however. When the man spoke, some quality in the construction of the hall carried his voice in such a way that it was as though he were standing only a few paces away from everyone there. A murmur of surprise rumbled through the hall, but he spoke through it. He had an ironic lilt to his voice.

  ‘Welcome to you all, my friends. Welcome to the Jyolan Fighting Pits…’

  ‘He’s a new one,’ Rinter said. ‘And the Master, too.’

  Pinnatte nodded.

  ‘Welcome to the new andfuture Jyolan Fighting Pits.’ There was a cheer from parts of the crowd. ‘Tonight is not what it was going to be. Even this morning, this night was not foreseen. But changes have come about and tonight’s contests will show you things that will remain with you not only when you leave, but for the rest of your lives…’

  ‘That won’t be long at this rate. Get on with it,�
�� someone shouted.

  There was some laughter, and the Judge turned and levelled an open hand in the direction of the heckler. ‘And we may decide to finish the evening by throwing some extra fresh meat to our magnificent winners.’ This was greeted with a raucous cheer from those standing near the man and, satisfied, the Judge returned to his speech. ‘Those of you who come here regularly, may doubtless be surprised at what you’ve found tonight’ He indicated the opened balconies.

  ‘And at the prices,’ came a cry. There were some angry voices raised in agreement with this.

  The Judge gave an airy wave. ‘Quality, ladies and gentlemen. Quality. If you want to see rabbits, rats and bad-tempered dogs nibbling at one another, there are plenty of other places to go to.’ He became dismissive. ‘Some, I’ve no doubt, would probably pay you to go in and watch. But for what we have tonight, a grand re-opening, as it were, what you’ve paid is the merest trifle. You’ll not regret the modest amounts we’ve asked from you – not ever. For you are the fortunate, the privileged few whom fate has chosen to be present at the very beginning of a future which will see the Jyolan Pits restored to a splendour and fame that will exceed even its past greatness, the few who’ll be talking about tonight’s events to their great-grandchildren.’