by Kage Baker
“But … can’t the others do that too? If Pocktuun or Shotterak can see outside themselves, as I can—it should be easy for them to win.”
Balnshik sighed. “You have the advantage of a certain coherence they haven’t got. You learned to live in a body of flesh. You are more, shall we say, organized.
“And, to be honest, they really are idiots.”
“Another basketful of treats,” said Triphammer cheerily. “Look at this! Fresh fruit! This is the stuff we poor slaves never get, you know.”
“I got another golden bowl,” said Gard. “It’s inscribed. It says, ‘For an esteemed slave.’ “
“And aren’t you glad you’ve got a good education now, so you can read it? That’s someone of the mistresses sent you that, I daresay. They’re mad for you. I can see it, peering up through the grate at them. Shouldn’t think it’ll be long before you’re called on to perform some private services, eh?”
“What kind of services?”
“You know! Like for instance some fine lady will give you one of those hot-blooded stares, as who should say, ‘Slave, I’ve got a loose bolt in my sedan chair; come and tighten it,’ or maybe, ‘Slave, come and put a fresh candle in my candlestick, and light my way to bed,’ or maybe, ‘Slave, I’ve got an itch that wants scratching, and it’s where I simply cannot reach!’ “
“Why should they do that?”
“He means they will invite you to copulate with them,” said Duke Silverpoint.
“Oh.”
The duke then said something further to Triphammer, which the Translator, after a bit of arm-waving, rendered as archaic form of encoded speech. Gard, however, was now fluent in the language of the Children of the Sun, and what he heard was “Thou art a rogue and a fool to tempt him thus. Desist, or it shall go hard with thee. He hath a great virtue in his present state, and look thou see it wasteth not.”
“Worshipful duke, this slave meant no offense,” Triphammer replied, with the same peculiar inflection. “Yet wherefore? Is not his flesh and all that to it pertaineth their property, and at their pleasure?”
“And canst thou say what their pleasure or their purpose may be? No? Therefore be mute, thou.”
“Yes. Well,” said Triphammer, and sniffed.
Now Gard learned what it was to become a hero. Bhetla was sending him out last at each entertainment. Deafening applause greeted his entrance into the arena; the tiers of seats were more packed than he had ever seen them. He wondered, gazing up past the lights, whether the whole population of the mountain stronghold were not crammed in this single stifling chamber. Surely all but the poor wretches who lay in darkness along the lowest corridors were here, and the laborers in the Pumping Station.
Night after night Gard went out and dispatched whole troops of armored brawlers with ridiculous ease. He found that with a very slight shift in concentration he could make his opponents’ bodies betray themselves: a slip of the foot, a sudden weakness in a limb. A green corona hummed around his body at such times, hard to see, but he thought Duke Silverpoint noticed it.
Yet Gard despised his victories, that seemed no more than a child pushing over toys of clay and sticks.
Clay and sticks indeed; he was told that Magister Prazza, who oversaw the rebodying of captive demons, had had to call in more workers to sculpt replacement bodies, so pressed he was to supply them for the arena. Monotonous as the slaughter was, the masters had an infinite appetite for it.
Gard found he could now distinguish between certain families of the masters. Some groups had recognizable shared features: for example, the line of Magister Obashon, who had won in the last war, tended toward hooked noses and protruding eyes. Some family lines wore a predominant color, such as that of Magister Imriudeth, all sea green trimmed with scarlet. The black nipples, he learned, were done with paint and were an affectation of mistresses of a certain age, regardless of family allegiance.
The very young mistresses, and some of the younger masters too, had taken of late to wearing green tunics, crudely daubed with the likeness of a swart-bearded face. When Balnshik explained to Gard that the face was intended to be his own, his response was incredulous laughter.
“And is this not what I foretold?” she said. “You have made them love you.”
“Love!” said Gard. “I don’t want their love. I want to get out of here. You’re trapped here, too; don’t you want to be free?”
She smiled at him. “It’s a question of patience, child. My master is a cobweb, a bubble, a troublesome minute in my long day. Seven thousand years passed before him, and seven thousand will pass after he is gone, and I will not so much as remember his name. But you … you, I think, could make good use of freedom. Let us hope for the best.”
When the change came, it came swiftly.
Gard was standing ankle deep in blood, before a mountain of corpses, and looking wearily up at the audience when he heard an echo of tramping feet in the tunnel. He looked over and saw a party of men coming into the arena. They were, all, onetimers, decked out in their ceremonial armor. Quickfire led them.
A hush fell over the audience, and then an excited murmur. Quickfire drew his long blade and saluted the masters, turning under the lights, flashing a wide smile. There was some applause. The other fighters took up formal poses in a line to the right of him. Neither Chint nor Vergoin was among them.
Quickfire turned to Gard then and set his blade point-down in the mush of bloody sand.
“Gard, half-demon! Quite a name you’ve made for yourself in the arena,” he shouted. “What hosts of the dead you’ve sent wailing from this pit! The mightiest of the mighty … such as they are … all laid low by you, and you haven’t sustained so much as a scratch. Truly you are a famous slaughterer … of Repeaters.
“When such a mortal has proven himself with such distinction, it is customary to welcome him into our ranks. We, the elite, who have but one glorious death to offer the masters! We who truly risk our lives for their entertainment!”
More murmuring, and some anticipatory applause. Quickfire held up his gauntleted hand. “But,” he said, in a voice like a brazen trumpet, “we will not welcome you, Gard!”
Dead silence, and then gasps of excitement from the audience. Gard, who had heard Quickfire out in silence, felt a certain chill. He kept his face impassive, however.
“Who is this trained savage, that he should enter our honored fraternity?” cried Quickfire. “That he has done so well, so far, is truly a credit to our esteemed weapons master.” Quickfire bowed toward Duke Silverpoint. “But we weary of this farce and will end it. We challenge you, Gard, to combat with your betters, in three days’ time. Do you dare accept?”
Gard looked up at Silverpoint, who was in his customary seat, staring across the arena with a face of stone. He was gazing at Bhetla, who was in turn looking up at the audience, gauging its reaction. Bhetla was smiling.
Silverpoint hadn’t known about this.
“I do accept,” said Gard, and the breathless silence ended in tremendous cheers from the audience, but some catcalls too. Quickfire grinned. He stepped back and swept his hand at the row of fighters beside him.
“Then choose. Moktace the Chabian! Falma Hanidor! The elder Kamaton! Three fearless combatants, and all have sworn to take you down.”
Gard spared not a glance at the sneering champions. He raised his hand, which wore no gauntlet, pointed straight at Quickfire, and looked straight into Quickfire’s eyes. “I will fight you.”
There was tumult from above them, and a certain frozen quality to Quickfire’s grin. “Then it will be my pleasure to kill you,” he said. “Go, Gard, and spend these three days praying to your forest gods.”
“I have no gods,” said Gard.
He went wearily down to his cell after the fight and found his chamber empty. He was pouring water to wash himself when Bhetla looked in at the door.
“There you are! You know, you should stay awhile in the arena, after the fighting. The masters would enjoy
a better look at you. And they’re always generous, after a good fight.”
“I want nothing they can give me,” said Gard.
“Is it so?” Bhetla grinned. “But you do hold their attention, these days. They speak of nothing else.”
Gard shrugged. Bhetla stepped inside the cell, looking around. “Some presents, already, I see. You can expect more, over the next three days. I’d advise against eating or drinking anything you’re sent, of course. There will be people betting on Quickfire.”
“Will there?” Gard sluiced blood from his arms.
“Oh, yes. All the Children of the Sun, of course. Tell me, why did you pick that one? He’s not the best of the onetimers, but now you’ll have to do without a trainer.”
“Why’s that?”
“Akkati’s Divine Mother, didn’t you know?” Bhetla blinked at him. “The only time the Children of the Sun stop killing one another is when a member of some other race attacks one of them. Then they all band together. Nobody likes Quickfire, but he’s one of theirs, you see. Odd people. The rest of us aren’t quite real, as far as they’re concerned.”
Duke Silverpoint was not in the exercise hall, next morning, when Gard went in to practice. He put himself through the steps for working away stiffness, and when no one had shown up after two hours, he walked back to his cell. In the corridor he encountered Triphammer, carrying bandages to an injured fighter. Triphammer avoided his gaze, but shook his head and made sorrowful noises.
“What is it?” demanded Gard. Triphammer almost walked on; but he stopped and half-turned, not meeting Gard’s eyes.
“Trouble, trouble. Oh, Icicle, what bad god possessed you? After all our hard work. As if I didn’t have enough else to worry about! You might have won all kinds of favors. I’ll weep, so I will, when they drag you away.”
“Don’t you think I’ll win?”
Triphammer looked up at Gard in surprised pity. “You? Win against Quickfire? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a fine fighter in your way, but you’re … well, you’re not a Child of the Sun. It stands to reason he’ll beat you.”
Balnshik was in Gard’s cell when he returned to it, setting up a folding cot.
“Hello,” she said, looking up at him with a brief smile. “Would you be so kind as to hand me that bag?”
Gard gave her the bag. She withdrew a blanket and pillow and arranged her bed in a businesslike manner. He stood in the doorway, staring at her.
“Perhaps you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“I am, yes,” said Gard.
“My master has been persuaded to bet that you will not be murdered before you step into the arena. Therefore I am sent to attend you, lest he lose his wager.”
Gard scowled, feeling his face grow hot. “I don’t need anyone to protect me.”
“No, dear, of course not.” Balnshik straightened up and shook back her long hair. “Though I did just think I’d remove the venomous serpent I found in your bed. And the poisoned pins stuck in the collar of your robe, and the plate of sweetmeats with broken glass in their centers some admirer sent you.”
Gard stepped across his threshold carefully, sat slowly on the edge of his bed. “Yesterday I was their hero,” he said in wonder. “Why do they hate me now?”
“It’s a matter of looks, as far as I’ve ever been able to discern,” said Balnshik. “As long as you were fighting warriors who were uglier than you were, you were the hero. But now you’ve challenged Quickfire, who is young and handsome and—perhaps most important—does not have a black beard. By all the rules of spectator sports, that makes you the villain. An audience has no brain, you see.”
“I wasn’t fighting to be their hero anyway. Will they still love Quickfire, once I’ve killed him?”
“I’m afraid so, my dear. To die, young and handsome, in the arena? The mistresses will weep over him and remember him. All fighters long for such glory.”
“How stupid.”
“Whyever did you pick him, over Moktace and the others? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“Because he’s my enemy. I don’t know the others, but Quickfire will put thorns in my path if he can. And I know how he fights. I’ll kill him.”
Gard looked up at Balnshik. “I don’t suppose you’d lie with me, lady?”
She sighed. “No, my dear. Only sleep with you.”
She attended him faithfully, accompanied him to the exercise hall, and was in every respect a graceful and witty companion, cheering his heart as well as disposing of a couple of would-be assassins by night, discreetly, with no more than a muffled scream and a few telltale drops of blood by the door. But Gard’s other need went unmet.
Now and again, as they walked from his room to the hall, they passed other slaves hurrying on errands. The demons among them grinned at Gard and made a curious gesture as they passed, as though they were lifting something to their mouths between finger and thumb.
“It’s a good-luck sign,” replied Balnshik, when Gard inquired what the gesture meant. “They wish you joy in eating the liver of your enemy.”
“You mean someone actually hopes I’ll win?”
“My dear, all your people will be cheering for you. We have never had a real champion before this.” Balnshik hummed a phrase of music: If I ever get out of here….
My people, thought Gard. The idea felt strange, after so long.
He meditated the day of the fight, walking outside himself through the same country of stars, following the stag over the green lawn of his childhood. He saw again the couple he did not know, lying down together at the edge of the dance: the man he had thought was his father, and the unknown woman.
This time the stag led him past them and into dark tunnels, and he walked bodiless in his prison, saw Magister Tagletsit basking in the light of his false sun. Duke Silverpoint was writing, alone, in his chamber; Quickfire, cheered on by the other onetimers, was sweating as he practiced in the exercise hall. There was the Pumping Station, with its great central fire burning high, and sweat gleaming on the bodies of … all the folk who crowded into the cavern.
Why was there a crowd there? Why were they excited? Grattur and Engrattur were leaning down to listen intently to a man. Gard whirled his incorporeal point of view around to look into the man’s face—and saw Vergoin.
But the stag walked on, and he was drawn to follow it. It went into a place he took at first to be the arena. No sand was on the floor; it was polished stone, inlaid with arcane designs. The stag struck fire there with its hooves; it put its antlers down and charged the black wall.
The wall exploded outward, fell with a roar. Sunlight streamed in, blinding, with a blue-green glimpse of ice, and white-flaring snow. The stag stood in the opening and turned to look at him.
But he was being called. Someone was pulling him by the hands. He had hands, again. He opened his eyes and peered at Balnshik, who was leaning down to him with a tender smile. “It’s your hour, my dear,” she said.
The halls were deserted, but she stayed with Gard all the way to the arena. She had put on her fighting gear too, harness and mail, as elegant as black velvet on her body.
“Are you planning on avenging my death?” he asked.
“I may do a little fighting today,” she said lightly. “But I’m quite certain you won’t die.”
“What’s that?” Gard nodded at a ribbon she had strung through a link of mail, a loop of vivid green.
She flicked it with her gloved finger. “Only a little token.”
“Are you wearing it for me?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Balnshik. “You may see one or two others, tonight.”
But when Gard stepped into the arena, to massed cheers and denunciation, he looked up and saw many green ribbons. The masters and mistresses who wore them sat huddled in groups together, at the far end from the main entrance to the tiers. Up in the slaves’ gallery, some who wore nothing else wore green ribbons: around their necks, or from nose rings, or looped around tusks in qu
ite a holiday fashion. They roared and hooted their approval of Gard. He gave them a wan smile and thought again, My people.
He swept the house with a long stare. Not a single seat was empty. With a start, he recognized Magister Hoptriot, of all people, wearing a green ribbon strung through his facial wrappings. And there in his customary place was Duke Silverpoint, and he too wore the ribbon, though he gazed straight before him and never looked once at Gard.
Again the echoing fanfare from the tunnel. Gard turned and faced its mouth, expecting the parade of champions once again; but only Quickfire walked forth.
There were cheers for him, applause loud as driving rain, and he held up his fists and flashed a grin at them. His grin faded a moment as he saw Silverpoint’s green ribbon. He looked at Gard with keen hate. When the applause had died, he spoke loudly.
“Why, what a crowd has turned out to see you butchered, Gard! I was going to finish the job quickly, but it seems a shame not to put on a show for them, don’t you think?”
Gard kept his silence, but, looking steadfastly at Quickfire, he drew his two blades. The crowd muttered gleefully, and some applauded.
Quickfire reached over his head and just as slowly drew a pair of blades. He grinned again. “Not a word for your fond followers? You surly misbegotten thing. Speech doesn’t come easily for you, does it?” He began to circle Gard. Gard turned with him, eyeing him. Next would come the provocation …
“But then, your mother must have been silent too. Hard to talk, eh, through a muzzle and fangs?” Quickfire leaped in and swung at him, a round head cut with a right block.
Gard beat him back. The same pattern, then. But not quite the same style … what was wrong? It felt as though a layer of something, feltlike, was hanging in the air before Quickfire. It delayed Gard’s impact, very slightly, but it did. He focused.
He saw from all directions, and it was as though Quickfire wore a wheel of flame on his chest. Under his cuirass was an amulet for protection. Gard watched himself swing for Quickfire’s head and saw the spell in motion; yes, it did look like a cloth flung out, to snare and slow Gard’s blade.