by Dave Duncan
absolutely nothing--no herds, no lands, and could
see no other way of winning a wife--they might
seem reasonable."
His cautious Blade obviously disagreed.
He would be a lot less likely ever to accept
such a gamble than his impetuous ward would.
Kromman rose and creaked across to inspect the
crocks in the corner. "Do you suppose the odds
are adjusted to draw the required number of
challengers?"
Durendal had not thought of that. "You mean the
brothers deliberately lose once a year?
Flames!" They might be
even-better-than-fiery good.
"You did not ask about Sir Everman."
Wolfbiter made the statement a question.
"I wanted to see if our flea-bitten friend
would mention him on his own. Now I want to know why
he didn't. Besides, we have the rest of our lives
ahead of us. We'll take this mystery one step
at a time."
"I may make a competent agent out of you
yet," Kromman remarked in his unpleasant
hoarse rasp.
Observing a dangerous glint in his Blade's
eye, Durendal said hastily, "After we've
eaten, if we don't fall ill immediately,
I'll take a stroll around the town."
Wolfbiter rose and took a step
to stand before the door. He drew Fang and raised
her in the duelists' salute. "Over my dead
body."
"Put it away; you're bluffing."
Fang went back in her scabbard. "But I'm
not joking, sir. All those strong young peasants you
mentioned, trapped here for months waiting their
turn, running out of money ... Do you remember
where I put the manacles?"
He had a good point. Samarinda after dark would
not be a haven of tranquility and a prudent man
would explore it first in daylight. "All right,
nurse, tonight I'll behave myself."
"Thank you."
The inquisitor said, "This is the water jug and
this is the chamber pot, I think. Confirm that
please, Sir Wolfbiter."
About once a year, Kromman showed signs
of a sense of humor.
They left at first light, locking the door behind
them in the certain knowledge that it would not keep Cabuk from
rummaging through their packs while they were out. The
alleyways were deserted still, but the monastery was so
high that it could not be hard to find. Soon they were
walking parallel to it, seeing it looming over the
adjoining buildings.
"Makes no sense!" Wolfbiter complained.
"These houses must butt up against it. Why give
your enemies a three-story leg up?"
If his quick wits did not understand, then his ward's
certainly would not. "Because you defend yourself with
conjuration, I expect. The fortifications are just for
show."
Then they turned a corner into a square, the first
open space they had found in the city. The side
to their left was the front wall of the monastery, a
smooth and forbidding curtain of stone between two
corner towers. The other three sides were a
tightly packed jumble of the ramshackle, chaotic
houses of Samarinda, a continuous frontage
broken only by a few narrow alleys. Most of the
square itself was occupied by the fateful courtyard of the
legends, defined by a chest-high wall on three
sides, directly abutting the monastery on the
fourth. The terrace between the wall and the houses
provided both access to the dwellings and a grandstand
for spectators, for the flagstones of the
court lay a man's height below street level.
"The bear pit. Once you're in you're in."
Durendal leaned on the wall and peered over.
He wondered how often some poor wretch lost his
nerve down there and was pursued around and around by an
immortal conjurer wielding a golden sword.
The coping of the wall was too smooth to offer any
hope of a handhold; it had been polished
by centuries of arms leaning on it.
In the chill dawn light, the courtyard stood
deserted and the monastery door was closed. The arch
was large enough to take a loaded wagon, which was
clearly impractical, as the only other way in
or out of the courtyard was a barred gate directly
opposite, and it was only man-size. Steps
outside it led up to street level, while
close inside it stood a post with a single arm, like
a gallows, and from that hung a bronze disk about
shield size. Cabuk had mentioned a gong.
A dozen or so men were already leaning on the wall
near the gate. Durendal set off to join them, in
the belief that they would have chosen the best place
to view the show. Before he reached the corner, a
door in one of the houses opened and the biggest man
he had ever seen emerged, bent almost double. He
straightened up to tree stature and put his hands
on his hips. He looked up at the morning and
then down at Durendal. He was obviously not a
native of Altain, for his hair was the wrong
color. He was all hair: tawny beard
trailing to his waist, a cinnamon mane hanging
down his back, a black bearskin around his loins,
and man-fur everywhere else. He bore a shiny
steel battle-ax on his back. He would have
curdled blood had he not at once grinned from
ear to ear.
"You're new! Do you speak Puliarsh? I am
Khiva son of Zambul."
"Durendal the Bastard."
"Chalice of Zuropolis."
"Wolfbiter the Terrible."
"Welcome!" He looked doubtfully down
at Wolfbiter, who did not come up to his
nipples. "How terrible?"
The Blade gave him a malignantly
calculated glare. "Appalling when I have to get
up before dawn. Quite patient otherwise."
The colossus took a moment to work that out and
decide it was a joke. He laughed, a sound like
runaway barrels. "Are you going to put
in your names today? Come!"
He set off with long strides. Durendal
walked with him, letting the other two follow.
"We'll decide if we want to enter when
we've seen a few fights."
"They're very good, all of them. But I am
better."
Was he? A warrior who let his hair or
beard grow long was inviting opponents to catch
hold of it. "Will they let you fight with that ax?"
"Yes. The monkey said it would be all right."
"How long have you been waiting?"
Khiva pondered. "Weeks. But I'm due
soon, because I don't know anyone who was here when
I came, except Gartok son of Gilgit.
It will be nice to have someone else who can speak
Puliarsh. I have been lonely since Ysog was
called."
"Have you seen any winners?"
"No. But you will, if you watch me. I have a
woman waiting for me, friend Durendal! Her father
said I could not have her because I had no flocks.
Whe
n I go home, I shall buy up all the
flocks in the village and buy her with them and
everyone will be amazed. And I may take her
sisters, too."
Alas, when the brains and brawn were passed out,
Khiva son of Zambul had been served twice
from the same pot and missed the other one altogether.
A couple of dozen aspiring swordsmen had
gathered at the gate now, and more were drifting in.
As soon as the newcomers introduced themselves, it
became clear that many of the other contestants had the
same cognitive shortcomings as Khiva son
of Zambul, but a few were quite impressive. It
made sense that only fools or very skilled
swordsmen would venture their lives in the Golden
Sword Stakes. One man in particular stood
out as having a following. He was large but not
ungainly, past his first youth but still lithe. His
swarthy, hooked-nosed features probably
came from somewhere on the shores of the Seventh Sea,
and his curved sword certainly did. He gave
his name as Gartok son of Gilgit.
"Ah! Then you are next?" Durendal said.
His dark eyes gleamed in a smile. "I
believe so. It is impossible to be certain.
There were forty-six here when I put in my name, but
many become dispirited and go home. I have been here
forty days. It must be soon."
Durendal wondered why he could not just ask the
monkeys to tell him where he stood on the list,
but the question seemed so absurd that it stuck in his
throat. "And you believe you can win?"
Gartok shrugged. "If they send out Tabriz
or Valmian, I have a very good chance. Against
Karaj or Saveh, a reasonable one. I have not
seen all the brethren in action, and a couple of them
only once. If Herat comes or Everman or
Tejend, then I am dead."
Aha! "I was told that Everman was a recent
recruit to the brotherhood?"
Gartok shrugged again. "So they say. He has
a strange style, but he is deadly. I have
watched him twice. He does not toy with his
victims as Karaj and Herat do. He goes
straight for the heart. Stab! Like that!"
Everman had been a rapier man.
Before Durendal could ask more, a murmur of
excitement drew his attention to the courtyard. The
sun was over the rooftops now, already hot. One
of the flagstones had lifted like a trapdoor, and the
monkeys were emerging. He left Gartok and
strode along the terrace a few yards to watch this
performance more directly.
The only monkey he had ever seen had been a
pet chained to a beggar's wrist in Urfalin, and that
had been a tiny animal. These were as tall as he
was, although they walked stooped with a shambling
gait; and they most certainly outweighed him. They
were all female, wearing loose trousers of
many-colored material--scarlet, blue, green,
and gold--and each had a sword on her back, the
scabbard held by shoulder straps. He counted
seven of the strange beasts before a dark hairy arm
pulled the trapdoor closed. Two shuffled
toward the gate; the others spread out to the sides
of the yard. Then they just stood, waiting.
He glanced behind him, and for once his Blade was
not there. He went back to the group at the gate,
receiving an angry stare from Wolfbiter, who could not
have noticed him leave.
Nothing very much seemed to be happening. Gartok,
the senior contestant, was holding forth to a dozen or
so intent disciples, passing on his own observations
of the monks' personal styles, plus wisdom
collected by others--the group folklore of a
unique, ever-changing gladiator society.
"Yarkan I have not seen. He is of great
stature, like Sahrif, but may be known
by his chest hair, which is black and in a
cruciform pattern. He has been wounded either
twice or three times in living memory, always
on the left leg and always with a rapier. He is
left-handed and often uses a broadsword. That
is a very tricky combination, my friends, a
broadsword coming from your right! They may well
send him out against Khiva son of Zambul."
One of the listeners made a remark about Khiva
son of Zambul that sent the others off into nervy
laughter. Fortunately the giant was not within
earshot, or else the joke had not been phrased
in Puliarsh.
A newcomer went by and started down the stairs.
At once everyone fell silent and crowded around
the railing to listen. He was older than most, with
silver in his beard, but he moved well and bore
a very long single-edged sword on his back. He
peered through the bars at the two waiting monkeys.
One said, "Give me your name and you will be
called in turn." Her voice was deep and
throaty but perfectly intelligible. Her lips
and tongue were black. She had dangling breasts,
although not as prominent as a woman's, and the
nipples were black also.
"Ardebil son of Kepri."
"You will be called, Ardebil son of
Kepri."
"May I use this sword?"
"It will be permitted."
Ardebil climbed back up the steps and was at
once hailed as a welcome addition to the group.
Had that been a person of grotesque appearance
he had spoken with or an intelligent animal?
Suppose Durendal went down and asked the
monkey to deliver a message to Brother
Everman--what then?
The terrace was filling up as the hour of
challenge approached, so he strolled off in
search of a clear space of wall to lean on.
Wolfbiter joined him on one side, Kromman
on the other.
"There must be forty contestants here."
"Forty-two," said Kromman. "A good agent
collects exact information. And here come another
three. Those six over there with the women are unarmed,
probably just spectators. So is the man with the
boy."
"Would it be easier to enchant a monkey into a
thing that size and make it talk or
to enchant a woman into looking like a monkey?"
The inquisitor sneered. "I am not a
conjurer, Sir Durendal. My guess would be the
latter, but conjuration is not always logical. Do you
agree?"
"Yes. They seem to be intelligent, not just
trained animals, although I can't be certain. The
feat of memory still troubles me. Is there such a
thing as a memory-enhancing conjuration?"
"Possibly. We must find out what else the
brutes do."
"I think they prevent anyone else interfering
in the duel." Wolfbiter was clearly having
nightmares of his ward down there fighting for his
life.
One of the monkeys by the gate shambled over to the
gong and reached up a very long arm to rap on it with
her knuckles. A metallic note
reve
rberated through the court. She went back to the
gate as her companion there bellowed out a
summons.
"Jubba Ahlat!"
Heads turned this way and that along the long line
of spectators.
"Jubba Ahlat!"
"Master Ahlat has apparently thought better
of his rashness," Kromman said. "Prudent young
fellow."
"I have never heard you speak sense before,
Inquisitor," Wolfbiter retorted.
"You do not listen. One of the camel drivers
told me that if a man comes back years later
to try again, the monkeys will always remember him and
refuse him a second chance, no matter what
name he gives."
A third time Ahlat's name was called, and still
there was no response. More spectators were
drifting into the square. Faces had appeared at
the windows of the surrounding houses.
"Gartok son of Gilgit!"
"Here!"
The Thyrdonian hauled off his tunic and then
his shirt. Each was snatched from his fingers by a group
of small boys who had gathered near the steps and
promptly began fighting over the loot with many
shrill curses. When he contributed his dagger,
one of them grabbed it and ran; others pursued.
Finally Gartok emptied his pockets, showering
coins over the remaining scavengers, and hurried
down the steps to the gate that now stood
open for him.
"This is barbaric!" Kromman growled.
"My Blade and I do not disagree."
One of the monkeys clanged the gate shut and
locked it. The other intercepted Gartok, pawing
at him to make sure he had brought no concealed
weapons. Then she stood aside and let him
stride out into the sunshine, naked to the waist,
flashing his scimitar as he flexed his arms for
battle.
He went to the gong and struck it with the flat of his
blade, crashing out an earsplitting boom that
echoed back and forth.
Barbaric, yes, but there was some horribly
primitive attraction in a contest to the death.
Durendal could not have torn himself away for anything
except immediate danger to his ward, the King.
A second boom on the gong, then a third--
the challenge delivered.
The great iron-bound door of the monastery began
to open, swinging slowly inward to reveal a blank
wall of sunlit stone, which was to be expected in a
castle, where an invader breaking down the front
door would find himself confined to a passage and
defenders dropping missiles on his head.
A man strode in from one side and advanced