Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  “Do we understand each other?” Zarel finally asked.

  “We understand each other,” Varnel replied softly.

  “Now, on to the other concern. This fighter of no House, this hanin, do you have a description?”

  “None of my people were there.”

  “Come now, what about your fighter’s gaming master?”

  Varnel shifted uncomfortably.

  Zarel laughed and took another drink.

  “Either your man was an idiot fighting for no reason other than to gain a spell or he had a gaming master there to fleece the crowd. I’d hate to think that all your fighters are idiots.”

  “The gaming master was thrown into the fissure by the mob when he ran out of money to pay them back when my man lost.”

  “A logical response. And speaking of that, I now have a crack in the middle of one of my main streets that’s a good twenty fathoms deep. Do you know how much that will cost to fix? Also, half a block of slums burned to the ground and nearly fifty people dead.”

  “Well, they are only peasants.”

  “My peasants; that’s fifty fewer peasants to pay taxes. That’s fifty fewer peasants who, through their mere existence, contribute to the pool of mana. My, my, Varnel, the bill just keeps adding up. I’m not talking bribes here; I’m talking damages. I don’t know how many cartloads of dirt it’s going to take to fill that hole your man created. The funeral costs, rebuilding the block of slums, it’ll be quite a bill.”

  “As if you’re going to pay it yourself,” Varnel shot back.

  “Damn it, no. You’re going to pay it,” Zarel roared, “and that’s not a bribe. That’s coming out of the bond you and the other Houses set against damages to my city during festival.”

  “What about the House of Kestha? He’s the one who started the fight,” Varnel snapped.

  “Oh, Tulan and his House will pay too,” Zarel said smoothly.

  I bet they will, Varnel thought angrily as he snatched the decanter of wine and poured himself another drink, figuring that at least Zarel was footing the bill for the refreshments and he might as well get the most out of it.

  “You should take it out of the hide of this no House warrior.”

  “Oh, I will. He’ll help pay for the damages before I have him quartered for fighting in my city without sanction of House. The problem is no one knows who he is or where he went.”

  Varnel smiled at that one.

  “Surely your loyal subjects should be eager to help the law.”

  “Scum. They think the whole thing was vastly amusing. He’s quite their hero, now, for winning them money. Lousy scum. They’re out there laughing in the streets and your House helped start this. Oh, I got the usual descriptions. He was black, he was white, he was yellow. He was tall, short, fat, skinny, pox-marked, fair-skinned, two eyes, one eye. The only thing they agreed upon was that he had no House.”

  Varnel sat back and looked away.

  “What is it?”

  Startled, Varnel looked back.

  “Nothing. No, it’s nothing.”

  Zarel stared closely at his guest.

  “Something I said bothered you.”

  “No, just wondering, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  “Who is this man? He killed a third-rank fighter. That’s a bit unusual for a hanin. Usually they manage to gain a House or are dead by the time they reach such a level of skill. That means he’s good, as good as a master of the third-rank. And yet he has no color, no House. It’s strange.”

  Zarel looked away for a moment.

  Varnel was right, it was unusual. Not only that but the fact that the man had vanished without a trace. There was something else as well. A sensing more than a knowing, an innate feeling that something was not quite right, that this was not just another incident, a stupid brawl, that would be forgotten by tomorrow. He couldn’t quite touch what it was, but the uneasiness was a warning that had to be heeded.

  “We’ll find him,” Zarel finally said coldly.

  Varnel looked up over the edge of his goblet and smiled in reply.

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 2

  “SO WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR TODAY?”

  Garth, scratching the fleabites he had picked up during the night, looked around at the room full of old men, who were stirring as the first light of dawn peeked in through the cracks in the shutters and roof.

  “Leave here for starters.”

  The raggedy man chortled.

  “Here to do whatever it is you came for. Ah, your greater mysterious quest.”

  “Something like that,” Garth said dryly.

  “I’m coming.”

  Garth looked down at the toothless old man.

  “I had a feeling you would,” Garth said softly and the raggedy man looked at him in surprise.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you can’t stand a mystery. You want to find out what will happen next.”

  The raggedy man rocked back and forth on his stool next to the fire, laughing with delight.

  “I want to watch the fun. I think someone’s going to get killed out of this and I want to be there. Always a business opportunity in such ventures.”

  The old man leaned over the fire and cut off two thick slices of meat from a roast that had been slowly cooking over the glowing embers. He tossed one over to Garth, who snatched it and gingerly tossed it back and forth in his hands until the meat cooled enough to eat. The old man, finishing his breakfast, unbolted the door and peeked out cautiously.

  The legless beggar was sitting across the street and waved his hand as if swatting away a fly.

  “It’s clear,” the raggedy man announced. “Let’s go.”

  Taking a staff from beside the door, he stepped out into the street and then, turning, relieved himself against the building. Garth looked at him disdainfully and then realized that he had to follow suit and stepped up beside the old man.

  “You know, this is as good a moment as any for introductions. I’m Hammen of Jor.”

  The old man, finishing, buttoned his greasy trousers and then extended his hand.

  Garth, finishing as well, buttoned up and looked down at Hammen, who grinned at him, his yellowing teeth looking like jagged, rotting posts in a dark cavern.

  Garth tentatively took Hammen’s hand and then did not bother to hide his actions as he wiped his palm on the side of his pants.

  Hammen laughed.

  “A cleaner handshake than what you’ll get from any House Master.”

  Garth could not help but smile.

  “Where can I find the Gray House?”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “Just curious to see, that’s all.”

  Hammen, raising his staff with a flourish, pointed down the refuse-choked alleyway and they were off.

  Garth followed behind his self-appointed guide, cautiously looking up side streets as they passed. It was well past dawn and yet the city was still barely stirring, the revelry in celebration of the approaching festival having obviously consumed the energy of the citizens. Hammen stopped for a moment to poke at several prostrate forms lying next to an overturned rain barrel. One of them stirred slightly, the other two remained still.

  Garth looked down at them. He could see all three were alive but would soon regret that state of affairs when they woke up.

  "They've already been picked over," Hammen announced, and continued on out into a main boulevard that was nearly a dozen fathoms across.

  Garth turned and looked back up the street, where wisps of smoke were still rising from yesterday's fun. Around him shopkeepers were just beginning to unshutter their stalls, placing their wares out on tables in front of their doors. A few early risers were already out purchasing food and Garth strode along slowly, unable to hide his amazement at the multitude of goods for sale.

  Hammen looked back at him.

  "I don't think you've had much experience with cities."

  Garth no
dded.

  "I could see that; no one but a fool would have followed me down a back alley the way you did. Such trust is only found in yokels from the countryside. No citizen of this city would be so stupid."

  "Either a fool or someone who could take care of himself," Garth replied coolly.

  Hammen looked up at Garth and nodded in agreement.

  "I think you can take care of yourself. But survive here? That will be interesting to see."

  Hammen slowed and pointed to a fruit stand.

  "Ah, my favorite, pomegranates from Esturin." Hammen strode up to the fruit monger, who was setting out bundles of pomegranates, oranges, exotic fillagrits from across the flowing sea, exquisite and delicate lollins, and other glistening delectables of red, green, orange, and deepest blue which Garth had never seen before.

  The merchant looked up at Hammen, shook her head with an exasperated smile, and tossed him a pomegranate. Hammen motioned for her to favor Garth as well.

  Garth took the fruit and bit into it, smiling as the juice trickled down his throat.

  "It's good."

  "Never had one before, have you?"

  Garth said nothing as he finished off the treat, half-listening as Hammen and the merchant, who were obviously old acquaintances, talked about the news of the city.

  "The guards of the Grand Master swarmed through here last night like flies on the scent of offal," the merchant announced, while all the time staring straight at Garth. "Looking for the fighter."

  "So did they find him?"

  "Oh, they arrested the usual suspects."

  Hammen laughed and turned away. The merchant, smiling, tossed Garth three more pomegranates and winked. Garth tucked them inside his open tunic.

  "You won a lot of money for these people yesterday, plus you bearded an Orange," Hammen announced. "You can eat free for awhile."

  Hammen nodded to the dirty brown pennants that fluttered over many of the stalls lining the street.

  "You can see, most folks in this quarter are Brown supporters."

  "Why? The fighting Houses mean nothing to them and I'm certain the Houses don't give a good damn what commoners think anyhow."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I think it's fair to assume such," Garth replied.

  "You don't seem to understand much about the human soul, One-eye," Hammen replied. "For most of these folk the Festival is the one thing to look forward to in their lives, that and the hope of a winning lottery ticket. The games are everything.

  "You can go to most any stall or swill dive"-and he pointed vaguely over to a tavern which was already full-“and the meanest beggar can recite for you the wins, the spells possessed by his favorite fighter, especially if that man or woman won him a few coppers in the wagers. Win money for the mob and you're a hero."

  "Some hero," Garth sniffed. "A fighter now would burn a peasant alive just to test a new spell and feel less remorse than if he squashed a roach."

  "What do you mean now?" Hammen asked quietly.

  "Oh, I hear the story of the old days, when things were different, when fighters were required to go on pilgrimage, to serve others who needed them."

  Hammen spit on the ground.

  "The old days are dead, hanin. If you came here thinking different, I think I'll simply leave you right now. I've taken a bit of a liking to you and would hate to see you dead before the day is out. Only a fool would believe that fighters care about the rest of us."

  "So why should the people care?"

  "That's what I mean," Hammen replied. "You don't understand the human soul. They know the truth, but they'll still cheer their hero on and by doing so feel that somehow they're part of his glory and power. Once Festival starts they're transported to heaven for three days. They can forget the squalor, the sickness, the short brutal lives that consume them. They're out there in the arena, listening to the chanting roar, dueling for power, for prestige, for their lives and for the approval of the Walker, who takes the final winner with him so that he can serve in other worlds. For three days out of the entire year the mob can live the dream."

  Garth looked over quizzically at Hammen, whose voice had grown soft, his tone serious, and surprisingly the touch of an accent of high breeding creeping into his words.

  "You speak like you've been out there," Garth said, fixing Hammen with his gaze.

  Hammen looked back at him and, for a brief instant, Garth felt as if someone other than a raggedy pickpocket and gutter dweller walked beside him. He sensed a distant power as if the man could control the mana, the foundations of power for all fighters, which was derived from the lands and all creatures who lived upon them. Hammen slowed in his walk and Garth sensed an infinite sadness and then like a frost melting away in the light of dawn Hammen became the raggedy man again, cackling, hawking, and spitting on the ground, pointing out the sights of the city to an outsider.

  They continued up the street, which was now starting to fill. Garth pulled out the two pomegranates tucked into his tunic and tossed one over to Hammen. Garth bit into the fruit and ate it slowly as they strolled along. They passed by the street of steel and Garth stopped for a moment to watch as the merchants hung out their cheap blades in front of the store. Stopping in front of one, he looked into the gloomy interior and saw the finest weapons hanging inside, the merchant's guards sitting in the shadows. Scimitars, broadswords, and light rapiers caught and reflected the pulsing glow of the forges working deeper within the shop, the smiths hammering out their creations in showers of sparks.

  "Good blades in the back, blades with long histories and names for connoisseurs of refined weapons capable even of piercing through fields of spells to draw a fighter's blood," Hammen whispered as if filled with distant longing.

  Next came the street of brass workers, and then the silversmiths and workers of gold, each stall guarded by armed men and even an occasional spell caster of the first-rank, who could conjure a single creature of the beyond to kill thieves. Garth looked at the first-rank men and shook his head. Most of them were old men, who had never gone beyond the first-rank since they lacked the skills and the innately given power to harness the mana, to manage and control anything beyond the simplest of powers. In a real duel with another fighter they would lose their single spell in seconds and most likely their lives, thus they were doomed to the back alleys, the guarding of miser hordes and fat merchants. Most of them, he sensed, were scared within their hearts that someday they might actually be challenged by something beyond a peasant with a dirk, and even that peasant was a source of fear.

  After passing the streets of metal they came closer to the heart of the city and Hammen looked around warily, watching closely as a squad of the Grand Master's fighters marched by on patrol, their multihued jackets, capes, and trousers shimmering in the morning light. Not one of them looked toward Garth and his companion chuckled.

  "Overdressed popinjays. Out looking for you, most likely, and too stupid to sense such things."

  Garth noticed that the color of the pennants lining the street had started to change. For several blocks there was a mix of browns, grays, and even an occasional orange or purple.

  "We're getting near the center of the city, where the five quarters of the city converge. Directly ahead in the center of the Plaza is the palace of the Grand Master and the barracks of his fighters and warriors. The Houses of the four colors flank the main Plaza."

  Garth looked up the street into the main Plaza, which was nearly three hundred fathoms across, and finally saw the towering five-sided pyramid, which was the Grand Master's home. The building stood at least thirty fathoms to a side and soared nearly as high and was sheathed in polished limestone that glowed like fire from the reflected sun. The main palace, in turn, was flanked on all five sides by the dark, squat barracks of his warrior guards and fighters. The entire complex, in turn, was surrounded by fountains, which danced and splashed in the morning light, the columns of water soaring nearly as high as the great palace, the water in the founta
ins dyed every color of the rainbow.

  As Garth reached the edge of the Great Plaza he slowed. On four sides of the Plaza four more palaces were now plainly in view. Each was different; each flew a color of the four great Houses. Fentesk, on the far side of the Plaza, was a heavy, squat structure with massive pillars lining its front, with four great banners of solid orange fluttering at the four corners of what Garth decided was positively an ugly building.

  Next to it was the House of Ingkara, this one similar to the Orange House except the tedium of pillars was at least relieved by a great arched entryway from which a purple banner hung. To the other side of Fentesk was the House of Bolk, this one looking like a fortress, with crenellated towers and battlements, and finally, next to the Brown House, was that of Kestha, its front decorated with massive squat statues representing fighters, with their hands raised upward as if about to cast spells across the pavilion against the other buildings.

  "Whoever designed the palaces should have been drowned at birth for the benefit of all mankind," Hammen sniffed.

  "They're Houses of fighters, not palaces for potentates," Garth replied. "The old Houses were different but things have changed of late and these new ones went up."

  "Still, there is such a thing as taste."

  Garth started walking toward the House of Kestha, Hammen hurrying to keep pace with him.

  "You know, this is really rather foolish of you," Hammen sniffed. "You're a wanted man around this city."

  "So much the better."

  As they walked toward the House of Kestha Garth slowed, turned, and looked toward the fifth side of the Plaza. The Plaza was lined with squat shops, eateries, and several small palaces of what were most likely well-heeled merchants.

  Garth turned and walked toward the buildings and then came to a stop at the edge of the Plaza and looked around.

  "This is where the fifth House used to be," Hammen said quietly.

  Garth turned and looked back at Hammen.

  "The fifth House?"

  "Turquoise. Twenty years ago there were five Houses."

  "I know that."

  "Then you know that the other Houses, led by the old Grand Master and his assistant, Zarel, massacred the House of Oor-tael on the evening of the last day of Festival. They fell upon them in the night, burned the House, and murdered nearly all the fighters."