Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Caramon opened his mouth and was just about to reply when the door burst open and Arack marched in.

  “How’re we doing, big guy?” the dwarf said, leering up at Caramon. “Quite a change from when you first came here, ain’t it?” He patted the big man’s hard muscles admiringly, then—balling up his fist—suddenly slammed it into Caramon’s gut. “Hard as steel,” he said, grinning and shaking his hand in pain.

  Caramon glowered down at the dwarf in disgust, glanced at Tas, then sighed. “Where’s my costume?” he grumbled. “It’s nearly High Watch.”

  The dwarf held up a sack. “It’s in here. Don’t worry, it won’t take you long to dress.”

  Grabbing the sack nervously, Caramon opened it. “Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded of Pheragas, who had just entered the room.

  “That’s it!” Arack cackled. “I told you it wouldn’t take long to dress!”

  Caramon’s face flushed a deep red. “I—I can’t wear … just this.…” he stammered, shutting the sack hastily. “You said there’d be ladies.…”

  “And they’ll love every bronze inch!” Arack hooted. Then the laughter vanished from the dwarf’s broken face, replaced by the dark and menacing scowl. “Put it on, you great oaf. What do you think they pay to see? A dancing school? No—they pay to see bodies covered in sweat and blood. The more body, the more sweat, the more blood—real blood—the better!”

  “Real blood?” Caramon looked up, his brown eyes flaring. “What do you mean? I thought you said—”

  “Bah! Get him ready, Pheragas. And while you’re at it, explain the facts of life to the spoiled brat. Time to grow up, Caramon, my pretty poppet.” With that and a grating laugh, the dwarf stalked out.

  Pheragas stood aside to let the dwarf pass, then entered the small room. His face, usually jovial and cheerful, was a blank mask. There was no expression in his eyes, and he avoided looking directly at Caramon.

  “What did he mean? Grow up?” Caramon asked. “Real blood?”

  “Here,” Pheragas said gruffly, ignoring the question. “I’ll help with these buckles. It takes a bit of getting used to at first. They’re strictly ornamental, made to break easily. The audience loves it if a piece comes loose or falls off.”

  He lifted an ornate shoulder guard from the bag and began strapping it onto Caramon, working around behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the buckles.

  “This is made out of gold,” Caramon said slowly.

  Pheragas grunted.

  “Butter would stop a knife sooner than this stuff,” Caramon continued, feeling it. “And look at all these fancy do-dads! A sword point’ll catch and stick in any of ’em.”

  “Yeah.” Pheragas laughed, but it was forced laughter. “As you can see, it’s almost better to be naked than wear this stuff.”

  “I don’t have much to worry about then,” Caramon remarked grimly, pulling out the leather loincloth that was the only other object in the sack, besides an ornate helmet. The loincloth, too, was ornamented in gold and barely covered his private parts decently. When he and Pheragas had him dressed, even the kender blushed at the sight of Caramon from the rear.

  Pheragas started to go, but Caramon stopped him, his hand on his arm. “You better tell me, my friend. That is, if you still are my friend.”

  Pheragas looked at Caramon intently, then shrugged. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now. We use edged weapons. Oh, the swords still collapse,” he added, seeing Caramon’s eyes narrow. “But, if you get hit, you bleed—for real. That’s why we harped on your stabbing thrusts.”

  “You mean people really get hurt? I could hurt someone? Someone like Kiiri, or Rolf, or the Barbarian?” Caramon’s voice raised in anger. “What else goes on! What else didn’t you tell me—friend!”

  Pheragas regarded Caramon coldly. “Where did you think I got these scars? Playing with my nanny? Look, someday you’ll understand. There’s not time to explain it now. Just trust us, Kiiri and I. Follow our lead. And—keep your eyes on the minotaurs. They fight for themselves, not for any masters or owners. They answer to no one. Oh, they agree to abide by the rules—they have to or the Kingpriest would ship them back to Mithas. But … well, they’re favorites with the crowd. The people like to see them draw blood. And they can take as good as they give.”

  “Get out!” Caramon snarled.

  Pheragas stood staring at him a moment, then he turned and started out the door. Once there, however, he stopped.

  “Listen, friend,” he said sternly, “these scars I get in the ring are badges of honor, every bit as good as some knight’s spurs he wins in a contest! It’s the only kind of honor we can salvage out of this tawdry show! The arena’s got its own code, Caramon, and it doesn’t have one damn thing to do with those knights and noblemen who sit out there and watch us slaves bleed for their own amusement. They talk of their honor. Well, we’ve got our own. It’s what keeps us alive.” He fell silent. It seemed he might say something more, but Caramon’s gaze was on the floor, the big man stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his words or presence.

  Finally, Pheragas said “You’ve got five minutes,” and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Tas longed to say something but, seeing Caramon’s face, even the kender knew it was time to keep silent.

  Go into a battle with bad blood, and it’ll be spilled by nightfall. Caramon couldn’t remember what gruff old commander had told him that, but he’d found it a good axiom. Your life often depended on the loyalty of those you fought with. It was a good idea to get any quarrels between you settled. He didn’t like holding grudges either. It generally did nothing for him but upset his stomach.

  It was an easy thing, therefore, to shake Pheragas’s hand when the black man started to turn away from him prior to entering the arena and to make his apologies. Pheragas accepted these warmly, while Kiiri—who obviously had heard all about the episode from Pheragas—indicated her approval with a smile. She indicated her approval of Caramon’s costume, too; looking at him with such open admiration in her flashing green eyes that Caramon flushed in embarrassment.

  The three stood talking in the corridors that ran below the arena, waiting to make their entrance. With them were the other gladiators who would fight today, Rolf, the Barbarian, and the Red Minotaur. Above them, they could hear occasional roars from the crowd, but the sound was muffled. Craning his neck, Caramon could see out the entryway door. He wished it was time to start. Rarely had he ever felt this nervous, more nervous than going into battle, he realized.

  The others felt the tension, too. It was obvious in Kiiri’s laughter that was too shrill and loud and the sweat that poured down Pheragas’s face. But it was a good kind of tension, mingled with excitement. And, suddenly, Caramon realized he was looking forward to this.

  “Arack’s called our names,” Kiiri said. She and Pheragas and Caramon walked forward—the dwarf having decided that since they worked well together they should fight as a team. (He also hoped that the two pros would cover up for any of Caramon’s mistakes!)

  The first thing Caramon noticed as he stepped out into the arena was the noise. It crashed over him in thunderous waves, one after another, coming seemingly from the sundrenched sky above him. For a moment he felt lost in confusion. The by-now familiar arena—where he had worked and practiced so hard these last few months—was a strange place suddenly. His gaze went to the great circular rows of stands surrounding the arena, and he was overwhelmed at the sight of the thousands of people, all—it seemed—on their feet screaming and stomping and shouting.

  The colors swam in his eyes—gaily fluttering banners that announced a Games Day, silk banners of all the noble families of Istar, and the more humble banners of those who sold everything from fruited ice to tarbean tea, depending on the season of the year. And it all seemed to be in motion, making him dizzy, and suddenly nauseous. Then he felt Kiiri’s cool hand upon his arm. Turning, he saw her smile at him in reassurance. He saw the familiar arena behind her, he saw Pheraga
s and his other friends.

  Feeling better, he quickly turned his attention back to the action. He had better keep his mind on business, he told himself sternly. If he missed a single rehearsed move, he would not only make himself look foolish, but he might accidentally hurt someone. He remembered how particular Kiiri had been that he timed his swordthrusts just right. Now, he thought grimly, he knew why.

  Keeping his eyes on his partners and the arena, ignoring the noise and the crowd, he took his place, waiting to start. The arena looked different, somehow, and for a moment he couldn’t figure it out. Then he realized that, just as they were in costume, the dwarf had decorated the arena, too. Here were the same old sawdust-covered platforms where he fought every day, but now they were tricked out with symbols representing the four corners of the world.

  Around these four platforms, the hot coals blazed, the fire roared, the oil boiled and bubbled. Bridges of wood spanned the Death Pits as they were called, connecting the four platforms. These Pits had, at first, alarmed Caramon. But he had learned early in the game that they were for effect only. The audience loved it when a fighter was driven from the arena onto the bridges. They went wild when the Barbarian held Rolf by his heels over the boiling oil. Having seen it all in rehearsal, Caramon could laugh with Kiiri at the terrified expression on Rolf’s face and the frantic efforts he made to save himself that resulted—as always—in the Barbarian being hit over the head by a blow from Rolf’s powerful arms.

  The sun reached its zenith and a flash of gold brought Caramon’s eyes to the center of the arena. Here stood the Freedom Spire—a tall structure made of gold, so delicate and ornate that it seemed out of place in such crude surroundings. At the top hung a key—a key that would open a lock on any of the iron collars. Caramon had seen the spire often enough in practice, but he had never seen the key, which was kept locked in Arack’s office. Just looking at it made the iron collar around his neck feel unusually heavy. His eyes filled with sudden tears. Freedom.… To wake in the morning and be able to walk out a door, to go anywhere in this wide world you wanted. It was such a simple thing. Now, how much he missed it!

  Then he heard Arack call out his name, he saw him point at them. Gripping his weapon, Caramon turned to face Kiiri, the sight of the Golden Key still in his mind. At the end of the year, any slave who had done well in the Games could fight for the right to climb that spire and get the key. It was all fake, of course. Arack always selected those guaranteed to draw the biggest audiences. Caramon had never thought about it before—his only concern being his brother and Fistandantilus. But, now, he realized he had a new goal. With a wild yell, he raised his phony sword high in the air in salute.

  Soon, Caramon began to relax and have fun. He found himself enjoying the roars and applause of the crowd. Caught up in their excitement, he discovered he was playing up to them—just as Kiiri had told him he would. The few wounds he’d received in the warm-up bouts were nothing, only scratches. He couldn’t even feel the pain. He laughed at himself for his worry. Pheragas had been right not to mention such a silly thing. He was sorry he had made such a big deal of it.

  “They like you,” Kiiri said, grinning at him during one of their rest periods. Once again, her eyes swept admiringly over Caramon’s muscular, practically nude body. “I don’t blame them. I’m looking forward to our wrestling match.”

  Kiiri laughed at his blush, but Caramon saw in her eyes that she wasn’t kidding and he was suddenly acutely aware of her femaleness—something that had never occurred to him in practice. Perhaps it was her own scanty costume, which seemed designed to reveal everything, yet hid all that was most desirable. Caramon’s blood burned, both with passion and the pleasure he always found in battle. Confused memories of Tika came to his mind, and he looked away from Kiiri hurriedly, realizing he had been saying more with his own eyes than he intended.

  This ploy was only partly successful, because he found himself staring into the stands—right into the eyes of many admiring and beautiful women, who were obviously trying to capture his attention.

  “We’re on again,” Kiiri nudged him, and Caramon returned thankfully to the ring.

  He grinned at the Barbarian as the tall man strode forward. This was their big number, and he and Caramon had practiced it many times. The Barbarian winked at Caramon as they faced each other, their faces twisted into looks of ferocious hatred. Growling and snarling like animals, both men crouched over, stalking each other around the ring a suitable amount of time to build up tension. Caramon caught himself about to grin and had to remind himself that he was supposed to look mean. He liked the Barbarian. A Plainsman, the man reminded him in many ways of Riverwind—tall, dark-haired, though not nearly as serious as the stern ranger.

  The Barbarian was a slave as well, but the iron collar around his neck was old and scratched from countless battles. He would be one chosen to go after the golden key this year, that was certain.

  Caramon thrust out with the collapsible sword. The Barbarian dodged with ease and, catching Caramon with his heel, neatly tripped him. Caramon went down with a roar. The audience groaned (the women sighed), but there were many cheers for the Barbarian, who was a favorite. The Barbarian lunged at the prone Caramon with a spear. The women screamed in terror. At the last moment, Caramon rolled to one side and, grabbing the Barbarian’s foot, jerked him down to the sawdust platform.

  Thunderous cheers. The two men grappled on the floor of the arena. Kiiri rushed out to aid her fallen comrade and the Barbarian fought them both off, to the crowd’s delight. Then, Caramon, with a gallant gesture, ordered Kiiri back behind the line. It was obvious to the crowd that he would take care of this insolent opponent himself.

  Kiiri patted Caramon on his rump (that wasn’t in the script and nearly caused Caramon to forget his next move), then she ran off. The Barbarian lunged at Caramon, who pulled his collapsible dagger. This was the show-stopper—as they had planned. Ducking beneath the Barbarian’s upraised arm with a skillful maneuver, Caramon thrust the dummy dagger right into the Barbarian’s gut where a bladder of chicken blood was cleverly concealed beneath his feathered breastplate.

  It worked! The chicken blood splashed out over Caramon, running down his hand and his arm. Caramon looked into the Barbarian’s face, ready for another wink of triumph.…

  Something was wrong.

  The man’s eyes had widened, as was in the script. But they had widened in true pain and in shock. He staggered forward—that was in the script, too—but not the gasp of agony. As Caramon caught him, he realized in horror that the blood washing over his arm was warm!

  Wrenching his dagger free, Caramon stared at it, even as he fought to hold onto the Barbarian, who was collapsing against him. The blade was real!

  “Caramon …” The man choked. Blood spurted from. his mouth.

  The audience roared. They hadn’t seen special effects like this in months!

  “Barbarian! I didn’t know!” Caramon cried, staring at dagger in horror. “I swear!”

  And then Pheragas and Kiiri were by his side, helping to ease the dying Barbarian down onto the arena floor.

  “Keep up the act!” Kiiri snapped harshly.

  Caramon nearly struck her in his rage, but Pheragas caught his arm. “Your life, our lives depend on it!” the black man hissed. “And the life of your little friend!”

  Caramon stared at them in confusion. What did they mean? What were they saying? He had just killed a man—a friend! Groaning, he jerked away from Pheragas and knelt beside the Barbarian. Dimly he could hear the crowd cheering, and he knew—somewhere inside of him—that they were eating this up. The Victor paying tribute to the “dead.”

  “Forgive me,” he said to the Barbarian, who nodded.

  “It’s not your fault,” the man whispered. “Don’t blame yoursel—” His eyes fixed in his head, a bubble of blood burst on his lips.

  “We’ve got to get him out of the arena,” Pheragas whispered sharply to Caramon, “and make it look good. L
ike we rehearsed. Do you understand?”

  Caramon nodded dully. Your life … the life of your little friend. I am a warrior. I’ve killed before. Death is nothing new. The life of your little friend. Obey orders. I’m used to that. Obey orders, then I’ll figure out the answers.…

  Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the Barbarian’s “lifeless” corpse to its feet as they had done countless times in rehearsal. He even found the strength to turn and face the crowd and bow. Pheragas, with a skillful motion of his free arm, made it seem as if the “dead” Barbarian were bowing, too. The crowd loved it and cheered wildly. Then the three friends dragged the corpse off the stage, down into the dark aisles below.

  Once there, Caramon helped them ease the Barbarian down onto the cold stone. For long moments, he stared at the corpse, dimly aware of the other gladiators, who had been waiting their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body, then melting back into the shadows.

  Slowly, Caramon stood up. Turning around, he grabbed hold of Pheragas and, with all his strength, hurled the black man up against the wall. Drawing the bloodstained dagger from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas’s eyes.

  “It was an accident,” Pheragas said through clenched teeth.

  “Edged weapons!” Caramon cried, shoving Pheragas’s head roughly into the stone wall. “Bleed a little! Now, you tell me! What in the name of the Abyss is going on!”

  “It was an accident, oaf,” came a sneering voice.

  Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat body a small, twisted shadow in the dark and dank corridor beneath the arena.

  “And now I’ll tell you about accidents,” Arack said, his voice soft and malevolent. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Raag, his club in his huge hand. “Let Pheragas go. He and Kiiri have to get back to the arena and take their bows. You all were the winners today.”