Later, as we climbed the hill back to Tyron’s house, I mulled over what I’d just been told. Why couldn’t Deinon have been open with me? Kwin too had kept the truth from me. I felt excluded, yet at the same timethey’d ended my terrible sequence of defeats.
‘Thanks for patterning that lac, Deinon. I really owe you for that. But why didn’t you tell me that it was your work? Why go to all that trouble of writing down and reading out your wurdes while pretending they wereAda’s?’
‘I’m to blame for that, and I’m sorry,’ Deinon said. ‘But you know what Kwin’s like. She saw the cuts on your arms, had a row with Tyron – and quickly worked out that this was a scheme to get his hands on patternscreated by Ada. Kwin was angry and didn’t want to give him that, so she worked out an alternative. I would write the patterns, and Ada would only offer suggestions when I needed help.’
‘So Tyron still doesn’t know the truth?’
‘Kwin told me to keep my mouth shut – that he need never know. And the longer I go without telling him, the harder it will be. I don’t like deceiving people.’
How could I complain? I was keeping a secret too, I thought: Deinon and Kwin didn’t know that Math was my father.
‘You got really high praise there from Ada. Does Tyron know you’re that good?’
‘I think he’s starting to realize,’ Deinon said.
‘You might be better than he is one day!’
Deinon smiled at that and shook his head, but I wondered if he was already better at patterning than Tyron. After all, Tyron had struggled to understand what Deinon had done; he’d been sure that it was Ada’s work.
THE FATE OF TALLUS
Grudge match rules apply, but for one:
There is no clemency.
Arena 13 Rules of Combat
(Special Rules for when Hob Challenges)
Tyron was keen to see Tallus’s lac in action again, knowing that it would be patterned to a much higher level than ours. Tallus’s next contest was scheduled third on the Lists on the Wednesday evening, so Deinon and Iaccompanied Tyron to the arena, eager to see what Tallus and his lac could do.
The gallery was full of chattering, excited spectators. The women were there in force, filling almost a third of the two thousand seats. They were dressed in their silk finery, faces rouged and powdered, lips painted thefashionable black. I noticed a lot of young women and wondered how many of them were there to watch Palm, who was fighting first that night.
Tyron was putting him into the arena a lot – much more than was usual for fighters of his young age and limited experience.
We sat down in the front row. Ada and Kwin, just a dozen seats away to our right, called out greetings, and we waved back. Once more they had both painted only their top lip black, the lower one the rich red ofarterial blood.
In the aisles the gambling house touts were doing a roaring trade; as usual, quite a few red tickets were being sold. But soon the huge candelabrum with its thirteen torches began to descend, the first warning thatthings were about to get underway, and everyone settled down to watch.
With a rumble the two doors opened, the smaller min and the larger mag, and the two combatants and their armoured lacs emerged and quickly took up their positions. Palm was to fight a min combatant calledMarcos, who had three years of experience in Arena 13 and was slowly working his way up the rankings.
I knew that Tyron wasn’t too bothered whether Palm won or lost. He just wanted him to gain experience. I was jealous because Tyron wouldn’t risk allowing me to fight.
There were a few shrieks, and the girls began calling out Palm’s name. He smiled and waved up at them. His leather jerkin bore the silver wolf emblem that showed he fought from Tyron’s stable. His fit, muscularbody looked good in it, and he knew it.
There was no sign of the scratches and dents that Thrym had inflicted on the armour of his tri-glad. It looked as shiny and fresh as if it had come straight from the forge. No doubt Palm’s wealthy father had paid tohave it repaired.
However, there were two fresh scars on Palm’s left arm and one on his right; the cuts inflicted by Thrym after each of our victories. But I had my own scars – and more of them – to remind me of the bouts I’d lost.
Out of sight, a deep bass drum began to beat with a slow, steady rhythm, and the tall figure of Pyncheon, the Chief Marshal, dressed in black and wearing a red sash, moved between the combatants. He was carryinghis long silver ceremonial trumpet. He raised his hand and the drum ceased; silence fell over the noisy spectators.
‘Let the proceedings begin!’ he boomed in his pompous voice before strutting back towards the mag door. As he reached it, he raised the trumpet to his lips and blew a high shrill note, then disappeared from view.With a deep rumble, both doors closed and the contest got underway.
Palm was a cautious fighter and liked to play safe. After our private bouts, I knew his tactics quite well. He had a repertoire of about eleven moves, mostly defensive, and at times he became quite predictable.However, such knowledge wasn’t enough to guarantee victory. His lacs were patterned to a very high level, their movements smooth and fast. If the lone lac defending a min combatant got anywhere near one, its throat-socket was vulnerable.
So it proved now. The contest lasted only four minutes. Marcos’s lone lac got too close, and a blade called endoff, making it collapse on the floor.
The initial polite applause was drowned out by shrieks and whoops as Palm’s fans showed their delight at his victory. Marcos received the ritual cut to his arm, and then the arena was cleared.
‘A bit pedestrian, but Palm did well enough,’ Tyron said, leaning towards Deinon and me. ‘That performance might not please the aficionados, but the boy’s young; once his confidence grows, they’ll see what he iscapable of.’
It was then that the torches in the arena suddenly flickered. The air turned icy cold, and suddenly we were all plunged into darkness. My heart lurched. Almost immediately the torches flared back into life, and screamsfilled the gallery, echoing back from the high ceiling – no longer cries of enthusiastic appreciation, but shrieks of terror.
Once again the torches flickered and died. When their flames returned, I saw that the aisles were full of terrified people seeking to escape.
Hob had arrived at the Wheel.
After five minutes the gallery was almost clear; only combatants and their kin and the aficionados remained. I found it difficult to understand why so many spectators fled the gallery when Hob appeared. After all, theywere in no danger.
I’d asked Tyron, and he explained that some people had such an ingrained dread of Hob that they couldn’t bear to be anywhere near him. Some believed that he chose victims to target in the future from amongst thespectators – though there was no evidence of this.
Tyron hadn’t said a word. His face was grim and he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat, clearly agitated.
Down in the green room, Pyncheon would be presenting the lottery orb to the min combatants. Whoever drew the short straw would have to fight Hob. Fighting from the mag, Palm was in no danger, but I knew thatTyron had other min combatants scheduled to fight tonight. I remembered the terrible night when Hob had slain Kern.
Hob and his tri-glad, clad in ebony-black armour, entered the arena first. I stared at him angrily, my throat constricted so that I found it difficult to breathe. He was clad in regulation jerkin and shorts, and wore hisusual bronze helmet, with a wide black slit to look through. His arms were similar to a lac’s – significantly longer than those of a human. His head was tilted upwards; he seemed to be staring into the gallery.
No wonder people believed that he selected victims here! Was he staring at me? I wondered.
As Hob’s opponent entered from the min door, directly beneath us, I heard Tyron suck in his breath with relief. Looking down, I saw that the combatant didn’t have the silver wolf logo on his back.
But I’d been staring at the jerkin without really seeing what was embossed there. Now I
took it in and drew in my own breath sharply.
TAL.
I looked to my right and saw Ada’s wide staring eyes, and Kwin talking to her animatedly.
Surely the lottery was fixed. Here was a man fighting with a lac crafted by a brilliant twice-born patterner about whom the whole city was buzzing. It was almost as if Hob had come to test himself against Ada’s talent.
‘Now we’ll see just how good she is!’ Tyron exclaimed, as if reading my thoughts.
‘It’s not fair! It’s too early,’ I replied angrily. ‘Tallus hasn’t had time to train properly.’
I’d only met the man once, but I’d immediately taken to him. Ada cared about him, and now his life was on the line. Apart from my father, every combatant who’d faced Hob in Arena 13 had died there or been takenaway, wounded, never to be seen again. Was this to be the fate of Tallus?
Pyncheon entered the arena only briefly, nodding to the combatants; then the doors rumbled shut, and lacs and combatants took up their positions. Tallus looked scared. He was very pale and there were beads of sweaton his forehead.
To my surprise, Tyron pulled a small sand-timer from his pocket and positioned it on the arm of his seat. He’d used it occasionally during training as an alternative to the brass device, but I’d never seen him use it tocheck the timing of a contest in the arena.
It consisted of two small glass orbs connected by a metal tube. The sand was funnelled down from the top into the bottom orb. Once the last grain had fallen, five minutes had passed. It was very accurate, far betterthan a clock-candle, and as good as the cumbersome mechanical wall-clock that Pyncheon would be using now to time the bout.
The contest began very suddenly: Tallus’s lac attacked with great speed, driving Hob’s tri-glad backwards. As they clashed, Tyron tapped the top of his timer to start the flow of sand. So fast was the attack that Tallusonly just managed to keep up. He hadn’t used Ulum, so the lac had surged forward of its own volition, its patterns sensing the opportunity to put Hob on the back foot. Ada had claimed that it wasn’t sentient, but it didseem to have some initiative.
It was a very good start. Could Tallus actually defeat Hob? I wondered.
But Hob soon rallied, and his tri-glad fought its way to the centre of the arena. There was the constant rasp of metal on metal, and twice it sounded as if a blade had struck close to a throat-socket, though it was hard tobe sure which lac had dealt the blow.
Up in the gallery there was absolute silence. The remaining spectators were enthralled, and sat holding their breath.
‘Who’s winning?’ Deinon asked.
‘It’s very even, boy,’ Tyron replied, glancing at his sand-timer. ‘It’s on a knife edge and could go either way. That lac is as good as anything Gunter ever patterned, and that’s saying something.’
Gunter had patterned the lac that enabled my father to defeat Hob fifteen times. It wasn’t for nothing that they’d called him Gunter the Great.
Then something astonishing happened. One of Hob’s lacs went down. Almost too fast to see, a blade penetrated its throat-socket to call endoff. With a roar, the spectators rose to their feet. My heart lurched withexcitement and hope, but I didn’t jump to my feet, and neither did Deinon. That was because Tyron was still staring at the timer.
The upper glass bulb was already half empty.
THE MOTHER OF A DJINNI
A shatek is the mother of a djinni.
The midwife is a Nym artificer.
The Manual of Nym
The downed lac was lying close to the far wall, so it didn’t obstruct the fighting, which raged close to the middle of the arena. The action was fast – very fast – and once again I heard the rasp of blades striking armour.
Tyron was staring at his timer as if that was more important than what was taking place in the arena.
He caught my eye. ‘He has to finish it now!’ he said. ‘Once that first five-minute stage is over, he has no hope of winning.’
I understood exactly what he was saying. Tallus had improved his fitness, but it would still be nowhere near that of the average human combatant. Already his lungs and heart would be straining; his musclesprotesting. Dancing behind a lac demanded supreme fitness.
And after five minutes the situation would get even worse: a gong would sound, and then Tallus would have to fight in front of his lac. That was why Tyron kept glancing at his sand-timer. During this stage of thebout, the long arms of his lac would have to reach over Tallus’s shoulders to defend him; he’d need to dance very close to it. I doubted that he would have developed sufficient skills to do this properly. There hadn’t beentime. He would be vulnerable to the blades of Hob and his two remaining lacs.
Yes, he had to finish it now, I thought.
But the gong had already sounded.
Tyron cursed under his breath.
The combatants repositioned themselves. Gripping his blades so tightly that his knuckles were white, Tallus stepped in front of his lac.
Hob crouched before his two remaining lacs and flexed his knees. His eyes glittered behind the slit in his helmet. I noticed again how long his arms were. But for the bronze helmet he could have been a lac himself.
Right from the start it went badly for Tallus. Now his lack of skill was evident. He had two left feet, and they betrayed him again and again. What was worse, he was clearly impeding his own lac. He kept stumbling,preventing it from moving forward smoothly. It could no longer attack, and was hard pressed to deflect the blades that sought his flesh.
Suddenly Tallus tripped, this time completely off balance. He’d taken a tumble in his first contest, when the audience had laughed and jeered. This time the spectators remained silent or groaned softly. He fell backagainst his lac so that it was unable to wield its blade.
Hob came in fast, his two remaining lacs almost at his side. With its left hand, Tallus’s lac thrust its blade into the throat-socket of its nearest attacker, calling endoff. But its right blade was blocked, and Hob stabbedforward, and suddenly the contest was over. Tallus’s lac collapsed.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Tallus was on all fours, desperately struggling to rise.
Before he could do so, Hob chopped down viciously, cutting clean through his neck.
Then he picked up Tallus’s head by the hair and held it aloft, showing it to the spectators. As the blood trickled from the stump and ran down Hob’s arm, there were groans and cries from the audience. I could smellthe blood – and hear the screams of anguish from Ada. She was trying to throw herself over the rail into the arena; Kwin was holding her back.
Tyron pushed his way through to help: he seized Ada’s other arm. She was struggling to free herself, and her face was twisted in torment.
Hob seemed to be looking directly up at her.
Then the marshals appeared; three of them managed to get Ada into the central aisle and escort her up to the doors at the rear. She had stopped screaming, but sobs racked her body and tears streamed down her face.
‘Kwin! Go with her. Make sure that she’s taken care of properly!’ Tyron called.
Kwin nodded and climbed the stairs towards the doors.
Marshals were entering the gallery in force now, ushering the spectators towards the exit. When I glanced back into the arena, I saw that Hob was still holding the severed head, but he seemed to be staring down atTallus’s lac.
*
Three hours later a tearful Kwin brought news of Ada.
We came rushing downstairs when we heard her arrive. Teena had her arm around her and was trying to comfort her, but Kwin’s face was red and tears were flowing from her swollen eyes. She kept trying to speakbut couldn’t get the words out.
Only when Tyron, drawn by the disturbance, came into the room did she calm down enough to speak.
‘It was horrible . . . Ada kept screaming that it was her fault. She was hysterical. She fought like a fury, but then they sedated her and put her to bed.’
‘W
here was she taken?’ Tyron demanded.
‘To the small hospital within the Wheel.’
‘Did Hob take Tallus’s remains?’ he asked.
Sobbing, Kwin shook her head.
‘Well, at least that’s something,’ he said, without adding further comment.
I knew that he was thinking about Kern and what Hob had done with his head – and what the tassels had done to his body. At least Tallus had been spared that.
‘They say that he took Tallus’s lac though,’ Kwin added.
Tyron nodded thoughtfully. No doubt Hob had taken it to learn what he could. That lac had downed two of his. If Tallus hadn’t stumbled backwards and impeded it, Hob would surely have been defeated.
The following day, soon after dawn, Tyron took me with him to the office of Pyncheon, the Chief Marshal.
‘I can’t believe the lottery chose Tallus,’ I observed as we strode through the deserted streets at Tyron’s usual furious pace. After a visit from Hob there were few people about. The city would be quiet for days.
‘It had to be somebody, boy,’ Tyron said, ‘but I don’t trust the process one bit. Hob culls the rising stars of Arena 13; kills them early before they become a real threat.’
‘So the lottery is rigged? Then Pyncheon must be involved. Is that why we’re going to see him?’
‘I’d be a fool to confront him over that,’ growled Tyron. ‘No doubt he’s in Hob’s pocket, but there’s nothing I can do about it. No, we’re going there to buy Ada.’
Was she still a slave? I wondered. That didn’t seem fair.
‘Isn’t she free now that Tallus is dead?’
Tyron shook his head and then glanced down at me and frowned. ‘Take that disapproving look off your face, boy!’ he ordered. ‘The woman’s status doesn’t change just because her first master’s dead. There is a deedof ownership, which is very valuable in this case. She has almost two years still to serve, and can be bought by the highest bidder. If I don’t buy her, then someone else will. That’s a fact of life, so don’t get on yourmoral high horse!’
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