That level went down once people noticed Mazro’s uniform and sword, but not as much as it might have elsewhere.
Komir spied Zabaj standing near the bar with a half-giant and a human, the other two laughing at something the mul said. Gan, meanwhile, was seated alone at a table. That alone was surprising, as Gan was usually the gregarious one, while it was almost impossible to get Zabaj to use more than one sentence at a time.
Gan noticed their entrance—easily covered, as everyone noticed their entrance—and then gulped down the remainder of his drink.
Komir caught snatches of conversation as they ambled through the tavern.
“I heard that the Pit got shut down by the king. Sorta thing you’d expect.”
“Think the orchards’ll do better next year?”
“Actually, y’see, that ain’t the same Hamanu. Y’see, it’s been a new guy every twenty years’r so, y’see, that replaces the last one. We’ve had somethin’ like twenty Hamanus runnin’ the place, y’see.”
“And then the anakore said, ‘You didn’t come here to hunt, did you?’ ”
Komir looked at the sergeant. “Drink?”
Mazro stared at Komir for a second, as if never having considered the possibility. Then he stared back at the entrance to the tavern. “Best not. Even if Dry-hump out there didn’t smell it on my breath, he’d feel it in my head.”
Nodding in understanding, Komir was grateful that Feena had been nearby. She’d loitered outside Destiny’s Kingdom when they went to see Drahar, and had followed the palanquin discreetly all the way to the tavern. Komir wasn’t sure where she was right then, but he hoped she was continuing to use her mind-magic to keep Drahar from detecting any malicious intent. He’d have to cast a spell to truly get inside their heads, but as long as he continued to trust them—or at least trust Karalith—he wouldn’t probe too deeply, so they needed Feena to project a veneer of “Dalon” and “Wrena” to help with the game.
It was Feena’s usual role in the game, and she’d gotten better and better at it over the years. They doubted she’d be able to pull it off with someone of Hamanu’s power, but with the chamberlain, all would probably be well.
Gan got up from his bench and started walking—stumbling, really—toward the bar, on a vector that would take him right past Zabaj and his new friends.
Right on cue, he bumped into Zabaj’s drink-holding arm, knocking his mead to the stone floor.
“Oi!”
“Hey!”
“Watch out, y’imbecile!”
Gan held up a hand. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Really sorry.”
Zabaj moved as if to loom over him, since his job was to start the fight that Dalon and Wrena would manage, but before he could, the half-giant interpolated himself between Zabaj and Gan.
“I don’t give a frip ‘ow sorry y’are, imbecile, y’should watch where the frip y’r goin’.” To accentuate the point, the half-giant pushed Gan.
Gan oversold it, stumbling back much farther than necessary from the shove.
Komir shot a glance at Karalith, who quickly shrugged.
Zabaj, however, tried to step in. “Hranoc, I can fight my own—”
“Nah, see, I’m sick’a the imbeciles. Everywhere I turn, imbeciles. Knockin’ over drinks an’ eatin’ too much food an’ cuttin’ in front’a people on the line f’r the bar an’ I’m just sick of it. No more imbeciles.” He clenched his fist and moved toward Gan.
Again, Komir looked at his sister. Obviously, they’d stumbled into a crazy person. But they had to make the best of it, since he apparently wanted the fight all to himself.
Then Komir looked at Mazro. “This is our best chance.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Excuse me,” Komir said, walking so he was next to both Gan and Hranoc, but not actually between them. Karalith, meanwhile, headed outside.
“Whaddaya want? You another imbecile?”
Komir smiled at the half-giant. “No, sir, I’m not. At least, I don’t think so. No, I just want to give you an opportunity to work out your disagreement with this drunken gentleman here without causing damage to a perfectly nice tavern.”
The goliath behind the bar said, “I’m all for that. Take this crap outside, wouldja please? I still ain’t cleaned up from the last fight.”
That, Komir thought, explained the bloodstain. “Come with me,” Komir said.
Hranoc looked at the people he was with. While the others just shrugged, Zabaj said, “I’d rather not get thrown out of the tavern.”
Karalith had—probably with the help of Mazro’s soldiers—cleared a space and was bent over drawing a large circle on the cobblestones outside the tavern with a piece of chalk. The crowd, however, was all standing on the perimeter, kept in line by the soldiers, wanting to see what was happening.
“Consider this an impromptu arena,” Komir said. “Hranoc here will face—er, what’s your name, sir?” he asked Gan.
“Fehrd.”
Komir managed not to wince. It was generally preferred to use aliases that had no specific connection to you. “All right, Fehrd, you stand on that side, and Hranoc, you face him.”
Gan stumbled toward where he was supposed to go. Hranoc laughed. “This oughtta be fun. Always thought I’d do good in th’arena.”
“Well, now’s your chance,” Komir said.
For the first time since the game started, Komir saw Feena. Actually, he heard her first, crying out, “Three copper on the half-giant.”
To his credit, Gan did not react when he heard his sister betting against him.
As they’d hoped, it started a rash of bets.
Hranoc started circling the perimeter of Karalith’s hastily drawn ring. The crowd started to cheer and bellow. For his part, Gan was trying to stay upright—or at least looking like he needed to struggle to do so.
Finally, Hranoc lunged forward, and Gan blocked the punch with an awkward-looking motion that Komir knew was actually quite controlled.
Then Gan kicked him in the shin.
Hranoc stumbled backward much more painfully than Gan had been stumbling, letting out several curses in a language Komir didn’t recognize. At least, he assumed they were curses …
They exchanged blows several times after that, neither really landing a solid hit.
Any time they were in danger of getting too close to the edge of the ring Komir moved to stand between them and the chalk line, gently touching Gan on the shoulder to keep him in bounds. (Had he been fighting Zabaj as planned, he would have touched either of them, but Hranoc was an unknown quantity.)
After about three minutes of sparring, Komir gave a quick nod to Gan.
At that point, Gan grabbed the top of Hranoc’s head with his left hand and held him at arm’s length. With his right, he started repeatedly punching the half-giant in the gut.
For the seventh punch, he let go, which sent Hranoc backward toward the other side of the ring. Then Gan walked over and kicked him in the face, then swept out his feet so he fell onto his back with a thud.
Finally, Gan stepped hard on his gut, causing the half-giant to let out a loud gasp.
“I ain’t no imbecile,” Gan said.
Then he fell over, as if he’d passed out.
“I believe we can safely call Fehrd the winner,” Komir said with a laugh.
There were jeers and cheers alike, and the clacking sounds of ceramic coins changing hands.
Komir looked over at the palanquin, where Drahar was watching with a combination of admiration and disgust. Given what Karalith had told him about the chamberlain’s opinion of arena fights, the latter was understandable and he was grateful for the former. It meant he’d bought it.
“Well done,” was all the chamberlain said before he retreated back behind the palanquin’s curtains.
Komir smiled at Karalith. The first stage of the game was done.
The part of the game that Karalith hated most was the paperwork.
She understood its necessity
, of course. In the game, details were everything. That was why they claimed not to remember the name of Drahar’s academy tavern and had him lead them to it. A small detail, but it meant that Drahar wouldn’t even consider that Gan and Zabaj were plants. For that matter, it was why they sent Gash’s original map back.
And it was why she and Komir were stuck with Drahar’s assistant—a very efficient, very straightforward, very boring young woman named Cace—signing contracts that would grant Dalon Zavno and Wrena Zavno the right to administer the Pit of Black Death.
They had spent hours going over the contracts, and Karalith’s eyes were starting to glaze over.
However, when they were finished, Cace’s words prompted her to sit up and notice.
“Now that the deal is in place, the king wishes to speak to you. You may dine at his table this evening.”
“We’ll be honored,” Karalith said with a curtsey.
For the first time since their return to the palace, Cace’s expression changed—to one of disdain as she looked at what Karalith and Komir were wearing. The linen had become rumpled and sweat stained and caked with sand despite all efforts to brush it off.
“You are expected,” Cace said dryly, “to dress formally.”
“Of course,” Karalith said with another curtsey, and then they departed Destiny’s Kingdom.
They had just enough time to return to the carriage, find appropriate clothes to change into, make sure that Gan was okay—he’d bloodied his nose when he “passed out,” pointing out that he usually only fell down involuntarily and wasn’t used to doing it on purpose—and return to the palace, where a steward met them at the gate and escorted them to the dining room.
That turned out to be the same room where the party was held the previous night. Karalith barely recognized it, as the paintings on the walls had all been changed, the long tables along the wall had been removed, and replaced by a large wooden table that sat at least twenty. The only reason she could tell it was the same were the lions engraved in the molding on the doors and windows.
Karalith was long experienced at hiding her feelings—you didn’t last three seconds in the game if you didn’t—but she was hard-pressed not to gape at the table. Wood of that size was obscenely rare. That table was probably worth more than all the gems in the compound combined.
“It’s good to be the king,” Komir muttered, and Karalith smiled.
Several others were attending, many of them sirdars whom Karalith remembered from the party. A couple were dignitaries from other city-states. Unlike the party, where they were mostly relaxed and social, tonight they were all making the most inane small talk, using shorter sentences and ending conversations abruptly.
Karalith understood the difference. At the party, people generally only spoke to the king if they wished to, or if he specifically wished to speak to you. But at an intimate dinner, you had to speak to him.
That turned out to be less of a concern than expected, however, as the king didn’t actually arrive until the dessert course. Which resulted in even more awkward and stilted conversation, as no one knew exactly when Hamanu would show up.
When he did arrive, he focused entirely on eating the cake his cooks had prepared. Karalith found the dessert to be dry and tasteless, but the king devoured it eagerly, getting crumbs in his beard as he did so.
Dessert passed in uncomfortable silence, save for the sounds of chewing, then suddenly, Hamanu looked right at one of the sirdars, an older gentleman who served as the king’s minister of agriculture. “Lord Pammot, why are the orchards underproducing this year?”
Pammot choked on his cake at the question. The sirdar next to him slapped his back a few times and he recovered. “No one can predict the vicissitudes of the soil, magnificence.”
“Odd, isn’t it, how the ministers all take credit when something goes well, but when it goes poorly, it’s an unforeseen circumstance? When we had that bumper crop three years ago, Pammot, you were the first to crow about how well ‘your’ crops did. In fact, you parlayed that into a higher stipend for yourself, as I recall.”
Already pale, the minister of agriculture was turning bone white. “Y-yes, magnificence, that’s true, but—”
“So the reverse should be the case as well. Your stipend will return to what it was when you first started at this post.”
Several emotions played across the sirdar’s face at once: relief that he wasn’t going to be physically punished for the poor yield, annoyance that his income was being reduced, and fear at letting that annoyance be seen by the king.
That fear was justified. “Is there a problem with my decree, Lord Pammot?” the king asked in a quiet voice.
“No.” Pammot all but barked. “Your decree is quite reasonable.”
Hamanu smiled. “ ‘Reasonable’, eh? Yes, I can see how you would think that. But one of the advantages to absolute power is that I’m within my rights to be unreasonable—since I’m the one who grants rights. So perhaps I should do something less reasonable and more fun. Have you executed, perhaps?”
At that, Pammot fainted dead away, falling forward into his cake. A second later, he coughed, having aspirated his dessert. Two stewards came by to help him up.
“Bring him to the dungeons,” Hamanu said. “I’ll decide what to do with him later.”
Karalith and Komir exchanged glances. They were going to have to play the game very carefully.
“Wrena, Dalon, would you like to accompany me on a walk through the palace? I’m sure you didn’t get to see all of it during your other trips.”
Komir cleared his throat. “Only this room and the chamberlain’s office, sir.”
“Excellent. Once the meal has ended, you will both join me.”
“We would be honored,” Karalith said.
“Yes, you would be.” Hamanu smiled.
When the stewards cleared the dessert plates and Hamanu stood, the rest of the dinner party couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Karalith had to admit to finding it very amusing.
They followed behind the king as he left the dining area. He took them through several dank corridors, then down a spiral staircase, eventually winding up in the dungeon area.
“Do you like Destiny’s Kingdom?”
Komir and Karalith exchanged glances, not sure who the question was aimed at. Karalith nodded to him, indicating that he should speak—when in doubt, the male was probably the one being addressed, especially by someone as old as Hamanu.
“It’s quite impressive,” Komir said blandly.
“Of course it is,” Hamanu snapped. “It’s a palace. I sometimes wonder if I should remodel it.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I understand that you’ve agreed to administer the arena. How soon can bouts recommence?”
“I’m afraid it’s impossible to determine that as yet, sir,” Komir said. Karalith shot him a look and he just blinked at her.
So she stayed quiet and trusted him.
“We’ve conducted a full inspection of the amphitheater, and it’s quite subpar.”
That, of course, was a lie—though among them, Zabaj, Feena, Tricht’tha, and Gan were able to provide vivid descriptions.
“I believe that the previous owners were increasing their profit margin by not maintaining the facility’s infrastructure. The equipment has been poorly maintained, the floors are not adequately cleaned—there are bloodstains all over the floors, some of which I suspect date back to the earliest days of your reign, sir.”
Hamanu stopped walking. “This sounds like a very clever way to not answer my question.”
“With respect, sir,” Karalith said, “he did answer the question. His answer was simply ‘I do not know.’ ”
The king stared at Karalith with an expression that she could not read, then he continued to walk down the staircase, bringing them to the dungeon level.
“What is required to change the answer to something a bit more specific?”
“Capital,” Komir said.
Karalith
glared at her brother. What was he playing at?
Komir continued: “According to the terms of the contract we signed in the chamberlain’s office, the Urik treasury is financially responsible for any maintenance that needs to be performed that is the result of a preexisting condition.”
Suddenly Karalith was grateful that her brother had more patience than she for minutiae. She hadn’t even noticed that clause in the contract—and it had to be there. Hamanu was too wily a monarch to not check before committing to laying out money.
But it also meant that this particular game might earn them quite a bit—they’d take the coin for the maintenance and repairs, and then disappear, with Hamanu unable to do anything, since his contract was with two people who didn’t actually exist.
Hamanu snorted. “The Urik treasury cannot subsidize the arena.”
“It’s not a subsidy, sir,” Komir said, “it’s maintaining the crown’s own property.”
“My concern is with maintaining the crown’s own army—in fact, it’s my preference to increase it, but our coffers cannot even manage that.”
They turned a corner to see three women and one man all dressed in the blue linens that indicated a mind-mage. All four were concentrating.
“This is one of our hopes for doing so.” Hamanu indicated the cell where the mind-mages stood. “My psionists are currently attempting to figure out how to control this creature. Chamberlain Drahar and Templar Tharson had him and another one removed from the arena you’ve assumed control of.”
One of the mind-mages—or “psionists”—stepped aside at Hamanu’s urging, allowing the king to peer inside the barred window to the cell.
“Take a look,” he said after a moment.
First Komir went to the door, and he noticeably paled. He moved away, stricken, and then Karalith did likewise.
Under the Crimson Sun Page 19
