Mobius

by Garon Whited

  “You strike me as a diligent man,” Hazir agreed, giving me an odd look. I remembered he was present when I bought a map. I was saved from difficult questions by the horn-call to start the warmeet.

  Everyone moved to the wall around the arena floor and the council of nine marched into their box. We all moved forward to form a circle. The same agenda went down. Business opportunities, apprentice semi-adoptions, and a couple of tests for people fresh into Sarashda. Then challenges for ranking within the warrior caste, including Osric, bucking to rise through the ranks again. I noticed he had a new helmet, albeit a less-fancy one. He won his challenge and moved up a rung on the warrior ladder. Afterward, it was business as usual—go beat on each other. At least, such was the usual order of things.

  I persuaded Hazir to join me. He was less reluctant, this time. I also had introductions through him, Galtos, and Jolus to at least a dozen more warriors. The beatings began in earnest and I introduced them to the game of sicaricudo. After all, guards have to be able to defend their employer, don’t they? The rules of the game are as simple as Go, but the strategy is as complex.

  During a water break, I asked Hazir if I might impose on him and his servants. I didn’t pack a picnic basket, but I did bring what was left of my cash. He’s seen me eat, so he didn’t insist on paying for it. His servants went out early to bring back lunch, and lots of it.

  The lunch break was welcome. A new acquaintance—Keldric, I believe—got in a lucky hit on my left hand. He’s not a small man, and he swings a mean club. Nothing broke, but I’m not sure how anyone else’s hand and armor would have fared. He apologized afterward, but he was pleased with himself. Apparently, scoring on a First is cause for a little self-satisfaction. I let my hand enjoy a small healing spell while I rested and ate.

  Osric came over as Hazir and I sat down. Galtos and Jolus faded away out of deference to the First. He removed his helmet—no sweat, I noticed. He wasn’t participating, only watching—and stood near us, waiting to be noticed. I gave Hazir a look, trying to say he should take it. He correctly interpreted my message and beckoned Osric to join us. Osric approached to conversational range and I moved my folded cloak out of the way to make room for him to sit, but he declined.

  “What can I do for you, friend Osric?” Hazir asked.

  “Nothing, I fear, friend Hazir. My business, such as it is, lies with your companion—Lucard of the Black.”

  “Of the black?” I asked.

  “You are of a minor house, Lucard, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Sarashda, you are known as the only Lucard in the city, and many know of you only by the armor you wear.”

  I shrugged. I’ve been called worse things. It reminded me I needed a tabard, presumably of my House colors, whatever those might be. Then again, did I care enough to get one made?

  “Burrito?” I offered. He looked puzzled.

  “What is a ‘burrito’?”

  “One of these. Try it, at least.”

  He accepted it gingerly and took a bite. It didn’t displease him.

  “Sit, if you like, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I… I’m not sure where, precisely, to begin.”

  “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, obscure reference. It’s a reminder to sort one’s thoughts out. Start with a big picture, divide it up into smaller portions, and keep dividing it until you have something specific.”

  “As you say. Specific.” He chewed and thought and swallowed. “I presume you follow the internal politics of the warrior caste?”

  “Nope.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “How can you not care?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  “Tobar dislikes you.”

  “That’s personal, not politics.”

  “Your pardon, please,” Hazir interjected. “It is both.”

  “Both?”

  “Your initial rudeness was in front of witnesses—warriors. In private, it would be personal. In public, it is political. He has lost some respect because you failed to give it.”

  “More than that,” Osric added, and his face flushed. “You may be aware I… that is, due to my circumstances…”

  “What Osric is trying not to say,” Hazir continued, smoothly, “is the nature of some personal finances among the First. Due to some family reversals in the recent past, there are members of the First who are greatly dependent on others among the First.”

  “Tobar,” I guessed.

  “Among others, yes. He carries considerable weight.”

  “That’s how he persuaded you to take offense on his behalf?”

  “I am not proud of the past,” Osric admitted. “He is displeased with me, as well. I was barely able to afford a replacement for my helm. I was wondering how I would,” he gestured with the burrito, “manage lunch, in fact.”

  “I see. Do you need a job?”

  “I—what?”

  “I’m looking for big, strong men to help me.”

  “I do need a… a job, yes, but this is not why I come to you now.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Do go on.”

  “He has not forgotten your rudeness, but my defeat has also lost me what favor I might have had with him. It has also fanned the sulking ember of his ire. Now it glows with a fierce heat. He has not confided in me his plans, but I know he has them, and they will not be good for you.”

  “Okay. How do I go about challenging him?”

  Hazir and Osric asked what I meant in unison, only with different language.

  “I mean, how do I take his position, get a higher rank, whatever you call it, and tell him to shut up and leave me alone?”

  “You are twenty-second among the First. Tobar is fifth. You must challenge the twenty-first, the twentieth, the nineteenth, and so on until you are sixth. Then you may challenge Tobar, the fifth.”

  “How many challenges can I make in one warmeet?”

  “One.”

  “So, it will take… seventeen weeks, I think, until I’m fifth and he’s sixth?”

  “If all goes well and you are victorious in every single combat,” Osric agreed.

  “Hang on, didn’t you challenge me in a personal combat?” I asked, looking at Osric.

  “Yes, but I outranked you. I had that right. Tobar may challenge you, if he wishes, but he can ignore a challenge from anyone not in the sixth rank.”

  “I’m okay with being ignored,” I decided. “Let’s see if I can ignore him.”

  “You! In the black!”

  We looked up at the sound of the shout. A large man, mid-forties, a bit of grey at the temples, muscular but working on getting fat stood in the spectator’s area. He was accompanied by three warriors—obviously, not everyone had the day off to go to the warmeet—and two personal servants in livery.

  “You,” I called back, “pudgy guy! What do you want?” His face reddened further.

  “You’re the one known as the Lucard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I demand my guardswoman back!”

  “I don’t have her on me.”

  “Don’t play games, boy! She’s mine!”

  Maybe it was the inference that she—whoever she was—was property. Maybe it was his self-righteous, entitled tone. Maybe I’m touchy, these days. Maybe it was all of three. I stood up and faced him.

  “And what if I tell you to go screw yourself, since no one else will have you?” I shouted up to him. He looked aghast for several heartbeats. The arena, already quieting to listen to the shouting match, now fell silent at watched openly. He paled, then his face darkened like a thundercloud.

  “I’ll have you flayed alive, boy!” he answered, finally.

  “You didn’t bring enough men.”

  He gestured and his three guards headed down inside the stands. A moment later, they emerged onto the sand. I didn’t recognize them, not even a little. Mayb
e they only attended warmeets once a month. I don’t have figures, but I’m guessing warriors with day jobs attend one in three, maybe one in seven, depending.

  Everyone else scrambled out of the way. Money started changing hands. I think the consensus was, at three on one, even money.

  “Osric?”

  “Al?”

  “Do you want the job I offered?”

  “Am I obligated?”

  “No, but you’ll be well-paid.”

  “Are you not going to ask me?” Hazir inquired.

  “No, because you have a decent job, and I suspect this is going to be politically unpleasant.”

  Hazir regarded the man in the stands. He nodded while Osric put on his helmet. The two of us advanced a few paces.

  “I’ll take the two on the right. Occupy the one on the left. Whoever finishes first helps the other.”

  “Understood,” he replied, and swung his mace a few times, loosening his shoulder. I hoped it was fully recovered from the last time. I did leave a healing spell running, so maybe. I drew both swords. This was not a practice match.

  Three on two changed the odds, from what I overheard of the betting.

  Does this mean I get to fry someone?

  Yes. I went on to explain my plan. Firebrand seemed pleased.

  Osric and I advanced farther and stopped, turning back to back. The three approaching us made a fatal mistake. They split up and spread out, circling us. They surrounded us, yes, but it also meant they couldn’t instantly support each other when we attacked.

  I pushed off, heading between two of them. My tip of my saber sheared through one sword near the hilt. It had a cheap enchantment for sharpness only. The length of Firebrand, added to the length of my arm, almost reached the other man’s head. He brought his sword up to parry anyway, which stopped Firebrand long enough for it to burp flame in his face. He screamed and clutched at his eyes while I spun to face the disarmed man.

  He threw down his hilt and ran for it. I let him and kicked the fire-blinded man’s sword away.

  Osric, meanwhile, had hit his man a couple of times. The warrior was reeling from the blows but falling back, defending himself. Clearly, Osric was going to take him.

  Firebrand and I went for part two of my plan. I wound up, took careful aim, and hurled Firebrand at the dipshit in the stands. Firebrand pinwheeled, end over end and blazing fire as it came. He stared in openmouthed amazement for a fraction of a second too long and didn’t quite manage to get out of the way.

  I’d have settled for getting Firebrand close enough to torch him. Smacking him with the flat like spanking his face would have served just as well. But no, we managed to actually hit the target point-first.

  This is how I manage to look cool and impressive. I get lucky and try not to look surprised. Nobody has to know it was luck.

  Come to think of it, it might not have been purely luck. Firebrand’s guard is in the shape of wings. Can Firebrand steer itself, maybe just a little? Maybe just enough to be going point-first? Maybe I’ll ask sometime.

  Firebrand took him slightly above the right hip and went from “flame” to “plasma,” as though torching a giant zombie. Most of Firebrand was sticking out of the body, though, so the torso didn’t vaporize properly. Still, there was a triple scream—the target and his two servants. He was killed almost instantly, but they were spattered in burning flesh and sizzling fat.

  The guy and Firebrand both fell to the stonework. The corpse on the stonework actively caught fire. Well, fat is an energy-dense substance and Firebrand isn’t known for stopping flames. The servants didn’t bother to see the results. They just ran for it, slapping at their own burning places.

  Osric finished his opponent with a relatively gentle whack on the head, laying him out, possibly killing him, but it was gentle enough to be a clear attempt to spare him. He turned and surveyed the arena floor long enough to do a double-take.

  I went through the arena exit, found my way to the public stairs, climbed into the stands, and recovered Firebrand from the burning corpse. Black smoke billowed from the body. I made sure he was dead, just in case. People have, on rare occasion, survived for surprising lengths of time with obviously fatal injuries. This guy was probably dead, but I thought it kinder to make sure before heading down the stands toward the arena. I let myself down by hanging over the wall by one hand and dropping the rest of the way. It was much quicker.

  Nobody said anything to me. They were busy paying off their bets.

  Osric rejoined Hazir. Hazir looked worried.

  “You do realize what you’ve done?” he asked, over the jabbering sound of the other warriors.

  “Yep. I killed the guy with the grievance. Killing his warriors without killing him would mean he simply sends more and more until he runs out of money or warriors, or they overpower me—with great loss of life among warriors, I might add. He picked a fight and now he’s dead.”

  “He was not of the warrior caste,” Hazir elaborated.

  “He was acting as their general,” I countered, “which makes him a target.”

  “Perhaps. Others may not share your view. Warriors might. Indeed, probably will. But our views are seldom appreciated by other castes.”

  “More to the point,” I continued, “does he—did he—have any connection to Tobar?”

  “That is a surprisingly good question. Who was he? Osric?”

  “I don’t know,” Osric denied, shaking his head. “I’ve seen him, but I don’t know his name.”

  “Clearly, someone of high rank,” Hazir offered.

  I looked up at the council of nine. They were still seated, watching over the arena floor as though it was their personal theater. Maybe it was. Tobar seemed amused. He smiled a nasty smile and held out his goblet to be refilled while I watched.

  “You know what bothers me?” I asked. Hazir and Osric shook their heads. “There exists a temptation to go out and kill everyone involved in a problem. In theory, if you kill enough people, the rest leave you alone. In practice, the only way it works is to kill everybody.”

  “Why does this bother you?” Hazir asked.

  “Because I may have to kill one hell of a lot of people to be left alone.”

  Hazir and Osric traded looks. Some of the warriors hauled a corpse out of the arena while others escorted the two wounded off to the sidelines. Someone’s servants went into the stands and poured buckets of water over the burning body before tossing it down to the arena floor.

  I looked up at Tobar again. He was still grinning.

  Technically, we had two survivors. Osric dragged his opponent out of the arena and into the cooler shade of the stonework under the stands. I guided mine, since he could walk, and helped him take off his helmet. A minor spell reduced the pain and two more worked on his eyes. With only a little luck, he would be able to see, later, but he’d have scars.

  “So, tell me who he was,” I suggested.

  “Who?”

  “Your employer. The chubby guy with the nasty temper.”

  “Was?”

  “I admit, what with your own distractions, you may not have noticed. He’s deader than most rocks I have known. I want you to tell me who he was before I decide you’re useless to me. Do you want to know what will happen to you the instant I decide you are useless to me?”

  “No. No, sir!”

  “Who was he?”

  “Palan of Sarcana.”

  “Excellent start,” I encouraged. “I’m pleased we’ve reached an understanding. Continue. What did he want?”

  “His guardswoman.”

  “Yes, I gathered as much. What’s her name?”

  “Renata. I don’t know what of.”

  “Good, good. Now, why does he want Renata back so badly?”

  “Uh? I… I don’t really know. I don’t have to know. Didn’t have to know. I worked for him for nine years and he never explained why anything—just told us to go do it.”

  I rubbed my temples with both hands, reminding mys
elf he was being as helpful as he knew how to be.

  “Perhaps you might hazard a guess?” I suggested.

  “A guess?”

  “Let me put it another way. If someone were to pin you to the wall and hold a knife to your throat, demanding you give him a reason why this Palan of Sarcasm or whatever wanted this Renata back so badly, what would you tell him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorely tempted to find out,” I growled. “Guess!”

  He swallowed a lump in his throat and started to sweat. I could almost smell the smoke from the little hamster wheel spinning.

  “I’d have to guess he’s fond of her?” he hazarded. “She’s his personal bodyguard over nights. Everybody in the household knows he has her in the bed with him.”

  “That,” I mused, “actually explains quite a lot. Now I see why he was so grouchy.” I did not mention it also explained Renata’s desire to quit her employer and flee to the wilderness, assuming she did. How many more of the ladies had similar circumstances? I might have to find out, meaning I might have to ask Leisel to find out.

  “Thank you for your help. Your face is somewhat scorched, but it’s not too bad,” I lied, casting another healing spell on it. “If you can keep it clean and don’t scratch at it for the next few days, it should heal right up.”

  “Is it really not bad?” he asked, anxious and hopeful.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “See? If it was serious, it would still be hurting. Take care of it and you should be fine.”

  “I… I can’t see.”

  “I’ll find someone to take you home.”

  It turns out Osric owned a moderate amount of equipment, despite his current cash flow problems. With him escorting Nameless Guard #1 home—and detouring to fetch his horse and collect things on the way back—Hazir took me aside.

  “Are you certain you wish to include Osric in your plans?”

  “He seems a decent sort.”

  “Despite trying to kill you?”

  “I’m more used to it than I like to think about.”

  “I do not believe I would trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was one of Tobar’s better instructors, until you defeated him. Osric may harbor some resentment and plan a betrayal.”