Arena 13 #2 THE PREY

by Joseph Delaney

  Although he was a djinni, even Hob was cut off from the technology that must exist beyond the Barrier. The djinn had defeated humans, so they must now have the technology once possessed by us. And they’d hadover five hundred years to develop it further.

  ‘Why would someone buy on Hob’s behalf?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s more likely to be out of fear than choice,’ Tyron replied, ‘or perhaps in the hope of gain. Hob often meddles in the affairs of this city. And think about the business he generates. He buys oxen each year – thatmeans big contracts for the beef suppliers. He hires smiths and armourers, and provides work for masons. Think of the influence and dependency that results from all that.’

  As we clambered aboard the vessel, Tyron nodded to the barge master. ‘That’s Kepler,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man and very useful to know.’

  I looked back and sized him up. Kepler had an aura of strength and carried himself very upright, as if to shrug off the advancing years that had already stolen the colour from his hair.

  The barge was divided into compartments; ours was right at the front. We quickly took our places and made ourselves comfortable as best we could on the narrow seats.

  The sun was just above the horizon when, with a sudden jerk, the barge started forward and began to gather momentum. Once underway, our progress was smooth and we eased slowly out of the city and through apatchwork of farms that quickly yielded to uncultivated grassland.

  This was the first time Tyron had taken me with him on business like this. Before the death of Kern, no doubt he’d have taken him. I was looking forward to the trip and intrigued as to what the Trader would be like.But what Tyron had already told me was disturbing.

  A man entered our compartment and shook hands, first with Tyron and then with me, before taking his seat opposite us.

  ‘This is my trainee, Leif,’ Tyron said by way of introduction. ‘Leif, this is Wode. We go back a long way.’

  I saw Wode staring at the left side of my face before quickly looking away. I wondered if Tyron had mentioned my Genthai blood to him.

  Tyron had already told me a lot about Wode: although he was Tyron’s rival, he was also a friend and a respected colleague. They’d trained together under Gunter, and after a number of years fighting in the arena hadstarted their own stables of combatants. Tyron had told me that in those early days they’d often collaborated by pooling their resources.

  Wode had never quite matched Tyron’s success, either in Arena 13 or out of it. He’d been retired prematurely by a serious leg wound that had left him with a permanent limp – but his stable of mag combatants wasranked highly. The demand for his services as an artificer had once been second only to Tyron’s, but in recent years things had gone downhill.

  They weren’t in direct competition when they visited the Trader. Tyron had come to buy wurdes and lacs, while Wode had come to buy the soul of a long-dead artificer, which would be reborn into false flesh. Hehoped to purchase a highly skilled patterner with knowledge of Nym that had been lost to Midgard.

  It was something I hadn’t thought possible. When Tyron told me this, it had filled me with astonishment. How could the dead be returned to life? But that amazement quickly changed to revulsion. It was like buying aslave who would be given no choice as to whether they wished to be born again and live a second life.

  I had already told Tyron that I didn’t like the idea.

  ‘I don’t think the boy’s too happy with you,’ Tyron said, smiling at Wode. ‘He thinks a bit less of me too because of my involvement.’

  Wode shrugged, clutching his case to his chest. He was a tall, graceless man with gangly limbs – too easy a target, I thought, to have done well in Arena 13, even fighting behind three competent lacs.

  ‘Many people depend on me for their livelihoods,’ he said. ‘And to give someone back their life – what’s wrong with that? I don’t see the harm in it.’

  ‘But it won’t be the same life,’ I said. ‘Everybody he ever knew will be dead. I mean, there’s no way for you to find out how he feels. Perhaps he’d prefer to remain the way he is? And I don’t like the idea of owningsomeone. He’ll be your slave!’

  Wode laughed. ‘After two years they get their freedom, whatever happens. If things are amicable, it happens much sooner. What’s wrong with that?’

  I gave up arguing and leaned back uneasily against the cool leather of the seat, peering through the vents that served to admit light while deterring the wind and weather.

  The grassy plain was now slowly being replaced by trees, but rather than the conifers of the forested slopes, these were squat deciduous giants, their leaves still confined within tight green buds.

  ‘How would an artificer end up dead and available for sale?’ I asked, directing my question to Tyron.

  ‘Things were different before the fall of the Human Empire and the erection of the Barrier. Dissent was dangerous when your employer was the Imperial Military. Then again, there were accidents. Accidents havealways happened. If nothing could be done for the body, then sometimes the soul could be preserved,’ Tyron answered.

  Although Wode was hoping to buy himself an artificer from the Trader’s Index, a lot would depend on the price. Tyron had told me that he was prepared to help financially, because Wode had offered him a share inany new knowledge that came out of it.

  There was an Index of wares for sale, but the information supplied about each item was very limited and selections were always hazardous. If Wode and Tyron got lucky, they might even buy someone capable ofpatterning sentience into a lac. That was the dream. Alternatively, they could end up with someone with experience so narrow and specialized that he would be of no more use than a first-year trainee. In either case itwould be very expensive.

  The Terminus was a disappointment, nothing more than a goods depot of dilapidated wooden sheds, their rotting walls leaning at impossible angles, ready for demolition by the next gale.

  In the company of the other passengers, we strolled across the grassy bank, left the canal behind and entered the trees. People kept glancing at my face. It would be hard to get used to that. Tyron was right; it wasgoing to make my life more difficult. We were escorted by two members of the Protector’s Guard, surly men in dark blue uniforms who were already sweating in the morning sun, their hands never far from the projectileweapons they wore casually across their right shoulders. In Midgard, only the Protector’s Guard were allowed weapons other than blades, and the metal stars they catapulted could break a bone, sever an artery orpenetrate a skull.

  I noticed that they were giving me hostile glances. I avoided eye-contact. They wouldn’t be happy that I had Genthai blood, and no doubt the tattoos made it worse. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wassafe enough with Tyron. They could do nothing as long as I was his trainee.

  Now I could hear the sound of waves breaking against rocks, and was peering through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the ocean, when suddenly I saw the Sea Gate directly ahead.

  It was far smaller than I’d expected. It consisted of a small harbour beyond which extended short protective headlands, like arms curved towards each other, leaving just the narrowest of gaps for the passage of vessels.

  Not far from it was a dark stone tower, which appeared to be deserted. Nearby stood a huge gong suspended between two tall stone pillars, and leaning against the furthest pillar was a big hammer. I wondered what itwas for. Did it have some sort of ceremonial purpose? Did they strike the gong to welcome the Trader?

  The green water in the harbour was choppy, but nothing compared to the white turmoil visible beyond the bare rocky arms of land that enclosed it. The wind was freshening, and behind us the sun was rising above thehills to the east. Despite that, far out to sea, the encircling wall of mist lay undisturbed. The distance between the Barrier and the shore varied; on certain days, it was said, it was even too close to allow fishing from thesmall vessels now at anchor in the harbour.

  ‘I thought the Trader’s
ship would already be here,’ I said to Tyron.

  ‘His vessel never lingers in the harbour, boy. It’ll be back for him later,’ he said gruffly. ‘That’s where we’re headed . . .’ He pointed towards the stone tower just south of the harbour.

  But I soon realized that we weren’t actually heading for the tower. A large green canvas tent came into view. It was well-camouflaged in all but one respect: above it, a flag fluttered in the freshening wind from thesea. It was the blue of a summer sky, and upon it was the silver outline of a leaping wolf. As the flag rippled in the wind, it seemed that the wolf leaped again and again towards the sky.

  ‘Listen carefully, Leif. Leave the talking to Wode and me. Time is money here, and we can’t afford to waste it on either questions or pleasantries. And remember what I said about not questioning the Trader directly.Don’t even think of it! There are protocols to be observed. Watch and learn, and ask me questions when we’re back on the barge. We aren’t permitted to browse through a list of commodities. Nor will there be inert lacson display. We can only try to specify what we want. If it happens to be in the Index, a limited amount of information, including the price, will be given, and we have to accept any item at the stated terms. There is no haggling.

  ‘The Trader is vital to the economy of the city. He’s our only source of lacs. Without him the Wheel and its arenas wouldn’t exist. He has a phenomenal mind – he remembers everything,’ Tyron continued. ‘The Indexis inside his head, and our credit-worthiness, including the funds we have immediately available, have already been cleared through the Protector’s Executive in anticipation of his visit. We have extensive documentationconfirming this, stamped with the Protector’s seal, and we’ll present it to the Trader for verification before negotiations begin. Our payment is authorized immediately on our return to the city; the following day, goodsare delivered by barge to the depot on the edge of Gindeen for us to collect. Now, watch and learn.’

  I nodded and followed Tyron and Wode into the tent.

  I’d not expected to actually meet the Trader, thinking that we’d be greeted by underlings, but to my surprise I saw a circle of wooden chairs set out in the tent. Seated in one was the Trader, a large red-haired and red-bearded man whose face was covered by a silver mask.

  The Trader who’d given me the blue ticket had looked very similar. He’d visited Mypocine and asked to watch some stick-fighting. I’d won, and that prize – the ticket – had won me the right to be trained for Arena13.

  Could it be the same man? I wondered. It was impossible to tell because of the mask, but it seemed likely.

  ‘This is Wode, and this is Leif, my trainee,’ said Tyron, introducing us both.

  He quickly got down to business; Wode and I were silent spectators. Tyron had told me that he wanted better quality items than those he’d bought previously – particularly new wurdes of Nym to develop sentience ina lac. But the Trader didn’t offer any advice. It seemed a strange way to do business; the conversation between him and Tyron was very complex and difficult to understand.

  Wurdes were each capable of being combined with other wurdes, and included primitives embedded deep within them – units of syntax that had been developed long ago by the pioneers who created the art ofpatterning.

  Tyron’s theory was that the wurdes so far supplied to Midgard lacked the language primitives that formed the building blocks of sentience; primitives that he’d been labouring for years to develop himself. The wholedialogue took a form not unlike the opening moves of combat in Arena 13. Each participant was seeking an advantage, tentatively probing the defences of his opponent. But then, after a while, I saw it in another way.

  It was not what Tyron took away with him that was truly important here, it was what he was learning from the lips of the Trader. For, in the course of this complex conversation, Tyron, the master artificer, was beingtaught by an even greater master of the patterning art of Nym.

  It was true that a number of wurdes would later be written down and despatched to Tyron, but that was merely for form’s sake. The true substance was being exchanged now, and it was for this that gold would be paid.

  After an hour of this arcane dialogue, Tyron bought a dozen lacs, none of them viewed in advance. It was then that I realized something else: there was great trust between the Trader and Tyron; my master was clearlya very privileged customer. It seemed that different rules applied to the dialogue between Wode and the Trader. What they said was also much easier to understand.

  ‘I wish to buy the soul incarnate of a patterner,’ Wode said.

  ‘Five are available from the Index today,’ replied the Trader, his eyes glinting through the slits in his metal mask. ‘The first four are male, and we shall refer to them by their designated numbers: #3671; #2587; #2004and #1805. The fifth is a female, and her designation is #0001.’

  They were catalogued according to the length of time their souls had spent in Containment. The Trader then went on to state their price, starting with the most expensive, which was the female, #0001.

  Wode gasped at the sum, and Tyron raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Did I hear you correctly?’ Wode asked. ‘That price is astounding. It would take two years’ profits from the Wheel and all its associated gambling houses to buy that female.’

  ‘You certainly did,’ replied the Trader, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘The female in question died almost eight hundred years ago at the height of imperial power.’

  I gasped. That was an incredible length of time.

  ‘What about the other four patterners? I trust that they will be somewhat cheaper?’

  But the remaining four were also way beyond Wode’s means. He glanced at Tyron, who shook his head to indicate that he would not spend such huge sums.

  So Wode left without making a purchase.

  It was a very disappointing end to the day’s business, though I saw that Tyron had a satisfied expression on his face. Wode, however, seemed very down in the dumps.

  On the way back I asked Tyron about the female Nym patterner.

  ‘That price was ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Who’d ever be able to pay that?’

  ‘The price is linked to the length of time each soul has been held in Containment,’ Tyron answered. ‘But it’s not storage costs that affect the price. That’s determined by the potential knowledge being bought. Thatfemale artificer practised her craft at a time when imperial power had reached its zenith. If you could afford it, you’d be buying someone who knows how to pattern sentience into a lac. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But why does the Trader price her so highly?’ I asked. ‘He’ll never make a sale.’

  ‘He has his reasons,’ said Tyron. ‘Some believe there are islands where small pockets of humanity like ours still live out their lives beyond the Barrier. Maybe some of them are wealthy and can afford such a highprice. Then again, you never know with the Trader. He plays his own strange games. I’ve seen him drop his prices very suddenly for no apparent reason. Let’s just say this, because I’m pretty sure it’s going to happen –at some point in the future, that artificer will become affordable. I just hope I’m still around when she does.’

  THE JOURNEYMAN PATTERNER

  Peek is a basic Nym wurde-tool.

  It is used to read elements of patterns and how they are linked.

  The Manual of Nym

  Back at the city there was soon astonishing news. Although Wode had failed to buy a soul incarnate, somebody else had been successful.

  ‘Despite making it impossible for Wode and my father to buy one, the Trader did supply a soul,’ Kwin whispered in my ear at breakfast on the second morning after our return.

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked, glancing at the door and listening for Tyron’s footsteps while I buttered my toast.

  ‘There are always lots of curious witnesses to deliveries from the Sea Gate, and now it’s the talk of the town,’ she replied. ‘Everybody in the admin building is gossiping about it. A sealed body-shaped casket w
asdelivered to the wharf by barge. My father is going to be so angry. But he shouldn’t let it bother him. Such purchases are usually a waste of money.’

  Then, with a smile that melted my heart, Kwin left the kitchen. I went off to my study before Tyron arrived. I knew he’d be in a bad mood.

  The next morning I was disappointed when Kwin didn’t appear at breakfast – it was usually the only time I could talk to her in private. I was just finishing a second bacon sandwich when Tyron strode into the room,his face full of fury. He shook his head.

  ‘That fool of a girl!’ he cried. ‘I swear, if you put your finger in the fire, she’d do the same!’ Then, without a word of explanation, he left.

  I spent the rest of the day wondering what Kwin had done. It was late afternoon when I next saw her. She was just back from working at Tyron’s office in the admin building. Immediately I realized why her father hadbeen angry. She’d got a tattoo of her

  own, right in the middle of her forehead, just above her nose. It was identical to the clasp on Tyron’s broad leather belt.

  ‘So what do you think of it?’ Kwin asked, her eyes flashing.

  ‘Your father’s not best pleased!’ I told her with a grin. ‘He thinks it’s my fault! But it suits you. Looks great!’

  ‘He’ll get over it! I’ve been meaning to get one for a long time and you getting yours gave me the nudge,’ Kwin said, stroking my tattoo with the tip of her forefinger. ‘Do you know that, years ago, all Arena 13combatants had this tattoo on their foreheads?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, your father told me that, but I guess he never thought you’d get one!’

  ‘He’s angry with me, but it’s nothing to the rage he feels about what the Trader did. He feels let down because he and Wode weren’t able to buy the soul they’re all talking about.’