Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “Oh, it still exists.”

  “Excuse me?” Dalon sounded confused.

  Hamanu shook his head. Laws in Tyr were much different, after all. “With the deaths of not only the owners of the Pit but also their heirs, the ownership of the arena falls to the state.”

  Dalon looked intrigued by that. “In other words, sir-to you.”

  “Precisely. Have you considered returning to your home city-state?”

  Taking another sip, Dalon then said, “Well, since the revolution, there’s very little keeping us in Tyr. In truth, without our patron’s protection, our half-breed status made us targets.”

  “Indeed.” Hamanu summoned a page boy. “Bring Chamberlain Drahar over here.”

  Drahar still seemed distracted as he came over, the half-elf woman trailing a bit behind. Seeing her, and noticing the significant look Dalon gave her, Hamanu waved his hand toward himself. “Come over as well, my dear. This would appear to concern you also.”

  She curtsied and replied, “Thank you, sir. I am Wrena.”

  “Dalon’s sister, yes. He’s told me of you. Lord Chamberlain, I wish you to meet with these two tomorrow and interview them about the possibility of their taking over administration of the Pit. It’s one of Urik’s finest centers for entertainment, and I wish it to be a going concern again.”

  “Uhm, very well.” Drahar rubbed his temple. “Apologies, I have a bit of a headache. I’ve actually been speaking with Wrena here-you didn’t tell me that you were an entrepreneur.”

  “Given that our interest was in running an arena, I thought it best to avoid that topic of discussion. We’d heard that the gladiatorial arena was not your preferred method of spending your leisure hours.” Wrena smiled shyly and looked away as she continued. “Besides, I prefer not to mix business with pleasure. This is a party, not a meeting.”

  “Of course. Then let us set up such a meeting-tomorrow in my office, midday?”

  Dalon and Wrena looked at each other and both nodded. “That would be perfect. We can always change our lunch to a dinner.”

  “Excellent.” Hamanu raised his glass. “To the Pit.”

  They all did likewise and repeated the toast.

  The King of the World drank his wine with the hopes that he would once again be able to keep the lower classes distracted.

  It almost made the party worth it …

  Drahar had learned very early in life that one never, under any circumstances, even considered questioning the self-styled King of the World.

  That was the only reason he didn’t ask Hamanu if he was completely mad at the party.

  Had it been anyone else to suggest that Drahar be the one to test the half-elf siblings to see if they were worthy of administrating the Pit, he would have asked that question. Why on Athas would anyone think that he, of all people, would even know how to judge whether or not someone was qualified to run an arena?

  However, his primary job as chamberlain was to facilitate making the king’s will into reality.

  So when Cace announced that Dalon and Wrena had arrived for their midday meeting, he took a deep breath and told her to let them in.

  They were dressed, he noticed, in much more casual wear than they had been the previous night, having eschewed the formal wear of a state-sponsored party for more practical linens. It was a particularly hot day, so the change made sense, though it didn’t do much to create an impression with Drahar.

  As if reading his thoughts, Wrena said, “We know that we’re not quite dressed for the occasion, but bear with us. My brother and I were talking last night, and we agreed that a meeting in an office was no way to prove that we were fit to run the Pit.”

  Drahar raised an eyebrow. “Then what did you have in mind?”

  “We wanted to show you how good we are at running a fight,” Dalon said.

  “Last night,” Wrena added, “you were telling me about a tavern you used to go to when you were a student at the King’s Academy-I can’t remember the name, but you said it had gone into the sewer since then.”

  Involuntarily, Drahar smiled. “The Bright Water Tavern,” he said fondly. The tiny watering hole wedged in between a blacksmith’s and a dry goods store in Old District had been the location of many a late-night celebration during his student days. Drahar and his comrades had first gone because they were hungry after taking a trip to the Bright Water Well, one of the oases around which the city-state was first built centuries before.

  But it had become a favorite of soldiers and mercenaries, forcing the students to go elsewhere. Not that Drahar would consider a drinking binge in his position in any event, but if for some reason he would, Bright Water would not be where he would go.

  “Yes! That’s the place.” Wrena adjusted her bracelets, which she seemed to do unconsciously. “If you could take us there, we could run an impromptu fight.”

  “Impromptu?” Drahar felt dubious. Bar fights, he knew, were volatile things. Even the ones in the arena were sloppy affairs.

  Dalon was smiling confidently. In fact, Drahar could psionically detect the confidence exuding from him. “We can take two people in this tavern of yours, get them to fight each other in a manner consistent with an arena fight. It’s a mercenaries’ hangout, you said, so there are bound to be grudges. This way they can work it out in a contained manner that doesn’t destroy the bar, and we show you what we’re capable of.”

  While those circumstances would indeed be convincing, Drahar didn’t particularly wish to be anywhere nearby when it inevitably failed.

  Before he could voice an objection, Wrena said, “Surely you can bring some guards for protection.”

  “Oh, that’s a given,” Drahar said. He wouldn’t dream of traveling anywhere in the city without at least four soldiers from the Guard covering him. For such an event, he was probably better off with six.

  “Bring as many as you want,” Dalon said brashly. “But you won’t need them.”

  For a brief instant, Drahar considered fobbing it off on Cace. That was what assistants were for, after all.

  Then he remembered his predecessor’s fate and the fact that the commission came straight from Hamanu.

  “The king wants this,” he finally said, “so I’ll go along, but the moment things go wrong, you two are not only out of a job, but I’ll be forced to exile you from Urik.”

  “What?” Dalon bellowed, but his sister nodded sagely.

  “That’s eminently reasonable,” Wrena said. “Thank you, Lord Chamberlain, you won’t be sorry.”

  “I was already sorry the moment I was assigned this ludicrous task,” he muttered.

  He summoned Cace, giving her instructions on what to do while he was gone, including hourly checks on the psionists who were studying Mandred and keeping him in check. He also wanted reports from the templars who were researching the “Tharizdun” that the creature mentioned.

  When he was done instructing Cace, Drahar stood up. “Well, then. Let us depart.”

  Within an hour, Drahar’s palanquin was taking him through the streets of Urik. Dalon and Wrena walked alongside, their head wraps protecting them from the midday sun. Two soldiers were in front of them, with two more in front of the palanquin, and two more bringing up the rear.

  Wrena shivered at one point in contrast to the heat, adjusting her bracelets as she did so. “I’ve never been to Old District before.”

  Drahar regarded her with annoyance. “Now is hardly the time to express reluctance.”

  “She’s not reluctant,” Dalon said quickly with a glare at her. “It’ll be fine.”

  The chamberlain started to wonder whose idea it was. Drahar had told Wrena about how Bright Water had gone downhill over the years, and he wondered if she properly conveyed that to Dalon when she told her brother about it.

  Once they reached Old District, the palanquin slowed to a crawl-and that was with the soldiers in front clearing a path.

  As it was Urik, nobody questioned being told to step aside by a member of the
Guard, but the streets in the more ancient part of town were narrow, and it was difficult to maneuver.

  Drahar wondered what he was thinking to agree to such a thing.

  Then he saw the familiar thoroughfare that led to the oasis, and soon saw the sign that proclaimed the name of the tavern in yellow letters carved into a very old, very jagged wooden sign. For a brief moment, Drahar smiled, remembering the long nights and the hung-over mornings. The first time he ever got sick from drinking was at Bright Water.

  Due to the reason for his return, he expected to get sick a second time.

  Realizing he had no desire to set foot in the place and risk spoiling some very fond memories, he called out to the lead soldier. “Sergeant Mazro, accompany these two into the tavern and watch them. I expect a full report.”

  Komir exchanged a quick glance with Karalith at Drahar’s instructions to the sergeant. It would certainly simplify matters, as a sergeant in the Imperial Guard was less likely to notice subtleties than the chamberlain.

  Still, they needed the game to run smoothly.

  Karalith had clearly remembered the name of the tavern, of course, and they’d sent Gan and Zabaj there ahead of time. They’d taken the precaution of removing Gan’s eye patch. That was his most distinguishing feature, and removing it made it less likely that he’d be recognized by Drahar.

  Mazro walked behind the two of them as they entered.

  They’d already been to Bright Water, so Komir knew the layout. The interior was narrow, with the bar to the right-a goliath standing behind it serving the drinks-and three very long tables running from front to back on the left, with three elf barmaids bringing drinks and taking empty tankards away. There was a massive bloodstain on the floor, which people avoided. Large numbers of burly men sat at the tables or at the bar, or stood crowded next to one another (everywhere but near the bloodstain). The ambient noise levels were through the roof, a wall of sound that slammed into them as they entered.

  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 st
umbled 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.