"I'm glad to hear it, mage,” the demon squeaked. “I don't relish travelling in the company of your dirty linen."
"Tonight we're going to a series of fights, Thribble,” Grimm said.
"No, don't look like that,” he added as he saw the imp's rapacious, expectant grin. “I'm afraid we'll only be spectators, not participants. This is sport, not battle. It's a matter of fist-fighters and wrestlers trying to find the limit of their skills."
"Oh, well,” the demon piped. “I know very little about these human pastimes; perhaps I will learn something from them. However, I cannot understand why you mortals should fight when you are not threatened. We demons find tales of your mindless combat extremely diverting."
"It's a part of our nature, Thribble. The desire to strive, to succeed against overwhelming odds, makes us what we are. Fighting when we don't have to is an important part of being human."
"Is that strange, silly-looking smile a part of being human, too?” the demon asked, although there was no trace of malice or sarcasm in his voice.
"I'm just in a good mood, Thribble. Even a Questor is allowed to enjoy himself, once in a while. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to polish Redeemer."
* * * *
Grimm and his companions arrived in plenty of time for the bouts, which were held in a large rotunda behind the main building. There was already a long queue for the Pit, the impatient customers pushing and jostling despite the sturdy double doors that barred access to the edifice. All of the people waiting in line seemed to be well-dressed, sophisticated men-about-town, although their raucous behaviour was far from decorous. Tordun was at the back of the group, and he used his elbows, his forearms, and even his meaty fists to hold back the growing horde behind them.
The young Questor heard snatches of conversation from the crowd, all of which seemed to be concerned with the upcoming bouts:
"Shugar's the man to bet on; fists like sledgehammers..."
"Rempur's at eight-to one against..."
"A fool's bet, my man..."
At last, the mage heard a howl of approval as the doors swung open, and the crowd surged forward.
Grimm felt a smile spreading across his face as the Pit grew nearer, nearer...
Grimm had plenty of money with him, but the entrance fee of fifteen gold coins, posted on a board outside the door, caused him to blanch.
"I've only got twelve golds on me,” he confessed to his companions. “I could go back to my room and get some more cash, but I don't want to lose my place."
Guy sneered, but he seemed to be in excellent humour. “Cheapskate,” he said, holding out a bulging purse. “Don't worry, Dragonblaster: I have more than enough for all of us. I'll pay the entrance fees, although you'll have to cover your own bets. It's my treat."
Grimm might not know the Great Flame well, but he had never imagined that such good cheer and generosity were part of the older Questor's make-up. Before he had time to consider Guy's odd behaviour in greater detail, the open doors were right in front of him, and he felt a pulse of testosterone surging through him, speeding his heart and drying his mouth.
Guy moved to the front of the queue, holding out a double handful of coins and his room key to a burly, rotund man who stood by the open doors. Another man, who could have been the guard's identical twin, moved in to inspect the golden mound of bounty.
Biting and twisting one of the coins, while his companion counted the hoard of money, the doorkeeper nodded. “Good as gold,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Welcome to the Pit, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening."
As the muscular attendants stepped aside, Grimm and his friends walked into a bizarre spectacle. The interior of the rotunda was in the form of a giant bowl, lit by a dazzling, white light that emanated from some invisible source, high above. At the centre of this was an empty, pale yellow circle of what appeared to be sand, maybe twenty feet below the segmented, banked, circular rows of seats, and protected by a tall wire barrier.
"Betting cards, sirs?” a voice said, and Grimm swung round to see a smartly-dressed functionary, holding out a handful of slips. “You'll be sitting down there in seats twenty-six to thirty-one-A; right at the front of the action, Gorga, over there, will be taking your bets tonight, but I'm afraid we can't take any markers; all wagers must be in hard cash. We don't care where it's from as long as it's good gold and silver.
"Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen."
Grimm and his companions made their way to the row indicated by the attendant. As promised, their seats were right next to the wire barrier, providing an excellent view of the arena. Grimm saw a man sitting in one of their seats, and he cleared his throat.
"What do you want?” the man whined, without facing the mage.
"That's one of our seats,” Grimm said. “We'd be obliged if you'd move to your own seat."
"Oh, you'd be obliged, would you?” The interloper rose to his feet, his brows lowered and threatening.
“Well, I'd be obliged if you just got...” The man's voice trailed off as he caught sight of Tordun towering over the mage.
"The gentleman asked you to move, worm.” The albino raised his clenched, ham-like fists. “So move."
"All right, all right, all right,” the would-be bravo stammered. “I'm moving. You only had to ask. If you..."
"Tack off, chicken-neck. Don't just stand around telling us your bloody life story.” Tordun punctuated this riposte with an almost feral growl.
Grimm smiled as the man scuttled out of the seat he had been occupying, and he saw several other people staring at the swordsman.
"It looks as if you've started the entertainment early, Tordun,” Grimm said, settling into his seat. As his companions took up the rest of the row, he looked at his betting card. The mass of names, numbers and statistics meant nothing to him.
"Um ... can anyone tell me what all this means?” he said. “I've never gambled before."
"Just bet as we do, Questor Grimm,” Harvel advised, patting him on the left shoulder. “Crest and I are old hands at this sort of game, and we know some of these athletes."
"Bet on Shugar in Match Three,” Tordun said. “I faced him in a bout at ... somewhere or other, and I remember he broke my nose, my cheekbone and my right wrist."
"I thought you said you never lost,” Guy said in his usual, acerbic tone.
"I broke my wrist when my right fist hit his jaw and knocked him out.” Tordun grinned. “I don't like to lose."
All of the men in the party laughed, including Guy, who seemed still in the best of moods.
"Ah, but your man Shugar's the three-to-one favourite, Tordun,” Crest said, scanning his card. “It's hardly worth the money. I wonder if they'll take on accumulator bets. See, if we split the bets like this..."
Grimm's first lesson in gambling was underway.
* * * *
High above the arena, two men sat in a small cubicle, eyeing the small party with interest. "You see that white-haired guy, Keller?” one of them said, a grizzled man who sported a scarred cheek.
“That's Tordun. He used to fight in the Gallorleyan Bouts, and I never saw him beaten. Feller's got a steel jaw and fists like boulders, and he'd take on all-comers, sometimes four at a time. Names’ sakes, he beat our bloody heavyweight champion at his peak, and he doesn't look a day older.
"We've just got to get him to fight for us."
His older, bald-headed companion, who wore steel-rimmed spectacles and looked more like a clerk than a fighter, nodded. “Sounds like he would make a good draw, Mort, but just check out the company."
"Three skinny peacocks, an old man and a half-breed elf?” Mort sneered. “What's worth taking there?"
"Mort, boy, two of those skinny peacocks are Seventh Rank Guild Mages. From their ages, they've just got to be Questors. They can cast ‘most any sort of magic. Pretty destructive magic, I might add. They call ‘em Weapons of the Guild."
"Bloody Guild bastards!” The younger man spat. “They've got a lot to answer for
, around here. Yoren used to be quite a nice town ‘til that sodding wizard, Loaraz or whatever his name was, came here. We had a decent slave market going here, ‘til he totalled it and killed old Duke Moras, all on the orders of the frackin’ Guild. The bastard all but ruined us."
" A single Questor did all that.” Keller's eyes gleamed. “There are two of ‘em down there."
He paused, letting his words sink in. “I was told we had a couple of mages in town, and I got Brant, the telepath, to make a few inquiries with some friends who work for the Guild. Apparently, the youngest one is Loras Afelnor's very grandson: he's famous for it. Wouldn't it just be poetic justice to put him in the Pit?
"I don't know who the other one is, but you can bet your last copper that he's dangerous. I think you'd find two Questors engaged in mortal combat a better draw even than your man Tordun could offer. A one night stand, of course, but I think the ticket receipts alone would make it worth everyone's while. I can see the posters now: ‘ Magical Mayhem: One Night Only! ’ Just think about it for a few moments."
Mort thought about it. “What about the other guys?"
"The old guy's General Q. You've heard of him, I'm sure. It'd probably be better if we didn't mess around with him too much; he's got a whole army at his disposal, with real weapons, if you understand my meaning. There's another old guy who came with them; some Second Level Necromancer, though he's not here tonight. Not much use to us, but we could always put him in a novelty bout. The other two might be good for lightweight stuff. They're not heavyweights, but they look as if they know how to handle themselves."
"So how do we play this one, Keller? They're all keyed up on those pherom ... phenom ... those smell things we use to keep the guests happy..."
"Pheromones,” Keller prompted.
"Yeah, them. So they're all happy and enthusiastic, but I think it might take a little more than that to get them to fight. And what do we do with this General? He sounds a bit dangerous to me."
"Mort; sometimes I think all that fighting has pickled your brains. How on earth do you think we get all these wonderful fighters to perform for us? Some of them are old-timers who've fallen on hard times, some are volunteers and some are guests, but most of them wear one of these. It ... encourages them a little, shall we say?"
Keller held up a lustrous, bejewelled torc. “They may not want to fight, but they have no choice. This thing's Technological, not magical, so the average sorcerer has no defence against it. These guys'll fight, believe me. As for the General, we'll just have to make him forget what he came for and go back home to the bosom of his army in the middle of the desert, or wherever it is."
"And just how do we do that?"
"We put the collar on him and give him to Prioress Lizaveta at Rendale.” The older man grinned.
"What, that ugly old troll? What's she going to do; convert him into a religious nut?” Mort said, with a dismissive sneer.
Keller's harsh, booming laugh bore no humour. “That ugly old troll is a witch. She can do things with a man's mind you wouldn't believe! That ugly old troll managed to put paid to your old mate, Loras, who trashed this town of ours all those years ago! You owe that ugly old troll a debt of gratitude! She can make General Q think he's bloody Private Parts, if she wants to. He'll go back to his army friends with no knowledge of what's going on."
Mort's jaw hung slack.
"Of course, I'll have to get old Chudel's approval first,” Keller mused. “He doesn't like messing with guests too much, beyond cheering them up a bit. But he knows where the money comes from around here, and I'm pretty sure he'll see it my way. Until that time, our guests will stay happy and pump their money into the Pit, just like he wants. After I've had a word with him, I'm sure he'll give them to me.
"Hey, stay alert, Mort! The first bout's just starting. Do your stuff."
* * * *
Grimm found himself all but gnawing the edge of his betting card in eager anticipation, as two proud, well-muscled men strode into the arena. He felt his heart pound in expectation, and he licked his dry lips. A mighty roar arose from the crowd that now filled the small stadium, and the Questor cheered with them, as did his companions.
"Our first bout tonight," an impossibly loud voice boomed from somewhere above his head, "is between a pair of true battling titans—Grue, the MER-CI-LESS, and Frod, the HU-MAN
BATT-ERRRING RAM! Please put your hands together for what looks to be a fantastic fight!"
The young mage blinked, unsure of which man he was meant to be backing. Harvel leaned across, and yelled, “Our money's on Frod, Questor! We've got a bundle on this fight, so cheer for him!"
Grimm nodded and screamed out the man's name again and again. “FROD! FROD! FROD!"
He took a deep breath, and this seemed only to heighten his blood-lust. He looked at his companions, and saw only grimaces of vicarious rage; exposed teeth and screwed-up faces surrounded him. The noise was tremendous as the two men squared up to each other.
"FROD!” he yelled. “KILL HIM! KNOCK HIM DEAD! SLAUGHTER HIM!"
If his reaction was in any way uncharacteristic, he did not notice, as he exhorted his chosen fighter to batter his opponent into a bloody pulp.
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Chapter 28: Persuasion
Grimm awoke early with a pounding head and a sore throat. He felt a little disorientated, and several moments passed before he remembered the reason for his discomfort. He felt a smile spreading across his face as he remembered the previous night's entertainment in the Pit. He had cheered and yelled with the best of them and had even made a considerable amount of money even after repaying Guy, thanks to Crest and Harvel's gambling acumen.
Still smiling, despite the hammer-blows resounding in his skull, he opened his eyes to see Thribble sitting on the small table beside the four-poster bed.
"Good morning, mortal.” The grey imp's brows were knitted in perplexity.
"Good morning, Thribble. What's the matter?"
"You did not use to smile like this all the time. I cannot imagine why the sight of two humans battering each other should enthuse you so."
"It was sport, Thribble.” Grimm stretched in an attempt to relieve the tight knots in his shoulders. “A contest of strength, skill, endurance and willpower: two athletes at the peak of physical perfection, each testing himself to the limit. It was a measure of the nobility of the human spirit."
"Is that why you cheered loudest when the men were visibly hurt, human? You looked like a hound baying for blood."
Grimm took a deep breath, and he felt his aches fading like dreams. At any other time, he might have felt hurt by the minuscule demon's assessment of him, but not now. He felt too cheerful to be dented by mere words.
"It's a human thing. You wouldn't understand,” he said, sitting upright in bed.
Nonetheless, Grimm could tell the imp was still far from satisfied.
"All right, Thribble; out with it. What's bothering you?"
"I think you are under some sort of spell, like the one that witch cast on you at High Lodge. Your behaviour seems irregular and aberrant, and I find it more disturbing than amusing."
Grimm laughed at the sight of Thribble's sullen pout and hooded eyes. “All right, my suspicious friend. If it makes you happy, I'll check myself out. Redeemer!"
Thribble ducked as the staff flew into Grimm's hand, barely missing the demon.
During his last stay at Crar, Grimm had spent a considerable amount of time in imbuing Redeemer with several Minor Magic spells. He felt confident that he would be able to tell with ease if his mind was being controlled by another. He also knew that the food and drink he had taken at the Mansion House had not been poisoned or drugged; he had been loaned a dedicated magical charm, which would glow a virulent red in the presence of such substances. The charm had remained quiescent throughout his stay.
The mage shut his eyes and accessed the power within the staff; his Mage Sight visualised this action as leafing through the pag
es of a great book. He had not used Redeemer in this manner before, and he felt considerable pleasure at the convincing illusion.
Light, Heat, Cold ... he thought, as his mental hand riffled through the pages. Ah, Spell Incursion; that's the one!
This spell would inform him if any Compulsion or Geas might be acting upon him, including the subtler Geomantic forms used by witches. If he had had this spell when he met Madeleine, he would not be here in Yoren now.
Grimm needed only a pinch of power to activate the magic, and he felt it take hold. He sat, motionless, for a few moments while the spell did its work. At the end of this time, he heard a clear, crystal chime in his head, rather than the insistent gong that would have indicated foul play.
"I'm clean, Thribble,” he said, regaining his happy smile. “There are no drugs, poisons, trances or spells acting upon me. There's nothing in my body that shouldn't be there."
"Is there the possibility that you are labouring under a spell giving the illusion that nothing is wrong?”
asked the imp, his face still a mask of worry.
"Not a chance, my netherworld friend. A potent Compulsion might have persuaded me not to access the spell at all, but the result cannot be perverted by internal magical influences. My will is my own, I'm afraid. For the last time: I'm just happy. Can't you just accept that?"
"I suppose so.” The demon shrugged. “But it still bothers me."
"Now, Thribble, if you'd be kind enough as to excuse me, I've got to get ready for breakfast. I'm absolutely ravenous. "
* * * *
"I couldn't eat another thing.” Harvel groaned as he loosened his belt buckle a couple of notches. “That was just so good! " Grimm nodded, stifling a belch. For almost all of his life, he had been at the beck and call of bells, yells and duty. Here, in the spacious, well-lit restaurant at the Mansion House with his friends, he felt utterly at peace.
Rich, mahogany panelling highlighted the plush red carpet, and each table had a tasteful bouquet of flowers in its centre. Grimm admired the gentle twinkling of light in the crystal chandeliers that cast a warm glow on the restaurant, making it seem intimate and relaxing. High Lodge might have been opulent, but it had an austere, formal ambience that spoiled the full effect.
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