A rich man could happily spend the rest of his days in Mansion House, Grimm thought, and it appeared that the other guests shared this sentiment. Seven other tables were occupied, the groups of people at each ranging from a single man to a group of five men and five women; all of them wore happy smiles, and Grimm heard frequent bursts of laughter from the groups of guests.
He looked at the rest of his companions: Crest; Numal; Guy; Tordun; and Quelgrum. Each bore a similar look of contentment on his face, and Grimm felt an upsurge of fraternal love for his fellow men ... or, perhaps, it was just a gastric reminder of the splendid meal he had just eaten.
"It's a shame we'll have to leave here tomorrow,” Crest said, “just as I was getting used to the high life."
"Can't be helped,” Grimm replied with a deep sigh. “We have a job to do."
"Still, there's always the Pit tonight,” Quelgrum said, his expression eager, almost juvenile. “If it's anything like last night, we're in for a treat."
Guy nodded, lounged back in his chair and patted his belly.
"I might even join you tonight,” Numal declared, “if it's as exciting as you say."
"It is,” Tordun said with a vehement nod. “I wouldn't miss it for the world. It'll be almost a shame to go back on the road."
A long silence ensued as Grimm and his companions stared at their empty plates, their faces long and dolorous.
"It can't be helped,” the young Questor repeated, trying to rouse the faint sense of duty within him. “We'll have to leave once we've talked to Mr. Chudel. He should, at least, be able to give us some idea of where Lizaveta's Priory is."
He smiled. “However, there's nothing to say that we can't enjoy ourselves while we're here!"
A chorus of good-natured cheers answered him, and Grimm vowed to make this stay one to remember.
He opened his mouth again, but shut it as he saw a tall, bald-headed man walking towards the table.
There was no doubt that the spectacle-covered eyes were fixed on him and his companions.
"Good morning, gentlemen,” said the slender, hook-nosed man. “I trust you are enjoying your stay at Mansion House?"
"It's a marvellous place,” Grimm said, echoed by his friends.
"Good, good.” The bald man looked as if such news was a genuine pleasure to him, and Grimm warmed to him.
"My name is Keller Shampat; I run the Pit entertainments. Please call me Keller. Do you mind if I join you?"
"There's an open chair right here,” Tordun said. “I'm sure we're all pleased to meet you, Keller."
"Thank you, gentlemen.” Keller eased himself into the empty chair with a graceful, cat-like motion, and eyed each man in turn. “I saw most of you at the Pit last night, and you seemed to enjoy it."
Harvel nodded, his eyes wide. “We certainly did, Keller! That was a magnificent spectacle.” The rest of the party nodded in agreement.
"I'm glad to hear it, good sirs. The Pit is a major source of revenue for Mansion House, and we pride ourselves on providing quality sporting entertainment."
"You need have no fears on that score, Keller,” Tordun said. “Your fighters are a credit to you. I was particularly impressed by the way some of the losers fought, even after they realised they were going to lose. Dedication, stamina and heart are essential qualities for any pugilist, and those men had them in abundance."
Keller smiled. “That's why I wanted to talk to you, sir. You're Tordun, the White Titan of Gallorley, aren't you? I saw you fight about five years ago, and I've never forgotten it. I wondered if you would be prepared to join us?
"You'd find it well worth your while. Have no fear on that score,” the Pit manager said quickly, as Tordun shook his head.
"That's not the issue,” the albino replied. “I've retired from the ring, and I have no intention of going back to that life. I have all the work I need as a bodyguard and hired warrior, thank you.
"Now I am simply Tordun, at your service."
Keller sighed. “A pity, such a pity.... The pugilistic world will be the worse for your retirement."
"Can't be helped.” Tordun's brow furrowed in puzzlement, as if he had said something wrong.
Keller leaned forward, his eyes glittering behind the round, steel-rimmed spectacles. “An old friend was asking after you, Tordun,” he said in an almost conspiratorial voice. “His fighting name is Shugar, the Anvil-fisted Avenger. He remembers you very well."
"I remember him, too, when the weather changes, Keller.” Tordun smiled, massaging his right wrist. “He fought well last night; his opponent was spirited enough, but quite outclassed."
"Shugar would love to face you again,” the Pit-man said. “He says he hasn't had a decent bout since he faced you; how about a single bout, tonight, just for old times’ sake?"
Tordun flicked his eyes first at Grimm, then at Quelgrum. “I'd love to, Keller,” he said.
Keller's expression brightened.
"But I can't. I have a job at the moment, and I can't afford to risk being crippled for the sake of a grudge match. I'm sorry, Keller; I do feel very flattered, but I'll have to refuse your offer, much though I'd love to accept."
"That's a shame, Tordun.” Keller sighed as if this was the saddest thing he had ever heard. “Still, I suppose it can't be helped. Is there any reason why you can't come to meet Shugar and the other fighters in the Pit gymnasium this morning? Several of the boys have heard of you, and I'm sure they'd love the chance to meet a living legend."
Tordun laughed. “It might be stretching it a little far to call me a 'living legend' , Keller, but I'd be happy to chew the fat with your boys for a while. As I said, they're a credit to you."
"Then that's settled!” Keller clapped his hands in evident pleasure. “As for tonight ... would you gentlemen care to view tonight's Pit action from the best seats in the house, high above the stadium? As friends of Tordun, the White ... of Master Tordun, that is, you'd all be honoured guests and be able to watch the fights in comfort. No queuing, no payment expected. It's my treat, gentlemen."
Grimm's heart leapt at the offer, but he could not ignore a sharp pang of conscience that jabbed his heart.
His intention had been to leave Mansion House as soon as he had talked to Mr. Chudel, and he cast an anxious look at Quelgrum.
"What do you think, General? Should we stay another night, or leave today?” Although he took care to keep his tone neutral and serious, as if he felt equally happy with either option, he found himself hoping that Quelgrum would vote for the latter. He did not want to be the one to make this choice.
Quelgrum shrugged. “What difference will a few hours more make? I vote we stay tonight, and start out fresh in the morning."
To Grimm's immense relief, the other members of the team chimed in with an enthusiastic, almost school-boyish chorus of approval. “That seems unanimous,” he said, relieved to be freed of the real decision to stay. “Who am I to argue? We can afford to stay one more night—after all, Mr. Chudel hasn't arrived yet."
"Excellent!” Keller said, rising to his feet. “Well, Tordun, the fighters have a busy schedule ahead of them.
Wouldn't you prefer to come down to the gym while they're still loosening up for their main exercises?"
Tordun levered himself out of his chair. “That sounds good to me,” he declared. “I'll see you later, gentlemen."
"What do we do for the rest of the day?” Guy asked, smoothing his hair back over his pate. “Shall we go for a walk outside? The grounds seem magnificent."
"Better not,” Grimm said, clinging on to the shreds of his sense of duty. “We'd better hang around until this Chudel person comes back; he's got to be a busy man, and he may be difficult to contact once he's stuck into his duties. Besides, it's pleasant enough here, isn't it? Nobody else here seems to want to go outside."
"Well, I suppose so,” Guy sighed, although Grimm could see that his expression was far from downcast.
“Still, I had hoped to make a little more of this
holiday than this."
"It's not a holiday,” Numal said, with a rather pompous, pious expression on his face. “It's a Quest."
Guy opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm interrupted him. “Numal's right, Guy; perhaps we can come back here afterwards and really enjoy ourselves, but we're not on our own time at the moment."
Grimm half-expected an argument from the older Questor, but none came.
"I can't argue with that, Dragonblaster. Can't be helped, I suppose."
"That's right, Guy. It can't be helped,” Quelgrum said.
Why do we all keep coming back to that phrase? Grimm wondered.
The words seemed almost like a devotional response; a mantra, a coda, a password. They reminded the young Questor of a resonance in a spell, where a mage became trapped in an incantation from which he could not escape; a single thought, chant or intent echoing in his head with ever-increasing intensity.
Nonetheless, he knew that no magic was acting upon him, and that no poisons or drugs were in his system. He took a deep breath of the gently perfumed air and smiled.
We're just so relaxed and cheerful that we're lapsing into easy clichés, he told himself. There's no need to read some sinister bloody influence into every situation, Afelnor. We're not drugged or hexed; we're just happy!
"The bar's right next to the reception area,” Crest said, beaming. “What do you say to the idea of an early morning drink?"
"Have you seen the prices here, elf-boy?” Harvel said. “At those rates, we'll be bankrupt before the morning's out!"
Grimm felt the gentle, tickling burn of nascent tears at his eyelids. These were such simple people; such honest people; such decent people! He would feel like a churl to spurn such sterling company.
"Don't worry, friends; I'll pay!” he said, burning with bonhomie and good humour. “Let's make the most of our time here while we have it!"
"It's a shame Tordun's not with us,” Numal said, and Grimm shrugged.
"Can't be helped,” he said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth as if he had committed some solecism.
Quelgrum started the laughter, quickly joined by Harvel and Guy. Crest sat for a few moments, his face reddening, and then burst into tearful guffaws, after which Numal exploded into a bloated, teary, puce-faced tirade of glee.
"Did I say something wrong?” Grimm felt more than happy to play along with the humorous melee. “Oh, well, I suppose it can't be helped."
He tried to keep his face placid and open, but he could not resist the itch any longer. He laughed, over and over again, until hot tears burned their way down his aching cheeks, the sensation intensified by the sound of booming laughter from guests at other tables, who could not even have heard what had caused this merriment.
Could any place be better than this? he wondered. As he eyed the hysterical groups of people sitting around the restaurant, he knew the answer. All of these people were good, worthy souls, with whom he felt an unaccustomed spirit of community.
He rose to his feet. “The drinks are on me, everybody!” he shouted, his heart almost bursting with fullness. “All day!"
The raucous chorus of appreciative cheers that greeted this announcement filled Grimm's heart. The shade of Magemaster Crohn seemed to hover over him, wagging a censorious finger, but he dismissed the vision with a single effort of will. He felt determined to savour his momentary popularity to the full.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!” he shouted, dancing like a pagan festival spirit. “It's all on me!"
* * * *
Thribble, sitting in the Questor's pocket, felt a horrified stab of lightning run through him at his human friend's bizarre and uncharacteristic behaviour. Despite Grimm's protestations, he knew that the mage must be possessed by some sort of compulsion. This was not the young mortal he had come to know and respect. While all around him guffawed and cackled, the demon slid to the ground, using Grimm's robe as a break-fall. This man, Keller, seemed to be a dangerous influence, and the imp decided to follow the Pit-master as he walked away with a strange smile on his face. [Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 29: Training
Keller led Tordun to the Pit and opened the large double doors with an ornate key. The silence of the auditorium, in contrast to the raucous clamour of the previous night, struck the albino as eerie, and he shivered. The stadium seemed, somehow, more than empty. It felt almost as if some negative, spectral presence was waiting to suck the energy out of him.
"Spooky, isn't it?” Keller said, as if divining the pale swordsman's thoughts. “I work here every day, and I still notice it. A place like this should be full of living, breathing bodies to give it life.
"Down here,” the Pit manager continued, opening a door to a descending stone staircase, with treads bearing the semicircular evidence of years, if not decades, of regular wear from the passage of hundreds of feet.
At the bottom of the staircase, Tordun and Keller stepped into a large, well-lit square area, with an opening at each face.
"This is the fighters’ area, Tordun. We have everything they need: a refectory, a relaxation area, a fully-equipped surgery ... everything a fighting man needs to stay at the peak of physical perfection."
Keller pointed to the left-hand opening. “Quarters and social facilities are through there,” he said. “To the right are the medical facilities and the administration block. I'll give you a more detailed tour later, but let's tackle first things first."
The Pit-man led Tordun through the far opening, into a corridor with many doors, giving a brief description of what lay behind each one as they passed. “Sauna, massage area, baths, relaxation area..."
"You take good care of your warriors.” Tordun felt impressed at the comprehensive range of facilities.
Keller nodded. “We have a considerable investment in each of our men, and it's only good business practice to protect that investment. A pampered fighter is a good fighter.
"Oh, the gym's right through here."
Keller opened a door to his left and led Tordun into a maelstrom of activity.
The albino felt awash in a mass of sensory impressions: the rhythmic, grunting sounds of men hoisting weights above their heads; the acrid scent of perspiration; the expressions of grim determination on the faces of the fighters as they trained.
"What do you think of our training facilities?” Keller asked, his tone tinged with the smug satisfaction of one who knows what the answer to his question must be.
Tordun looked back on his career as a professional pugilist, and his own training. Endless hours of punching sacks of grain, long, hard runs and repetitive lifting of anvils could not begin to compare with this glittering array of metal equipment. He saw sinews stretched to the limit through taut, pink, sweaty skin; gritted teeth and bulging eyes, accompanied by the metronomic rise and fall of weights suspended from wire ropes. A group of men arranged in a circle passed a large, heavy-looking ball from one to the other at great speed, while others punched bulging, suspended canvas bags. The albino saw pieces of equipment whose function he could not even begin to fathom, but every item of apparatus was in use.
Tordun heard not the least sound of complaint or dissension as the fighters put themselves through a gruelling series of exercises, and he could not help but be impressed.
"Magnificent,” he breathed. “I have never seen such a dedicated group of men."
"You will find none,” Keller declared. “We make sure that our men are the best-trained fighters around."
Tordun noted a fair proportion of the full range of fit masculine body types in the gymnasium. Swift, lithe, featherweights trained alongside slower, heavily-muscled bruisers, and he saw every type of build in between. To his approval, he saw that there seemed to be the full gamut of races and skin colours, too: black, white, yellow, green, elf, human, dwarf...
Here was a microcosm of the whole spectrum of sentient beings, side by side in what appeared to be a spirit of harmony and co-operation. Each fighter, regardless of his race or size, a
ppeared to share at least two attributes with his fellows: his utter dedication to his craft, and his superb physical condition. Each man was a paragon of bodily perfection: a sculpture made flesh.
As he looked closer, the albino noted that many of the men wore golden, jewel-encrusted circlets around their necks, and he asked Keller of the significance of these gaudy adornments.
"The torcs are a badge of rank,” the Pit-master said. “All our fighters are dedicated to the pursuit of physical excellence, but the circlet denotes a man who stands above his fellows in dedication, determination and success in the Pit. Your old friend, Shugar, is such a man, of course. If you'll wait a few moments, I think he's coming to the end of his exercises."
Tordun followed Keller's pointing finger, and recognised his erstwhile opponent amongst the mass of straining, struggling bodies. Shugar pushed himself through a gruelling series of sit-ups, his feet locked under a metal bar and his hands clasped behind his head. It seemed as if the muscular titan would never stop, but, at last, Shugar ceased his struggling with a deep sigh.
Keller led the albino through the mass of writhing bodies to stand alongside the fighter. Leaping to his feet, his face red and sweaty, the fighter grabbed a towel from beside him and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Only after attending to this task did he seem to become aware of the presence of Keller and Tordun.
"Shugar, I've brought an old friend of yours,” the Pit-master shouted over the tumultuous noises of exertion filling the gymnasium. “He's come to pay his respects."
Shugar stood for a few moments, his eyes scanning the albino, before he responded. “Tordun, isn't it?
What in the Names are you doing here? Don't tell me they've..."
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