Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“No one,” the dwarf said with a grin, patting Caramon’s big arm. “No one...”

The ogre led Caramon and Tas into a large room. Caramon had the fevered impression of its being filled with people.

“Him new man,” grunted Raag, jerking a yellow, filthy thumb in Caramon’s direction as the big man stood next to him. It was Caramon’s introduction to the “school.” Flushing, acutely conscious of the iron collar around his neck that branded him someone’s property, Caramon kept his eyes on the straw-covered, wooden floor. Hearing only a muttered response to Raag’s statement, Caramon glanced up. He was in a mess hall, he saw now. Twenty or thirty men of various races and nationalities sat about in small groups, eating dinner.

Some of the men were looking at Caramon with interest, most weren’t looking at him at all. A few nodded, the majority continued eating, Caramon wasn’t certain what to do next, but Raag solved the problem. Laying a hand on Caramon’s shoulder, the ogre shoved him roughly toward a table. Caramon stumbled and nearly fell, managing to catch himself before he smashed into the table. Whirling around, he glared angrily at the ogre. Raag stood grinning at him, his hands twitching.

I’m being baited, Caramon realized, having seen that look too many times in bars where someone was always trying to goad the big man into a fight. And this was one fight he knew he couldn’t win. Though Caramon stood almost six and a half feet tall, he didn’t even quite come to the ogre’s shoulder, while Raag’s vast hand could wrap itself around Caramon’s thick neck twice. Caramon swallowed, rubbed his bruised leg, and sat down on the long wooden bench.

Casting a sneering glance at the big human, Raag’s squinty-eyed gaze took in everyone in the mess hall. With shrugs and low murmurs of disappointment, the men went back to their dinners. From a table in a corner, where sat a group of minotaurs, there was laughter. Grinning back at them, Raag left the room.

Feeling himself blush self-consciously, Caramon hunkered down on the bench and tried to disappear. Someone was sitting across from him, but the big warrior couldn’t bear to meet the man’s gaze. Tasslehoff had no such inhibitions, however. Clambering up on the bench beside Caramon, the kender regarded their neighbor with interest.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he said, extending his small hand to a large, black-skinned human—also wearing an iron collar—sitting across them. “I’m new, too,” the kender added, feeling wounded that he had not been introduced. The black man looked up from his food, glanced at Tas, ignored the kender’s hand, then turned his gaze on Caramon.

“You two partners?”

“Yeah,” Caramon answered, thankful the man hadn’t referred to Raag in any way. He was suddenly aware of the smell of food and sniffed hungrily, his mouth watering. Looking appreciatively at the man’s plate, which was stacked high with roast deer meat, potatoes, and slabs of bread, he sighed. “Looks like they feed us well, at any rate.”

Caramon saw the black-skinned man glance at his round belly and then exchange amused looks with a tall, extraordinarily beautiful woman who took her seat next to him, her plate loaded with food as well. Looking at her, Caramon’s eyes widened. Clumsily, he attempted to stand up and bow.

“Your servant, ma’am—” he began.

“Sit down, you great oaf!” the woman snapped angrily, her tan skin darkening. “You’ll have them all laughing!”

Indeed, several of the men chuckled. The woman turned and glared at them, her hand darting to a dagger she wore in her belt. At the sight of her flashing green eyes, the men swallowed their laughter and went back to their food. The woman waited until she was certain all had been properly cowed, then she, too, turned her attention back to her meal, jabbing at her meat with swift, irritated thrusts of her fork.

“I-I’m sorry,” Caramon stammered, his big face flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” the woman said in a throaty voice. Her accent was odd, Caramon couldn’t place it. She appeared to be human, except for that strange way of talking—stranger even than the other people around here—and the fact that her hair was a most peculiar color—sort of a dull, leaden green. It was thick and straight, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. “You’re new here, I take it. You’ll soon understand—you don’t treat me any different than the others. Either in or out of the arena. Got that?”

“The arena?” Caramon said in blank astonishment. “You—you’re a gladiator?”

“One of the best, too,” the black-skinned man across from them said, grinning. “I am Pheragas of Northern Ergoth and this is Kiiri the Sirine—”

“A Sirine! From below the sea?” Tas asked in excitement. “One of those women who can change shapes and—”

The woman flashed the kender a glance of such fury that Tas blinked and fell silent. Then her gaze went swiftly to Caramon. “Do you find that funny, slave? “Kiiri asked, her eyes on Caramon’s new collar.

Caramon put his hand over it, flushing again. Kiiri gave a short, bitter laugh, but Pheragas regarded him with pity.

“You’ll get used to it, in time,” he said with a shrug.

“I’ll never get used to it!” Caramon said, clenching his big fist.

Kiiri glanced at him. “You will, or your heart will break and you will die,” she said coolly. So beautiful was she, and so proud her bearing, that her own iron collar might have been a necklace of finest gold, Caramon thought. He started to reply but was interrupted by a fat man in a white, greasy apron who slammed a plate of food down in front of Tasslehoff.

“Thank you,” said the kender politely.

“Don’t get used to the service,” the cook snarled. “After this, you pick up yer own plate, like everyone else. Here”—he tossed a wooden disk down in front of the kender—“there’s your meal chit. Show that, or you don’t eat. And here’s yours,” he added, flipping one to Caramon.

“Where’s my food?” Caramon asked, pocketing the wooden disk.

Plopping a bowl down in front of the big man, the cook turned to leave.

“What’s this?” Caramon growled, staring at the bowl.

Tas leaned over to look. “Chicken broth,” he said helpfully.

“I know what it is,” Caramon said, his voice deep. “I mean, what is this, some kind of joke? Because it’s not funny,” he added, scowling at Pheragas and Kiiri, who were both grinning at him. Twisting around on the bench, Caramon reached out and grabbed hold of the cook, jerking him backward. “Get rid of this dishwater and bring me something to eat!”

With surprising quickness and dexterity, the cook broke free of Caramon’s grip, twisted the big man’s arm behind his back and shoved his head face-first into the bowl of soup.

“Eat it and like it,” the cook snarled, dragging Caramon’s dripping head up out of the soup by the hair. “Because—as far as food goes—that’s all you’re gonna be seeing for about a month.”

Tasslehoff stopped eating, his face lighting up. The kender noticed that everyone else in the room had stopped eating again, too, certain that—this time—there would be a fight.

Caramon’s face, dripping with soup, was deathly white. There were red splotches in the cheeks, and his eyes glinted dangerously.

The cook was watching him smugly, his own fists clenched.

Eagerly, Tas waited to see the cook splattered all over the room. Caramon’s big fists clenched, the knuckles turned white. One of the big hands lifted and—slowly—Caramon began to wipe the soup from his face.

With a snort of derision, the cook turned and swaggered off.