Keith Decandido - Under the Crimson Sun

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.

And it was why she and Komir were stuck with Drahar’s assistant-a very efficient, very straightforward, very boring young woman named Cace-signing contracts that would grant Dalon Zavno and Wrena Zavno the right to administer the Pit of Black Death.

They had spent hours going over the contracts, and Karalith’s eyes were starting to glaze over.

However, when they were finished, Cace’s words prompted her to sit up and notice.

“Now that the deal is in place, the king wishes to speak to you. You may dine at his table this evening.”

“We’ll be honored,” Karalith said with a curtsey.

For the first time since their return to the palace, Cace’s expression changed-to one of disdain as she looked at what Karalith and Komir were wearing. The linen had become rumpled and sweat stained and caked with sand despite all efforts to brush it off.

“You are expected,” Cace said dryly, “to dress formally.”

“Of course,” Karalith said with another curtsey, and then they departed Destiny’s Kingdom.

They had just enough time to return to the carriage, find appropriate clothes to change into, make sure that Gan was okay-he’d bloodied his nose when he “passed out,” pointing out that he usually only fell down involuntarily and wasn’t used to doing it on purpose-and return to the palace, where a steward met them at the gate and escorted them to the dining room.

That turned out to be the same room where the party was held the previous night. Karalith barely recognized it, as the paintings on the walls had all been changed, the long tables along the wall had been removed, and replaced by a large wooden table that sat at least twenty. The only reason she could tell it was the same were the lions engraved in the molding on the doors and windows.

Karalith was long experienced at hiding her feelings-you didn’t last three seconds in the game if you didn’t-but she was hard-pressed not to gape at the table. Wood of that size was obscenely rare. That table was probably worth more than all the gems in the compound combined.

“It’s good to be the king,” Komir muttered, and Karalith smiled.

Several others were attending, many of them sirdars whom Karalith remembered from the party. A couple were dignitaries from other city-states. Unlike the party, where they were mostly relaxed and social, tonight they were all making the most inane small talk, using shorter sentences and ending conversations abruptly.

Karalith understood the difference. At the party, people generally only spoke to the king if they wished to, or if he specifically wished to speak to you. But at an intimate dinner, you had to speak to him.

That turned out to be less of a concern than expected, however, as the king didn’t actually arrive until the dessert course. Which resulted in even more awkward and stilted conversation, as no one knew exactly when Hamanu would show up.

When he did arrive, he focused entirely on eating the cake his cooks had prepared. Karalith found the dessert to be dry and tasteless, but the king devoured it eagerly, getting crumbs in his beard as he did so.

Dessert passed in uncomfortable silence, save for the sounds of chewing, then suddenly, Hamanu looked right at one of the sirdars, an older gentleman who served as the king’s minister of agriculture. “Lord Pammot, why are the orchards underproducing this year?”

Pammot choked on his cake at the question. The sirdar next to him slapped his back a few times and he recovered. “No one can predict the vicissitudes of the soil, magnificence.”

“Odd, isn’t it, how the ministers all take credit when something goes well, but when it goes poorly, it’s an unforeseen circumstance? When we had that bumper crop three years ago, Pammot, you were the first to crow about how well ‘your’ crops did. In fact, you parlayed that into a higher stipend for yourself, as I recall.”

Already pale, the minister of agriculture was turning bone white. “Y-yes, magnificence, that’s true, but-”

“So the reverse should be the case as well. Your stipend will return to what it was when you first started at this post.”

Several emotions played across the sirdar’s face at once: relief that he wasn’t going to be physically punished for the poor yield, annoyance that his income was being reduced, and fear at letting that annoyance be seen by the king.

That fear was justified. “Is there a problem with my decree, Lord Pammot?” the king asked in a quiet voice.

“No.” Pammot all but barked. “Your decree is quite reasonable.”

Hamanu smiled. “ ‘Reasonable’, eh? Yes, I can see how you would think that. But one of the advantages to absolute power is that I’m within my rights to be unreasonable-since I’m the one who grants rights. So perhaps I should do something less reasonable and more fun. Have you executed, perhaps?”

At that, Pammot fainted dead away, falling forward into his cake. A second later, he coughed, having aspirated his dessert. Two stewards came by to help him up.

“Bring him to the dungeons,” Hamanu said. “I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

Karalith and Komir exchanged glances. They were going to have to play the game very carefully.

“Wrena, Dalon, would you like to accompany me on a walk through the palace? I’m sure you didn’t get to see all of it during your other trips.”

Komir cleared his throat. “Only this room and the chamberlain’s office, sir.”

“Excellent. Once the meal has ended, you will both join me.”

“We would be honored,” Karalith said.

“Yes, you would be.” Hamanu smiled.

When the stewards cleared the dessert plates and Hamanu stood, the rest of the dinner party couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Karalith had to admit to finding it very amusing.

They followed behind the king as he left the dining area. He took them through several dank corridors, then down a spiral staircase, eventually winding up in the dungeon area.

“Do you like Destiny’s Kingdom?”

Komir and Karalith exchanged glances, not sure who the question was aimed at. Karalith nodded to him, indicating that he should speak-when in doubt, the male was probably the one being addressed, especially by someone as old as Hamanu.