Keith Decandido - Under the Crimson Sun

“It’s quite impressive,” Komir said blandly.

“Of course it is,” Hamanu snapped. “It’s a palace. I sometimes wonder if I should remodel it.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I understand that you’ve agreed to administer the arena. How soon can bouts recommence?”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible to determine that as yet, sir,” Komir said. Karalith shot him a look and he just blinked at her.

So she stayed quiet and trusted him.

“We’ve conducted a full inspection of the amphitheater, and it’s quite subpar.”

That, of course, was a lie-though among them, Zabaj, Feena, Tricht’tha, and Gan were able to provide vivid descriptions.

“I believe that the previous owners were increasing their profit margin by not maintaining the facility’s infrastructure. The equipment has been poorly maintained, the floors are not adequately cleaned-there are bloodstains all over the floors, some of which I suspect date back to the earliest days of your reign, sir.”

Hamanu stopped walking. “This sounds like a very clever way to not answer my question.”

“With respect, sir,” Karalith said, “he did answer the question. His answer was simply ‘I do not know.’ ”

The king stared at Karalith with an expression that she could not read, then he continued to walk down the staircase, bringing them to the dungeon level.

“What is required to change the answer to something a bit more specific?”

“Capital,” Komir said.

Karalith glared at her brother. What was he playing at?

Komir continued: “According to the terms of the contract we signed in the chamberlain’s office, the Urik treasury is financially responsible for any maintenance that needs to be performed that is the result of a preexisting condition.”

Suddenly Karalith was grateful that her brother had more patience than she for minutiae. She hadn’t even noticed that clause in the contract-and it had to be there. Hamanu was too wily a monarch to not check before committing to laying out money.

But it also meant that this particular game might earn them quite a bit-they’d take the coin for the maintenance and repairs, and then disappear, with Hamanu unable to do anything, since his contract was with two people who didn’t actually exist.

Hamanu snorted. “The Urik treasury cannot subsidize the arena.”

“It’s not a subsidy, sir,” Komir said, “it’s maintaining the crown’s own property.”

“My concern is with maintaining the crown’s own army-in fact, it’s my preference to increase it, but our coffers cannot even manage that.”

They turned a corner to see three women and one man all dressed in the blue linens that indicated a mind-mage. All four were concentrating.

“This is one of our hopes for doing so.” Hamanu indicated the cell where the mind-mages stood. “My psionists are currently attempting to figure out how to control this creature. Chamberlain Drahar and Templar Tharson had him and another one removed from the arena you’ve assumed control of.”

One of the mind-mages-or “psionists”-stepped aside at Hamanu’s urging, allowing the king to peer inside the barred window to the cell.

“Take a look,” he said after a moment.

First Komir went to the door, and he noticeably paled. He moved away, stricken, and then Karalith did likewise.

Having lived all her life dealing with the worst Athas had to offer, from surly customers to sand creatures who wanted to kill her, there was very little that could frighten Karalith.

The sight of what Rol Mandred had turned into, however, managed that feat.

If Gan hadn’t made reference to the changes Rol was undergoing when last he saw his friend, Karalith might not have believed that it was him. His skin was slate gray, strange faceted jeweled armor covered his shoulders, his hands and feet were mutated, and his mouth was segmented.

It was the most foul creature Karalith had ever seen-and she had seen the foulest creatures Athas had to offer.

And somehow it was Rol.

“If we can determine how to control that creature, then our army will be a wonder to behold.” Hamanu spoke almost dreamily.

Karalith’s idea started to coalesce in her head. “What if we adjusted the terms of the contract in such a way that benefits you in the long term?”

Hamanu frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Instead of you subsidizing the arena, as you put it, what if we instead consider it an investment?”

That got Hamanu to raise one white eyebrow. “So the money I provide would be repaid?”

“With interest,” Karalith said.

“And what would you require in return for this particular amendment, which doesn’t benefit you in the least?”

“On the contrary,” Karalith said with a smile, “it benefits us tremendously to create good will between us and our new landlord. But, as it happens, there is one thing that we would humbly request, if you’d be willing to give it.”

“And that is?”

She pointed at the door. “Him.”

“He was removed from the arena.”

Komir stepped in then. “And what has he done for you? At least in the arena, he can be earning profit-Drahar and his psionists can continue to study him at the Pit, but he’ll be earning you coin so you can raise that army you want.”

Hamanu stroked his beard. “An interesting proposition. I must admit, having that creature in the arena will be a draw.”

“Exactly,” Karalith said. “You’ll make back your investment within a week of opening. And we’ll continue to provide you with a share of the profits, which you can use to raise your army.”

The king’s face split into a massive grin, one that Karalith would have found disturbing before she saw what Rol had turned into.

And right then, Karalith knew that they had him.

The happiest day of Barglin’s life was when that big mul kicked the rusted metal gate to the arena in, allowing all the fighters to escape.

The thri-kreen who was working with the mul had told everyone that if they wanted paying work, to meet in three days at sunset at Dedie’s Tavern on Geros Way in Potters’ Square.

A goodly number of the fighters, Barglin knew, would take advantage of the opportunity to get the hell out of Urik, and Barglin didn’t blame them.

But Barglin was escaping from a prison sentence. When you were arrested in Urik, the Imperial Guard tended to take anything of value you have on you, and they had done so to Barglin. It wasn’t much of a haul for the two soldiers in question. Most of Barglin’s net worth had gone toward the drinks, the imbibing of which led in part to the altercation that had preceded his arrest.

Still, he had nothing save the clothes on his back, so he figured he’d keep that appointment.

The only problem was that he had to sleep in the streets, since lodging was out of the question. That was something he’d never done before while sober. Two nights of tossing and turning on cobblestone convinced the dwarf that it was an experience best enjoyed while unconscious from ale.

So it was with a very sore lower back and a growling stomach that Barglin entered Dedie’s at sunset. He recognized about half a dozen of the fighters from the Pit-a mere fraction of the total who were freed by the mul and the thri-kreen-all sitting in a corner, talking about this and that, and Barglin joined them.

“Barglin,” cried one of the other dwarves. “Welcome. Have an ale. It’s on our benefactors.”

An objection that he had no coin died on his lips. If they were paying for drinks too, he definitely wanted to hear their pitch. He signaled for an ale and squeezed in between the dwarf who’d spoken and a five-legged thri-kreen.