Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

Dvolci, leaving the scene of his triumph, gently bumped into the irate Atlon as he trotted back along the bench. ‘Quietly,’ he said, softly and with heavy irony.

‘Get me my breakfast,’ Atlon demanded to conclude his tirade, then he sat down. ‘And be quick about it. I’ve paid enough for it.’

Ghreel was in no mood to argue. The unceremonious rout of his best dog, and the intensity of Atlon’s sudden and righteous outburst had left him feeling exposed and foolish. He affected an indifference to what was said about him beyond the limits of The Wyndering, but he knew that he had just made a mistake, not least in underestimating Atlon and that stupid animal. He was known for dealing ‘firmly’ with troublesome customers, but news of his subjecting one of his guests to such unjustified violence could spread like a grass fire and do his business great harm. He let go of the dog, which scurried quickly to the far end of the room, then he aimed an angry blow at one of the passing boys. Apparently used to such treatment, the boy ducked and continued on his business, barely missing a step.

The various travellers returned to their meals but now the atmosphere was alive with chatter as, in the wake of the tension, they became as familiar with each other as old friends, telling the tale of what they had just seen to one another over and over. There was a great deal of laughter and knowing head-nodding, and eyes turned repeatedly to examine Dvolci and Atlon.

‘Heading for the fighting pits, are you?’

The question had to be repeated before Atlon realized it had been addressed to him. It came from the man sitting opposite. Atlon apologized awkwardly then, as the words impinged on him.

‘Fighting pits? What are they?’

The man gave him an uncertain, half-amused, half-suspicious look. ‘The fighting pits,’ he echoed, almost as if he had been asked where the sky was. ‘Everyone’s heard of them.’

Atlon shook his head. ‘Not me, I’m afraid. I come from far away.’

The man nodded. ‘I suspected as much when you were so polite to Ghreel. You staying here long?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m travelling south for… some friends, but I’ll need to find work locally to pay my way.’

The man gave him another look then seemed to reach a decision. He rested his arms on the table and leaned forward confidentially. ‘It’s perhaps as well you bumped into me, then,’ he said. ‘You have to be careful around here, you know. There are plenty of people who’re only too willing to take advantage of a stranger such as yourself.’ He leaned further forward and lowered his voice. ‘But I think I can help you.’ He looked at Dvolci and touched the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘I know my fighting animals, and that… is a fighting animal. He’s not big, I’ll grant you, but he’s got it inside, you see. Heart. Guts. That quality only other animals can see.’

‘Other animals, and you.’

Atlon, struggling to understand what the man was talking about, started slightly. It was his voice, but he had not spoken. Dvolci looked up at him innocently.

‘Exactly,’ the man replied, not realizing who had spoken and apparently not noting the sarcasm. ‘Experience, you see. Saw it as soon as your… what is it?… Felci?… looked at that dog. I saw what Ghreel didn’t… the muscles under that fur, those claws, the teeth.’ There was unfeigned admiration in his voice. ‘And the way it moved. It’s intelligent too – look at how it’s watching everything. You’ve got a fortune waiting for you in that animal, trust me.’

Still bewildered and a little fearful that Dvolci might intercede on his behalf again, Atlon said, ‘I’m sorry if I seem foolish, but I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

The man waved the remark aside airily. ‘Strange you’ve never heard of the fighting pits,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing much to understand.’ He tapped his head. ‘Doesn’t tax the brain. Animals fight in the pit, and people bet on them.’

Atlon’s breakfast appeared in front of him but he scarcely noticed it. He was having difficulty in believing what he had just heard. ‘You mean, people wager money on one animal killing another?’ he asked uncomfortably.

The man shook his head reassuringly. ‘Oh no, there’s not always a killing.’ He smirked and returned to his meal. ‘Lot of money goes into training a good fighter. Can’t afford to risk losing them too easily, can you? No, people just bet on which will win.’ He tapped the table as he spoke. ‘People’ll bet a fortune on a good fight.’

A sharp flick from Dvolci’s tail and a soft whistle told Atlon to restrain his incipient indignation and to listen and learn. In deference to the felci’s command, he managed not to speak, but his hands were shaking as he began to eat.

‘I wouldn’t have thought the authorities would allow something like that,’ he said, after a while.

The man laughed outright, in genuine amusement, spraying food. ‘Authorities! What authorities? No one has authority over Arash-Felloren. Quite a few think they do – the Prefect, the Council, the noble families and the like.’ He gave the word noble a scornful emphasis. ‘And a lot more would like to – the trading houses, the Weartans, the Kyrosdyn, the Guilds – all looking after themselves. But it’s everyone for himself, really. Always has been, always will be. Arash-Felloren’s too big for one man to control – even one man and an army.’ He became avuncular and set aside this digression. ‘I can see it’s very fortunate you’ve met me. You must’ve come from far away indeed, by the sound of it. Don’t you worry. No one could stop the pit fights even if they wanted to.’ He rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together knowingly. ‘There’s far too much money to be made at it.’

Atlon chewed his food energetically to hide his increasing agitation. He tried to deflect the conversation. ‘Who are the Kyrosdyn?’ he asked.

The man’s face twisted into an expression of distaste. ‘Crystal-workers,’ he replied. ‘Why?’

‘Crystals I know a little about,’ Atlon said brightly, surprised at his good fortune in encountering this information, and more than a little relieved to have found something that would take him away from the fighting pits. ‘Perhaps there would be work for me with them.’

The man cast an anxious glance at Dvolci then leaned forward again, urgent now. ‘Listen to me. Don’t you have anything to do with them. I’ve heard tell that working with crystals can do strange things to a man, and looking at the Kyrosdyn, I can believe it. They’re a weird bunch. Humourless, scheming devils. Meddling with things they ought to leave alone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, they have a finger in every part of the political squabbling that goes on. Eternally playing one side off against the other for whatever suits them, though no one seems to see it except us ordinary folk.’

‘Why would they do that?’

The man looked surprised. ‘I don’t know – power, influence, control over the city like I said… who knows? They call themselves artists and craftsmen but they’re no better than all the others really. Worse, in fact. Rumour has it there’s a vast hoard of tints under the Vaskyros – they certainly employ enough guards to protect the place. But they’re always looking to make more money. They’re involved in all sorts of things that have nothing to do with the crystal trade, but always secretly – behind the scenes. If you ask me, they wouldn’t be happy even if they did manage to take over the entire city. They’d want all the Lowe Towns, probably, even the Thlosgaral and the Wilde Ports.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And there’s other things, too. They have… powers.’