William Forstchen: Arena

“Who is this man? He killed a third-rank fighter. That’s a bit unusual for a hanin. Usually they manage to gain a House or are dead by the time they reach such a level of skill. That means he’s good, as good as a master of the third-rank. And yet he has no color, no House. It’s strange.”

Zarel looked away for a moment.

Varnel was right, it was unusual. Not only that but the fact that the man had vanished without a trace. There was something else as well. A sensing more than a knowing, an innate feeling that something was not quite right, that this was not just another incident, a stupid brawl, that would be forgotten by tomorrow. He couldn’t quite touch what it was, but the uneasiness was a warning that had to be heeded.

“We’ll find him,” Zarel finally said coldly.

Varnel looked up over the edge of his goblet and smiled in reply.

“SO WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR TODAY?”

Garth, scratching the fleabites he had picked up during the night, looked around at the room full of old men, who were stirring as the first light of dawn peeked in through the cracks in the shutters and roof.

“Leave here for starters.”

The raggedy man chortled.

“Here to do whatever it is you came for. Ah, your greater mysterious quest.”

“Something like that,” Garth said dryly.

“I’m coming.”

Garth looked down at the toothless old man.

“I had a feeling you would,” Garth said softly and the raggedy man looked at him in surprise.

“Why?”

“’Cause you can’t stand a mystery. You want to find out what will happen next.”

The raggedy man rocked back and forth on his stool next to the fire, laughing with delight.

“I want to watch the fun. I think someone’s going to get killed out of this and I want to be there. Always a business opportunity in such ventures.”

The old man leaned over the fire and cut off two thick slices of meat from a roast that had been slowly cooking over the glowing embers. He tossed one over to Garth, who snatched it and gingerly tossed it back and forth in his hands until the meat cooled enough to eat. The old man, finishing his breakfast, unbolted the door and peeked out cautiously.

The legless beggar was sitting across the street and waved his hand as if swatting away a fly.

“It’s clear,” the raggedy man announced. “Let’s go.”

Taking a staff from beside the door, he stepped out into the street and then, turning, relieved himself against the building. Garth looked at him disdainfully and then realized that he had to follow suit and stepped up beside the old man.

“You know, this is as good a moment as any for introductions. I’m Hammen of Jor.”

The old man, finishing, buttoned his greasy trousers and then extended his hand.

Garth, finishing as well, buttoned up and looked down at Hammen, who grinned at him, his yellowing teeth looking like jagged, rotting posts in a dark cavern.

Garth tentatively took Hammen’s hand and then did not bother to hide his actions as he wiped his palm on the side of his pants.

Hammen laughed.

“A cleaner handshake than what you’ll get from any House Master.”

Garth could not help but smile.

“Where can I find the Gray House?”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Just curious to see, that’s all.”

Hammen, raising his staff with a flourish, pointed down the refuse-choked alleyway and they were off.

Garth followed behind his self-appointed guide, cautiously looking up side streets as they passed. It was well past dawn and yet the city was still barely stirring, the revelry in celebration of the approaching festival having obviously consumed the energy of the citizens. Hammen stopped for a moment to poke at several prostrate forms lying next to an overturned rain barrel. One of them stirred slightly, the other two remained still.

Garth looked down at them. He could see all three were alive but would soon regret that state of affairs when they woke up.

"They've already been picked over," Hammen announced, and continued on out into a main boulevard that was nearly a dozen fathoms across.

Garth turned and looked back up the street, where wisps of smoke were still rising from yesterday's fun. Around him shopkeepers were just beginning to unshutter their stalls, placing their wares out on tables in front of their doors. A few early risers were already out purchasing food and Garth strode along slowly, unable to hide his amazement at the multitude of goods for sale.

Hammen looked back at him.

"I don't think you've had much experience with cities."

Garth nodded.

"I could see that; no one but a fool would have followed me down a back alley the way you did. Such trust is only found in yokels from the countryside. No citizen of this city would be so stupid."

"Either a fool or someone who could take care of himself," Garth replied coolly.

Hammen looked up at Garth and nodded in agreement.

"I think you can take care of yourself. But survive here? That will be interesting to see."

Hammen slowed and pointed to a fruit stand.

"Ah, my favorite, pomegranates from Esturin." Hammen strode up to the fruit monger, who was setting out bundles of pomegranates, oranges, exotic fillagrits from across the flowing sea, exquisite and delicate lollins, and other glistening delectables of red, green, orange, and deepest blue which Garth had never seen before.

The merchant looked up at Hammen, shook her head with an exasperated smile, and tossed him a pomegranate. Hammen motioned for her to favor Garth as well.

Garth took the fruit and bit into it, smiling as the juice trickled down his throat.

"It's good."

"Never had one before, have you?"

Garth said nothing as he finished off the treat, half-listening as Hammen and the merchant, who were obviously old acquaintances, talked about the news of the city.

"The guards of the Grand Master swarmed through here last night like flies on the scent of offal," the merchant announced, while all the time staring straight at Garth. "Looking for the fighter."

"So did they find him?"

"Oh, they arrested the usual suspects."

Hammen laughed and turned away. The merchant, smiling, tossed Garth three more pomegranates and winked. Garth tucked them inside his open tunic.

"You won a lot of money for these people yesterday, plus you bearded an Orange," Hammen announced. "You can eat free for awhile."

Hammen nodded to the dirty brown pennants that fluttered over many of the stalls lining the street.

"You can see, most folks in this quarter are Brown supporters."

"Why? The fighting Houses mean nothing to them and I'm certain the Houses don't give a good damn what commoners think anyhow."

"How do you know that?"

"I think it's fair to assume such," Garth replied.

"You don't seem to understand much about the human soul, One-eye," Hammen replied. "For most of these folk the Festival is the one thing to look forward to in their lives, that and the hope of a winning lottery ticket. The games are everything.

"You can go to most any stall or swill dive"-and he pointed vaguely over to a tavern which was already full-“and the meanest beggar can recite for you the wins, the spells possessed by his favorite fighter, especially if that man or woman won him a few coppers in the wagers. Win money for the mob and you're a hero."

"Some hero," Garth sniffed. "A fighter now would burn a peasant alive just to test a new spell and feel less remorse than if he squashed a roach."

"What do you mean now?" Hammen asked quietly.

"Oh, I hear the story of the old days, when things were different, when fighters were required to go on pilgrimage, to serve others who needed them."