Tamora and Eliphas were waiting outside, and Yama’s first pang of anger quickly gave way to relief. He laughed, and said, “I suppose Pandaras and Pantin are skulking somewhere nearby.”
“I sent them off to a whorehouse,” Tamora said, “but the old man insists on staying here, even though he’ll only be in the way.” She was not wearing her sword, and stood with her thumbs stuck in the belt of her leather skirt, scowling at every passerby.
“I know this place,” Eliphas said, “and I hope that I can be of help. But I fear that Prefect Corin does not want to talk. There are many places on the Strip that will amuse you. Let me show them to you. Forget all this for a few hours, and then we will be gone.”
“You wanted me to destroy him a few days ago,” Yama said. “If you do not wish to meet Prefect Corin, then go back to the ship. I will not blame you.”
“We can still strike first,” Tamora said, “beginning with this Mother Spitfire. She must be a friend of Corin’s.”
“She is famous here,” Eliphas said, “Or rather, infamous.”
Yama said, “Ixchel Lorquital told me that Mother Spitfire will lose her license if she allows any of her guests to bear arms. We will talk. That is all.”
Tamora passed the palm of one hand over her scarred scalp. She said, “I’ll do more than talk with him if he so much as looks at me in a funny way. Him or anyone else.”
Inside, men and women crowded at dice tables down a long room, under greenery that spilled from floating discs.
Most of the gamblers were in uniform. The roar of their wagers and prayers mingled with the plaintive music of a shadow puppet show that played on a screen raised above the midpoint of the room. Beyond, more people crowded around the walls of a fighting pit or were scattered on the tiers of wide steps that rose on either side.
Mother Spitfire herself came up the central aisle to greet Yama. She was very tall and very slender, golden-skinned and clad in a sheath dress of red silk that flowed like water. Two burly men of Tamora’s bloodline stood behind her, impassive in black robes. Tamora stared at them; they stared back.
“Welcome, Yamamanama,” Mother Spitfire said, bowing so sinuously that her small, sleek head was brought close to Yama’s. Her breath smelled of honey and cinnamon. She pressed a stack of gambling markers into Yama’s hand. Her fingernails were very long, and painted scarlet. “May your luck increase this poor gift many times over.”
“Where is he?”
Mother Spitfire’s green, slit-pupilled eyes were large and lidless; a nictitating membrane filmed them for a moment. She said, “You are as bold and direct as he said you would be. Is it bravery, I wonder, or innocence? He is on his way. Meanwhile enjoy yourselves. We have several pairs of well-matched contestants tonight”—her voice lowered—”although if I were to place a wager on the next bout, I would favor the smaller animal.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Yama said.
“There will be no fighting here,” Mother Spitfire said, looking at Tamora for a moment, “except for that in the pit.”
“I trust you were paid well for the risk,” Yama said.
“Not so much that I can afford to have my business closed. I have pledged that there will be no trouble from either side.”
Mother Spitfire swept away, followed by her bodyguards. Tamora stared after her and said, “They could take us here and no one would notice.”
Yama pointed to one of the little machines that spun through the smoky air above the gaming tables. “The magistrates watch everywhere,” he said. “What happens in the pit?”
“They fight to the death,” Eliphas said. “This place is infamous. Mother Spitfire is the last of her kind, older than anyone in Gond. But it is not a seemly spectacle that she presides over, brother. Perhaps Tamora is correct. We should choose our own meeting place. Here, we place ourselves at the mercy of our enemy.”
“I am tired of running,” Yama said.
He led the way through the crowd that clustered around the oval fighting pit, and climbed the sweep of steps to the very top. The pit was filled with water and lit by powerful lamps. Men and women leaned at the rail, watching as two naked slaves trawled fragments from the water with long-handled rakes. A gong sounded softly and the slaves set down their rakes and cranked down spring-loaded arms with a net stretched between them, dividing the flooded pit in two. A little old man in a black robe, his beard so long that he wore its forked end over his shoulder, climbed into a basket seat and pulled vigorously on a system of ropes and pulleys to hoist himself above the water.
“They keep them in heat,” Eliphas said. “They do it with injections, so they’re always ready to fight.”
The gong sounded again, battered brass soft as a dying man’s last sigh. Water boiled at either end of the pit and two sleek shapes glided out into the light. There was a flurry of betting amongst the spectators.
Yama’s breath caught in his throat. The creatures in the water were kelpies. Steel spurs were fastened to their flippers; spiked chains to their tails. One swam straight at the net and recoiled from a sputter of fat blue sparks, spouting a cloud of oily vapor. The other held still in the center of its half of the pit, its tail moving up and down with slow deliberation.
The old man said something about preparing the bout, and, last wagers please. As his amplified voice echoed around the room, there was a renewed flurry of betting.
Then the gong sounded for the third time and the spring-loaded arms snapped back, raising the net out of the water with an explosive motion. The two kelpies shot into the center of the pit, lashing around each other, parting, and engaging again.
Water splashed over the sides, draining away through slots in the floor. The spectators hooted and stamped and whistled. Both kelpies were bleeding from gashes in their pale bellies. Their blood looked black as it fluttered through the brilliantly lit water. For a moment, they hung head to head; then they engaged again, and suddenly one was on top of the other. It beat at its opponent’s flanks with its tail chains, and with its teeth ripped through blubber and flesh to expose the spine, which it broke with a quick snap of its head. It slid away, snorting vapor through the nasal slits at the top of its head and making a hoarse braying whistle, and the corpse rolled over and sank through a cloud of its own blood. The old man above the pit chanted a string of numbers and there was a flurry of activity amongst the spectators as betting markers were exchanged. Slaves used long electrified prods to drive the victorious kelpie away from the corpse and harry it into one of the tunnels.
Yama felt both sick and excited. The spectacle was horrible and degrading, yet even in their hormone-induced fury, the animals were possessed of a fierce beauty.
Eliphas saw Yama’s disgust. He said, “There is worse to come, brother. We should leave now. Meet with your enemy elsewhere. Let me show you—”
“Too late,” Tamora said. “He is here.”
Three men were coming up the steps toward them. As always, Prefect Corin wore a plain homespun tunic, but this time he was not carrying his staff. His two companions wore breastplates of plastic armor and short kirtles of red cloth that left their legs bare.
Tamora insisted on patting the three men down. Prefect Corin submitted to her search with good humor, and favored Yama with one of his rare smiles. “You are well, boy,” he said. He looked sleek and self-satisfied and calm. “I am glad. It was quite a chase you led me. The trick with the scouts was good. I should have guessed that you could fool them sooner than I did. You have learned a great deal since I last talked with you.”
“Many things have changed,” Yama said. He had expected to feel a hot rage when he confronted the man who had murdered his stepfather, but instead he felt nothing at all, not even contempt. His hands were trembling, though, and he folded his arms and returned Prefect Corin’s gaze as steadily as he could.