Its intricate design spoke of gnome craftsmanship, and Darrow guessed it still worked, even after years of neglect. In the dim light, it looked like a lightning-struck tree, one half leaning to rest on the southern ledge.
Darrow raised the cup of continual flames and stepped inside. He stepped on something that crunched under his foot. He kicked it into the light and saw the desiccated body of a rat.
"Huntmaster," called Darrow, mindful to call the Malveens's guest by his title. "My lord Malveen wishes to see you."
He waited a moment for a reply before venturing farther into the warehouse, among the ruined treasures of the waterfront. Some of the wares were stamped with the Harbormaster's seal of confiscation. Others were damaged or otherwise imperfect, like a pallet full of dusty bolts of Shou Lung silk, stinking of smoke and mold.
"Huntmaster!" called Darrow. "Rusk!"
No answer came, but Darrow caught the scent of roasting meat. Following it, he heard the crackle of Rusk's cooking fire and worried briefly about the danger of an open flame amid so much dust and wood. At last, he spied Rusk's lair in the far corner of the warehouse.
The big man had lost weight in the four months since his injury, but the stump of his left arm was completely healed. He sat cross-legged before his fire and watched Darrow approach, making no move to rise.
"Lord Malveen summons you to the baiting pit," said Darrow.
"Summons me?" snarled Rusk. He tore a rib from what appeared to be a roast dog and sucked the meat from the bone. He offered some to Darrow, who blanched and politely waved it away. "I'm ready to return to the lodge. I should be summoning Radu here. Still," said the Hunt-master, "it would be something to see the place again."
"You've been there before?" said Darrow. "The arena?"
"Who do you think stocked the place?" Rusk said gruffly. He wiped his greasy hand on one leg and stood up.
"I assumed Lord Malveen," Darrow said, "or perhaps his mother, the Lady Velanna, had ensorcelled the beasts."
"Twenty years ago, 'Lord' Malveen could barely light a candle with a brand."
"My lord is the most powerful sorcerer in Sembia," said Darrow.
"You pathetic sycophant!" Rusk laughed heartily. "He's charmed you, hasn't he? That's what the second ward did when we broke in."
"No," said Darrow, but he wondered whether it was true. He had been so grateful that Stannis spared his life since his indiscretion about the wine that he never considered the possibility that his master was anything but a kind and merciful lord.
"Stand still," commanded Rusk. With a touch of the talisman on his brow, he chanted a spell.
"No!" Darrow ran to hide behind a stack of crates. Before he made it, he felt a faint tingling sensation, and he heard Rusk's mocking laughter.
"Come out, you foolish lamb!"
"My master won't let you-" A sensation of gentle, cold fingers touching his skin came over Darrow. It felt like standing naked in a light snowfall. Whatever magic Rusk had cast, it was done.
"Be silent," said Rusk. "Your bleating annoys me. Let's go see what you think of your master now."
As Rusk had promised, Darrow saw his master in a new light as they entered the arena. It was all he could do to hide the revulsion he felt when he saw the blubbery folds of the monster's body lapping over the couch. His piscine stench was overpowering, but worse was the stink of death just beneath it, insinuating itself into Darrow's nostrils, into his very pores.
Stammering fear replaced the awe he once felt in his master's presence. Try as he did to hide it, it must have shown on his face. Stannis observed him with growing interest.
"Have you been interfering with my servant, Huntmas-ter?"
Rusk shrugged, barely suppressing his own mischievous smile.
"Look at me, Darrow," snapped Stannis. "Look at me now!"
Fearfully, Darrow obeyed. An instant's glance into the roiling depths of his master's eyes restored his faith. His moment of doubt and horror became a confusing memory. He knew only that Rusk had tempted him to some beastly offense against his glorious master.
"That's better, is it not?"
"Thank you, Master," said Darrow. "I crave pardon for my… confusion."
"Think no more about it, dear boy. Now, to the duel."
As before, Radu stood patiently on one side of the fanged pit. He held his sheathed sword lightly in both hands, and his eyes were closed.
Voorla stood near the bars of his prison without touching them. With a slow twist of his head, the troll cracked the bones in his neck. He stretched his huge green arms and flexed the muscles in his shoulders. Voorla was ready to fight.
Two cells away, Maelin sat on her bunk and watched dispassionately. Darrow had already told her of the match, so she knew it was Voorla who would be released into the ring. In the months of her imprisonment, she had become resolved to the fact that she would receive no chance to win her freedom.
When Stannis raised the gate, Voorla surged forward. He snatched a cutlass from the row of weapons and hurled it across the pit.
Radu opened his eyes at the sound and turned just far enough to avoid the sword. He drew his own blade and cast away the scabbard as the cutlass struck the wall hard and snapped in half. Before the broken halves could hit the ground, Voorla hurled a spear after it.
Again, Radu moved just far enough to let the spear pass harmlessly by. He strolled around the pit, seemingly unconcerned at the continuing stream of missiles.
The third was a short sword, tumbling end over end like a showman's knife. Radu deflected it with his long sword, using both hands to brace his sword against Voorla's powerful throw.
"I had expected a more courageous display," said Rusk. "A true hunter does not kill from afar."
"He calls himself a warrior," said Stannis, "not a hunter."
"Is that what your brother calls himself?" said Rusk. "A warrior?"
"Not at all," said Stannis. "He does not speak of his talents at all, but I suspect he would be succinct if put to the question. Radu is a killer."
In the pit below, Radu began to demonstrate the veracity of his brother's definition. He closed with the troll. With a quick lunge, he pierced the monster through the calf. Dark blood appeared on Radu's blade, but the wound closed as quickly as it was made.
Voorla hefted a glaive and swung it one-handed. Radu tumbled past the troll's tree-trunk legs, springing up back-to-back with the monster. Without turning, he reversed his grip on the long sword and shoved it back into the troll's thigh.
Voorla wailed. Blood poured from the wound, then trickled and oozed until it stopped.
"He won't get anywhere that way," observed Rusk.
"Indeed," said Stannis, "but watch."
Voorla chased his opponent around the ring. Radu did not flee so much as lead the raging troll, narrowly avoiding each savage chop of the glaive. At last, the troll's blade sliced a hank of silk from Radu's jacket.
"Oh, my," said Stannis, reaching out for another glass of wine. Darrow was so transfixed by the battle that he missed his cue. He fumbled with the crystal decanter and placed the goblet in his master's flabby hand. "Are you worried at last?" asked Rusk.
"Dear me, no," said Stannis. "I think our entertainment is almost finished. That was his favorite jacket, a gift from Pietro, our youngest brother. How Radu dotes on the boy."
Rusk grunted dubiously, but the master's words proved prophetic. Radu reversed his retreat and whirled effortlessly inside Voorla's guard. With a wide, two-handed cut, he swept the troll's left hand from its arm.
Voorla howled and scrambled after the severed limb. If he could touch it, hand and limb would rejoin in a matter of seconds.