“Coward,” called Jolieni as Minrah reached the door.
The young elf stiffened, then took a moment to ensure that the smile was completely erased from her face before she turned back around. “Pardon me?”
Jolieni pointed to a stool. “You sit there,” she said. “I’ll be back within the bell, and we’ll see if your carthorse truly has the courage you claim for him.” So saying, she swept past Minrah into the night.
Cimozjen stirred as the morning light coaxed him from his sleep. “What’s that smell?” he murmured, then he bolted upright. “Fire? Is there a-” He cast about, and his eyes finally settled on Minrah, curled up cross-legged in one of the chairs.
“Since when do you smoke a pipe?” he asked, unnerved.
Minrah giggled. She took a deep draw, then let the smoke out in a series of tiny Os that floated across the room until fading from existence.
“It’s a habit I picked up from Dadda. I always smoke a bowl whenever I win.”
Cimozjen rubbed his eyes, and coughed. “Win?”
“I have us a trail to the answer to our mystery, and our key into the secret workings of House Ghallanda,” she said triumphantly. She pulled a tightly curled piece of parchment from her sleeve. “Take a look at this.” She waggled it between her fingers.
Cimozjen grumbled something unintelligible and dragged himself out of bed, wrapping the blanket around him. He waddled over to Minrah, took the parchment, and unrolled it as best he could.
“ ‘Eighth bell, Corner of Stockade and Braided, gray door in the alley,’ ” he read.
“It’s an invitation,” she said with a grin as wide as her ears were long. “All our answers are there.”
Cimozjen raised his eyebrows. “I see. And what will we find there?”
“I really haven’t a clue.” Minrah winked. “My guess is that we’ll get to see what the fights are really like, and hopefully figure out who’s behind it, then leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Though you’d likely be best served by bringing your sword and mail, ’cause we’re dancing a dangerous line here, and things could get difficult if I’m wrong.”
It was well past dark as Cimozjen, Minrah, and Four searched through the fringes of the neighborhood known as the Newall quarter, looking for the address scrawled on their invitation. The rain had eased to a dull drizzle, and both Minrah and Cimozjen huddled in their rain gear. Four remained unfazed by the weather, and carried his battle-axe at the ready.
They finally found their destination-a nondescript door built into the rear of an elegant stone building, an edifice so large that a dozen or more wealthy houses could likely fit inside. A single oil lamp with a reflective dome on top cast light in a circle around the doorway. Heavy drips fell from the building’s eaves, splatting in the rain puddles and banging the lamp’s protection like a tiny ill-tuned gong.
“Hoy, this is exciting,” said Minrah. “And kind of scary.”
Cimozjen gave her a quizzical look. “You truly know not what lies in here?”
“Know for a fact? No, I don’t. I’m not even completely sure the prisoner fights are held in there, but I think so. I have other suspicions, but they’re nothing more than wild flights of fancy. Let’s just see what we get into, all right?”
Cimozjen eyed her, then tossed his head in resignation. “And I thought you were merely holding out to be a tease.”
She sidled closer as enticingly as she could whilst covered with a rain-drenched cloak. “I may tease the others, Cimmer, but you’re the one holding out on me.”
Cimozjen ignored the comment, drew a breath, and knocked firmly on the door.
After a few moments a view slit banged open. Two suspicious eyes glared out, darting back and forth between the three. The business end of a crossbow made an appearance as well. It was not pointed directly at them, but it conveyed a threat nonetheless. “What’s yer business?” snarled the guard, his voice somewhat muffled by the wooden door.
Cimozjen handed over the paper that Jolieni had given Minrah.
The eyes glanced at the paper, then back at the trio. Then they glared at Four.
“What’s that doing here?”
“It’s Four,” said Cimozjen.
“What?”
“This is Four.”
“I don’t care what it’s for,” said the guard. “Get it out of here.”
“That’s his name,” said Cimozjen. “Four.”
“I don’t care what you named it for,” said the guard. Then he added, in a tone that said the concept should be painfully obvious to all, “We don’t allow their kind in here. You leave it outside. And away from the door. Makes the other folk nervous.”
“I’m sorry, Four,” said Minrah.
“Sorry for what?” asked the warforged.
“Sorry that you can’t come in.”
“I was trying to be funny,” said Four. “Is that not what the doorman was doing?”
Minrah sighed. “Sadly, no. And maybe Four isn’t such a good name for you after all. But regardless, they won’t let you in. You can wait out here, say in that alley across the way there, or you can meet us back at our rooms.”
“I will await you here and think about which name might suit me better.” He turned to face the disdainful eyes. “Do not fret, doorman, I will remain out of sight.”
“Try to stay out of trouble, Four.” said Cimozjen.
“Right,” added Minrah. “And don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Four withdrew, and the door opened. Cimozjen entered, followed by Minrah.
“That way,” gruffed the guard, pointing to a descending stair. Cimozjen took the stairs, and Minrah started to follow, but the guard stopped her. “You go that way,” he said, pointing down a hallway away from the stairs. “We can’t have you mingling with them.”
Cimozjen stopped and turned. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but-”
The guard pointed impatiently down the stairwell. “You got questions, git downstairs. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.” He shoved Minrah toward the hallway as another knock sounded on the door. “Now git moving, girl. I’m busy here.”
Thus impelled, Minrah turned to berate the door guard, but curiosity overcame her natural rebellious streak and she did as she had been bidden. The hallway turned a corner and descended a half flight into a common room with several small barred windows along one wall. Behind the windows, Minrah saw several people and a large billboard. No one stood at the windows at the moment, although a scattering of people chatted quietly in clusters about the room. Minrah opted to continue scouting, and slid through the common room to the wider staircase that descended from the other end.
The stairs descended into a large auditorium that seemed as large as the building that rose above. Thick arching pillars served as the roots of the building’s foundation. Between the stone pillars, rows of seats overlooked a small clay field, scarred and stained, and sunk ten feet below the closest of the seats. Close to half of the seats were already filled.
“Dark Six,” whispered Minrah. “I was more right than I thought.”
She ran back up to the common room and dashed over to one of the windows. In the enclosed room behind, a large, lined board proudly displayed-
Match / Challenger / Defender / Odds / Trend
Sepia-colored lines crawled on the board like centipedes, forming and reforming letters and numbers.
There, partway down the list, she saw “Cimozjen Hellekanus” listed. He faced long odds. Seemingly in a trance, Minrah pulled out her pack and began pulling out a long loop of twine.
Cimozjen found himself in a room with as diverse a group of fighters as he could imagine. They ranged in age from arrogant youths too young to have seen action in the War to aged and grizzled veterans who looked like time had treated them far worse than the enemy ever had. The majority of those present seemed to be of his age or up to a decade younger.
Almost every race was present-humans, a dwarf, a smattering of elves, and a sizeable collection of the more aggressive species-and the weapons each carried were as varied as the people themselves. He recognized several faces from the Dragon’s Flagons. Many of them talked to each other, boasting, bragging or comparing ideas, making the noise level as loud as that of a packed tavern, and requiring people to raise their voices to communicate.