He bowed shallowly and gestured to the door behind Minrah. “I believe our audience is concluded. The guards will escort you out.” He smiled blandly. “We thank you for your time and attention in this matter, Minrah, and look forward to more installments of your prose.”
Unseen hands-presumably magical-unlatched the shackle that held Cimozjen away from his equipment. After three days of waiting, marking time in a cell with no human contact, he presumed he was to fight again. He assumed they’d made him wait in solitude for so long in an attempt to break his spirit, but they had failed. He had his patron god, and somewhere out there he had his friends, so he did not feel isolated.
Cimozjen wondered what would happen to him were he to refuse to prepare to fight, or to enter the arena. All the answers he came up with were short and brutal, and diminished his chances of finding justice for Torval, let alone the other prisoners.
He donned his armor. He wished he had a helm, but he’d not worn one into the building, thinking that secrecy was of the greatest import. He stepped over to his weapons, checked the edge of his sword and, satisfied, girded himself with his belt and scabbard. He picked up his staff, checked it thoroughly, and saw that it had not been tampered with. So much the better. Finally he picked up his dagger, held it for a long moment, and sheathed it.
Cimozjen genuflected, murmuring a long, soulful prayer to the Sovereign Host for their guidance and protection, and to Dol Dorn that he might have both strength to prevail and mercy not to kill.
Then he waited, occasionally stretching out to try to limber up his aging limbs.
After a short while, he felt the floor shift beneath him, a ripple passing through the earth as though his cell itself was crawling. Perhaps, he mused, it is.
The undulating sensation passed, and then his door opened. He saw a short passage, no more than three feet long. At the other end, another door swung open, and the sound of a hooting, whistling crowd washed in. He walked through the doors to his next appointment.
He stepped into the arena. The crowd applauded as a voice intoned, “Eager to return to the ring following his brutal murder of Jolieni the Hawk, hungry for more blood, Cimozjen Hellekanus, the Killer from Karrnath-defender!”
Across from Cimozjen, a second door opened. Tholog sauntered out, holding a huge warhammer slung over his shoulder. “And, with strength to match his opponent’s ruthlessness, Tholog, the Full-Hammer Hobgoblin! Odds are level-one to one!”
Cimozjen winced as he saw Tholog’s weapon. With light weapons, it was possible to pull a blow to inflict less damage, potentially sparing a life. With a massive hammer, the inertia was difficult if not impossible to overcome, thus each strike had a greater chance of being the last.
The hobgoblin smiled as he approached but stopped just out of weapon’s reach. “I had to find out,” he said, shouting to be heard over the crowd. “You fought well against Jolieni.”
Cimozjen gave a slight bow. “I am flattered,” he said. “But if you will please indulge me, grant me a moment to survey the arena before we start. I had no chance to do so last time.”
The hobgoblin spread his arms graciously. “As you wish,” he lisped, his protruding teeth mutating his sibilants. “Meeting you is my only appointment this evening-save perhaps healing a few cuts and bruises after I defeat you.”
Cimozjen stepped back several paces-no sense in presenting too tempting a target-then looked about the theater. Rising tiers of seating circled the arena walls, ranging from simple stone benches to ornate upholstered chairs.
Then his eyes fell upon a face he recognized-Pomindras, who’d commanded the Silver Cygnet as well as ambushed him in the streets of Fairhaven. He stood at the edge of a luxury seating area, which was cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by a festooned wall that rose to about four feet.
The timbre of the cheers and yells from the crowd started to take an impatient turn.
Cimozjen turned his head away before was caught staring, then walked back to face Tholog. “Who is that man? The bald and bearded one standing by the expensive seats.”
Tholog stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Him? No one knows his name. No one I know, anyway. We call him the Black Shield. That’s how he’s announced when he fights. Speaking of which, Killer from Karrnath, I put my money on winning, not slaying. You seemed decent enough, so I thought I’d give you a chance to survive, hmm?” He readied his warhammer.
“Your money?”
“Of course. You think I do this for fun? It is, sure-I like whacking people with Pounder here-but the pay isn’t enough. So I place a bet on myself whenever I walk the clay.”
“Pay?”
The crowd started to hiss and whistle their annoyance.
Tholog looked at him funny. “Yes. Why, did you get shorted?” He chuckled. “If so, you need a pounding for being a buffoon.”
Cimozjen planted his staff on the clay, but did not draw his sword. Instead, he placed his hand on his hip. “You know that I’m being held against my will.”
“Quit talking.” Tholog shifted his grip and moved his weapon into an attack position. “The crowd’s getting restless.”
“I’ve not left this building since I fought Jolieni. They’ve kept me in a cage.”
“They what?”
“They imprisoned a friend of mine since the end of the War, making him fight,” said Cimozjen. “Wore peasant’s garb and an iron armband. He died two weeks ago. That’s why I’m here. Now they have me.” He studied Tholog’s reaction. “Minrah. Remember that name. Minrah. She’s at the guesthouse on Chandlers Street near the lightning rail station. Find her and tell her I’m here.”
Tholog shook his head. “No … no. You can’t be telling the truth.”
The crowd’s displeasure grew louder, more insistent.
“Minrah! Remember it! She knows not where I am!”
“Don’t lie. This is all volunteer. You knew what we were getting into just as much as I did.”
“Do you distrust me? Look at my right boot. Look at the marks the shackles made.”
Tholog glanced down.
Cimozjen struck, whipping the dagger from the small of his back, flipping it in his hand, and plunging it with a back-handed stab into the nape of Tholog’s neck.
Tholog’s eyes bulged. He dropped his hammer and clawed at the wound as blood spurted forth.
Cimozjen forced him to the ground, not a difficult proposition as the hobgoblin was quickly bleeding to death. Eyes glaring, Cimozjen leaned his face right into the hobgoblin’s. Tholog’s eyes rolled back in his head.
Cimozjen hunkered over the body for a few moments. The crowd went silent, wondering if he were smothering the hobgoblin or possibly working other atrocities with his dagger. At last he straightened up and shoved Tholog away. He wiped off his dagger, stropping it several times on Tholog’s sleeve, then wiped the blood from his fingers on the material as well.
He stood and raised his arms to the crowd in acknowledgement of his victory, holding his red-stained hands aloft. He took a bow, his bloody holy symbol swinging like a pendulum and his dagger glinting in the light. He retired to his cage to the hissing and catcalls of hundreds of angry spectators.
Rophis the Winemonger wrenched a leg from the magebred turkey that sat steaming in the center of the table. He tore some of the meat from the bone with his teeth, breathed in and out to cool it a little with the passing air, then gobbled it like an alligator.
The Blinking Hippo was an experiment, a Ghallanda eatery supplied with magebred animals of every sort from the best breeders of House Vadalis. Odd animals they were, like this turkey with four fat legs, but very tasty indeed. They promised to deliver a six-foot long rack of ribs for him next week.