He gathered up the remains of his entourage, and in amazingly good humor, led them out.
Kaeth and Gel left the arena in a similar state of accord, and Lord Wyvarna made his way to the area of seating where Lord Lyon still stood, clearly in a high flood of euphoria. After a moment of hesitation, Kyrtian followed to join them.
When he reached them, he found them involved in a rehash of the combat, but Lord Lyon broke off when he noticed Kyrt-ian's approach.
"Well, you impudent young puppy, you were right and I was wrong!" Wyvarna exclaimed, laughing. He showed Kyrtian a friendly face for the first time since he'd entered the arena. "Ancestors ! That old fool Marthien was right for the first time in his life—even if I'd been the one who lost, I'd have thought it was worth it to have seen a fight like that!"
He shook his head, and now that he was closer, Kyrtian realized that Wyvarna was much older than he had thought. It was often difficult to tell the age of an Elvenlord, but a hint of lines at the corners of his eyes, and a certain sharpening of the tips of his ears indicated that he was older than Lord Lyon. If Lord Marthien was just as old—
Then I've gotten myself two very well-entrenched allies; maybe not as powerful as Lord Lyon, but certainly respected by the Council. This is coming out better than I dared hope!
"And I think it was just as well that it never came to a challenge with young Kyrtian, here, hmm?" Lord Lyon asked, slyly. "Given how well his bodyguard fought—what must his trained fighters be like?"
Kyrtian's respect for Lord Lyon rose a notch. He's reminding Wyvarna that this could have been very expensive—and he's making sure that Wyvarna will spread the word. So although I might be considered a dolt, I'm a dolt no one will want to challenge.
Lord Wyvarna gave an exaggerated shudder, and laughed again. "Damn me if you aren't right about that! His men would have cut mine to pieces without even breathing hard!" He clapped Kyrtian on the back, hard, trying to make him stagger. Kyrtian, who had been expecting something of the sort, braced himself and stood firm, smiling.
"It was a pleasure to show you the secret I discovered, my lords," he replied blandly. "Of all the things I dislike the most, waste is highest on the list, and there is no reason other than losses in a real battle to have to replace a gladiator or a fighting-slave before his time. Humans are hardly difficult to breed, but it takes time and resources to train them, resources that could more sensibly be put to other uses! Besides, if we keep killing the strongest and cleverest of our breeding-slaves, what do you think we'll end up with? These techniques are quite easy to learn, and even easier to apply; if you can set a collar-spell, you can create these training conditions."
Wyvarna gave a half smile, and glanced over at Lord Lyon. "Then I expect we'll be getting a mandate from the Council about using them shortly, eh, Lyon?"
"I believe that you can count on that, Wyvarna," Lord Lyon replied, just as blandly as Kyrtian.
Wyvarna coughed, and then shrugged. "Well, times change, and the ones who won't change with them are fools," he said to no one in particular. "I'll be off; Marthien will be sending his conciliation-party, and I should be there to receive them properly, or there'll be another feud on my hands."
With that, Lord Wyvarna turned and led his own entourage out of the arena, leaving Kyrtian standing beside Lord Lyon.
"Well, either you are the cleverest young lordling I have ever seen, or the luckiest," Lyon observed softly. "I wouldn't have given you any odds of getting out of that situation intact."
"The luckiest, my lord," Kyrtian replied quickly—hoping that he sounded modest. "I fear that although I had come to this event intending to demonstrate my discovery, I made a profound mistake in permitting my feelings to get the better of me, initially. I am, I fear, a very provincial fellow, and this was the first combat-trial I have ever attended. And if I offended you with my untutored manner, I do apologize, for I had no intention of offending anyone."
And once again, he turned to his cousin. Aelmarkin's expression was so bland it could not have been anything other than a mask. He was probably still infuriated.
"Cousin, I must ask your forgiveness for using your premises as the intended venue for my display, but—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is the only combat-challenge I have ever been invited to, so opportunities have not exactly been thick upon the ground." He had no real hope that this would pacify Aelmarkin, but at least it would make it look as if he'd tried.
"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Aelmarkin," Lord Kyndreth told the stone-faced Elvenlord, with a raised eyebrow. "I can promise you, this little demonstration is only going to reflect to your glory. If you like, I can even spread it about that you colluded with young Kyrtian here—"
"To what end, my lord?" Aelmarkin asked dryly.
"Ah, well, to a most proper end. You are aware of the dreadful wastage of fighters we've had in this campaign against the so-called Young Lords. And I assume, given the age and rank of your two main guests, you were aware that I would appear at this combat. Of course you are aware of my keen interest in new methods of training our fighting-slaves faster." Lord Kyndreth smiled; the smile reminded Kyrtian of a large cat with its prey beneath its paw. "So you decided to help your cousin and yourself at the same time, by giving him a venue to demonstrate the fruits of his hobby for me. Hmm?"
Aelmarkin's expression remained as bland as cream, but he bowed. "As you say, my lord, and I am deeply grateful to you."
"No more than I am to you." This was clearly a dismissal, and Aelmarkin took it as such.
"I must return to my guests, my lord, if I may excuse myself?" Aelmarkin bowed.
Lord Kyndreth waved him off, and Aelmarkin departed; the line of his backbone suggested further trouble to Kyrtian. But that was for the future; there was a larger and more dangerous predator in front of him still. Aelmarkin was a jackal at best. Lord Kyndreth was a lion in truth and not just in name.
"Thank you again, my lord," Kyrtian said, meaning it.
"Hmph." Lord Lyon eyed him as if suspecting further cleverness. "Well, I shall be wanting to come visit you within the next few days. I want to discuss your training methods—and other things."
"I am at your service, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian replied, stunned. "I will send a Portal-token to the Council Hall in your name." Before he could think of anything else to say, the Old Lord had sketched a brief salute and turned away, leading what was left of his entourage off through the exit.
7
Every trace of the bloody conflict that had preceded Gel's fight had been cleared away from the preparation room by the time that he and the other lord's bodyguard retired to it. Even the armor was gone; all that remained was the presence of the liveried gladiators themselves, divided into two tight groups with a careful space between them. Divested of arms and armor, to Gel's eyes they looked absurdly young, barely out of boyhood. The two sets of gladiators hovered at a respectful distance from Gel and Lord Kyndreth's man as they took over the preparation room for themselves. Gel suppressed a smile of amusement; there was more than a touch of hero-worship in those young faces. He and his opponent had not only saved these children from injury and death, they had probably put on the most skillful combat the callow lads had ever seen. He was just glad that he was going to be able to return to his own estate and get away from all those admiring eyes.
As Gel followed Kaeth Jared's example and divested himself of armor, clothing, and walked naked into the white-tiled water-cascade cubicle as if he belonged there, he was thoroughly conscious of gratitude for being able to clean up after their strenuous bout. With all of the youngsters still watching, awe-filled eyes glued to him, Gel was more than a little uncomfortable as he plunged under the warm cascade of water and let it soothe muscles that had been asked to work without a proper warm-up. He wondered why the other fighters didn't say anything to him—or at least, to Kaeth Jared. They might not know him, but surely they knew Kaeth at least by sight. Well, they've got tongues, he told himself, as he ducked his head under the steaming water and let it pour down his neck and back. If they don't want to use them, that's not my problem.