Likewise he knew a thing or two about the human condition, and he believed that even after you had left there was always a way to bring you back. Quitting was not forever; it was simply until the right impetus or the necessary compulsion changed your mind. All that was needed was to discover the nature of the lure.
In the case of Mallich and the sorcerer, Usurient thought he knew the answer.
When he reached the cavernous building that housed the fighting pits, he found it already packed to overflowing with customers and participants. Large crowds were gathered at all the entry doors, men and women fighting to get inside, yelling and screaming at the doorkeepers, holding up credits and in some instances pieces of gold. One man even thrust out a diapson crystal, his certainty in his betting prowess evidenced by his willingness to part with something far more valuable than anything he could hope to win inside the ring.
Ignoring the clamor and the bodies that pressed close, Usurient worked his way around to the back of the building to where the gates to the walled area reserved for participants stood closed and under guard. But nothing was off limits to him, so he walked up to the guards, identified himself, and was promptly admitted. Only once had he been refused–more than ten years ago now. In retaliation, he had brought two squads of soldiers in the next day, confiscated all the drasks, money, and equipment, and sold it all off in Wayford.
After that, no one had ever questioned his right to be there.
Inside the yard, the drasks were straining against their chains and bindings from within the cages where their keepers housed them. They were strange beasts at first glance–a mix of dog, wolf, ape, and something more that Usurient had never been able to define. Or perhaps he had chosen not to try to explain, because it reminded him too much of some of the men he had known. It was only after you considered the drask’s purpose that you understood why it was perfectly constructed. Deep chest, massive shoulders, short, powerful legs–the front slightly longer than the rear–square head that was all bone and gristle, massive jaws, eyes that were restless and hungry. Fighting animals, drinkers of blood, takers of life. They were covered in bristling hair sharp enough to prick the skin, and the air was filled with low growls and the warning snap of teeth.
Usurient cast about, searching for Mallich. Drasks weren’t the only animal he raised and trained. He also favored oketar–trackers that, once they were on your scent, were almost impossible to throw off. And then there were cretex–huge, lumbering beasts strong enough to carry a dozen men and pull sleds piled high with stones.
And the crince, of course. Mallich was one of only a handful of men who bred those. The less said about them, the better, although he imagined Mallich would want to use one against Arcannen.
After a few minutes of shifting his position in the courtyard to gain a better view and scanning through the large number of participants in a night’s action that would continue until dawn, Usurient found his man. Mallich was seated on a stool over by the back wall, dressed in his familiar loose–fitting gray work clothes and ancient scuffed–up boots. His beard and frizzy hair were as gray as old ashes and his skin as gray as his hair, giving him the appearance of the walking dead. He was smoking a short pipe and gesturing at a scrawny boy who was serving as his assistant for the evening. Mallich kept a handful of them around–off–leash street kids with no home, no parents, and no life beyond what he provided for them and what they could find on the streets. Everyone else in the drask business used full–grown experienced men and women; not Mallich, though, who seldom did anything like anyone else.
He glanced up as Usurient approached, a glimmer of interest surfacing momentarily on his weary features before quickly fading. He nodded in greeting as the Red Slash commander took a seat next to him.
“Looking for a little excitement, Dallen?”
“Looking for you.”
“Ah.” The other shrugged. “I’m retired. No more hunts.”
“Just drask fights and breeding these days.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. I still find time for other forms of entertainment. Pretty much like you. I just prefer sticking close to home.”
“You’re entered tonight?”
“Two bouts. Want to place a bet?”
“Only if it’s on you.”
“Of course it’s on me. But I wasn’t talking about the drasks. I was talking about the odds of my not agreeing to whatever proposal you’ve come here to offer.”
“You’re telling me to save my money.”
“And your breath. But you’re going to make the offer anyway, aren’t you?”
“What sort of man would I be to back away every time someone tells me to? Should I never take risks again? Should I stay only with the safe and known?”
Mallich considered him a moment and then rose. “I have to go. My first bout is coming up. My animal is favored to win at five to one. You should place a bet you can be sure about.”
Usurient rose with him. “Let’s see how it goes.”
Usurient went inside the building through the participants’ door and found a seat high up on the arena’s back wall. The building was cavernous and filled with bodies and raucous yells. There were no empty seats farther down; there was barely standing room. Torches lit the darkness at the rear of the structure in a smoky haze, but at the arena level smokeless lamps cast a clear, sharp light. Usurient watched expressionlessly while Mallich’s black–as–coal drask tore the opposing animal to shreds in under a minute. It was brutal and final, an overwhelming victory meant as both an object lesson and an arrogant challenge. Fight Mallich’s drasks and you took your chances. Go up against his animals at your peril.
When the bout ended, Usurient kept his seat. He studied the crowd, picking out men and women he knew. Several were from the Red Slash, come for an evening’s entertainment. None of them approached him. Even if they recognized him, they would keep their distance.
The second bout took a little longer than the first. The drask challenger was a sturdy, low–slung creature, its body scarred and ridged with muscle, its head not much more than eyes and jaws. Huge paws and thick legs supported its odd, piggish frame. It was durable and vicious, trained to go for the eyes and legs, and seemingly impervious to pain. What saved Mallich’s reputation was most likely the homework he had done on the animal ahead of time–something he did as a matter of course in order to select the proper opponent from among his own stock. In contrast with the challenger, his drask was lean and lanky and cat–quick–the kind of gray ghost that was there one minute and gone the next, so quick you could barely follow its movements. It dodged the other animal with practiced ease, snapping and tearing in a flurry of strikes while keeping carefully clear of the arena sides and corners where it might become trapped. If the attacker had been able to pin it down, the fight would have ended quickly. But Mallich’s drask was too quick. The minutes dragged on. Though the attacker kept coming in spite of the injuries being inflicted on it, the damage began to tell.
When finally it tired and went down, helpless to rise and defend itself, Mallich’s animal carefully circled behind it, seized its neck, and bit down with an audible crunch that signaled an end to the battle.
Usurient waited until Mallich had led his blood–smeared drask from the ring and the process of mopping up the remains of the loser had commenced, then left his seat at last and went back down into the participants’ yard.
“Very impressive,” he acknowledged, coming up to the other and handing over a purse of gold coins. “I shouldn’t have bet against you.”
The gray man studied him a moment while he hefted the purse and then handed it back. “If I take your money, I will owe you. This is just a way to get me to consider your offer.”