This unique quality had not simply arisen out of the fact that the order bore the rarely seen personal seal of the God-King Saylal. Rather, its most curious quality was that it had not committed that sacred ruler to either side in the civil unrest that had broken out in and around the Fifth District and at the South Gate of Broken, and which by now, Caliphestros had rightly presumed, was spilling over into the other districts of the city. Lords and citizens alike were commanded to remain in their homes and carry on no commerce during “this time of confusion and crisis”; yet neither one nor the other of the obvious adversaries in this “present unpleasantness” had received royal endorsement. Such had been a clever ploy, indeed, Caliphestros had realized: for not only could the God-King and the Grand Layzin treat the matter as one of secular politics, but they could quite truthfully claim, later, to have always favored whichever side emerged victorious.
Yes, clever, Caliphestros had thought, as he had struggled to stay astride Stasi’s powerful neck and shoulders: almost perversely clever, just as Saylal himself has always been …
When the pair arrive at the entryway to the stadium, Caliphestros breathes easier for a moment, as Stasi pauses for the first time: the structure’s portcullis — an almost insignificant (by any military standard) expanse of crosshatched boards that serves as more of a warning than a true barrier — has been shut, for the first time that Caliphestros can ever recall its having been. But, while the grating may itself be less than impressive, it has been fastened at its base with a prodigious iron chain and equally impressive lock to an iron loop that was long ago sunk into the granite of the mountain. A smaller chain has been strung through a section of the crosshatching some five feet up from the base, and its two ends are fixed to a large slab of wood that bears Lord Baster-kin’s command that the Stadium will remain closed until the young men of Broken have bested the Bane.
Staring at the lock upon the ground and recognizing its basic mechanism, Caliphestros begins to rummage through one of the small sacks that he has kept slung over his shoulders.
“Fear not, Stasi,” he announces. “I have a set of tools that will allow us, eventually, to—”
Just what his devices will allow him to do is never announced: for Stasi, evidently, knows the sound of her companion’s rummaging and studious voice, and decides that she will settle the matter of the portcullis herself. Before Caliphestros can coherently object, the panther takes several long strides backward and, lowering her head so that the thick bone of her forehead faces the entryway, begins a hard run that makes her intention unmistakable.
“Stasi—!” her rider scarcely has time to call out, before realizing that nothing he will say can prevent her attempt. With this in mind, he lowers his seating and increases his hold, closing his eyes as he does. Almost before he can comprehend what has taken place, he hears an enormous sound of shattering wood, of which only harmless pieces fall upon his back, so quickly is the white panther continuing to move. Once inside the gateway, Stasi pauses to look back with satisfaction at her work: a gaping hole in the portcullis to one side of the intact chain and lock, and an impact so extreme that the largest pieces of wood that have been blasted away are only now settling to the ground. Smiling and smoothing the fur upon the panther’s neck with one hand as he rubs her forehead with the other, Caliphestros determines: “You were right, my girl — a far superior plan. On, then!”
And, understanding his words entirely, Stasi turns, seeming to know her way about the Stadium (although it is scent alone that is driving her, Caliphestros knows), and makes for the doorway that leads to the dark stairway that winds down to the cages beneath the sands of the arena.
Only here do the travelers finally encounter a human presence: one of the keepers of the beasts in the iron cells. He is a filthy man in equally dirty clothing; and despite the fact that he holds a spear before him, he beholds the approach of the white panther and her rider by torchlight with both amazement and an appreciative awe.
“Kafra be damned,” he says, throwing his spear aside. “I will not stand in the way of such wondrous determination, to say nothing of a sight that defies all that the priests have taught us.”
“A wise decision,” Caliphestros answers. “But where are the other men who work with you in this”—The old man glances about—“this little piece of Hel?”
“Gone,” the man answers. “As soon as Lord Baster-kin ordered the Stadium locked and abandoned, my lord Caliphestros.”
“So you know me,” the legless rider muses, with a mix of satisfaction and disdain. “It would seem that I am not entirely forgotten in Broken.”
“Forgotten?” the keeper echoes in wonder. “You are a legend in Broken — as is the panther you ride upon. Although it was not known until very lately that you traveled together.”
“‘Travel’—yes, and a good deal more,” Caliphestros answers. As Stasi turns her head from side to side, her unstoppable determination is suddenly confused by the many scents and increased cries of the beasts in the cells around her: cells that are lit only by long stone openings in the top of each wall that catch pieces of sunlight from barred openings in the base of the Stadium walls, as well as by the torches that burn in sconces outside each place of confinement. The former Second Minister of the realm tries to calm his mount as he attempts to gain more information from the keeper. “You say the rest of your ilk are gone. Yet why did you stay, if that be so?”
“The animals, my lord,” says the keeper. “They would have slowly starved. As it is, I have had difficulty procuring even spoilt meat to keep them alive.”
“And why take such pains to preserve what Kafra and his priests have long taught are mere beasts, to be used and abused as man might see fit?”
“Because, my lord,” the keeper responds, “savage as they may be, I have grown to know these creatures, a little, and to know what they have endured at the hands of Broken’s idle wealthy: young men and women who have used me ill as well, in my time. To simply leave them to die, especially the wretched death of want, would have been—inhuman …”
Caliphestros’s expression softens. “And so mercy finds its way even into this place. For that statement, jailer, you may leave with your life. But first, surrender your keys.”
The keeper gladly takes from his belt an iron ring which holds the many keys to the cells about them, and tosses it at Stasi’s feet. “Thank you, my lord,” he says, and then, before the “nefarious sorcerer” has a change of heart, he turns and flees.
Urging Stasi to bend and allow him to the ground, Caliphestros groans as he rolls to the hard floor, then immediately reaches into one of his sacks for several balls of his various medications, which he places in his mouth. He begins to chew vigorously, despite their bitter taste, that their effect may ease the pain of his trip through the city all the faster; and then he slips his walking apparatus from his back and straps it to his legs, beseeching he knows not what or whom to allow the powerful drugs he has eaten to take hold of his senses quickly. Once they have, he grasps one of the iron bars of the cells and tries to pull himself upright. The task is beyond his capabilities, however, and he is grateful when he feels Stasi’s muzzle, and behind it the force of her mighty neck, gently lift him upright. He places his crutches under his arms and, as he feels his medicines take full effect, he announces: