“Every year it the same, yah. Rivven Cairn stop what she doing and attend the games, yah.”
“Cairn used to be a gladiator herself. Oh, yes. So the rumor goes.”
Vanderjack leaned in, helping himself to a chunk of bread on the table. “She fought in the round? Where?”
The first gladiator shrugged. “Some say Lemish. Before she learned magic. Anybody who has seen her fight knows what I’m talking about.”
“She have a good fighting style, does she?”
Another gladiator nodded. “Oh, sure. You seen that sword on her back? It’s an elven sword, so sharp it could cut you in half and you wouldn’t know it until the top half fell to the ground and you saw your legs just standing there.”
One of the other fighters shrugged. “Yeah. You know, she’s half-elf, see. She can pull it off.”
Broyer the lanista stepped in through the door of the tavern and clapped his hands. “All right, boys. Time to go. We kit up in the arena dungeons, as usual. When it’s showtime, we’ll take the elevators up to the track.”
Outside, it had begun to rain again. That suited Vanderjack fine because it meant he had an excuse to throw a cloak over his head and shoulders as he walked through the city. He couldn’t believe his luck; if what Broyer said was the case, he would be right underneath the arena. His only concern at that point was how to hook up with Theo.
“So, Cordaric,” said Broyer as they approached the center of the city. “If at any point you want to grab a charioteer and pull him off the thing and commandeer one of those chariots, the crowd would love it. Extra pay too.”
Vanderjack nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Good man. Any preferences for kit?”
“Sword. If you’ve got scale mail, that’ll do too.”
Broyer slapped Vanderjack on the back. “I think we can do that.”
The avenue they walked led upward on a ramp at a sharp angle and provided access to the elaborate porticos in the front of the Horseman’s Arena. Mighty pillars supported the arena’s walls, which were essentially the backs of the stadium seating. The arena was modeled after ancient Istarian coliseums, oval in shape and featuring row upon row of stone benches rising up and away from the arena floor. Spectators walked along a colonnade and under the eaves of the portico, after which they would take stairs to reach their seats. Gladiators, on the other hand, were directed down ramps into the tunnels underneath the arena, where it was said the most unfortunate of Rivven Cairn’s prisoners and captives were locked away.
Despite the rain and the rumble of thunder over the plains to the west, the city was filled with crowds. There were thousands of people there, thronging toward the city center to attend the games and overburdening the Merchants’ Quarter with their patronage.
As Vanderjack’s gladiator band descended into the gloom of the arena dungeons, the sellsword felt the blood in his veins thundering in time with the storm outside.
Armor was strapped on. More wine was drained from clay jugs. Weapons were passed around, and the steady noise of blades and points against grindstones echoed throughout the staging area.
Broyer disappeared for a few minutes then returned. There was a big grin across his hawklike face.
“It’s going to be a special day for you, Ergothian,” he said, looking at all of the others. “All of us!”
“What is it?” said one, lacing up a tunic of chain mail. “News from the arena?”
“Big news,” Broyer said. “It’s not just other pit fighters and gladiators you’re facing this year. No, the high-master’s said to have a big surprise for the ending.”
Vanderjack frowned. That didn’t sound good. “A big surprise? What does that mean?”
The lanista shook with excitement. “Nobody’s saying what it is, but I happened to pass along the hallway where they keep all the caged animals. She’s got something new down there, something nobody’s ever seen before.”
The sellsword rubbed his scalp and feared he knew what that something was. That wasn’t good. “Big cat, brass scales, wings?”
Broyer stopped, gaping at Vanderjack. So did the other gladiators.
“How did you know?” he asked.
Rivven Cairn stood in the palace of the khan, looking out over the rain-swept Horseman’s Arena from the covered section of the balcony.
“Aubec,” she said, lifting the chilled wine to her lips then pausing. “Would you see if our guest would like something more to drink?”
“Yes, my lady,” the aide-de-camp at her side said and crossed over to where Theodenes the gnome sat in the rain, arms folded tightly.
“I most certainly would not like anything more to drink,” the gnome said, soaked to the skin. “In fact, I would very much like to come inside.”
“Do stop complaining, Theodenes,” the highmaster said smoothly. “It’s only water.”
“It has not escaped my observation that you are standing underneath cover,” said Theo. “Nor has it escaped my observation that you only moved me out here when it did, in fact, start to rain, and that I am unable to move due to the shackles you have around my ankles.”
“I don’t want you running off.”
“Where would I run off to? I’m in the middle of your city, and you have armed guards and draconians at every major vantage point. Clearly, I have no hope of running off.”
Rivven smiled. “All right. Aubec, would you have our guest brought in?”
The aide-de-camp signaled to a pair of burly guards who stood by the doors. They walked out, picked up the gnome and his chair, and carried both inside. Theodenes was set down upon a raised marble dais underneath a colorful wall mosaic. The mosaic depicted the legendary Knight of the Sword, Sir Janothon Wicturn, clasping hands with Nordmaaran King Chialpa of the Quintalix. It was a striking image, especially as it depicted a kind of solidarity and union that was no longer present in Nordmaar under the dragonarmy occupation.
“Is that better?” she asked the gnome, who accepted a towel from Aubec and was drying himself off.
“Hardly,” the gnome snapped. “To be informed by you that not only am I to watch as you subject my pet dragonne to unimaginable tortures in these ridiculous games of yours, but also that you never had any intention of honoring your deal with the sellsword does not speak to a more comfortable future.”
Rivven looked at him with amused eyes over the wine she was savoring.
“Might I also say that I continue to strenuously object to having my mind invaded by your magical arts? You have no right to delve into my thoughts in such a manner.”
Rivven chuckled. “Theodenes, you have an incredible resistance to my divinatory skills, magic or otherwise. As it happens, I didn’t find anything in your head that I didn’t already piece together from the evidence.”
Earlier, her scouts had come to her with news of the dragonne lurking in the hills to the north. She’d sent two of her remaining bozak draconians out to investigate, with orders to use sleep magic on the beast if the reports proved correct. If those spells had already worked on the dragonne before when Cazuvel had captured it, they would likely work again. She was right. The dragonne was safely secured beneath the arena.
But why would the gnome come to Wulfgar? Where was Gredchen? Rivven had tried to work her magic on the gnome to get him to talk, but gnome minds were almost impenetrable; all she had pulled from him was an image of Vanderjack. The sellsword must have tracked Cazuvel there to Wulfgar.
“Do you intend to kill Vanderjack?” asked Theodenes after a long pause, his defiant tone altered, his manner subdued. He folded the towel up neatly and set it aside.
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“My bet would be on him in a fair fight,” Theodenes said in a low voice.
Rivven walked over to the gnome and slapped him across the face almost hard enough to knock him off the chair.
“Fair fight!” she said, chortling, as she handed her glass off to Aubec. “Quaint idea for a gnome.”