He was a superbly skilled warrior now, too. Although Caramon had been well-trained before, it had been informal training, his weapons technique picked up mostly from his older half-sister, Kitiara. But Arack imported trainers from all over the world, and now Caramon was learning techniques from the best.
Not only this, but he was forced to hold his own in daily contests between the gladiators themselves. Once proud of his wrestling skill, Caramon had been deeply shamed to find himself flat on his back after only two rounds against the woman, Kiiri. The black man, Pheragas, sent Caramon’s sword flying after one pass, then bashed him over the head with his own shield for good measure.
But Caramon was an apt, attentive pupil. His natural ability made him a quick study, and it wasn’t long before Arack was watching in glee as the big man flipped Kiiri with ease, then coolly wrapped Pheragas up in his own net, pinning the black man to the arena floor with his own trident.
Caramon, himself, was happier than he had been in a long time. He still detested the iron collar, and rarely a day went by at first without his longing to break it and run. But, these feelings lessened as he became interested in his training. Caramon had always enjoyed military life. He liked having someone tell him what to do and when to do it. The only real problem he was having was with his acting abilities.
Always open and honest, even to a fault, the worst part of his training came when he had to pretend to be losing. He was supposed to cry out loudly in mock pain when Rolf stomped on his back. He had to learn how to collapse as though horribly wounded when the Barbarian lunged at him with the fake, collapsible swords.
“No! No! No! you big dummy!” Arack screamed over and over. Swearing at Caramon one day, the dwarf walked over and punched him hard, right in the face.
“Arrgh!” Caramon cried out in real pain, not daring to fight back with Raag watching in glee.
“There—” Arack said, standing back in triumph, his fists clenched, blood on the knuckles. “Remember that yell. The gulls’ll love it.”
But, in acting, Caramon appeared hopeless. Even when he did yell, it sounded “more like some wench getting her behind pinched than like anyone dying,” Arack told Kiiri in disgust. And then, one day, the dwarf had an idea.
It came to him as he was watching the training sessions that afternoon. There happened to be a small audience at the time. Arack occasionally allowed certain members of the public in, having discovered that this was good for business. At this time, he was entertaining a nobleman, who had traveled here with his family from Solamnia. The nobleman had two very charming young daughters and, from the moment they entered the arena, they had never taken their eyes from Caramon.
“Why didn’t we see him fight the other night?” one asked their father.
The nobleman looked inquiringly at the dwarf.
“He’s new,” Arack said gruffly. “He’s still in training. He’s just about ready, mind you. In fact, I was thinking of putting him in—when did you say you were coming back to the Games!”
“We weren’t,” the nobleman began, but his daughters both cried out in dismay. “Well,” he amended, “perhaps—if we can get tickets.”
The girls both clapped their hands, their eyes going back to Caramon, who was practicing his sword work with Pheragas. The young man’s tanned body glistened with sweat, his hair clung in damp curls to his face, he moved with the grace of a well-trained athlete. Seeing the girls’ admiring gaze, it suddenly occurred to the dwarf what a remarkably handsome young man Caramon was.
“He must win,” said one of the girls, sighing. “I could not bear to see him lose!”
“He will win,” said the other. “He was meant to win. He looks like a victor.”
“Of course! That solves all my problems!” said the dwarf suddenly, causing the noblemen and his family to stare at him, puzzled. “The Victor! That’s how I’ll bill ’im. Never defeated! Doesn’t know how to lose! Vowed to take his own life, he did, if anyone ever beat him!”
“Oh, no!” both girls cried in dismay. “Don’t tell us that.”
“It’s true,” the dwarf said solemnly, rubbing his hands.
“They’ll come from miles around,” he told Raag that night, “hoping to be there the night he loses. And, of course, he won’t lose—not for a good, long while. Meanwhile, he’ll be a heart-breaker. I can see that now. And I have just the costume...”
Tasslehoff, meanwhile, was finding his own life in the arena quite interesting. Although at first deeply wounded when told he couldn’t be a gladiator (Tas had visions of himself as another Kronin Thistleknot—the hero of Kenderhome), Tas had moped around for a few days in boredom. This ended in his nearly getting killed by an enraged minotaur who discovered the kender happily going through his room.
The minotaurs were furious. Fighting at the arena for the love of the sport only, they considered themselves a superior race, living and eating apart from the others. Their quarters were sacrosanct and inviolate.
Dragging the kender before Arack, the minotaur demanded that he be allowed to slit him open and drink his blood. The dwarf might have agreed—not having overly much use for kenders himself—but Arack remembered the talk he’d had with Quarath shortly after he’d purchased these two slaves. For some reason, the highest church authority in the land was interested in seeing that nothing happened to these two. He had to refuse the minotaur’s request, therefore, but mollified him by giving him a boar he could butcher in sport. Then, Arack took Tas aside, cuffed him across the face a few times, and finally gave him permission to leave the arena and explore the town if the kender promised to come back at night.
Tas, who had already been sneaking out of the arena anyway, was thrilled at this, and repaid the dwarf’s kindness by bringing him back any little trinket he thought Arack might like. Appreciative of this attention, Arack only beat the kender with a stick when he caught Tas trying to sneak pastry to Caramon, instead of whipping him as he would have otherwise.
Thus, Tas came and went about Istar pretty much as he liked, learning quickly to dodge the townguards, who had a most unreasonable dislike for kender. And so it was that Tasslehoff was able to enter the Temple itself.
Amid his training and dieting and other problems, Caramon had never lost sight of his real goal. He had received a cold, terse message from Lady Crysania, so he knew she was all right. But that was all. Of Raistlin, there was no sign.
At first, Caramon despaired of finding his brother or Fistandantilus, since he was never allowed outside the arena. But he soon realized that Tas could go places and see things much easier than he could, even if he had been free. People had a tendency to treat kender the same way they treated children—as if they weren’t there. And Tas was even more expert than most kender at melting into shadows and ducking behind curtains or sneaking quietly through halls.
Plus there was the advantage that the Temple itself was so vast and filled with so many people, coming and going at nearly all hours, that one kender was easily ignored or—at most—told irritably to get out of the way. This was made even easier by the fact that there were several kender slaves working in the kitchens and even a few kender clerics, who came and went freely.
Tas would have dearly loved to make friends of these and to ask questions about his homeland—particularly the kender clerics, since he’d never known these existed. But he didn’t dare. Caramon had warned him about talking too much and, for once, Tas took this warning seriously. Finding it nerve-racking to be on constant guard against talking about dragons or the Cataclysm or something that would get everyone all upset, he decided it would be easier to avoid temptation altogether. So he contented himself with nosing around the Temple and gathering information.