Caramon looked at him grimly.
“Guards?”
“No,” Tas said, shrugging. “He doesn’t even lock his door. No one locks doors in the Temple. After all, it is a holy place, and I guess everyone either trusts everyone or they don’t have any—thing to lock up. You know,” the kender said on reflection, “I always detested door locks, but now I’ve decided that life without them would be really boring. I’ve been in a few rooms in the Temple”—Tas blissfully ignored Caramon’s horrified glance—“and, believe me, it’s not worth the bother. You’d think a magic-user would be different, but Fistandantilus doesn’t keep any of his spell stuff there. I guess he just uses his room to spend the night when he’s visiting the court. Besides,” the kender pointed out with a sudden brilliant flash of logic, “he’s the only evil person in the court, so he wouldn’t need to protect himself from anyone other than himself!”
Caramon, who had quit listening long ago, muttered something and kept pacing. Tas frowned uncomfortably. It had suddenly occurred to him that he and Caramon now ranked right up there with evil magic-users. This helped him make up his mind.
“Look, I’m sorry, Caramon,” Tas said, after a moment. “But I don’t think I can help you, after all. Kender aren’t very particular, sometimes, about their own things, or other people’s for that matter, but I don’t believe a kender ever in his life murdered anybody!” He sighed, then continued in a quivering voice. “And, I got to thinking about Flint and... and Sturm. You know Sturm wouldn’t approve! He was so honorable. It just isn’t right, Caramon! It makes us just as bad as Fistandantilus. Or maybe worse.”
Caramon opened his mouth and was just about to reply when the door burst open and Arack marched in.
“How’re we doing, big guy?” the dwarf said, leering up at Caramon. “Quite a change from when you first came here, ain’t it?” He patted the big man’s hard muscles admiringly, then—balling up his fist—suddenly slammed it into Caramon’s gut. “Hard as steel,” he said, grinning and shaking his hand in pain.
Caramon glowered down at the dwarf in disgust, glanced at Tas, then sighed. “Where’s my costume?” he grumbled. “It’s nearly High Watch.”
The dwarf held up a sack. “It’s in here. Don’t worry, it won’t take you long to dress.”
Grabbing the sack nervously, Caramon opened it. “Where’s the rest of it? he demanded of Pheragas, who had just entered the room.
“That’s it!” Arack cackled. “I told you it wouldn’t take long to dress!”
Caramon’s face flushed a deep red. “I—I can’t wear... just this...” he stammered, shutting the sack hastily. “You said there’d be ladies...”
“And they’ll love every bronze inch!” Arack hooted. Then the laughter vanished from the dwarf’s broken face, replaced by the dark and menacing scowl. “Put it on, you great oaf. What do you think they pay to see? A dancing school? No—they pay to see bodies covered in sweat and blood. The more body, the more sweat, the more blood—real blood—the better!”
“Real blood? Caramon looked up, his brown eyes flaring. “What do you mean? I thought you said—”
“Bah! Get him ready, Pheragas. And while you’re at it, explain the facts of life to the spoiled brat. Time to grow up, Caramon, my pretty poppet.” With that and a grating laugh, the dwarf stalked out.
Pheragas stood aside to let the dwarf pass, then entered the small room. His face, usually jovial and cheerful, was a blank mask. There was no expression in his eyes, and he avoided looking directly at Caramon.
“What did he mean? Grow up? Caramon asked. “Real blood?
“Here,” Pheragas said gruffly, ignoring the question. “I’ll help with these buckles. It takes a bit of getting used to at first. They’re strictly ornamental, made to break easily. The audience loves it if a piece comes loose or falls off.”
He lifted an ornate shoulder guard from the bag and began strapping it onto Caramon, working around behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the buckles.
“This is made out of gold,” Caramon said slowly.
Pheragas grunted.
“Butter would stop a knife sooner than this stuff,” Caramon continued, feeling it. “And look at all these fancy do-dads! A sword point’ll catch and stick in any of ’em.”
“Yeah.” Pheragas laughed, but it was forced laughter. “As you can see, it’s almost better to be naked than wear this stuff.”
“I don’t have much to worry about then,” Caramon remarked grimly, pulling out the leather loincloth that was the only other object in the sack, besides an ornate helmet. The loincloth, too, was ornamented in gold and barely covered his private parts decently. When he and Pheragas had him dressed, even the kender blushed at the sight of Caramon from the rear.
Pheragas started to go, but Caramon stopped him, his hand on his arm. “You better tell me, my friend. That is, if you still are my friend.”
Pheragas looked at Caramon intently, then shrugged. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now. We use edged weapons. Oh, the swords still collapse,” he added, seeing Caramon’s eyes narrow. “But, if you get hit, you bleed—for real. That’s why we harped on your stabbing thrusts.”
“You mean people really get hurt? I could hurt someone? Someone like Kiiri, or Rolf, or the Barbarian?” Caramon’s voice raised in anger. “What else goes on! What else didn’t you tell me—friend!”
Pheragas regarded Caramon coldly. “Where did you think I got these scars? Playing with my nanny? Look, someday you’ll understand. There’s not time to explain it now. Just trust us, Kiiri and I. Follow our lead. And—keep your eyes on the minotaurs. They fight for themselves, not for any masters or owners. They answer to no one. Oh, they agree to abide by the rules—they have to or the Kingpriest would ship them back to Mithas. But... well, they’re favorites with the crowd. The people like to see them draw blood. And they can take as good as they give.”
“Get out!” Caramon snarled.
Pheragas stood staring at him a moment, then he turned and started out the door. Once there, however, he stopped.
“Listen, friend,” he said sternly, “these scars I get in the ring are badges of honor, every bit as good as some knight’s spurs he wins in a contest! It’s the only kind of honor we can salvage out of this tawdry show! The arena’s got its own code, Caramon, and it doesn’t have one damn thing to do with those knights and noblemen who sit out there and watch us slaves bleed for their own amusement. They talk of their honor. Well, we’ve got our own. It’s what keeps us alive.” He fell silent. It seemed he might say something more, but Caramon’s gaze was on the floor, the big man stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his words or presence.
Finally, Pheragas said “You’ve got five minutes,” and left, slamming the door behind him.
Tas longed to say something but, seeing Caramon’s face, even the kender knew it was time to keep silent.
Go into a battle with bad blood, and it’ll be spilled by nightfall. Caramon couldn’t remember what gruff old commander had told him that, but he’d found it a good axiom. Your life often depended on the loyalty of those you fought with. It was a good idea to get any quarrels between you settled. He didn’t like holding grudges either. It generally did nothing for him but upset his stomach.
It was an easy thing, therefore, to shake Pheragas’s hand when the black man started to turn away from him prior to entering the arena and to make his apologies. Pheragas accepted these warmly, while Kiiri—who obviously had heard all about the episode from Pheragas—indicated her approval with a smile. She indicated her approval of Caramon’s costume, too; looking at him with such open admiration in her flashing green eyes that Caramon flushed in embarrassment.
The three stood talking in the corridors that ran below the arena, waiting to make their entrance. With them were the other gladiators who would fight today, Rolf, the Barbarian, and the Red Minotaur. Above them, they could hear occasional roars from the crowd, but the sound was muffled. Craning his neck, Caramon could see out the entryway door. He wished it was time to start. Rarely had he ever felt this nervous, more nervous than going into battle, he realized.