Calbit blinked, stared at Jago, then blinked again. “Are you mad?” he finally blurted out after being unable to make his mouth work for several seconds.
“No. Mandred was beating everyone who came at him. Hell, he was beating several people who came at him at once.”
Pointing at the door to the office, Calbit said, “And the audience was devouring it whole.”
“For now, yes.” Jago shook his head. “Once the novelty of Mandred wore off, though, we were gonna be right back in the same hole.”
Calbit hadn’t thought of that.
Jago went on. “Now we have fights without predetermined outcomes. There’s unpredictability again.”
“I suppose. Still, I really wanted Mandred to bring us back into a profitable zone before we’d have to coast.”
“We won’t have to coast.” Jago walked up to Calbit and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re back, my friend.”
Shrugging the hand off his shoulder, Calbit turned his back on his partner. “Stop calling me that.” Calbit had never liked Jago, but he had been the one to put up the initial capital that allowed them to purchase the mine from the king once it was tapped out. Plus, he was much better at working the crowd than Calbit ever was. Jago actually liked to talk to people, whereas Calbit found pretty much everyone save for his daughter to be useless.
“Fine,” Jago said, “but we’re-”
“Excuse me?”
Calbit turned to see his lovely daughter standing in the doorway with another smaller woman with ice blue eyes and curly blond hair behind her.
Very rarely did Calbit smile, but he was willing to do so for his child. “What is it, Tirana?”
“This woman is named Wimma Anspah, and she’s here about Mandred and Storvis.”
The blonde barged past Tirana into the office. She wore clothing with brightly colored ostentation, as one would expect from a woman of Raam, an elaborate dress and equally elaborate shoulder bag. “Are you in charge here?”
“We are,” Jago said quickly. “What is the issue?”
Squinting down at the woman, Calbit asked, “And why is your name so familiar?”
Tirana answered the question. “She bears the same family name as the man who was killed by the Black Sands Raiders.”
The Anspah woman snapped at Tirana. “He was my husband. And from what I’ve been able to piece together from the caravan station in Raam, he died saving your worthless hides.”
The sharp-tongued woman reminded Calbit far too much of Tirana’s mother for his liking.
“As my daughter said, your husband was killed by Black Sands Raiders,” was all Calbit was willing to say.
“Yes, he died, and those two idiot slaves tried to run off.”
Calbit frowned. “What are you on about, woman?”
“She’s saying,” Jago said with a smile, “that Mandred and Storvis are her slaves. Am I correct?”
The woman-Wimma-smiled insincerely at Jago. “Ah, I see you must be the brains of the outfit.”
“That’s enough.” Calbit was losing patience. “State your business, madam, or leave our property.”
“Funny you should mention property, as that is why I am here. You have mine.” She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a parchment. Jago took it from her and unrolled it to look it over. “This is the statement of ownership stating that my husband, Fehrd Anspah, and I, his lawful wife, own Gan Storvis and Rol Mandred. You will produce them immediately.”
“Not really possible, I’m afraid.” Calbit smirked at Wimma, enjoying the fact that, no matter what the end result of the conversation was, she was not going to come out of it with what she wanted.
The new fact did explain why Storvis and Mandred were so tight-lipped regarding the third member of their party. They obviously didn’t want it out that they were his slaves and his death freed them.
Calbit admitted to admiring their plan. It might have worked if not for Calbit’s own greed-that and the tenacity of their owner’s wife.
“And why is that?” Wimma asked Calbit.
Jago interrupted before Calbit could answer. “This statement of ownership is genuine, and it is signed by the proper Raam authority.” He handed the parchment back to Wimma. “Sadly, Raam authority carries very little weight here.”
“Actually, it carries quite a bit. The most recent treaty between Grand Vizier Abalach-Re and King Hamanu has very specific language regarding the disposition of slaves between owners. There is not a templar in Urik who won’t honor this declaration of ownership.”
“You overestimate the power of the templars, my dear,” Calbit said nastily, “mostly because you don’t understand what, precisely, is going on here-or where it is you have stepped into.”
Again the insincere smile came out, directed at Calbit. “It’s a fighting arena called the Pit of Black Death, it’s owned by the pair of you, and your main attraction is a mul named Gorbin.”
“Yes, well, things have changed. Gorbin’s dead-killed, in fact, by your slave.”
Wimma’s mouth fell open. “Did he, now? Well, he was always a most excellent fighter. Which one was it, Storvis or Mandred?”
“Mandred. And therein lies your problem,” Calbit said. “You see, the lord chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard got it into their heads that they could use Mandred for some purpose or other, and so this morning the Imperial Guard took Mandred away to Destiny’s Kingdom. So if you want him back, you’re gonna have to take it up with the king. Oh, and best of luck getting a magistrate to side with you on that one.”
As soon as Wimma looked down at the floor, Calbit knew he’d won.
Then she looked back up again and spoke in a tight voice. “There is still the matter of Storvis. Or did the king take him as well?”
“No, we still have Storvis,” Jago said before Calbit could deny it. Calbit shot him an annoyed look-there was no proof that they had Storvis, after all, and he wasn’t willing to give up the only bright spot he had left. “However,” Jago continued, “we have no great desire to give him up.”
Wimma seemed to stew on that for several seconds. “Perhaps a templar will not side with me in prying my property out of your king’s hands, but out of yours?”
“Go right ahead,” Tirana said from the doorway, and Calbit took pride in how she matched the Raam bitch for haughtiness. “I believe the wait to see a templar for a new case is three weeks.”
“Oh no, Tirana,” Calbit said dramatically, “that’s for Urikites. For outsiders, it’s more like three months.”
“Fine.” Wimma pursed her lips. “What if I made it worth your while?”
Calbit was about to tell her to go frip herself, but Jago didn’t give him the chance. “How?”
“I have come into possession of a mul.” That last word was said with undisguised disdain. “He’s obnoxious, he smells bad, and he eats too much-but he can brawl, and I understand that that’s what you prefer in this place. I’ll gladly trade my slave for him.”
Before Jago could agree, Calbit said, “How big is he?”
Wimma shrugged. “Perhaps a head taller than I?”
Calbit liked the sound of that. They hadn’t had a decent mul in the arena aside from Gorbin in ages, and they always provided the best bouts.
He looked at Jago, who nodded. “Very well,” Calbit said. “Let’s see this mul first, and assuming we like the looks of him, you’ve got yourself a trade.”
Wimma’s smile was far more genuine when she replied, “Excellent.”
They arranged a time and place to make the exchange, and Calbit had been hoping that would be it.
But then Wimma said, “I wish to see Storvis.”
“What for?” Calbit asked angrily.
“I have no proof that my property is unharmed-or indeed that he is truly here. If I do not receive it, I will go to the templars, and I don’t care if I have to wait three weeks, three months, or three years, I will have satisfaction.”