Minutes later, the half-elf gentleman was on one knee holding out a drink to the king on his throne.
“On your feet,” Hamanu said. “You’ll rumple your linen.”
The young man rose. “Of course, sir. You honor me with your presence.”
“No doubt.”
“Sir” was a standard honorific. Generally, Hamanu preferred “magnificence,” but strictly speaking, he wasn’t Hamanu’s subject, so that particular title didn’t make sense. “What brings a half-breed from Tyr to my city-state?”
“Actually, sir, my sister and I were born here in Urik. However, we were raised in Tyr. Forgive me-I am called Dalon, and my sister is Wrena. We were disowned by both of our parents, and were taken in by a dwarf nobleman of Tyr who took pity on us. He raised us as if we were his own. But he died a few years ago, and we came into an impressive inheritance.”
“And you knew Lord Porsich?”
Dalon winced. “I’m afraid not, sir. Our patron did-but I never met the man. We were sorry to hear of his death.”
“Not nearly as sorry as he was.”
Hamanu noted that Dalon’s laugh sounded genuine, not the nervous laughter that often accompanied the king’s witticisms. It was, he’d found, a good way to judge people, by how they laughed.
“We actually came here on some family business, but we were also hoping to observe the running of a gladiatorial arena. The Pit of Black Death is, in many ways, the metal standard for how to run such a place. Unfortunately …” Dalon trailed off.
“Yes, well, given how things ended, I don’t think the Pit was quite the model of efficiency its reputation indicated.” In fact, Hamanu wondered if Calbit and Jago had gotten so complacent, thanks to the constant winning of Gorbin, that they let other concerns grow lax. Once they lost Gorbin, they lost their ability to run things-if indeed they ever had it.
The king then asked: “Are you thinking of running an arena in Tyr?”
“Possibly,” Dalon said cautiously. “We’d invested in the Stadium of Tyr, but since the revolution …”
Hamanu nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would devalue your investment somewhat.”
“Indeed. Honestly, at this point, we feel we could run things ourselves given the opportunity. Since we had that family business here, we thought we’d see how the best did it.” Dalon took a sip of his own drink. “It’s just a pity that such a great source of bouts is no more.”
“Oh, it still exists.”
“Excuse me?” Dalon sounded confused.
Hamanu shook his head. Laws in Tyr were much different, after all. “With the deaths of not only the owners of the Pit but also their heirs, the ownership of the arena falls to the state.”
Dalon looked intrigued by that. “In other words, sir-to you.”
“Precisely. Have you considered returning to your home city-state?”
Taking another sip, Dalon then said, “Well, since the revolution, there’s very little keeping us in Tyr. In truth, without our patron’s protection, our half-breed status made us targets.”
“Indeed.” Hamanu summoned a page boy. “Bring Chamberlain Drahar over here.”
Drahar still seemed distracted as he came over, the half-elf woman trailing a bit behind. Seeing her, and noticing the significant look Dalon gave her, Hamanu waved his hand toward himself. “Come over as well, my dear. This would appear to concern you also.”
She curtsied and replied, “Thank you, sir. I am Wrena.”
“Dalon’s sister, yes. He’s told me of you. Lord Chamberlain, I wish you to meet with these two tomorrow and interview them about the possibility of their taking over administration of the Pit. It’s one of Urik’s finest centers for entertainment, and I wish it to be a going concern again.”
“Uhm, very well.” Drahar rubbed his temple. “Apologies, I have a bit of a headache. I’ve actually been speaking with Wrena here-you didn’t tell me that you were an entrepreneur.”
“Given that our interest was in running an arena, I thought it best to avoid that topic of discussion. We’d heard that the gladiatorial arena was not your preferred method of spending your leisure hours.” Wrena smiled shyly and looked away as she continued. “Besides, I prefer not to mix business with pleasure. This is a party, not a meeting.”
“Of course. Then let us set up such a meeting-tomorrow in my office, midday?”
Dalon and Wrena looked at each other and both nodded. “That would be perfect. We can always change our lunch to a dinner.”
“Excellent.” Hamanu raised his glass. “To the Pit.”
They all did likewise and repeated the toast.
The King of the World drank his wine with the hopes that he would once again be able to keep the lower classes distracted.
It almost made the party worth it …
Drahar had learned very early in life that one never, under any circumstances, even considered questioning the self-styled King of the World.
That was the only reason he didn’t ask Hamanu if he was completely mad at the party.
Had it been anyone else to suggest that Drahar be the one to test the half-elf siblings to see if they were worthy of administrating the Pit, he would have asked that question. Why on Athas would anyone think that he, of all people, would even know how to judge whether or not someone was qualified to run an arena?
However, his primary job as chamberlain was to facilitate making the king’s will into reality.
So when Cace announced that Dalon and Wrena had arrived for their midday meeting, he took a deep breath and told her to let them in.
They were dressed, he noticed, in much more casual wear than they had been the previous night, having eschewed the formal wear of a state-sponsored party for more practical linens. It was a particularly hot day, so the change made sense, though it didn’t do much to create an impression with Drahar.
As if reading his thoughts, Wrena said, “We know that we’re not quite dressed for the occasion, but bear with us. My brother and I were talking last night, and we agreed that a meeting in an office was no way to prove that we were fit to run the Pit.”
Drahar raised an eyebrow. “Then what did you have in mind?”
“We wanted to show you how good we are at running a fight,” Dalon said.
“Last night,” Wrena added, “you were telling me about a tavern you used to go to when you were a student at the King’s Academy-I can’t remember the name, but you said it had gone into the sewer since then.”
Involuntarily, Drahar smiled. “The Bright Water Tavern,” he said fondly. The tiny watering hole wedged in between a blacksmith’s and a dry goods store in Old District had been the location of many a late-night celebration during his student days. Drahar and his comrades had first gone because they were hungry after taking a trip to the Bright Water Well, one of the oases around which the city-state was first built centuries before.
But it had become a favorite of soldiers and mercenaries, forcing the students to go elsewhere. Not that Drahar would consider a drinking binge in his position in any event, but if for some reason he would, Bright Water would not be where he would go.
“Yes! That’s the place.” Wrena adjusted her bracelets, which she seemed to do unconsciously. “If you could take us there, we could run an impromptu fight.”
“Impromptu?” Drahar felt dubious. Bar fights, he knew, were volatile things. Even the ones in the arena were sloppy affairs.
Dalon was smiling confidently. In fact, Drahar could psionically detect the confidence exuding from him. “We can take two people in this tavern of yours, get them to fight each other in a manner consistent with an arena fight. It’s a mercenaries’ hangout, you said, so there are bound to be grudges. This way they can work it out in a contained manner that doesn’t destroy the bar, and we show you what we’re capable of.”
While those circumstances would indeed be convincing, Drahar didn’t particularly wish to be anywhere nearby when it inevitably failed.