Then Komir looked at Mazro. “This is our best chance.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Excuse me,” Komir said, walking so he was next to both Gan and Hranoc, but not actually between them. Karalith, meanwhile, headed outside.
“Whaddaya want? You another imbecile?”
Komir smiled at the half-giant. “No, sir, I’m not. At least, I don’t think so. No, I just want to give you an opportunity to work out your disagreement with this drunken gentleman here without causing damage to a perfectly nice tavern.”
The goliath behind the bar said, “I’m all for that. Take this crap outside, wouldja please? I still ain’t cleaned up from the last fight.”
That, Komir thought, explained the bloodstain. “Come with me,” Komir said.
Hranoc looked at the people he was with. While the others just shrugged, Zabaj said, “I’d rather not get thrown out of the tavern.”
Karalith had-probably with the help of Mazro’s soldiers-cleared a space and was bent over drawing a large circle on the cobblestones outside the tavern with a piece of chalk. The crowd, however, was all standing on the perimeter, kept in line by the soldiers, wanting to see what was happening.
“Consider this an impromptu arena,” Komir said. “Hranoc here will face-er, what’s your name, sir?” he asked Gan.
“Fehrd.”
Komir managed not to wince. It was generally preferred to use aliases that had no specific connection to you. “All right, Fehrd, you stand on that side, and Hranoc, you face him.”
Gan stumbled toward where he was supposed to go. Hranoc laughed. “This oughtta be fun. Always thought I’d do good in th’arena.”
“Well, now’s your chance,” Komir said.
For the first time since the game started, Komir saw Feena. Actually, he heard her first, crying out, “Three copper on the half-giant.”
To his credit, Gan did not react when he heard his sister betting against him.
As they’d hoped, it started a rash of bets.
Hranoc started circling the perimeter of Karalith’s hastily drawn ring. The crowd started to cheer and bellow. For his part, Gan was trying to stay upright-or at least looking like he needed to struggle to do so.
Finally, Hranoc lunged forward, and Gan blocked the punch with an awkward-looking motion that Komir knew was actually quite controlled.
Then Gan kicked him in the shin.
Hranoc stumbled backward much more painfully than Gan had been stumbling, letting out several curses in a language Komir didn’t recognize. At least, he assumed they were curses …
They exchanged blows several times after that, neither really landing a solid hit.
Any time they were in danger of getting too close to the edge of the ring Komir moved to stand between them and the chalk line, gently touching Gan on the shoulder to keep him in bounds. (Had he been fighting Zabaj as planned, he would have touched either of them, but Hranoc was an unknown quantity.)
After about three minutes of sparring, Komir gave a quick nod to Gan.
At that point, Gan grabbed the top of Hranoc’s head with his left hand and held him at arm’s length. With his right, he started repeatedly punching the half-giant in the gut.
For the seventh punch, he let go, which sent Hranoc backward toward the other side of the ring. Then Gan walked over and kicked him in the face, then swept out his feet so he fell onto his back with a thud.
Finally, Gan stepped hard on his gut, causing the half-giant to let out a loud gasp.
“I ain’t no imbecile,” Gan said.
Then he fell over, as if he’d passed out.
“I believe we can safely call Fehrd the winner,” Komir said with a laugh.
There were jeers and cheers alike, and the clacking sounds of ceramic coins changing hands.
Komir looked over at the palanquin, where Drahar was watching with a combination of admiration and disgust. Given what Karalith had told him about the chamberlain’s opinion of arena fights, the latter was understandable and he was grateful for the former. It meant he’d bought it.
“Well done,” was all the chamberlain said before he retreated back behind the palanquin’s curtains.
Komir smiled at Karalith. The first stage of the game was done.
The part of the game that Karalith hated most was the paperwork.
She understood its necessity, of course. In the game, details were everything. That was why they claimed not to remember the name of Drahar’s academy tavern and had him lead them to it. A small detail, but it meant that Drahar wouldn’t even consider that Gan and Zabaj were plants. For that matter, it was why they sent Gash’s original map back.
And it was why she and Komir were stuck with Drahar’s assistant-a very efficient, very straightforward, very boring young woman named Cace-signing contracts that would grant Dalon Zavno and Wrena Zavno the right to administer the Pit of Black Death.
They had spent hours going over the contracts, and Karalith’s eyes were starting to glaze over.
However, when they were finished, Cace’s words prompted her to sit up and notice.
“Now that the deal is in place, the king wishes to speak to you. You may dine at his table this evening.”
“We’ll be honored,” Karalith said with a curtsey.
For the first time since their return to the palace, Cace’s expression changed-to one of disdain as she looked at what Karalith and Komir were wearing. The linen had become rumpled and sweat stained and caked with sand despite all efforts to brush it off.
“You are expected,” Cace said dryly, “to dress formally.”
“Of course,” Karalith said with another curtsey, and then they departed Destiny’s Kingdom.
They had just enough time to return to the carriage, find appropriate clothes to change into, make sure that Gan was okay-he’d bloodied his nose when he “passed out,” pointing out that he usually only fell down involuntarily and wasn’t used to doing it on purpose-and return to the palace, where a steward met them at the gate and escorted them to the dining room.
That turned out to be the same room where the party was held the previous night. Karalith barely recognized it, as the paintings on the walls had all been changed, the long tables along the wall had been removed, and replaced by a large wooden table that sat at least twenty. The only reason she could tell it was the same were the lions engraved in the molding on the doors and windows.
Karalith was long experienced at hiding her feelings-you didn’t last three seconds in the game if you didn’t-but she was hard-pressed not to gape at the table. Wood of that size was obscenely rare. That table was probably worth more than all the gems in the compound combined.
“It’s good to be the king,” Komir muttered, and Karalith smiled.
Several others were attending, many of them sirdars whom Karalith remembered from the party. A couple were dignitaries from other city-states. Unlike the party, where they were mostly relaxed and social, tonight they were all making the most inane small talk, using shorter sentences and ending conversations abruptly.
Karalith understood the difference. At the party, people generally only spoke to the king if they wished to, or if he specifically wished to speak to you. But at an intimate dinner, you had to speak to him.
That turned out to be less of a concern than expected, however, as the king didn’t actually arrive until the dessert course. Which resulted in even more awkward and stilted conversation, as no one knew exactly when Hamanu would show up.
When he did arrive, he focused entirely on eating the cake his cooks had prepared. Karalith found the dessert to be dry and tasteless, but the king devoured it eagerly, getting crumbs in his beard as he did so.
Dessert passed in uncomfortable silence, save for the sounds of chewing, then suddenly, Hamanu looked right at one of the sirdars, an older gentleman who served as the king’s minister of agriculture. “Lord Pammot, why are the orchards underproducing this year?”