Turning Points (20 page)

“No,” replied Ariko, “we do not sail armed and armored. But we made ready when we thought we were coming to the city of Ibarr along the coast of Azrain, for enemies abound in that place, and we would reduce their numbers.” Ariko growled low in her throat, and glared at Halott in the lead. “Now we discover we are not even on Arith, but a different world altogether.”

From the docks they had made their way leftward along the Wide-way, then turned northwesterly along a narrow lane wending through the Shambles quarter. Over a bridge above a gash of water they went, and past a bazaar on the right and a jumble of hovels on the left, where they entered what had been a fairly large farmers’ market and caravan square, now transformed into an arena, with high-rising tiers of planked benchworks ramped up all ‘round a sandy flat. “Here is where you’ll draw blood,” whispered Halott, gesturing about with an all but skeletal hand.

Durel sighed and in a low voice said to Ariko, ” ‘Tis the only way back to Arith, my love.”

Again Ariko growled, and from her savage mien and manner Rogi knew that it would be quite dangerous were he to show her his magnificent dragon, much less ask her to fondle it. Oh, no, it would not be like the times down at the Unicorn or the Yellow Lantern or any of the other inns and taverns sprinkled throughout the Maze, where he would get hurled into the street just for suggesting such to the serving girls and doxies and the like. No, if he asked this yellow woman to fondle his dragon, he might come up short one dragon altogether. Rogi vowed then and there to remain silent about his outstanding beast.

They passed through the Gate of Triumph and on up the General’s Road, the warders at the gate shrinking back from Halott, the challenge dying on their lips even ere it were spoken.

Past a cemetery they went and along the road curving among temples and fanes. They trod across another bridge and through the area where the displaced farmers’ market and caravan square was now located. They came to the ford across the White Foal, yet this they didn’t traverse, but instead followed the eastern bank upstream for a goodly way, the land canting sharply upward on both sides of the river. Occasionally they passed the stubborn remains of former cabins swept away by flood, a chimney here, a foundation there, marking where they once had been.

The four entered into a relatively flat stretch of woodland, and Halott turned eastward away from the river and led them among the boles to come to the ruins of a square-based tower, the whole of it shielded by the lofty trees from the view of travelers along the river and its banks. With vine-covered rubble about its foundation, four storeys tall, it was, though the upper levels were but shells, for Ariko and Durel could see partial walls here and there, with stairs leading up to dead ends or gaps. The ground-level floor, though, seemed intact, perhaps even livable. Rogi scrambled ahead and opened the weatherworn, heavy-planked, iron-bound door, and Halott led them inward. They came into what was once a welcoming hall, now all but dead of neglect. Rogi set the lantern on a dust-laden table then went about lighting candles. “Welcome to my abode,” said Halott, and he turned and cast back his hood.

Durel sucked in air between clenched teeth and he reflexively reached toward his shoulder for his sword, only to let his hand fall back. Ariko’s own left and right grip rested on the hilts of her two blades, but she drew them not.

Like Death did Halott seem, his entire head appearing to be nought but a skull covered with a parchment-like skin, wisps of hair atop, his mouth but a gash of desiccated blue lips drawn back from yellowed teeth in a permanent rictus grin. Yet worst of all, his eyelids were sewn completely shut, and painted in kohl upon them were representations of eyes, like the false eyes of a death’s-head moth, dark and forbidding and baneful.

“Oi, they’ve got sixty-three entries,” said Old Javan, his rheumy gaze on the posting, not that he could read it, but he could count the number remaining.

At his side Mava said, “I hear they had nigh a hundred, until Soldt threw his name in the hat.”

“Ar, he scared many off,” replied the oldster, nodding, “him being a dueler and all, teaching them as has got the coin. Not many’d want to go up against Soldt, “less’n they knew no better. He’s who I’ll put my money on.”

Mava snorted. “What money, old man?”

“Well, if I had any, he’s who I’d back.”

Mava nodded. “He’ll be the favorite, all right. But there’s somewhat afoot.”

Javan looked at her, an eye cocked.

Mava peered about as if seeking lurkers and, finding none, whispered, “They say that that little Rogi, Rogi, Halott’s man”—again Mava looked about, Javan peering ‘round as well—”they say Rogi entered a name: Tiger it was, if them that can read got it right. And if Rogi’s involved, well then, I’ll wager that that Halott’s got somewhat up his black sleeve.”

“A poisoned blade, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Javan.

Mava grunted her agreement and then said, “Still, if I had any money…”

In the Vulgar Unicorn the only person trusted to hold the bets was Perrez—not because anyone particularly trusted
him
, but because Perrez’s brother was Bezul the changer and Bezul was a man worth trusting. Off in one corner and for a small fee, Perrez took the slips and coinage—padpols, soldats, and even an occasional shaboozh— along with promissory notes and small deeds and occasional heirlooms—silver chains, pearl-handled daggers, and other such trink-etry, all of which Bezul would eventually appraise for the bettors, to the not infrequent dismay of some—and placed all in the iron-bound lockbox he owned, a lockbox rumored to be trapped with poison needles or sorcerous fire or housing a deadly asp within, depending on who was telling of it.

As for the betting itself, Soldt was indeed the favorite, now that he had declared his intent. There were several who were disappointed that Arizak perArizak, better known in the Maze as the Dragon, had withdrawn, but with that bloody moon some eight nights past, nearly all of the entered Irrune had pulled out… “Superstitious savages,” went the whispers. “Everyone knows that Vas-hanka and a hundred other gods are exceedingly more powerful than Irrunega, even though His is the only religion sanctified in the city, but don’t say I said that.” Still, one or two Irrune remained on the list, though their kindred placed no bets on them; the ill-omened moon saw to that. They mostly placed wagers on Soldt or on a handful of others, though this “Tiger,” whoever he was, drew some small stakes, for, after all, the tiger
was
and
is
the totem of the god Irrunega, though His tiger is two-headed and all black.

“Ha!” crowed Rogi. “Got you.” Standing in the rubble at the base of the tower, he held the rat up by the tail, the creature’s struggles waning rapidly.

Durel looked up from honing his great sword. “He’s quite good with that blowgun.”

At Durel’s side, Ariko oiled one of her blades, then took a soft rag to it. “Rogi told me all about it. It seems our host uses live rats and other such to facilitate some of his… pleasures.”

Durel frowned at the limp rat as Rogi bore it into the tower. “They’re not dead?”

Ariko shook her head. “Merely asleep.”

Durel sighted down the blade of his weapon, pale, spring sunlight aglance along the edge. He took to his hone once more, concentrating on a section. “The matches begin tomorrow.”

Ariko didn’t reply as she continued to wipe down her blade.

Close by the east quarter of the farmers’ market, the dwellings along Shambles Cross had been co-opted as places for the contestants to prepare. Inside one of them sat Ariko and Durel. They could hear the roar of the crowd as one swordsman or another made a nimble maneuver, a skillful riposte, a deft parry, or drew first blood. Now and again the shouts grew louder as someone was wounded more severely, and occasionally a silence befell the mob when a thrust proved to be fatal. One such deadly quiet had just come to pass, when a knock sounded. “You’re next, Tiger,” said the man when Durel opened the door.

Ariko and Durel harnessed their weapons, and out into the sunlight they strode. They made their way behind the stands to come to the south entryway… and there in the aisle at the edge of the open arena they waited. They could see a tall Rankan, stripped to the waist in spite of the cool, swirling breeze, a blade in each hand, standing in the opposite aisle.

In the arena itself, bearers were lading a corpse upon a litter.

In the stands along the aisle and immediately above Ariko and Durel, gawkers turned their attention from the deader being carried off and looked down upon the pair and whispered among themselves.

“Oh, lor, but look a him. A giant he is.”

“Ar, that sword across his back, why, it’s as long as a man is tall.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a duel, not a bloody slaughter. I mean, who can stand against such.”

The murmurs and whispers and declarations went on, even as a herald stepped to the center of the field of combat and faced east, where the governor and ambassador and other notables sat on a high dais.

A hush fell.

“Lords and Ladies and guests,” he called and gestured leftward, “to the north, Enril the Rankan!”

A shout went up from the crowd, interspersed with boos and whistles and catcalls, as the tall man stepped forth from his aisle to stand for all to see, and there he waited.

The herald held up his hands. And when quiet fell he gestured rightward and called, “And to the south, Tiger!”

A great roar went up as well as gasps at the size of the man when Durel stepped onto the sand and stopped. Then Ariko strode forth and paused; and Durel took her cloak from her and then stepped back into the aisle.

With her scabbarded swords strapped across her back, Ariko went on toward the center of the arena, and a murmur of wonder rippled through the crowd.

“This is ‘Tiger’?”

“Vashanka, but she’s a yellow woman.”

“Why, this’ll be a slaughter, tiny as she is.”

“Look at them little square plates on her leather vest. Hmph, as if they’d stop a good thrust.”

“Get the litter ready!”

Out onto the sandy square strode five-foot-two Ariko, as did Enril the Rankan, a full head taller or more. In one hand he held a rapier; in the other a main gauche—a sword-breaker.

They met in the center of the field, where both turned to the dais and bowed, then faced the herald.

“Are you certain you want to do this?” the herald asked Ariko, his gaze wide with amazement.

Ariko’s only reply was to draw her two slightly curved blades, the shorter one in her left hand, the longer one in her right.

The herald shook his head and sighed. “Very well. Face the dais, weapons ready. Wait for the signal, and then it’s to first blood.” The herald bowed to each and withdrew.

From the corner of his mouth, tall Enril whispered to Ariko, “I shall try not to wound you too deeply, but one never knows, does one?”

Ariko did not reply.

At a gesture from Arizak, the Rankan ambassador called from the dais. “Let it begin.”

The duelists faced one another and saluted with swords—Enril’s gaze filled with haughty disdain, Ariko’s impassive—then circled one another warily. Of a sudden in a whirl of steel, Ariko sprang forward, her blades but a blur—

—
ding-clang, shmg-shang, chng-shng-zs
—

—and after but seven quick strokes she disengaged and stepped back.

Panting, frowning, Enril looked at her—”First blood,” she said— and then he felt the warm trickle running down his right cheek.

Unbelieving, he struck his right hand to his face and wiped. His fingers came away wetly scarlet. An incredulous gasp went up from the crowd, and Enril, stunned, turned to the dais. “My lords, ‘twas but an accidental—”

Enril’s words chopped short as Arizak pushed out a hand for silence. “The combat is to first blood, and first blood has been drawn. Stand down, Enril the Rankan, you have been defeated.”

A great roar went up from the crowd, and Enril growled but bowed to the dais, as Ariko did likewise. Then they went their separate ways, the Rankan to the north, Ariko to the south.

Grinning widely, Arizak turned to Emissary Badareen. “Bested by a chit of a girl, is this the finest Ranke has to offer?”

But off to one side stood Soldt, his eyes narrow as his gaze followed the retreating form of the yellow woman called Tiger.

In the Vulgar Unicorn that eve, many a past wager was paid and many a new one laid, and all talk was of the tourney and of the female therein…

“Quick as a tiger she is, did you see?”

“Aye, she’s aptly named.”

“A golden woman at that.”

“Bet she’s a tiger in places other than an arena.”

“You don’t want to find out, Lamin… claw you to death, she would.”

“Ar, I think that Enril was right: Twas pure accident.”

“Do you think? I mean, she seemed, oh, I dunno, fast and deft, I suppose.”

“Bah, she’s just a girl; either it was an accident, or he wasn’t ready.”

“The next one she faces’ll be on his toes, I’ll wager.”

“Speaking of wagers, what about tomorrow? Who you betting on?”

“Wull, with the bye and all, and as the favorite, Soldt didn’t fight today. Even so, my coin’ll follow him. What about you?”

“I think I’ll put a silver on the golden girl.”

“Ha! Dolt! Why don’t you just throw your coin into the street? I mean, betting on a
girl
is just plain foolish, and…”

Many were the stakes proffered and accepted, odds shifting with each candlemark, Soldt yet favored to win. The Irrunes, however, bet on the one named Tiger; how could they not, for the tiger was their totem, and even though there had been a bloodmoon, how could that be wrong? Besides, they had now seen her fight. Mostly Rankans took on the Irrune wagers in ire, for, after all, this—this… this girl had accidentally beaten one of their best, and surely she deserved what she got.

“Five more,” gritted Ariko, her black eyes flashing in the moonlight. “I must face five more opponents ere we win the jewel for this skeleton of a man—if man he is—and he sends us back to Arith.”

Durel growled and glanced toward his great sword. “If there were a way we could get back on our own, I’d kill the bastard.”