A Secret Atlas (56 page)

a crowd. When Ciras heard of them, he wished to be given leave to enter a fight, and

Moraven was almost tempted to let him do so.

Yet here, the arenas were not meant as places where life could be lost. The only

combatants accepted were
gyanrigot
. Large and small, rigidly classified by weight, the

machines battled to the delight of spectators.
Gyanridin
throughout the city proudly

displayed their creations. Arenas accepted bets, and vast sums of money changed hands

among the spectators. The combatants and their creators won fame and small purses for

their efforts.

And while it might have seemed natural for the misshapen to battle each other like beasts,

that was precisely the reason they did not. While the citizens might eschew civilization,

they had no intention of abandoning their humanity. Their resolution not to kill one another

united them, and murder was punished by staking the killer out where the storms could

get him. The magic that changed them all would judge him guilty or innocent, and all

would live with the result.

Borosan Gryst had created a new version of his largest
thanaton
and had lost little time in scouting out an arena where it could fight. Moraven, Ciras, and Rekarafi accompanied him

to a medium-sized arena on the third level. Keles had been felled by one of his blinding

headaches and Tyressa had remained behind to tend to him, but both bid them go and

enjoy themselves. The quartet paid for admission in gold, which seemed to strike the

ticket taker as unusual; most others bought their way in with nine grains

of
thaumston
dust.

The quartet moved along the upper tier and finally found a place to watch the battle down

in the arena. Centered in the reddish sand, a
gyanrigot
looking a lot like a scorpion

scuttled around in a slow circle. Its six small legs held its belly a yard off the sand. The two larger forelegs ended in massive claws with serrated inner surfaces. A curved tail,

complete with a wickedly sharp stinger, rose over its middle.

It battled a smaller
gyanrigot
that had a domed shape, the edges of which plowed the

sand as it moved. The tracks it left revealed some sort of wheels that provided mobility,

but it didn’t move very fast. Spikes festooned the dome, and a number had tapered heads

that spun. By some mechanism, it could extend some of those spikes if it got in close,

piercing the enemy. Several of the spikes had been sheared off, presumably by the

scorpion’s claws.

Borosan kept his voice low. “Both of these battlers are built for close combat. But you’ve

seen my
thanaton
. It is nimble enough to stay out of range, yet can still damage its foes.

It’s accurate enough not to miss at this range, which means I should win.”

Moraven nodded. “You have spent time scouting these fighters?”

“I have. Skorpe should win and will be the tougher kill, but I can handle Quillbeast, too.”

Ciras managed to strain most of the disgust out of his voice. “Curious names. What will

you call your
thanaton
?”

The
gyanridin
blinked as if he did not understand the question. “Name?”

“So we can bet on the battle, Master Gryst.”

“Bet?”

Moraven rested a hand on Ciras’ shoulder. “Perhaps you should call it Serpentslayer.”

“I-I suppose I could. I just call it
thanaton
Number Four. I mean, you know it is really the third one with modifications, but there were enough that I felt it had become a

new
gyanrigot
.”

The Viruk rested his hands on Gryst’s shoulders. “Perhaps you would honor me by calling

it
Nesrearck
.”

Borosan smiled. “Is that Viruk for Serpentslayer?”

“Similar, and appropriate.”

“
Nesrearck
it shall be.” Borosan jerked his head toward the action. “I’d best get down

there.
Nesrearck
is waiting, and I need to tinker so I can defeat the winner.”

As he departed, Moraven looked over at the Viruk. “You will forgive me, Rekarafi, but I

heard you use that word before, as a curse—or so I thought. You applied it to the things

merchants offered you. Did I mistake its meaning?”

The Viruk laughter sounded like breaking bones. “Permit me a jest. It means ‘bad toy.’ ”

Ciras snorted.

Moraven watched Skorpe feint left, then cut right and catch Quillbeast with a claw. Quickly

the larger
gyanrigot
surged forward and flicked its claw upward. The

domed
gyanrigot
flipped over, scattering sand, and landed heavily on its back. Its spikes dug into the earth and its little wheels spun madly.

Remorselessly, Skorpe shifted around and began to pick the wheels apart with its claws.

The tail quivered and everyone in the arena seemed to hold their breath waiting for it to

punch straight through Quillbeast’s belly plate. Before that could happen, however, a

clanking length of chain was tossed noisily into the arena, then bells sounded and Skorpe

withdrew to the arena’s far side.

Moraven’s apprentice looked at him. “Master, it is obvious that these machines are a

perversion of life. Master Gryst’s
thanaton
had its uses; I will not deny this. The mouser aided in the survey. But this is wrong.” Ciras waved his sword hand at the arena. “Do you

not see that this is a mockery of what you and I seek to perfect in life? Look down there.

You have two combatants in a circle. They fight, but for what? The pleasure of a rabble

and a few ounces of magic dust?”

“There are those, Ciras, who enter the circle and fight for pleasure.” Moraven smiled. “It is

a common enough entertainment, sometimes fought to the death.”

“But, Master, we fight to perfect our skills. If we succeed we become more than we were.

If these succeed, they have the dents pounded out and return to fight again for no real

purpose.”

The Viruk lowered his head. “Would you say, Master Dejote, that it is better to have

people shedding blood and dying than it is for metal to be twisted? It is easier to recast

metal than to reanimate the dead. Would not wars fought between armies of

these
gyanrigot
be preferable to the conflict that triggered the Cataclysm?”

“Can you imagine that these machines would not make war on people?” Ciras lowered his

voice. “We know the men who have been raiding the area and we know they are in

Opaslynoti. They must see these combats and realize the potential. With

enough
thaumston,
would it not be possible to create a Skorpe large enough to carry

men? Would the claws not be employed against houses, livestock, and people? If we wish

to keep the world safe, we should slay every
gyanridin
we can find.”

The Viruk leaned forward, resting his weight on his fists. “We have a saying: ‘The ocean’s

water cannot return to the mountains.’
Gyanri
exists, and there will be no destroying it.

Furthermore, I think you should welcome it.”

Ciras’ eyes grew wide. “How can you say that?”

“You complain that these machines do not have the ability to make decisions as do you.

That is their weakness. Study them as you would any foe. Exploit that weakness.”

Bells clanged, drawing their attention back to the arena. A man in red robes strode to the

center and raised his voice for all to hear. “In this battle we have the challenger from far

Nalenyr. Borosan Gryst brings us
Nesrearck
the Serpentslayer.”

Scattered applause broke out, but Moraven was not surprised by how sparse it

was.
Nesrearck
just sat in the sand like a featureless ball. He’d have thought Borosan

didn’t want to reveal anything about the
thanaton
’s capability to his foe, but Borosan was not that subtle. He simply had no sense of the theatrical.

Skorpe’s owner, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. As the announcer

welcomed the champion, the scorpion dashed toward the center of the arena, claws

raised and clanging loudly. It then backed away slowly, strutting, claws and tail up. The

crowd began to chant “Skorpe! Skorpe!”

The announcer scrambled away through a door in the arena’s wooden walls, then bells

sounded. Skorpe again raced toward the arena’s heart and for a moment Moraven

feared
Nesrearck
had broken, for the sphere lay there inert. Then panels slid back, legs popped out, and the harpoon’s barbed head appeared to point at the larger
gyanrigot
.

Before Skorpe recognized any sort of a threat, the harpoon shot forward and pierced the

scorpion’s face, popping out just above the last set of legs.

Skorpe rocked back, then its legs collapsed beneath it. It flopped down in a clatter of

metal, and a cloud of red dust rose to obscure it. The claws clicked at random, and the tail

slackened. The left claw closed on the harpoon’s shaft, but made little headway in tugging

it loose.

Nesrearck
circled Skorpe twice, moving laterally to keep the next projectile—a much

smaller bolt—pointed at it. Aside from the claw’s grinding at the haft, the champion gave

no sign of even being aware of its foe. Legs twitched, but at random.

Nesrearck
circled one more time, then the bolt withdrew. The panels that had concealed

the crossbow mechanism slid shut with loud clicks. Moraven thought, just for a moment,

that he’d heard an echo, then noticed that Skorpe had finally snapped the harpoon shaft.

Quickly, the champion rose. It darted forward and almost effortlessly caught two

of
Nesrearck
’s legs in its claws. As if a
bhotcai
pruning a tree, it snipped the legs off, canting the spherical
gyanrigot
to the right.

Though severely wounded,
Nesrearck
did not give up. It pushed off with its left legs and tried to roll out of danger. But Skorpe closed too quickly, catching the severed stumps in

its right claw and holding
Nesrearck
on its back. The crossbow panels again snapped

open, and the shot should have ripped up through the larger
gyanrigot
. The only difficulty was that the crossbow relied on gravity to keep the bolt in place, so that while the

mechanism functioned, the bolt spilled harmlessly onto the ground.

Skorpe’s left claw rose and plunged deep into
Nesrearck
’s belly. The legs spasmed, then curled in. The chain clanked into the sand not far from where Borosan stood. Someone

else had clearly tossed it, for Borosan’s shock was all too evident on his face.

Moraven tapped Ciras on the shoulder. “Go to his aid. Gather his device and see him back

to our home.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Applause thundered through the arena and Skorpe scuttled around in a circle as

attendants gathered up
Nesrearck
’s broken parts and rolled it from the battleground.

Skorpe returned to where its creators waited. They drew the harpoon from it with a

screeching of metal. They tossed the harpoon into the crowd and one man raised it

triumphantly in a clenched fist.

The announcer returned to the center of the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am assured

that Skorpe is yet battleworthy, but we have no more combatants registered this evening.

If any of you would challenge our champion, please come forward now. If not, we shall

move to the smaller class of
gyanrigot
.”

Rekarafi rose to his full height. “I would challenge Skorpe.”

Heads turned as the Viruk’s bass buzz sliced through the hubbub. People shrank back,

giving the announcer a clear line of sight up to the top tier. “It has been a long time since a Viruk has offered a combatant. Bring your
gyanrigot
here and we will—”

“I offered no
rearck
.
I
will challenge it.”

The announcer hesitated. “We don’t let men fight—”

“I am not a man.”

Across the arena a chant of “Die, Viruk, die,” began, and picked up volume as it spread.

The announcer looked at Skorpe’s creators, who nodded adamantly. The red-robed man

waved a hand. “Come on down, Viruk.”

Moraven grabbed Rekarafi’s arm. “Why?”

The Viruk laughed. “Your apprentice fears toys. I do not.” He turned and galloped on

hands and feet down the narrow stairway and leaped the nine-foot wall. He landed in a

crouch, red dust puffing lightly around his feet. Rekarafi extended one hand and crooked a

finger.

The announcer fled the arena. The champion
gyanrigot
approached, but slowly and

cautiously. The Viruk clearly did not appear to be its normal sort of foe. The fact that

it
did
orient on him, claws wide, tail high, confirmed Ciras’ prediction that these machines could and likely would be used against people.

Ciras appeared at Moraven’s left shoulder. “What is he doing?”

“He is proving to you what he suggested. He has found a weakness and will exploit it.”

“What if he is wrong?”

“Then you will see what color a Viruk bleeds.”

Rekarafi stayed low and moved in a crouch to the right and left. He let Skorpe dominate

the center of the arena as seemed to be the
gyanrigot
’s wont. He extended first his left hand, then his right, and watched the claws rise to fend them off. He cut to the left more

quickly, as if to take advantage of the machine’s blind eye. Skorpe spun fast, keeping the

Viruk centered between its claws.

The Viruk brought his hands back in, resting them on his knees. He hunched his