“Who is it?”
Hammen squinted, peering through the gloom and mist.
“Josega. At least I think so. Fourth- or fifth-rank.”
“Good enough. You know what to do.”
Garth broke into a run, charging across the gray paving stones.
“Josega, you cowardly bastard!”
Josega, who had been lounging wearily against the wall of his House, stirred, looking up as the Orange robe raced toward him. Even as he started to raise his hands, Garth caught him with a bolt of fire from above that knocked the man head over heels, laying him out unconscious on the pavement. The other guard started forward to meet Garth, not seeing Hammen coming up from the other side. Hammen caught the other guard across the back of the head with a blow from his staff.
The two pulled out daggers and, even as the alarm was raised inside the House, they ran off, the satchels of the two fallen guards in their hands.
“Well, at least they won’t get killed now in the arena,” Hammen gasped as they disappeared back into the crowd, which had not even noticed the robbery, their attention drawn instead to the growing clamor of the riot.
“Do you always find a moral balm for your sins?” Garth asked.
“It helps.”
Garth pushed his way across the square, which was now resounding with the angry shouts of the mob. Crowds raced past him, many of them carrying clubs, pikes, carving knives, and even the occasional crossbow. Over by the palace the fighting was now in full swing, warriors pushing their way outward with overlapping shields, the mob pelting them with offal, pieces of firewood, paving stones, and whatever else they could lay their hands on.
Garth edged his way around the riot and moved toward the House of Ingkara. He stopped and tore off the Orange tunic he had been wearing, to reveal a Brown robe underneath.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Hammen asked.
“Not yet. Now the same as last time.”
A minute later the two were running away, carrying two more satchels of spells, their pursuers cut off by the mob.
Garth slowed and then, at a casual pace, crossed back over into Bolk’s territory. Half a dozen fighters were at the gate, watching the spreading riot.
“What’s going on out there?” Garth asked, coming up to stand by Naru. The giant looked down at him curiously.
“All sorts of fighting tonight,” the giant rumbled with amusement. “You not know?”
“No, I was out for a little pleasure around behind the House.”
“What kind pleasure?”
“The female kind.”
“Ah, you break training. Mistress not like that.” Naru guffawed loudly and then looked up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a dozen Ingkaran fighters storming onto the pavement belonging to Bolk.
“Get off our territory!” Naru shouted, stepping out from the main gate to face the approaching Purples, who slowed at the sight of the giant.
“Two of our men were robbed of their spells by one of yours!” a Purple shouted.
Naru said nothing, gazing down contemptuously at the fighter. The Purple seemed to hesitate and then he set eyes on Garth.
“It was him, One-eye.”
Naru threw back his head and laughed.
“He good fellow, he out robbing women of their honor, not dogs of their offal. You Purple are the lapdogs of the Grand Master.”
With a wild cry of anger one of the Ingkarans raised his hand. A twisting cyclone suddenly appeared, the wind racing out from it as frigid as an arctic night. Inside the cloud a form took shape and stepped out from the cloud. The ice giant moved slowly toward Naru as if its joints were still locked in blocks of frost but it came forward with a deadly purposefulness, raising its steel war hammer, a howling cry like the wind on a winter night thundering from its open mouth.
Naru, laughing, dodged the strike. With a balled-up fist he struck the frost giant with such a blow that the giant’s head splintered into tinkling fragments. With that the fight was on. Cries for Purple and shouts for Brown echoed on the Plaza. Brown fighters and warriors came charging out of the House to aid their comrades. The crowd, which had been storming toward the riot around the palace, slowed, turning to watch the show. Bets were hurriedly placed. Partisans of Ingkara and Bolk shoved forward to watch the fight and within seconds were fighting with each other as well.
From the next section over could be heard the cries for Fentesk and Kestha, an explosion piercing the darkness, the crowd oohing and aahing as bolts of lightning shot overhead from the top of Fentesk’s House.
Garth stayed in the shadows, ignoring Hammen’s excited cries as the fight spilled out into the Plaza, the mob now joining in as well, the partisans of the different sides turning on each other with gleeful abandon. No warriors or fighters of the Grand Master intervened to stop the brawl since all were tied down holding back the mob around the palace.
Suddenly there was a great explosion of light around the palace and, from atop the Grand Master’s palace, bolts of fire stormed down indiscriminately into the mob, knocking over hundreds.
“I think I’ll go in and take a nap,” Garth said calmly and, turning away from the spectacle, he walked through the door, stepping over the unconscious body of a Purple fighter whom Naru had tossed more than half a dozen fathoms. The giant, bellowing with delight, continued to wade into the battle, fists rising and falling.
Garth went through the door and paused. He looked down at Hammen.
“Why don’t you go turn down my bed, Hammen.”
Hammen, staring wide-eyed at Kirlen, who stood before them, nodded and slipped past the Master of Bolk.
“Masterful, One-eye, a masterful act of cunning.”
“And what is that, my lady?”
“The riot out there. Don’t you think I know how it started? Don’t you think the Grand Master does too?”
“He has no proof. Perhaps he is just reaping the whirlwind of his misrule.”
“And you are his moral judge? Hundreds will be killed out there.”
Garth nodded.
“It would have come anyhow. No one out there is being forced to riot and murder. They’re only imitating their betters.”
Kirlen laughed coldly, leaning heavily on her staff.
“Our games match for the moment,” Kirlen finally said, and, turning, she hobbled away.
“That bastard! I know it’s him!”
Uriah looked up at Zarel.
“How do you know that, sire?”
His voice was filled with a wary caution.
“How dare you! I should take your head for your insolence.”
To Zarel’s shocked disbelief Uriah for once did not blanch.
“If you kill me now, Master, I fear a rebellion will sweep this palace. Right now our fighters are outside this very building holding back the mob. If their captain should die by your hands, what would they say?”
“Concerning you, not much,” Zarel snarled.
“But of things in general,” Uriah replied, amazed as the words poured out of him. “Eleven fighters have died in the rioting of the last several days, more than two hundred warriors as well. They are not happy, my lord, and though my death might mean nothing, then again it could mean an awful lot.”
“What has come over you?”
Uriah swallowed hard, trying to control his fear.
“You violated the rules of the arena not once but four times today. You planted Silmar in the House of Ingkara, you gave him a spell, you had the circle master declare it a death match, and then you tried to intervene.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me this morning. He took the assignment but feared it would be his death. So he told me just before going over to stand with the House of Ingkara.”
Zarel started to raise his hand.
“Go ahead. So far it’s a secret. But kill me and the entire city will know what they only suspect right now. That will end all betting, for the mob will no longer trust you at all. Go ahead. You see, my lord, I left instructions with someone detailing all and if I die, it will be revealed.”