Zarel hesitated, stunned by the sudden turn of his second.
“And I could reveal all about the role you played in the fall of Turquoise.”
“You have held that over me for twenty long years, Master, and I groveled before you. But for this moment I want to be treated as a man.”
Zarel laughed.
“You are nothing but a deformed animal.”
“Then why do you make me your captain of fighters?”
Zarel smiled coldly.
“Because I could control you.”
“You still can but the price has changed.”
“What do you want?”
“Control of the House of Bolk,” Uriah replied evenly.
“I have no control over who is selected as Master of a House.”
“Then find a way. You will have to kill Kirlen before this is over or she will kill you. Isn’t it obvious that she is behind this One-eye?”
“How can I trust you afterward?”
“You can’t. For that matter how can I trust you? Perhaps that is the beginning of the only type of relationship that can last in this world.”
Zarel nodded wearily and sat back down.
“Can you bring the mob under control?”
“Difficult, but yes, though I worry about tomorrow in the arena. A single spark will set them off.”
Uriah hesitated.
“If that spark should come, then you will have to kill the mob by the thousands and drive them into the dirt. Nothing can be held back.”
Uriah nodded in agreement.
“Master, will you bring him down tomorrow?”
“I plan to kill him during the procession to the arena. I have my assassins taking their positions even now. He will never make it out of the city.”
“Suppose he eludes that trap?”
“Not in the arena. It is too risky.” Zarel paused.
“Let the Walker have him as a servant and you’ll be done with him. He is working toward some plan, not only against you, but against the Walker as well.”
“How do you know this?”
“You asked me to find out all I could,” Uriah replied. “He is dangerous beyond measure.”
Zarel lowered his head.
“Get out.”
“Do we have our agreement?”
“Yes, damn you. Now get out.”
Uriah, head bowed low, turned and hobbled out of the room.
“And bring that damn mob under control!”
As the door slammed shut the dwarf sagged against the wall, suddenly unable to control the trembling of his limbs. He fought down the sudden urge to vomit. For years he had dreamed of standing up to Zarel, and always feared death would be the payment.
He felt as if he had been possessed by a demon. Was that it? His visit to the dealer of potions had been for the purpose of gaining powders so that he could have his way with one of the court women; it was the only way he ever could have one, by first drugging her. The offered drink had seemed innocent enough and then this sense of power and defiance had taken hold.
He was suddenly tempted to go back, find the man, and kill him.
But why? It had worked somehow, or was it even the drink at all? He stuck his hand into his pocket and felt the leather pouch and the weight of the ruby inside. The request was simple enough and the payment a bribe in and of itself sufficient for a dozen nights of pleasure without need of potions.
I’ve been promised the House of Bolk when Kirlen falls, Uriah thought with a grim smile. My own House and freedom from Zarel’s torments. The dream washed over him and he could see himself being carried on a sedan chair of gold like Jimak’s, and surrounded by concubines who would make Varnel drool with envy.
Uriah smiled at the thought.
But who did the bribe come from in the first place? he suddenly wondered. There was a suspicion and that alone sent a chill through him. For there was the memory of before, of long before, and how he had once been such a source of innocent amusement and had even been loved.
Uriah lowered his head and walked down the corridor into the darkness.
Zarel sat in silence. What had possessed Uriah? Was it a simple madness or did he somehow sense that the position of the Grand Master might be slipping? But there was the deeper fear now, the realization that somehow One-eye was something far different. Something that would not be solved by simply letting him win the final match and then be taken away forever.
Could One-eye know of my own plans and reveal them to the Walker, perhaps even bartering to save his own miserable life in the process? Could that be it? He had to accept the fact now that One-eye was out to destroy him, and perhaps Uriah was right, One-eye wanted something from the Walker as well.
Zarel sighed and leaned forward on his throne.
Could it be that One-eye even knew that the entire process of the Festival was a sham? Perhaps even now he understood that one of its many purposes was to select the best fighter each year so that the Walker could take him away… and then kill him so as to eliminate a potential threat, not only to the existing order of things but to the Walker as well? One-eye had proved his cunning. It would be the mark of a fool not to assume that this man had figured it out.
Zarel looked up again, almost ready to call Uriah back.
No. Not him and not now. That would be another game to play out in its own good time. There would have to be another way to destroy One-eye.
Suddenly Zarel sat back and started to laugh, for it was all so obvious, so wonderfully and simply obvious what had to be done, and in the process it might very well clear the way for a new Walker.
Stretching lazily, Garth watched as the names for the next match were registered on the tote board. The first match of the second round of eliminations had just finished and he waited to see against whom he would be pitted in the next round after having sat out the opening fight of the day. At last his symbol appeared and the mob roared its approval and then fell into contemptuous laughter when the name of a second-rank fighter from Kestha was posted as his rival.
Garth looked over at Hammen, who shrugged.
“Maybe he’s backing off and deciding to play it straight; the mob is less than happy with the bastard today.”
That dissatisfaction was evident throughout the city. Several hundred homes and businesses had burned in the rioting of the night before. Scores were dead and hundreds injured. The tension was even worse over the fights between Fentesk and Kestha, which had left half a dozen fighters dead, one of them the second highest ranking fighter in Kestha, and the fighting between Bolk and Ingkara, which had resulted in the deaths of eight more. Following Hammen’s advice, Garth had slipped out of the House before dawn and hidden down by the arena, avoiding the grand march and the possibility of a trap on the part of Zarel, leaving a note for Kirlen not to have his name dropped from the day’s lineup.
Hammen’s advice was true to form, when on the march down to the arena a fight had broken out. Within seconds nearly half of Zarel’s fighters had come pouring out of a side street and swarmed in among Brown’s ranks. They looked about expectantly and Kirlen had laughed with cold, sardonic glee when it became evident that the fight was a cover for a move against Garth, who was not in the column of march.
The mob in the arena waited, wondering where its favorite was, fearful that he had left as mysteriously as he had arrived. The trumpet sounding the call for the fighters echoed and half a million were now on their feet, watching as the fighters for the second round of the second elimination stepped out onto the field.
“It’ll be a setup. He won’t let you off that field alive,” Hammen said gloomily.
“You can always stay up here in the stands.”
“Like hell. I’ve seen it through this far though only the Eternal knows why.”