He takes the sack of tarts out of his shirt and hands them to her. “Here you go,” he says with a grin.
Taking the sack she flashes him a smile and then runs to catch up with the others.
Sitting back, he feels good about not only successfully finding out information James will want to know, but also about making the lives of these kids a little better if only for a brief time. He finishes his meal and then walks through the streets back to the Silver Bells.
By the time he arrives, it’s now late afternoon and the sun is beginning its descent to the horizon. At the inn, he finds Illan sitting in the common room talking with several of the locals. When he sees him approaching, Illan gets up and takes his leave of the men as he meets Miko halfway.
“Was getting worried about you,” he tells him.
“Sorry,” apologizes Miko. “I was finding out about things.”
Nodding, Illan says, “Let’s go up to my room where we can talk in private.”
As they move to the stairs leading up the second floor, Miko asks, “Where is everyone?”
“James is still at the castle,” he explains. “I’ve had no word about him since he left. Jiron and Fifer left a short time ago, said something about meeting someone. They were rather vague about the whole thing.”
Back in the room, Illan shuts the door and Miko fills him in on what the kids had said. At mention of the Eye, he gets a strange look on his face but makes no comment. When Miko tells him about finding Lord Colerain and Lord Kindering at the Merchant’s Guild, he gets another odd look.
“It just seems more than coincidence that all these things are coinciding with James being summoned here,” he concludes.
“I tend to agree,” states Illan.
“What’s the Eye?” Miko asks him after a brief quiet.
Sitting back in the chair, Illan considers the question a moment before answering. “The Eye, or rather an Eye of the Emperor, is part of a secret organization within the Empire that seeks out those who jeopardize or challenge the rule of the Emperor.”
“But why would one be here?” asks Miko. “James?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” he says.
“Didn’t he say two hours after sunset?” Fifer asks him.
“Yes,” replies Jiron as they make their way out to where the fight’s going to be.
“Then why are we leaving so early?” he asks. Pointing to the sun which is low to the horizon he continues, “It’s going to be several hours before we have to be there.”
Giving Fifer an annoyed look, he says, “First of all, I didn’t want to be there when James returns to the inn. If he got wind of this he would probably try to get me to call it off. This way, we don’t have that problem.”
“Secondly, I was hoping we might be able to do a little digging and see if we can find out about who I might be fighting.”
“To give you an edge?” suggests Fifer.
“Something like that,” agrees Jiron. “Back at the pits, we always had scouts out to find out about newcomers to the pits. Their strengths and weaknesses, that sort of thing. It’s amazing how much of an edge one little piece of information can give you.”
It isn’t hard to locate the inn behind which Jiron agreed to fight tonight. As the barkeep had told them, behind the inn is a sizeable area. Filled with refuse and beggars, its center has been kept relatively clear for the fights that go on here.
“Where should we start?” asks Fifer.
Shrugging, Jiron gestures to the beggars hanging out in the area, “How about with them?”
The first beggar they approach shies away from them as they come near, unwilling to meet their eyes much less talk to them. Looking around, Jiron sees one eyeing them and makes his way toward him. This beggar holds his ground as they approach.
“You hang out here much?” asks Jiron as he stops next to the man.
Nodding, he replies, “Yes.”
“I hear there are fights going on here from time to time,” he says.
The beggar just stares at him, not responding to what he just said. Producing two coppers, he holds them out and the beggar snatches them away quickly. Looking around, he says, “Occasionally. I hear there will be one tonight.” Gesturing around at the many beggars he adds, “That’s why so many of us are here.”
“Do you know anything about who’s fighting?” he asks.
“Maybe,” he says. His hand snakes out of his clothing with the palm up.
Fishing out two more coppers, he places them in the beggar’s hand.
After his hand is once again within the dirty rags he calls clothes, he says, “Bunch of foreigners have staged fights here with locals the last week or so. They have a champion whom they say no one’s been able to beat.”
“What is their champion like?” asks Fifer.
“He was big, muscled and fought with two swords,” he says. “The last two fights only lasted a few passes before his opponent lay dead on the ground.”
Fifer glances to Jiron but he seems unconcerned about what he’s hearing. Many tales were told of opponents before they got into the pit with them, most of them were over exaggerated. Those who took rumors to heart tended to be less effective against them.
“I thought they fought with fists at times,” Jiron says.
Shaking his head, the beggar says, “No, never saw that. Not for awhile anyway.”
Jiron then produces another coin, this time a silver and asks, “Where could a person place a bet on such a fight?”
Hand moving so fast it almost blurs with speed, he snatches the silver out of Jiron’s fingers. Indicating a small alley off to the right, he says, “Go down there and knock on the third door to your right. When someone asks who it is, tell them ‘It’s no one’. That’s the password today. Inside you can make your bet.”
“Thanks friend,” Jiron says as he heads for the indicated alleyway.
“You’re not thinking of placing a bet are you?” asks Fifer.
“Of course I am,” he says. “I’m not planning on losing.”
They enter the alley and find the third door. Pausing only a moment, Jiron knocks upon it.
After a moment, a voice from the other side says, “Who’s there?”
“It’s no one,” Jiron says.
They hear a bar being removed and a lock turning just before the door swings open. An armored man stands there before them, a dimly lit hallway extending from the doorway behind him.
“Put your weapons on the table there,” he says, indicating a small table just within the hallway. He shuts the door and secures it again with the bar.
Fifer looks to Jiron who nods his head and they begin removing their weapons and placing them on the table.
Once divested of their weapons, the guard checks them to be sure they haven’t ‘forgotten’ any and then says, “Follow me.”
Moving down the hallway, the guard passes two doors before stopping in front of the third. Opening it, he steps aside and allows them to move into the room.
The room is richly furnished, surprising to find such a room here in this part of town. Oil lamps give the room plenty of light and a large desk sits in the middle of the room. A man is bent over the desk, looks like he’s going over the books. He looks up as they enter and asks, “What do you gentlemen want?”
“We understand that you take bets on the fights which occur in the courtyard outside,” states Jiron.
“Yes, we do,” he says leaning back in his chair.
The guard which had let them into the building takes position behind them, hand resting upon the pommel of his sword in the event they were to do something rash.
“I would like to place a bet on the outcome,” Jiron tells him. “I understand there’s a foreign champion which is to meet a newcomer tonight.”
“That’s right,” he says.
“What are the odds on the newcomer?” he asks as he moves closer to the desk.
“Ten to one,” the man replies.
Removing his pouch, Jiron moves closer to the desk and upends it, spilling out its contents.
Seeing the amount of coins the pouch contains, the man’s eyes widen slightly. “All of it?” he asks. “You do realize that the champion hasn’t been beaten don’t you?”