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 There were several who were disappointed that Arizak perArizak, better known in the Maze as the Dragon, had withdrawn, but with that bloody moon some eight nights past, nearly all of the entered Irrune had pulled out… "Superstitious savages," went the whispers.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