I knew that the ruler of the Genthai was female. The tribe was matriarchal – it had always been ruled by women. So how could a man lead them?
Kwin was a dark shadow lurking on the path beside the house. Jon had already gone. She took out her key and opened the back door, trying to make as little noise as possible. I half expected Tyron to be waiting for us inside, but the house was silent and dark.
Once back in her room, Kwin wasted no time in opening the connecting door.
‘Get a good night’s sleep,’ she whispered. ‘There’ll be big trouble tomorrow. The tassels kept my father’s money, so I’ll have to tell him what happened. He’d find out soon enough anyway, so it’s better coming from me. I’ll try to leave you out of it as far as I can. But whatever happens, he won’t dismiss you again, I promise you that.’
I nodded and forced a smile onto my face. What was that promise worth? After all, she had been unable to save me from her father’s anger last time.
Back in the bedroom, I undressed and climbed into bed. In spite of all Kwin’s reassurances, I had no illusions about the next day. I expected to take some of the blame; probably enough to finish me as Tyron’s trainee.
I felt bitter and angry. By noon tomorrow I could be on the road south again, my dream over. But at least now I had somewhere to go. I would head for the Genthai lands.
A servant came for me just before dawn. I was ordered to dress quickly and go downstairs. Tyron was waiting for me, his face grim. He gestured towards the back door and I followed him out into the darkness, shivering in the chill air.
Anger flared within me when I remembered what I’d been dragged into the previous night: every muscle in my body felt sore and stiff. The exertions of fighting the tassel had caught up with me. I hadn’t been cut, but I shivered at the thought of what might have happened. I could have been maimed or killed.
I expected to find a bundle of my belongings waiting for me in the yard, but Tyron strode off across the city, and I hurried after him. The sky was becoming lighter and it soon became obvious that we were heading for the administration building. One of Tyron’s servants was waiting at a side door.
‘Well?’ Tyron asked impatiently.
‘He’s agreed, sir. But because of the inconvenience of the early hour, he demands twice the money you offered. He’s waiting for you now.’
Tyron nodded curtly and we left the man by the door. Soon we were walking along a corridor that I recognized, the one I had used to reach Tyron’s office. At this hour it was deserted.
I wanted to question Tyron and find out how much Kwin had told him, but I sensed his mood and held my tongue. This was a time to keep quiet.
We continued to the very end, where we came to a large door. The plaque fastened to the wall beside it stated that this was the office of the Chief Marshal. Tyron knocked at the door and a voice inside bade us enter.
Pyncheon was standing behind his desk, and to my surprise he was wearing the red sash of the Wheel Directorate, formally dressed as if presiding over Arena 13.
On the desk a large book lay open, and next to it was a sphere of frosted glass with holes in its upper surface. I realized that this was the lottery orb, which was used when a combatant had to be selected to face Hob. My father must have smashed a similar one out of the Chief Marshal’s hand when he’d insisted on fighting Hob.
‘Name?’ Pyncheon asked, staring at me hard.
Before I could speak, Tyron answered for me. ‘Leif, son of Tyron.’
The Chief Marshal wrote my name down in the big book, adding it to the bottom of the List. At first I was puzzled as to why Tyron had given me his name. Then I remembered that he wanted to keep my real name secret so as to improve the odds offered by the gambling houses.
‘Put your hand on the orb and take the oath,’ Pyncheon commanded. ‘Repeat these words after me.’
I obeyed, listening carefully to what he said before repeating his words.
‘I, Leif, son of Tyron, do solemnly swear never to wield a blade outside the jurisdiction of the Wheel Directorate.’
‘Right, boy, remove your hand from the orb. You are bound now. Break the oath and you’ll never fight in Arena 13 again. Do you understand?’
I nodded; then money changed hands, and soon we were walking back across the city, Tyron’s servant following at our heels.
‘Does this mean you’re going to keep me on?’ I asked fearfully.
Tyron nodded. He seemed deep in thought.
‘You do know what happened last night?’ I went on.
He looked sideways at me and cursed under his breath. ‘Of course I do! It took me almost an hour to prise the full story out of that stubborn daughter of mine. Why do you think I brought you here at this ungodly hour?’ he snapped. ‘Why do you think I’ve just spent more of my money, when last night cost me dearly enough?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s my foolish daughter who should be sorry. Kwin could have got you all killed – or worse. Anyway, what’s done is done. You’ve taken the oath at the first opportunity, and that’s for a reason. Soon the whole city will know what happened last night and you’ll get other offers to fight with blades. Offers that would have been difficult to refuse. Now you can say no. You can refuse with honour because you’re bound by the oath.
‘At least they don’t know your real name yet. That’s why you took the oath using mine. That brief ceremony back there also doubled as a registration. You’re now officially on the Lists of Arena 13 combatants. Lots of artificers have combatants who fight under their name, so it won’t be remarked upon. It buys us some time. Time to get back some of the money I’ve lost.’
There was no sign of Kwin at breakfast and, to my surprise, instead of giving us his routine nod of acknowledgement, Tyron came over to our end of the table.
‘This morning the usual training schedule is suspended,’ he said. ‘Palm and Deinon – you’ll spend the day being tutored by Kern to improve your patterning. That’s because the training floor will be in use. I’ll be working alone with Leif.’
The expression on Palm’s face was almost worth everything I’d gone through last night.
Right after breakfast, I went down to the training floor to join Tyron.
‘Well, boy, let’s get to work on that lac of yours,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you looking too good too soon; usually I like my trainees to lose badly at the beginning. That’s the first lesson you have to learn. Know how to lose and the winning becomes much easier.’
He smiled grimly. ‘But I know about that bet between you and Palm. I do talk to my younger daughter, you know, and she’s worried that you’ll start off your career with a massive debt to pay back. Well, in the time available, I can only do so much. If you were to meet Palm in the first round, you’d lose. His tri-glad is just too good. But let’s see how lucky you really are. Let’s see what the lottery throws up this time.’
Within a few hours Tyron had transformed my partnership with the lac. I would devise a signal for a particular sequence of steps, and Tyron would translate it into Nym, embedding the response within the lac’s brain. Then we would practise the Ulum signal and the subsequent coordinated move over and over again. By the end of the second afternoon session I was moving behind it with a new confidence.
Occasionally I noticed the lac staring at me. It was a strange sensation to be watched like that.
‘It keeps looking at me,’ I told Tyron.
He gave me one of his rare smiles. ‘Well, that’s good, Leif. It’s got more awareness than some of its kind. They vary in that respect. The fact that it’s looking at you means it finds you interesting. You’ve got its attention. It’ll fight all the better for it.’
‘That’s fine. I just hope that it’s not looking at me because it’s hungry and thinks I might make a tasty meal!’
‘I don’t think you need to worry on that score,’ Tyron answered with a smile. ‘There have been a few isolated cases of cannibalism by lacs, but it
was down to incompetent patterning. I think I’m good enough at my craft to keep you off the menu!’
That night, when I went back up to our room, I got a shock. Carpenters had been at work. The door that led to Kwin’s room had been boarded up.
I hadn’t seen her all day. She hadn’t even been present at the evening meal. No doubt she was still suffering the effects of Tyron’s anger and was confined to her room.
Palm nodded towards where Kwin’s door had been and shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same now,’ he said.
I stared at him in astonishment. He was actually talking to me.
‘Still, I’m only here until the end of the season,’ he went on, giving me a sly smile. ‘Then I’ll move to new quarters. And there’s just one thing left for me to do before I leave. Win that tournament!’
22
The Trainee Tournament
Death changes everything.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
Summer in Gindeen was short – barely five months, which was also the length of the Trig season. After this the transient workers would leave the city and journey back to their winter homes in the provinces.
But this final month was the most exciting of all for first-year trainees, for the beginning saw the competition when we would get the chance to fight in Arena 13.
The TT began at noon, when we were herded into the green room under Arena 13 to witness the draw.
I had only visited it once before, and then the large oblong room had been empty. When Tyron had shown it to me, I’d been surprised to see its colour. Combatants took seats against the walls while they waited for their turn to fight. In the centre was a large table covered with a coarse brown cloth. But the floor was fitted with a shabby brown carpet and the walls and ceiling were painted a dull brown.
‘Why do they call it the green room?’ I’d asked.
‘Nobody knows, boy. The reason is lost in the mists of time. But get used to it because that’s its name.’
Now the room was full, with every seat taken by the boys who were to fight in the tournament. I was already dressed for combat, wearing a sleeveless leather jerkin, which had been lent to me by Tyron. It was slightly too big, but it conformed to the rules of the Trigladius, and on its back was the wolf logo of Tyron’s stable. I felt proud to be wearing it.
My bare arms made me realize that, even though our contests would be fought by beginners, they would still be the real thing. Most of the Arena 13 rules would apply. My arms were bared for the blade.
When Pyncheon lifted the lottery orb from the table, it gleamed brightly, reflecting the candlelight, and you could feel the excitement in the air. The glass orb contained straws inscribed with our names. It was opaque, and those names only became visible when drawn by Pyncheon. Mag straws were coloured red. Min straws were blue.
Pyncheon set it down at the edge of the table and prepared to draw the first red straw. Each time he drew a mag combatant, it was followed by his min opponent.
There was a gasp as he called out the name on the first straw. It was Palm, and because he was the clear favourite to win the tournament, each min combatant in the room was holding his breath, desperately hoping that he wouldn’t be drawn next.
When the next name was called, I let out a sigh of relief. I’d avoided him!
Palm, who now had a huge grin on his face, would be fighting Deinon.
I turned to him, grimacing. ‘Bad luck!’ I whispered.
He just shrugged, not seeming particularly upset at the prospect of fighting in a contest he’d no hope of winning.
It seemed a bit of a coincidence, but I’d been told that it wasn’t uncommon for two combatants from the same stable to be drawn against each other. Still, it wouldn’t please Tyron. With over thirty trainees in the draw, each artificer hoped that those from his own stable would progress as far as possible. Rivalries began even at this level: afterwards the gambling houses did their sums carefully, ranking the stables for the whole of Gindeen to see.
Of course, there were wheels within wheels; pride could be sacrificed to another end. Tyron had already told me that in one respect it was good for a promising trainee to begin badly. It increased the odds against him and meant that in the future money could be won by those in the know.
I listened to the names being drawn; at last my straw was held up and my name read aloud by Pyncheon while my heart thudded with excitement.
‘Leif, son of Tyron!’
My opponent was Marfik, a novice who fought for an artificer called Wode, who had one of the largest stables of combatants in Gindeen. So at least I’d half a chance. To my knowledge, I’d never even seen Marfik before.
I turned to Deinon again. ‘Which one is Marfik?’ I whispered.
He nodded across the room towards a tall red-haired youth, who had left his chair to lean back against the wall with his eyes closed. He looked utterly relaxed while my stomach was churning with anxiety.
‘He’s only been in training for a few months,’ said Deinon, keeping his voice low, ‘and his father’s farm is quite small. Wode will have provided him with a utility tri-glad, nothing special. You’ll be in with a chance.’
‘Sorry you drew Palm,’ I said.
Deinon smiled. ‘I’m OK with that, Leif – it takes the pressure off me. I’ll do my best, but I’ve no hope of winning. Nobody can blame me if I lose to Palm.’
‘I’m going up to the gallery to watch you fight,’ I told him. ‘Good luck, Deinon!’
Combatants fought in the order in which they’d been drawn from the lottery orb. This meant that Deinon would fight first. I was due to fight in the eighth contest. I had plenty of time to watch Deinon fight Palm, then return to the green room and compose myself.
The gallery was only half full. The TT was naturally of great interest to the contestants, their trainers and the gambling agents, who were there to assess the capabilities of future combatants in Arena 13. But apart from the aficionados and a few enthusiastic fans, the general public was not attracted by the spectacle of uncertain novices fighting under rules which had been modified to protect them.
The truth was, the spectators liked to see blood and the occasional death – that’s why the red tickets were so popular. The rules of the Trainee Tournament made this far less likely.
The first important rule change was that no gong would sound to signal that combatants must fight in front of their lacs. Here each contest would be fought entirely behind the lacs, which was of course much safer.
The second concerned the ritual cut made to the arm of the defeated combatant. In full Arena 13 combat, lac blades were coated with a substance called kransin, which intensified the pain of the cut. I had watched several combatants accept that ritual cut without even flinching and never guessed at the agony they were suffering. According to Tyron, this was why the spectators grew quiet at that moment. They were watching carefully to judge the bravery of the loser. Sometimes a small cry was uttered or the face twisted in pain.
So there would be no kransin coating the blades and no red tickets – which meant that we only had a small audience.
But despite these modifications to the rules, that day there was indeed a death in the arena.
The front row was taken up with artificers and those trainees who weren’t fighting in the first few contests. I sat down next to Tyron just in time to see Palm and his tri-glad enter the arena from the mag door. He had a smug smile on his face as he looked up towards the gallery. Suddenly a girl called out his name, and there were a few shrieks of appreciation that made him grin like an idiot.
I realized that with his good looks Palm would attract a lot of fans. He certainly looked the part, and his gleaming lacs were clearly expensive – the best that money could buy, and patterned by Tyron, the best artificer in the city.
Moments later Deinon entered from the min door. He looked nervous: he was frowning and staring down at his boots rather than up at us.
Pyncheon strode between the com
batants and their lacs and gave a short speech to mark the start of the contest. I barely listened to what he said. I was watching poor Deinon and feeling sorry for him. Down in the green room he’d put on a brave face, saying that it didn’t matter because nobody expected him to win. But I knew that it did matter. If only Deinon could pull something special out of the hat and beat him!
The Chief Marshal was coming to the end of his speech. ‘What we shall see here, over the next three days, is the future of Arena 13. Some of these combatants will go on to make their names, mastering the skills of the Trigladius to bring fresh honour to this arena. We wish them long and successful careers. Let the tournament begin.’
As soon as he’d left the arena, the shrill sound of his trumpet cut the air, the two doors rumbled shut and the contest was underway. The lacs of Palm and Deinon clashed together, blades flashing while the two boys danced at their backs.
My heart was in my mouth, but Deinon was doing well. Palm’s tri-glad was actually in retreat!
But then a blade was buried in the throat-socket of Deinon’s lac, and the metallic crash of its fall filled the arena, quickly followed by cheers, applause and shrieks of delight from the girls supporting Palm.
It was endoff. The contest had lasted less than thirty seconds.
‘Poor Deinon,’ I said sadly, watching him accept the ritual cut to his upper arm. He had a slight smile on his face and didn’t flinch.
‘He did what he could – there was never the slightest hope of him beating Palm,’ Tyron said. ‘He has another contest tomorrow, and he’ll have a better chance then. But it doesn’t really matter whether Deinon is a successful combatant in this arena or not. He’s a very clever lad and has the makings of a patterner. He’ll begin by patterning lacs for the other arenas, but within five years he’ll be working with those that fight in Arena 13 without ever having to step inside it. Mark my words, Leif, one day Deinon will be an artificer with his own stable of fighters. So don’t you feel sorry for him. Concentrate on what you have to do.’