‘Good luck, Leif. Take care in that arena,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder.
‘Thanks for the training,’ I said, smiling up at him. ‘Not only can I chop down trees, I’ve built up my body strength. That should help me when I fight.’
Garrett waved as he walked away. I wondered if I’d ever see him again. But my thoughts were now directed towards home.
Most of the snow had melted, but the ground was soggy, and once I’d left the forest, I had to struggle through mud and circle dangerous areas of swamp. Although I’d said that I might see Peter on my way back, Iavoided Mypocine.
After all that had happened, I wasn’t in the mood to talk, and he would ask me a lot of questions which I’d be unable to answer.
It was almost two weeks before I saw Gindeen in the distance. The first thing that came into view was Hob’s thirteen-spired citadel. The sun was setting, casting its threatening shadow over the city. The shadows ofthose spires were like talons slowly extending towards the copper dome of the Wheel.
Nowhere in Midgard was safe from Hob, but he concentrated on the city from which he took the majority of his victims. I was glad to see the Wheel, but the sight of those threatening shadows sent shivers down myspine.
I didn’t want to walk through Gindeen’s streets after dark – Hob might be hunting for victims – so I spent one more night outdoors, some distance away. The cold weather had returned, and there was a severe frost thatnight. My blanket proved inadequate and I hardly slept at all. I was only too glad to start moving again, and I was already approaching the city soon after dawn.
Soon I could see the huge block of the slaughterhouse, with a flock of vultures wheeling above it in long slow spirals. At dusk they tended to circle above the Wheel. It was probably just to take advantage of thethermal currents rising up from the dome, but many believed the flock gathered there before a death in Arena 13.
Of course, it was just superstition. Apart from grudge matches and visits from Hob, deaths in the arena were rare, though I’d already seen one combatant killed in a grudge match, and then witnessed Hob’s defeat ofKern.
That night Tyron and I had visited Hob’s citadel and Tyron had bought back Kern’s remains – his severed but living head in a box.
I knew that tassels ate the bodies, but why did Hob keep the heads of his victims? What did he want them for?
These were dark memories, but more recently I’d witnessed thirteen nights of werewight combat in the meeting house of the Genthai. I’d seen too much death. I was sickened by it. Perhaps that was one thing I had incommon with my father. He too had been sickened by what he’d witnessed there – though he hadn’t accepted the facial tattoos.
At last I was striding through the narrow streets, keeping to the wooden walkways that ran along in front of the houses and trying to avoid the worst of the mud – though some of the planks had rotted away. Then Iclimbed the slope towards the area where the wealthier citizens lived. Here there were stone flags instead of boards, cinders in the roads and even some avenues of trees – still leafless, though spring wasn’t far away.
Being the most successful artificer in Gindeen, Tyron had a big house; there were four storeys above the street and a deep cellar.
I walked through the yard and knocked on the back door. I was looking forward to seeing Kwin again, but very nervous too. Again I worried what she would think of my tattoos. I certainly hoped I’d have time to washand tidy up before we came face to face.
It was Tyron who came to the door. He opened it wide and stared at my face for a long while, making me anxious about what he was going to say. Then he shook his head and whistled through his teeth. ‘Leave yourmuddy boots and bag here and go up to my study, boy,’ he growled. ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
As he turned and walked back into the house, I tugged off my boots and left them with my bag. Then, in my stocking feet, I made my way up to the top of the house. I was sure that I was in trouble because of mytattoos but, despite that, it was really good to be back. I had missed living in Tyron’s house.
The study door was open, so I went in and sat down facing the desk. I knew I was in for a real telling off, and there was nothing I could say to defend myself.
I glanced around the room. Nothing had changed since I’d last been here. It was the study of a wealthy man. The walls had mahogany panels and the chairs were upholstered with leather; white wolf furs were spreadout upon the floor. I looked at the sealed glass bookcase that had caught my eye on my first visit. There was a row of no more than seven volumes, supported at each end by a wooden bookend carved into the shape of awolf. That image sent a shiver down my spine. It brought back memories of the werewights and the slaughter I’d witnessed.
I went over and peered through the glass. The first book was entitled The Manual of Nym; the second was The Manual of Trigladius Combat. But it was the third one that caught my eye and sent my pulse racing. Itstitle was The Testimony of Math.
Had my father written that book? What was it about – an account of his contests in Arena 13? It was something I’d love to read, but I couldn’t mention it to Tyron without admitting that I’d been prying.
I heard him climbing the stairs, so I quickly returned to my seat.
He came in, closed the door behind him and sat down facing me. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why on earth did you do it?’
He was staring at my face, examining the tattoos that now covered the left-hand side – the jaw, cheek and temple. Dark lines and whorls followed every contour. I wanted to tell him that the tattoos had been earned bymy defeat of the werewight; that only the bravest of warriors were entitled to them. I wanted to explain that it was a great honour that marked you out as someone who had cheated a werewight of its prey, saved the lifeof a child . . . But I had to remain silent. I’d been bound to secrecy. I couldn’t break my word to Konnit.
Nor could I admit to using blades. Strictly speaking, some might consider it to be breaking the oath, though my conscience was clear. That was a rule designed to keep peace in the city; the demands of life in the forestwere very different.
‘I didn’t fit in with the Genthai. At first I felt like an outsider. Getting the tattoos helped,’ I said by way of explanation. Strictly speaking, I hadn’t lied.
‘Well, it won’t help here, boy. As you well know, even your father never wore tattoos like that. Those facial markings will make you an outsider. They will draw attention. Don’t you see that? The Protector’s Guardwon’t like it, either. It could cause you all sorts of trouble.’
Tyron was right. The guard didn’t like outsiders. My skin was darker than that of city dwellers – a small patrol had once beaten me for that and driven me out. The tattoos would draw even more attention. I’d beenworried about Kwin, but the reaction of the Guard had hardly crossed my mind.
I looked at Tyron. He was stocky and muscular, with a ruddy complexion topped by his stubble of grey hair. He looked a little older, even though only a few months had passed since I last saw him. He had more finelines around the eyes, and the furrow that divided his brow was deeper. No doubt it was due to the death of his son-in-law, Kern, and the terrible effect this had on his elder daughter, Teena.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. ‘I don’t want to cause any bother.’
Tyron sighed. ‘Well, what’s done is done. We’ll just have to make the best of it. Anyway, on Friday the Trader will call at the Sea Gate. I intend to go there and buy some lacs. I think it would be useful for you to seethat, so you’ll be coming with me.’
‘One of the Genthai told me that after retiring from the arena my father worked for the Trader for five years. Did you know that?’ I asked. ‘He probably saw what it’s like beyond the Barrier.’
‘Yes, he probably did. He was sometimes there when I visited the Sea Gate. We never got a chance to speak alone, but he always greeted me warmly.’
‘Maybe the Trader will be able to tell me more about my father.’
Tyron frowned. ‘No
, boy – nobody asks questions of the Trader unless it’s relevant to what’s being bought. It’s just not done. I’ll introduce you simply as Leif, my trainee. I can’t tell him that you’re the son of Math –we want to keep that a secret for now. So hold your peace. We’ll be setting off before dawn – that’s if you can manage to get up,’ he continued. ‘You look exhausted. Did you walk all the way back?’
I nodded. ‘It’s taken me almost three weeks. What’s the winter been like here?’
Judging from the look in his eyes, Tyron knew what I meant. Hob preyed on the city after dark. I was wondering how bad it had been during the long dark winter nights.
‘It’s been a cold winter here, and Hob hasn’t confined himself to taking people from the streets. He’s broken into houses and snatched over twenty people from their beds, most of them women. He seems to betargeting the families of those who work at the Wheel. The wife of a patterner was taken, and the daughters of two Arena 13 combatants. That’s new and disturbing. He’s usually left people with links to the Wheel alone– except in Arena 13. Maybe we’re all Hob’s prey now.’
‘Has nothing been done?’
‘Aye, the usual. We’ve petitioned the Protector, who’s promised to put more guards on the streets after dark. But relying on him to help is like trying to swim wearing lead boots. Everyone’s being vigilant. This houseis better fortified than most, so we should be safe. But I don’t want you out after dark – especially not on your own. Now we walk in twos and threes once the sun’s gone down – Hob tends to snatch lone victims. Well,life goes on, doesn’t it? I think you’ve grown a couple of inches and you’ve certainly put on more muscle. That’ll help in the arena, providing you still have your speed. What have you been up to?’
‘Mostly chopping down trees.’
Tyron smiled, but he seemed weary, a tired man trying to put a brave face on things. ‘Well, now it’s back to chopping down lacs! Go down to the kitchen and get some breakfast. Then go to bed. You’re in no fit stateto start training yet. Deinon isn’t back till the end of the week, so we’ll start then.’
‘I thought he’d have been back already.’
‘He’s had a few problems at home. It caused a bit of a delay, that’s all.’
Kwin was eating breakfast at the kitchen table. She looked as beautiful as ever, and my heart leaped in my chest at the sight of her. How I’d missed her!
The scar was there, on the side of her face where her hair was cut shorter. She’d done that to draw attention to it; it was something she was proud of. It didn’t detract from her beauty one jot.
She looked up at me and my heart began to pound.
‘Leif!’ she said, starting to smile. ‘Good to see you back . . .’
Then her expression changed and her eyes widened as she saw my face. I couldn’t read her expression and my stomach turned over as I waited for her reaction. I had almost refused the honour of the tattoos, worriedthat she might think me ugly.
She got to her feet and came over. To my relief, she smiled up at me and touched my left cheek with her forefinger, tracing the contour of one of the lines.
‘That suits you, Leif,’ she said. ‘It makes you look fierce. Maybe I should get it done too!’
‘I don’t think your father would like that,’ I told her.
‘You look taller,’ she said, studying me, ‘and broader. That’s good, but don’t take those muscles too far. Speed is more important than strength.’
I suddenly felt a twinge of anxiety. Perhaps chopping down trees was the wrong type of activity for fighting in Arena 13. Maybe the muscles would take the edge off my speed? I tried to dismiss this thought. After all,hadn’t I managed to defeat the werewight? Hadn’t I allowed the first wolf past me, and then, after slaying the other two, caught it before it reached the child?
However, my doubts wouldn’t go away.
The following day I rested, as Tyron had advised, but the day before the visit to the Trader I spoke to him.
‘I feel much better today,’ I said. ‘Could I try a workout against a lac?’
‘Itching to get started, Leif? That’s good. I can spare an hour this afternoon. Meet me on the training floor at two.’
Tyron had constructed the best training floor in the city. It was a replica of the one in Arena 13: fifty feet long and twenty-five wide. I was down there fifteen minutes before two. Immediately memories came floodingback. I remembered how, before Hob slew him in the arena, Kern used to train us here. A wave of sadness washed over me. I still missed him. How much worse it must be for his widow, Teena. It made me all the moredetermined to destroy the djinni that had brought so much horror and misery to this land.
I lit the wall torches and swept the wooden floor.
I was nervous. Would I still be as fast? I wondered.
Tyron came in and nodded to me, then walked across to where the armoured lac stood, inert. It was the one with the dented armour that we used for training; the one that had been modified for my use, its speedincreased for the Trainee Tournament.
‘Awake!’ Tyron commanded, and the lac raised its head, eyes flickering behind the horizontal slit in the face armour. It was nothing like the four selves of the werewight that I’d confronted, blade, tooth and clawseeking my life, but it seemed to be staring at me; as usual, it made me slightly nervous.
‘What do you want to do? Some warm-ups dancing behind it?’ Tyron said, turning back to face me.
‘I’d like to try the game – the one where the lac uses a leather ball.’
Tyron nodded. ‘Yes, let’s do that. It’s a good test of speed and reactions.’
He went over to the weapons that hung on the wall and drew a short-bladed Trig knife from its leather scabbard. Handing it to me, he went back to the lac.
‘Selfcheck,’ Tyron commanded. Now the lac would be checking its internal systems, sifting through its patterns of Nym code.
A few moments later he barked out a new command: ‘Report!’
‘Ready,’ answered the lac in its harsh, guttural voice.
‘Stand!’ Tyron said. ‘Combat stance! Training mode!’
The lac went into a crouch. By calling the wurdes ‘training mode’, Tyron had reduced its speed and reactions to make my task easier. He picked up a leather ball about the size of a human head and handed it to the lac.It had a strip of leather attached to it, designed for a hand to slip inside.
The lac would attempt to clout me with the ball; I would do my best to insert my blade into its throat-socket. If I did that, it would silently call the wurde ‘endoff’ and collapse inert on the floor. I would have won.
‘Are you ready, Leif?’ Tyron asked.
I nodded, gripping my blade firmly, taking up my position facing the lac, my heart beginning to speed up. The lac’s eyes flickered behind the horizontal black slit in the face armour. It was watching me.
I stared back, took a deep breath and moved into the initial pattern of the dance. Two steps to the left. Two steps to the right. As the lac came towards me, I began to retreat diagonally to the right. It was a textbookopening manoeuvre.
The lac advanced rapidly, starting to swing the leather ball. I reversed suddenly, my bare feet slapping hard against the boards. I was moving in, aiming for the throat-socket.
I ducked.
But I wasn’t fast enough.
The ball struck me hard on the back of the head, knocking me to the floor. I stayed down, stunned, with a ringing in my ears and my head spinning. Then I clambered to my feet.
Before the end of last season I’d been able to win the game two out of three times. I was disappointed now, but my determination grew. It was good to be back on the training floor. This time I would succeed!
Shaking my head, I took up position to try again.
‘Are you ready?’ Tyron asked me.
I nodded and began the dance again. The next thing I remember was another blow to the head, and then I was sitting on my bottom.
‘Perhaps we should call it a
day,’ Tyron suggested.
‘Please, just one more try,’ I said.
The result was the same. By now I had a throbbing headache.
‘You’re still tired after your journey,’ Tyron said, patting me on the back. ‘It’s best not to force things. Wait till next week when Deinon’s here. You’ll be back to your usual form then.’
I nodded and forced a smile onto my face, but I was far from happy – though the prospect of seeing Deinon cheered me up a little.
THE TRADER
‘Why do you love? Why do you breathe? Why do you fight?’ demanded Soutane, the Lord of all Daemons.
‘Because nobody told me,’ she answered.
‘Nobody told me that I was dead.’
The Compendium of Ancient Tales and Ballads
Life settled down as I worked on my Nym patterning, but it wouldn’t return to normal until Deinon arrived and full pre-season training began.
As promised, three days later Tyron took me with him to deal with the Trader on the first of his two visits to the Sea Gate.
Just before dawn, I followed him out of the small wooden depot on the outskirts of the city and prepared to board the barge that would take us down the Western Canal on the slow, sedate journey north to the SeaGate.
At the front of the barge a fresh team of eight horses was being harnessed, restlessly stamping their big hooves. Despite their size and power, they were quiet and obedient to the soft commands of their handlers. Theirbreath dissipated upwards in white clouds, while darker smoke from a nearby smithy rose towards the pale stars before curling eastwards across the city.
Beyond the dilapidated depot the huge bulk of the slaughterhouse rose square and uncompromising, a stark black cube above which the vultures already wheeled. About two dozen men, clutching leather cases andshivering in the cold air, waited with us on the canal bank. Each had his own private errand, but would join the same queue to haggle with the Trader.
Tyron had paid a large sum of money to be first in that queue. He’d also told me it was likely that one of those men was an agent of Hob, here to buy from the Trader under the djinni’s instructions, seeking to improvehis lacs. But what he bought wouldn’t be delivered in the usual manner; it was said that tassels visited the Sea Gate at the dead of night to collect his purchases.