Heavy jowls jiggled as the man drew closer, his fat, sausage-like hands glistening with jewels on every finger. He had power; Garth could sense that. And though it was gone to dissipation, he was still someone who could beat nearly anyone who stood against him.

“Well done, lad, well done,” Tulan roared, coming up to Garth, who went through the ceremony of bowing low.

Tulan grabbed him by the shoulders and raised him back up.

“You stood up to that damn Zarel, that pox-eaten Arena Master. Good show, lad, good show.”

“In service to you, my lord.”

Garth ignored the slight fit of coughing that beset Hammen.

“My servant, my lord. He was robbed of his clothes this morning, thus the rags, and he has been ill.”

Tulan looked over at Hammen who grinned up at him, his yellow teeth showing in a jagged grin. Tulan wrinkled his nose with disdain.

“Somebody give this man a change of clothes and a bath.”

“A bath. Like…”

“Hammen, you heard our Master. Now obey.”

Hammen was led away, looking over at Garth and making a sign against him as if to ward off the evil eye.

Tulan, his hand still on Garth’s shoulder, led him down the main corridor of the House. The walls were of heavy oak, polished to a mirrorlike sheen, racks of weapons set against them, crossbows, lances, morning stars, battle-axes, and swords. Looking up, Garth could see that there were holes set at regular intervals overhead, undoubtedly for heavily weighted bolts which could be dropped down by the flick of a lever, crushing anyone who dared to try and take the palace through the main door. A fifty-pound razor-sharp bolt dropped from such a height would be a powerful argument, even against a spell caster of the tenth-rank if he was caught unprepared. Looking down, he could see that the parquet floor was not in fact solid. Sections of it could easily drop away if unwanted company was standing on it. Pits of snakes most likely down below, Garth thought, or maybe even a Gromashian spiderweb.

“I heard how you killed Okmark. Spell reflection, a powerful tool.” As he spoke, Tulan looked down at Garth’s satchel.

“He was foolish.”

“He was a third-rank; my man Webin. A second-rank should have known better than to be tricked into a street fight like that.”

“How is Webin?”

“Demoted in rank for causing such a humiliation,” Tulan snapped, “his latest spell forfeit.”

Garth said nothing, surprised that any fighter would allow himself to be stripped of a spell without the honor of a fight.

“Oh, I fought him for it,” Tulan chuckled. “Maybe I’ll regenerate his left hand if I have the time.”

The fighters who were walking behind Garth and Tulan laughed coldly.

Tulan led Garth into a room and the most pleasant of smells wafted around him.

“You’re in time for a late-morning repast.”

Tulan motioned him to sit down at the long feasting table, which was cleared but for a serving for one. Tulan clapped his hands and motioned toward Garth. Servants came scurrying out from a side room and quickly set a plate to the right of Tulan.

Tulan motioned for his advisors to leave and, with a hearty sigh, he sat down in a high-back chair at the head of the table. More servants came out, bearing plates with stuffed pheasants, great rings of sausage, a small suckling pig stuffed with cloves and basted in honey, and smoked fish baked with lemons and ginger.

Heavy crystal glasses were set and filled with dark Tarmulian wine, another with pale honeyed mead, and another with a clear wine that sparkled and danced with bubbles.

Tulan took a loaf of bread, tearing off five pieces and tossing them to the great powers that upheld the five corners of the world and followed with five tosses of salt while Garth did the same.

Without wasting a word, Tulan reached across the table and picked up a pheasant. Sighing, he bit into it, and soon devoured the morsel. Next he reached over to the suckling pig and held it up, motioning toward Garth if he wanted part. Garth shook his head, devoting his attention instead to one of the remaining pheasants. Grabbing the pig by the haunches and forefeet, Tulan proceeded to devour the midsection, using a knife only to scoop out the stuffing, which was still steaming hot. Finished with that, he tossed the remains back on a platter and then dived into the thick blood sausages, downing half a dozen before finally turning his attention to the fish, chewing and spitting out the pieces of bone into a silver tray set by his left elbow.

Leaning back, he belched, with a loud sonorous rumble so that Garth thought the high stained glass windowpanes would shatter. As if moving down a line Tulan then drained the three heavy goblets, one after the other, barely pausing for a gulp. Sighing, he belched again and then picked up one of the fish bones to pick his teeth.

Garth, finished with his pheasant, took the glass of Tarmulian wine and sipped at it contentedly.

“If you beat Okmark so easily, you must be equal to at least a fourth-rank, maybe a fifth-rank.”

He paused, looking over at Garth as if expecting a reply. Garth said nothing and Tulan laughed, but it was evident that he was annoyed over Garth’s secrecy.

“The contents of one’s satchel are, according to tradition, known only to the owner,” Garth finally said.

“I need men like you,” Tulan finally said, acting again as if they were old comrades. “Once this Festival is over there’s contracts to be met, cities and merchants to be guarded, wars to be fought and, believe me, those of the House of Kestha get top pay for their services.”

“Minus your commission and the House dues, of course,” Garth replied.

Tulan paused for a moment, looking sharply at Garth.

“Why us, why not another House?” Tulan asked coolly.

“Why not? Do you want me to tell you that the fame of the House of Kestha is higher than all others, that only the best come to you? Is that what you want me to say as if I was a first-rank acolyte who one day had discovered that he was born with the talent to control the mana which creates spells?”

Tulan said nothing and Garth laughed cynically.

“I don’t need the training of this House or any other House. I learned that on my own.”

“Where? I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never heard of a one-eyed hanin, a fighter without colors. Where are you from?”

Garth smiled.

“That’s my business, sire. You know my skill; you saw it out there on the Plaza.”

“It’s my business to know. To check your pedigree, your family lines, to see if you come from a line with strength to control the mana.”

“It’s not your business. Your business is to manage my business, to make both of us money.”

“How dare you!” Tulan roared, standing up and kicking his chair back.

Garth stood up and bowed low.

“Since it is obvious we don’t have a deal, I’ll take my services elsewhere. I think Purple might want me.”

“You won’t step out of here alive,” Tulan snarled, and he started to extend his hands.

Garth threw his head back and laughed.

“You might kill me, sire, but I can promise you there’ll be a devil of a fire in here by the time we’re done fighting and I’d hate to ruin your tapestries; they look like they’re from the Naki weavers of Kish and are worth the fees of fifty fighters.”

Tulan paused and looked over at the great tapestries woven of gold-and-silver thread that lines the wall opposite the stained glass windows so that they could catch and reflect the light. A slow smile crossed Tulan’s features.

“You have an eye for art. That’s good, that’s very good. One eye and you can see better than most of the brutes I have working for me with two.” And Tulan chuckled as if he had made a great joke.

“Sit down, Garth One-eye, sit down. I think I might even like you.” And he made a show of pouring Garth some more wine.