Garth smiled and nodded his thanks.

“Your commission?” Garth asked.

“The usual twenty percent for your services retained by outside contracts, plus ten percent of any purse you win in the arena during Festival. In return you’ll receive your room, board, and the full legal protection of the House. And believe me, the outside contracts for your services will be in your favor.

“Gray fighters can count on higher fees than the other Houses,” Tulan boasted, while patting his stomach. “Our reputation insures that and you’ll be placed with lords and merchants who appreciate good value and will treat you with respect. You must already know that in the last twenty Festivals it has been a Kesthan fighter who won the championship nine times and was thus selected to be the new initiate to the most high power of the Walker.”

Tulan paused for a moment as if fearful that the most powerful of all users of magic might suddenly appear at the mere mention of his name.

“Such a record insures that we are held in the highest esteem by those who contract us and gives us the right to expect certain advantages. There’ll be the finest food, the best of quarters when you are out on contract, and the finest mates of your choosing, provided at no extra fee.”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

“We’ll place you according to your skills and you will answer to no law other than mine”-he paused for a moment-“and Zarel can sit and fume over you and not touch you, something which I think might be a concern right now.”

“Not really.”

Tulan looked over at Garth, not sure if his comment was simple bravado or the truth. Finally he laughed coolly.

“I like fighters with nerves like yours. But do not doubt the power of Zarel. Step out of this House without colors on and a score of his best fighters will swarm over you. You need a House, One-eye; without it you’re dead.”

Garth finally nodded slowly in reply.

“In return you must obey all orders of the House, which means my commands.”

“Agreed.”

Tulan smiled as if already holding the commissions he would receive for placing Garth.

“You are to fight only according to the rules, there are to be no personal grudge fights or fights for personal profit. I don’t need you out there wasting your skills and wagering your spells to no profit for this House.”

“That might be hard to obey.”

“Why?”

“That’s why I joined this House. Half of the Orange House wants me dead.”

“Oh, because of that incident with Okmark?”

“No, other things.”

“What other things?”

“I’m oath sworn not to reveal them,” Garth said quietly. “Let’s just say it has something to do with this,” he added, pointing at the patch over his eye.

“A personal issue then?”

Garth leaned forward.

“Since you are my guild master, I think I can share it,” he said with a conspiratorial whisper.

Tulan leaned forward eagerly to hear the secret.

“It happened several years back. Losing the eye was almost worth it but now that they know I’m here they’ll come for me. That is part of the reason I decided to stop being hanin and join a House. I knew the less than friendly feelings between Fentesk and Kestha meant that at least here I would have some protection.”

“What happened?”

“I seduced the first consort of the Master of Fentesk and also their twin daughters at the same time.”

Tulan, who was in the middle of downing another draught of mead, sprayed most of the contents back out on the table and looked at Garth wide-eyed. His features turned bright red and, laughing, he started to pound the table.

“No wonder he cut her throat last year! How delightful, how absolutely delightful! Tell me, how good were they?”

Garth smiled.

“The honor of ladies, sire.”

“Ladies; hell, all the women of Orange are harlots, especially their fighters. So you got caught and had an eye gouged out before you could make good your escape.”

“Something like that,” Garth said quietly, and as he spoke he looked away from Tulan as if a dark memory had suddenly come to haunt him.

“Fine then, fine. It’ll be a delight to rub Varnel Buckara’s face in this.”

“I prefer not, my lord. For the daughters’ sake. After all, they’re still alive, and reminding him might cause a refreshing of his rage against them.”

“All right then, all right, but still.” And Tulan beamed at Garth with pride.

“You can take the oath in ceremony on the morning Festival starts. Till then you can wear the Gray mantle of an initiate.”

Garth nodded and, looking over his glass, he smiled.

“I eagerly anticipate the honor,” he said quietly.

“THANK THE ETERNAL WE’RE OUT OF THERE.”

Garth looked down at Hammen and suppressed an urge to laugh. The pickpocket no longer looked like the same man. His rags were gone, replaced by a clean tunic of white with a gray circle over his left breast. The filthy unkempt hair was gone as well, close-cropped as befitting the servant of a fighter. Hammen looked back angrily at the House.

“You can keep this, Garth One-eye. I have no desire to play this game any longer. Go find another servant. I’m for home,” he announced, and tore his tight-fitting collar open.

“Then you’ll miss the fun.”

“Fun. You call this fun? Groveling as a damned servant-yes Master, no Master, let me wipe your backside with my right hand for you, Master.” His voice took on a sarcastic, singsong whine. “You can shove that up where it belongs. I’m my own man.”

“Fine then, leave.”

Hammen slowed and looked up at Garth, barely visible now in the darkness.

“All right, I’m going.”

Garth reached into his satchel and pulled out a coin, handing it to Hammen.

“Your pay for the week.”

Hammen took the coin without comment and shoved it into a small purse dangling from his belt.

“So long then.”

Garth turned and started to walk slowly on.

“One-eye.”

Garth turned and looked back.

“Just how did you lose that eye?”

“You won’t find out by leaving.”

Hammen remained silent for a moment.

“Nor anything else.”

Hammen stared at him closely, wondering, trying to sense, to reach back somehow into a thought long since deliberately buried. He felt for an instant that something in Garth was flickering around him, a magical flashing of light, reaching far into memories best left undisturbed. For an instant he felt a tightening in his throat as if a long-forgotten pain had come back. And then it was gone and there were only the sounds of the night, the mob walking about the Great Plaza, the drinkers singing, and the lovers whispering. All of it held for Hammen a deep mystery, a lingering memory of laughter, of another world and another time, and it seemed to come from this stranger who stood before him in the shadows.

“Who are you?” Hammen whispered.

“Stay with me and out, Hammen of Jor, if that is really your name.”

Hammen stiffened slightly, a chill of fear coursing through him, and then the chill was gone, replaced by a distant warmth that held for but a second and then was also gone.

Hammen finally moved, ever so slowly, and came up to Garth’s side.

“Buy me a drink then, damn it.”

Hammen walked in silence, watching the way Garth moved. He walked like most fighters, with a deliberate catlike ease, his head always turning, watching. There was the sense of the mana about him, what others might simply call charisma but was in fact raw power which to the trained eye was almost visible, like flashes of lightning on the distant horizon that are but half-seen and half-heard. It could be hidden when need be, but it was there in abundance and Hammen knew it.