Leaving the Plaza, Garth wandered up a side street, drawn by boisterous laughter and a crowd standing before the open door of a swill dive, several of them holding torches aloft. Edging up to the crowd, Hammen could see that a couple of fighters were brawling in the street, one Brown, the other a woman who he suspected was not even a fighter, merely a warrior proficient in weapons. The Brown fighter was not using his powers but was struggling with mere physical strength. A circle was drawn around them in the mud, the two fighting oquorak, the ritual fight of tying their right hands to each other by a length of short rope, while holding daggers in their left hands.

The Brown fighter was bleeding from a long cut which had slashed his tunic across his chest and another across his forehead, the blood trickling into his eyes. Yet Brown was obviously the far more powerful of the two. He yanked his right arm down, pulling the woman in toward him. She spun around, ducking underneath his slashing blow, and came up, a cool smile of amusement on her face.

“Benalish woman,” Garth whispered, noticing the seven-pointed star tattoo on her left forearm, which was the mark of her particular clan within the Benalish caste system.

Garth moved closer into the crowd to watch the fight.

The Benalish woman waited, poised on the balls of her feet, her short-cropped black hair matching the color of her leather jerkin and tight-fitting trousers. The Brown fighter tried the same maneuver again, nearly knocking her off-balance. This time she plunged forward, diving to the ground and then somersaulting head over heels. As she did so she pulled with her right arm, using her momentum to add weight to the pull. The Brown fighter was spun around and knocked down. The crowd roared its approval of the maneuver.

Brown slashed out, trying to kick her feet out as she started to stand back up. She easily leaped over the strike. Brown scrambled back up and came in low, going for a stab, a movement against the rules of oquorak, which allowed only slashing with the dagger.

The crowd sent silent. This was no longer just a little sporting event, it was a blood match. Within seconds the bets started to fly and Hammen slipped into the confused mass. Garth, ignoring the betting frenzy, moved in closer to the circle. He watched Brown closely as the two circled each other warily. The man was still holding his dagger for a stab, the Benalish woman looking at him disdainfully, but still holding her blade backhanded for slashing.

Her left hand flashed out and Brown’s right shoulder was laid open.

“Again blood,” she announced. “Three times now. It’s finished.”

Her blade flashed again and she cut the one-fathom length of oquorak rope that bound their right hands together.

Brown stood before her, panting, features contorted with rage. She watched him disdainfully, her slim boyish figure silhouetted by the torchlight.

“The wager was three gold. Your payment,” she said quietly.

“You cheated.”

She laughed coldly.

“How the hell can I cheat in an oquorak? Your payment.”

With a bellowing roar Brown came in low, his blade glinting in the torchlight. The Benalish woman leaped to one side, blade flashing. The Brown fighter howled with pain, staggering away. His left ear lay on the muddy ground.

Screaming, with one hand clasped to the side of his head, he turned and Garth saw the Brown fighter look aside for an instant to a heavily cloaked man standing to Garth’s right.

Brown broke off from a close-in attack, circling back around so that the Benalish woman’s back was now turned to Garth and the man standing beside him. Brown moved forward slowly, blade poised, and the Benalish woman shifted her knife to her left hand, changing her grip to a stab.

“There, you cheated,” Brown roared. “You fought oquorak but you’re left-handed to start with.”

“You never asked. By ritual you could have, but you were too drunk with arrogance,” the Benalish woman said quietly. “Now, your payment before someone gets hurt.”

“I’ll cut your liver out and jam it down your throat,” Brown snarled, and he moved a step closer.

The Benalish woman backed up slightly, changing her stance, ready to receive his charge.

The cloaked man next to Garth stepped across the line into the circle and there was a flash of steel in his hand.

Garth caught the man across the neck with an open-handed blow just behind the ear, knocking him senseless. The Benalish woman spared a quick glance backward and, as she did so, Brown charged.

Garth started to shout a warning but there was no need to. She deftly sidestepped the strike, kicking Brown’s feet out from under him. With a serpentlike strike she was on him, knocking the dagger from his hand, and in an instant was on his chest, dagger point up under his throat.

“Your payment,” she said quietly.

Brown looked at her with a murderous rage in his eyes. She pushed the dagger ever so slightly, nicking the skin over his pulsing jugular.

“I can get it with you alive or with you dead.”

“Kill me and my House will avenge me.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me?”

Garth moved up to her side and, without waiting for her approval, he tore open Brown’s satchel. Ignoring the paltry amulets in a side pouch within the satchel, he felt around for money.

“He’s only got a couple of silvers,” Garth announced, and pulled them out.

The crowd, which had been watching silently, roared their taunting disapproval of a fighter who would accept a simple wager without the ability to pay.

The Benalish woman pressed the blade in a bit more, a trickle of blood creasing down Brown’s neck.

“I’ll come by your House tomorrow morning at second bell for payment. Be there.”

She flipped her dagger around and slammed the hilt against the side of Brown’s head, knocking him senseless.

She stood up, the crowd cheering its approval.

Smiling, Garth handed the coins over.

“Thanks, One-eye,” she said, and tilted her head in acknowledgment.

“Garth.”

Garth turned as Hammen came up to his side. Hammen hesitated for a second.

“I mean master.”

“Damn it, Hammen, just Garth, but skip the One-eye.” And as he spoke he looked back at the Benalish woman.

“My apologies, Garth, and thank you.”

“We didn’t win that much. The money was in favor of this woman, one silver for four.”

Hammen looked back at the prostrate fighters.

“Ah, the old days of honor are gone,” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “The world is nothing but corruption now.”

Garth looked over at Hammen with surprise and the old man shrugged his hunched-over shoulders as if embarrassed to have been caught saying such a thing.

The Benalish woman turned as if to leave.

“A drink on what we won on you?” Garth asked.

She turned, looked at him, and then smiled.

“On me. I appreciate your help, even thought I really didn’t need it. I knew he was moving behind me.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe someplace else,” Hammen interjected, looking down at the downed fighter and his companion, both of whom were starting to stir.

The three set off, Hammen hawking and then placing a well-aimed shot on the Brown fighter. The mob now fell upon the two who, when they finally woke up, if they were lucky, would simply find themselves stripped naked, their precious spells for sale on the black market.

Hammen led the way down a narrow street, the shops lining the way shuttered up tight for the night. From overhead windows could be heard laughing, arguing, lovemaking, and all the other sounds that filled the city, while from underfoot wafted up the smells, most of which were less than pleasant. Hammen trudged through the muck and chuckled when the woman fought to suppress a gag.

“Some place for Festival,” the Benalish woman sniffed.