Varnel grunted softly, a troubled look crossing his features, and Garth smiled.

“So do you have a better offer?”

“I do not traffic in women,” Garth said coldly, a flash of indignation evident in his tone. “But I do traffic in winning.”

“Which reminds me,” Varnel rumbled. “You did kill one of my men.”

“If he was stupid enough to be killed like that in a street fight, then he was worth little to you. Your honor would be more than restored by having me wear your colors. Though money is meaningless to you, what I will win for you in the arena can buy many pleasures, pleasures, I should add, that would be untainted by the hand of the Grand Master.”

Varnel nodded slowly in agreement and then looked over at Garth.

“You did, however, betray both Tulan and Jimak. Am I next?”

“Tulan is a pig and Jimak sick with greed. Given the way things currently stand between me and the Grand Master, I felt here at least I would be protected by a color that would not sell me.”

“You may wear Orange.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And if you betray me in turn, I promise you death will be a pleasurable release by the time I am done with you.”

“But of course, my lord.”

Bowing low, Garth retired and as the door closed he caught a quick glimpse of several naked forms coming into the room from a hidden doorway, a low grunt of expectation rumbling from Varnel as the door finally closed to guard his secret pleasures.

“I think, Master, that this move was foolish.”

Garth said nothing as Hammen came up beside him.

“You changed your clothes but obviously you didn’t wash,” Garth replied.

“One bath a year, whether you need it or not, is good enough for any man.”

As they walked down the corridor to the House barracks Garth looked around warily. Second bell had just sounded and the fighters were starting to awaken. As he passed he could hear the whispers behind him. Stopping to ask a guard for directions, the two went down a long flight of stairs, their noses soon guiding them to the feasting room.

Men and women fighters were already gathered around some of the tables. Garth went to a corner table, motioning for Hammen to follow.

“Master, I don’t see any servants eating here.”

“You’re eating here; now go cut me some meat.”

Garth settled down on a stool, leaning back so that his back was pressing against the cool stone wall. A moment later Hammen returned, bearing two plates weighed down with slices of roasted pork, and two heavy goblets of wine.

Garth pulled out his dagger and, cutting off a slice, he chewed on it slowly while watching the room.

More and yet more fighters were coming in and all were turning to look at him. A low buzz filled the room.

“I think there’s going to be trouble,” Hammen said softly.

“Are you worried?”

“After what you’ve put me through, yes, I’m worried. The entire House is in here.”

“Eat your meat and be quiet.”

Garth cut another piece of pork and chewed. The food was not as good as Kestha’s. Tulan’s culinary obsession was reflected in how his own fighters ate as well, but it was far better than what he had been used to over the years.

He ate in silence, watching the men and women who were now supposed to be his comrades. One of them finally stirred from his table, his stool falling over so that it clattered on the floor, and the room went silent. The fighter made a casual show of adjusting his satchel and walked toward Garth.

“Master.”

“Shut up.”

The fighter came up to the table, and several more rose from the same table and fell in behind him.

“Only fighters may eat here,” the man grumbled. “Servants and scum eat in the cellar.”

Hammen started to stand up as if to leave.

“Sit down, Hammen.”

Hammen looked over at him.

“Not again,” he whispered.

“I like his company,” Garth said, cutting another piece of meat and then chewing on it as if the conversation was finished.

“Get out of her, cur!” the man snarled, and he grabbed hold of Hammen by his collar and started to pull him away.

Garth looked up and the man let go of Hammen with a howl of pain.

“No magics!” someone shouted, and a lean, angular woman with flowing red hair came up and the others stepped back slightly at her approach. Garth looked at her, sensing that here without doubt was a ninth- or tenth-rank fighter who commanded authority over the others.

“No magics within this House against those of your color,” she snarled angrily.

Garth fixed her with his gaze.

“Then tell him to keep his hands off my man.”

The woman stood silent, hands resting lightly on her hips.

“You think you’re quite the fighter, don’t you, One-eye?”

“I get by.”

“If you want to get by in this House, then live by its rules. No magic is used against another of your color except in practice.”

“And the rights of my satchel and my property are to be respected. That man is my property.”

Hammen snorted disdainfully and fixed Garth with a malevolent gaze.

“He’s the one who killed Okmark in that street fight,” someone shouted from the back of the room.

“He was a fool to challenge a hanin that he didn’t know anything about and the death challenge was his offering, not mine,” Garth replied sharply. “Besides, he was an embarrassment to the House of Fentesk.”

An angry murmur swept through the room.

“I think I need to take a walk,” Hammen whispered, and he started to stand up.

“Stay where you are,” Garth snapped, and Hammen froze in his place.

“I heard you beat Naru,” the woman said.

“Yes.”

“Think you can beat me?”

He looked up at her and grinned.

“Care to try?”

With a mock sincerity she bowed, holding both hands outward in the ritual display of a fighter accepting challenge.

Garth made a show of cutting another piece of meat and chewing on it before finally standing up, extending his hands and bowing as well.

The woman led the way out of the feasting hall, Garth following. There was a clatter of stools and excited shouts as the other fighters fell in behind them. Ascending the stairs out of the hall, the woman turned left, going down a corridor paneled with a dark rich wood, and lit by high stained glass windows set into the ceiling so that the hallway was awash with color. Reaching the end of the hallway, she flung open the doors to a circular room a dozen fathoms across, the walls lined with benches, which were quickly filled by the other fighters of the house. The arena was occupied by half a dozen fighters, who were going through their morning exercises of weapons practice with lance, dagger, and throwing spikes. At the far end of the room several other pairs of fighters were sparring with spells, one of them struggling to use a team of goblins against his opponent’s dwarven warriors.

“Clear the arena,” the woman snapped.

The sparring fighters looked up and an instant later their minions disappeared into smoke and they withdrew.

The woman stepped out into the circle.

“Rules of the House. No fire, no creature of disease, and no spell which can go out of control or damage the House.”

“Is this match a mere testing, a wager of spell, or to the death?” Garth asked as if the answer really didn’t matter one way or the other.

“You know the answer to that,” she snapped. “Unless we have permission of the Master, it can only be a testing.”

“Well, do you have the Master’s permission?”

She smiled softly.

“Not yet.”

“Then a testing.”

Garth stepped into the neutral box at the far end of the arena while his opponent stepped into hers.

Garth waited until another fighter stepped forward as circle master and held his hands up.

The two bowed to him, then to eat other, and then back to the circle master. He clapped his hands three times and on the third clap jumped back. Like a panther the woman leaped into the arena and, as she did so, Garth reeled from the impact of a psionic blast that flayed the strength out of his body. He staggered forward, knowing that the spell was so powerful that it would in fact harm her as well, though the damage he would receive was far worse.