There was a howl of protest and the horsemen circled back. Hammen, laughing, pushed his way back to the side of the street. The princeling stuck his head out of the carriage, roaring obscenities in a high, cracking voice. Within seconds the carriage was pelted with offal and whatever else was handy and the guards lashed the horses of the carriage forward so that it continued up the street.

The incident left the crowd in a good mood as they soundly cursed all nobility.

“Talk about trying not to draw attention,” Garth hissed.

“See, it’s right there,” Hammen laughed. “They hate the bastards but they don’t even realize that by worshiping the fighters they in fact prop them up.”

“I understand there was a time when the Houses weren’t that bad,” Garth said quietly.

“Ah, the legendary golden age, silver age, or whatever it is people want to call it. Memories of history are usually bunk-it was never better before, and it won’t be better tomorrow.”

“An optimist.”

“All right. Yes, it might have been better. Before the last Grand Master. When there was still the fifth House, Oor-tael, which used more of the mana of the islands and the forest. Fighters of that House were obligated to give part of their time in service to those not of the merchant and noble classes. They had to go on pilgrimage, to wander as part of their journeyman and master’s training, and help the poor with their skills. Even after obtaining the highest rank, every third year they were expected to do this. And the other Houses finally came to hate them for it.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I don’t know, I was only a…” Hammen paused. “You know the old injunction still stands.”

“And that is?”

“A death sentence on any who wore Turquoise, be they fighter, warrior, mistress, and”-he paused-“even the lowest of servants. It also applies to any who even talk of it or suspect another of being of the order and do not report it.”

“And you were about to say?”

Hammen looked up at Garth.

“I called you Galin last night. Do you remember?” Hammen whispered.

“Not really,” Garth said quietly.

“Do you know why?”

“You must have confused me with someone else.”

“Master. Any who wore Turquoise are now dead. There might have been a few who escaped the massacre but they are dead. Leave it that way. The dead cannot be brought back and Turquoise is gone forever.”

Hammen paused and looked up warily at Garth.

“Every hand throughout the city, through the realms, was raised against them and the Grand Master paid.” Hammen’s voice grew faint. “He paid, he paid by the tens of thousands in gold to bring in the few who escaped the massacre when their House was stormed here in the city on the last night of Festival. If they were fighters, they were stripped of their satchels and impaled in the arena.

And do you know what the mob did?”

“No,” Garth’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, there might have been some who cared, but too many were there cheering, laughing, placing bets on how long it would take the impaled to die. That is the mob. They’ve been so fed on bloodlust, on Festival, on groveling before the Walker, that they don’t even care, they don’t even know.

“There was a time when Festival was a private ritual, when the fighters met alone to test their skills.” He paused. “The previous Grand Master built the arena and started to change that and the mob loved it. And then this Grand Master turned it into spectacle and blood sport.”

“Why didn’t the Houses resist this?”

“I’m still not sure if you’re simply a fool or not. Money, my boy, money and other bribes. The Grand Master kicked back to the House Masters, giving them more money than the dead fighters would have made on contracts for a dozen years. With the death matches, the betting went insane, going from a few paltry coppers per match to entire life savings wagered on a single fight. He’s impoverished the mob with it and even some of the princes. Look around you at this city, it’s falling down in squalor. Why?”

Garth tried to answer but Hammen interrupted him.

“Because he’s using the money to secure mana and power for himself and also to get funds to obtain mana the Walker demands. That’s his cover, of course, to blame the Walker, but believe me, he holds back enough for himself. The old role of the fighters has been long forgotten; they’re nothing more than entertainers now.”

“You haven’t forgotten. How come?”

“I’m an old man,” Hammen said quietly, looking away. “Just a disgusted old man.”

“Yet you steal.”

“And why not? The Grand Master has made it an honorable pastime. Besides, there is nothing else I could do to survive.”

“Nothing?”

Hammen looked up at Garth and then shook his head.

“So what happened to those who survived?”

“Who?”

“Turquoise.”

“Don’t ever ask that,” Hammen snapped. “Never. If someone should hear you, you are dead.”

“I’m dead already if the Grand Master gets me.”

“Dying as Garth One-eye is one thing, dying as a suspected Turquoise or even a supporter of that House is quite another. And the mob that favors you now would sell you in a second for the money it could bring.

“Out in the countryside, where Turquoise was strong, out there it wasn’t so bad and I suspect it might still be that way. I heard that a number of men and women in the distant chapter houses managed to escape.”

Hammen sighed.

“What can peasants do against warriors, against the other fighters? Even then there were enough willing to inform and help in the tracking down. A hundred for a servant or mistress or mate, five hundred for a warrior, a thousand for a fighter. That can seduce even the best of men.”

“Not all,” Garth said quietly.

Hammen snorted and spit.

“You know what they did when they took one prisoner? The very first thing after they felt they’d got all the information they could get? They cut his tongue out so he could not talk and tell the truth of what was happening. They cut the tongues out of anyone who gave the fugitives shelter or who were known to have conversed with them.

“And now they are gone, they are all dead, or best to be believed that they are dead,” Hammen whispered.

“There are still rumors that they’re alive.”

Hammen looked up at Garth, suddenly wary.

“We both could be killed for what I’ve just said,” Hammen hissed. “Even to mention they might still live is a death sentence. Even to be suspected of knowing such things, or worse, knowing of someone, is a death sentence now.”

He paused for a moment.

“Just who are you?”

“I am Garth One-eye.”

“Go back home, wherever that is,” Hammen suddenly blurted out. “You ask too many questions. You won’t live to see the end of Festival if you stay.”

“I have things to do.”

“They’re not worth it. Whatever it is you are after is dead.”

“You’re free to leave my side at any time.”

Hammen cursed loud and long for a minute.

“Thanks. And you know I won’t. Not now. You know you have me. It’s as if you planned it that way from the beginning, just like everything else. That your meeting me in the circle I drew in the mud was planned.”

Garth laughed and shook his head.

They walked in silence for long minutes, the crowd around them boisterous, laughing, arguing, the now ever-present gambling sheets being waved in the air, dirty fingers pointing at them, arguing over favorites and odds. “Any reason we’re passing here?” Hammen finally asked, nodding toward a tavern and the crowd milling about outside, watching an oquorak match between two warriors, one Brown, the other Gray.

“Just happened to be along the way.”

“And it’s where you met that Benalian.”

Garth nodded and slowed to watch the fight, which ended seconds later as Gray made three quick slices, one after the other, flaying open the shoulder of Brown.