“He is a wanted felon.”

“He was a wanted felon,” Kirlen replied sharply, “or have you forgotten the rules? No fighter may be arrested during Festival or taken at any time from his House.”

Kirlen looked around at the other three House Masters for support.

“He’s dangerous,” Jimak of Purple replied. “You should have killed him.”

“You only say that because he’s not wearing your color. Besides, you had him and would have more than happily betrayed him to Zarel for what I suspect was nothing more than another golden trinket.”

“I did no such thing.”

“He betrayed all of us,” Tulan interjected.

“Of course he did,” Kirlen chuckled coldly. “But I’m the one who has him now and he’ll fight for me and he’ll win. I think, Zarel, your rage comes from the fact that it will be the Walker who will finally have him and not you. Let him decide what to do with One-eye.”

“You seduced him away from me,” Varnel of Fentesk snapped, looking over angrily at Kirlen. “That was in violation of the rules.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Kirlen replied tauntingly. “Go over and ask him to come back like a good boy.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Zarel snarled.

“How dare you,” Kirlen hissed. “You might be Master of the Arena, but together we have more power than you.”

“Try it,” Zarel replied heatedly. “Just try it. Without me and the arena you would be nothing.”

“Rather it is the other way around,” Kirlen replied. “You can’t even control one lone hanin. You are a joke and unfit to rule.”

Zarel fixed her with his gaze and then he noticed that the mob had fallen strangely quiet. There was an electric-like tension in the air, as if they somehow sensed that something was going wrong down in the golden circle.

“I’ll remember that after this is over.”

“I hope you do,” Kirlen replied coldly.

Zarel, struggling to control his rage, turned away from the four Masters and beckoned for the monks, who had stood to one side, to be guided over. Assistants approached the monks, while others uncoiled a long hose of a curious black substance at the end of which was attached a bell-shaped funnel, the other end of the hose disappearing inside the access tunnel.

Four of the monks were led over to the urns. Their cowls were pulled back to reveal that the four men were blind and that their ears had been sewn shut. They were the Choosers of Combat, one of the most exalted positions to be held in the city. In payment for that honor their eyes had been taken from them and their ears closed over so that they could not see what they did, or hear a whisper of coaxing to reach to a certain spot in the urns which contained the names of the fighters.

A trumpet fanfare sounded and the arena settled down to an unearthly silence. The monks each reached into an urn and pulled out a golden disk, upon which was written the name of a fighter from one of the four Houses. In turn they deposited the disks into a black leather bag, which was placed at the end of the table. A fifth blind and deaf monk then reached into the bag, drew out two disks, and placed them to his left. Then he drew out the other two disks and placed them to his right.

Another monk, who had not surrendered his sight, now stepped forward and picked up the funnel attached to the hose which snaked back into the main tunnel. He looked down at the first two disks, while to his side stood two more monks, who acted as witnesses.

“Haglin of Fentesk,” he announced, speaking into the funnel, “versus Erwina of Bolk, circle one.”

His words were carried across a hundred fathoms up to the men and boys who manned a great display board mounted along the top of the west side of the arena. The crowd was silent, all heads turned to gaze at the board. Seconds later more than a dozen boys scurried up the framework of the tote board bearing letters and symbols which spelled out the names of the first two contestants, their personal symbols, House colors, and assigned circle for the fight.

“Lorrin of Kestha versus Naru of Bolk, circle two.”

The gold disks were set aside and the blind and deaf monks were directed by their assistants to draw out four more disks, which in turn were divided by the final decider of matches.

“Alinar of Fentesk versus Ogla of Bolk, circle three.”

Dozens of boys now swarmed over the tote board and the first match was finally spelled out. A wild, hysterical cheering erupted and it seemed as if the entire spectator stand was suddenly buried under a blizzard of paper as the howling mob pulled open their gambling sheets to check the records of the fighters and calculate odds. The mob then looked back at the board, waiting expectantly while the official master of the numbers decided upon the odds that would be offered. The numbers finally appeared, three to one in favor of Erwina of Bolk over Haglin of Fentesk.

The crowd reacted in its usual manner, hooting derisively at odds which were, as always, stacked in favor of the Grand Master. At the top of every stairway leading down into the arena the betting booths were now open for action and by the tens of thousands the spectators swarmed out of their seats to place their first bets, while in the stands tens of thousands more haggled out private wagers. Such betting was, of course, illegal in the arena; only bets placed with the Grand Master were allowed, and hundreds of his agents were hidden in the crowd, ready to arrest any who tried to run their own private operations. The laying out of the first twenty-five matches continued, odds going up on the boards, the crowd roaring its disapproval at some of the offered bets and then racing to wager their coppers, silvers, and golds on what they thought were sure wins. The first arrests were made as well, fights breaking out as the Master’s agents tried to carry off illegal bettors so that warriors had to push their way down through the aisles and benches, their clubs rising and falling to clear a path.

The first set of twenty-five matches was finally decided and Zarel, without another word, turned away from the four Masters, dismissing them as if they were nothing more than servants. As Kirlen turned and stepped out of the circle she made a show of spitting on the ground, which caused a ripple of approving shouts to rise up, especially from the quarter of the arena dominated by Brown’s followers.

The old woman stopped and looked around, cackling with delight at the shouts of approval. Ignoring the injunction against the use of magic other than for fighting, she snapped her fingers and a spinning circle of fire formed around her. She lifted into the air and drifted back over to her section. The other three House Masters, seeing her actions, did likewise, and the entire arena erupted with shouts of delight over this act of defiance.

As Kirlen reached the area where her fighters were sitting she lowered herself back to the ground and walked defiantly through their ranks, stepping up to her canopied throne. As she walked through her ranks she looked over at Garth.

“He wants your head,” she said with a laugh.

Garth nodded, saying nothing, and then looked back at the tote board as the last of the twenty-five matches was posted.

“You’re not in the first round, Master,” Hammen announced.

“That’s fine with me, my head’s still splitting.”

“I told you to stay in the cold bath till it was gone.”

“Do that again and I’ll kill you. I hate the cold.”

Hammen reached into his tunic and pulled out a small flask.

“Since you won’t be fighting for a while, perhaps a touch of the cruel will help cure you,” he replied, and offered up the flask.

Garth took it, ignoring the disapproving stare of Naru, who was sitting beside him, and downed a long gulp. The fiery liquid coursed through him and he felt the pain start to leave.

There was another flourish of trumpets, signaling that the time for betting was drawing to a close, and Hammen looked around excitedly.