But why? It had worked somehow, or was it even the drink at all? He stuck his hand into his pocket and felt the leather pouch and the weight of the ruby inside. The request was simple enough and the payment a bribe in and of itself sufficient for a dozen nights of pleasure without need of potions.

I’ve been promised the House of Bolk when Kirlen falls, Uriah thought with a grim smile. My own House and freedom from Zarel’s torments. The dream washed over him and he could see himself being carried on a sedan chair of gold like Jimak’s, and surrounded by concubines who would make Varnel drool with envy.

Uriah smiled at the thought.

But who did the bribe come from in the first place? he suddenly wondered. There was a suspicion and that alone sent a chill through him. For there was the memory of before, of long before, and how he had once been such a source of innocent amusement and had even been loved.

Uriah lowered his head and walked down the corridor into the darkness.

Zarel sat in silence. What had possessed Uriah? Was it a simple madness or did he somehow sense that the position of the Grand Master might be slipping? But there was the deeper fear now, the realization that somehow One-eye was something far different. Something that would not be solved by simply letting him win the final match and then be taken away forever.

Could One-eye know of my own plans and reveal them to the Walker, perhaps even bartering to save his own miserable life in the process? Could that be it? He had to accept the fact now that One-eye was out to destroy him, and perhaps Uriah was right, One-eye wanted something from the Walker as well.

Zarel sighed and leaned forward on his throne.

Could it be that One-eye even knew that the entire process of the Festival was a sham? Perhaps even now he understood that one of its many purposes was to select the best fighter each year so that the Walker could take him away… and then kill him so as to eliminate a potential threat, not only to the existing order of things but to the Walker as well? One-eye had proved his cunning. It would be the mark of a fool not to assume that this man had figured it out.

Zarel looked up again, almost ready to call Uriah back.

No. Not him and not now. That would be another game to play out in its own good time. There would have to be another way to destroy One-eye.

Suddenly Zarel sat back and started to laugh, for it was all so obvious, so wonderfully and simply obvious what had to be done, and in the process it might very well clear the way for a new Walker.

Stretching lazily, Garth watched as the names for the next match were registered on the tote board. The first match of the second round of eliminations had just finished and he waited to see against whom he would be pitted in the next round after having sat out the opening fight of the day. At last his symbol appeared and the mob roared its approval and then fell into contemptuous laughter when the name of a second-rank fighter from Kestha was posted as his rival.

Garth looked over at Hammen, who shrugged.

“Maybe he’s backing off and deciding to play it straight; the mob is less than happy with the bastard today.”

That dissatisfaction was evident throughout the city. Several hundred homes and businesses had burned in the rioting of the night before. Scores were dead and hundreds injured. The tension was even worse over the fights between Fentesk and Kestha, which had left half a dozen fighters dead, one of them the second highest ranking fighter in Kestha, and the fighting between Bolk and Ingkara, which had resulted in the deaths of eight more. Following Hammen’s advice, Garth had slipped out of the House before dawn and hidden down by the arena, avoiding the grand march and the possibility of a trap on the part of Zarel, leaving a note for Kirlen not to have his name dropped from the day’s lineup.

Hammen’s advice was true to form, when on the march down to the arena a fight had broken out. Within seconds nearly half of Zarel’s fighters had come pouring out of a side street and swarmed in among Brown’s ranks. They looked about expectantly and Kirlen had laughed with cold, sardonic glee when it became evident that the fight was a cover for a move against Garth, who was not in the column of march.

The mob in the arena waited, wondering where its favorite was, fearful that he had left as mysteriously as he had arrived. The trumpet sounding the call for the fighters echoed and half a million were now on their feet, watching as the fighters for the second round of the second elimination stepped out onto the field.

“It’ll be a setup. He won’t let you off that field alive,” Hammen said gloomily.

“You can always stay up here in the stands.”

“Like hell. I’ve seen it through this far though only the Eternal knows why.”

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Garth announced, and he stood up, casting aside the heavy cloak under which he had kept himself concealed. He pushed his way through the stands and down to the barrier that marked the edge of the fighting field and leaped over the wall, turning to help Hammen down. Instantly half a dozen warriors raced toward him, assuming he was an overeager fan. Garth turned to face them.

A wild cry of delight rose up from the audience, racing out from the point where he was standing.

“One-eye!”

The guards slowed, coming to a stop, looking at him with openmouthed surprise. Garth strode past them as if they were not there. The mob, taken by the fact that he had been sitting with them, broke into thunderous applause as Garth walked across the field to the circle assigned to him for the next match.

The circle was directly below Zarel’s throne and Garth looked up at him, smiling, and saying nothing.

Zarel stood up, gazing down with open hatred, and Garth turned his back in an open display of contempt. The roaring of the mob redoubled.

“He could kill you like this,” Hammen shouted, trying to be heard above the howling mob.

“He doesn’t have the guts to do it now,” Garth said quietly as he stepped into the neutral box. “If he touches me now, half a million will storm this field.”

“Put not your trust in the mob.”

“I don’t, but I do trust their hatred of him.”

His opponent, a young woman from Kestha, came forward and stepped into her box, looking over anxiously at Garth.

“How do you declare this fight?” the circle master asked, looking over at Garth.

“Spell match.”

The circle master turned and looked back at the woman and she gave the same reply.

The fight was over in seconds. Even before she had drawn up sufficient mana to mount a defense, Garth’s mammoth had her pinned to the ground, the woman looking up at the beast in wide-eyed terror. She raised her hand in token of submission and Garth called the great beast off and then conjured it out of existence. The circle master approached the woman to take her spell offered in wager and Garth extended his left hand, palm downward to indicate that he would not accept the wager, the crowd roaring their approval at his chivalrous act.

He walked back calmly to the stands where the Bolk fighters sat. Many of them looked at him with obvious suspicion, but Naru shouted with delight.

“Good, I can still fight you. I thought you run away.”

Garth laughed, and went over to a table set with fresh fruits, cheese, and decanters of wine for the refreshment of the fighters, scooped up a handful of pomegranates and, taking a jug of wine, went over to an empty seat, motioning for Hammen to follow.

Kirlen, sitting upon her throne, looked down at him.

“You missed the morning procession.”