“I thought it best for reasons of health.”

Kirlen laughed coldly.

“It would have been amusing to see how you handled it.”

“No sense in causing trouble.”

“Like last night?”

Garth smiled and, saying nothing, settled down in his seat to watch the show.

The third elimination round started and he was called out immediately for the next round, returning back to his seat less than half an hour later, this time carrying a red spell of fireball taken from his unconscious opponent, the crowd now at a hysterical pitch of excitement, even though it now took the betting of a silver on One-eye to win back a copper.

With the end of the third elimination the noontime recess was called. In the stands the mob milled about, arguing loudly about the remaining forty fighters. Several favorites had fallen early, including Omar of Kestha, who had been rated as one of the favorites, and the legendary Mina of Ingkara, who had been taken off the field minus his feet, which had been bitten off by gnomes while he lay unconscious. The issue was made even more interesting because of the deaths of the fighters the night before, nine of whom had survived the first round of eliminations. Their deaths had upset the more elaborate forms of betting and tens of thousands were less than pleased when black markers were placed next to the names of the deceased.

Since the betting was not just on individual fights, but also on a wide variety of permutations, including combinations of fighters, win averages for Houses, and percentages of wins by Houses during each round, the crowd was in a decidedly less than happy mood. A number of bets placed at the end of the first day had been voided by the deaths, the losses going into Zarel’s coffers, thus convincing many that the Grand Master had set up the previous night’s riots to pad out his own pockets and gain revenge for the unruly behavior of his citizens.

Loud arguments raged in the stands between the partisans of one group or another, occasionally breaking down into brawls that swept back and forth through the crowd and at one point even spilled out onto the arena floor until a line of warriors drove the mob back.

As the noon hour progressed gangs of laborers erased the circles used for the first two series of matches. Only twenty pairs would fight in the next elimination in two sets of ten and new circles were drawn, each circle now twice as big as before, at just under fifty fathoms across. This meant that spells of greater power, which might have been difficult to contain inside the smaller twenty-five-fathom circles, could now be brought into play.

A high clarion call sounded, signaling the end of the noon hour. As the crowd poured back to its seats the catapult wagons came galloping out from the access tunnels and moved around the edge of the arena. The catapults fired more clay pots into the crowd and, as they burst open, wild cheering broke out.

Hammen turned in his seat to watch the show and cocked his head to hear the cries of the audience.

“The pots are filled with more gold,” Hammen announced, his voice suddenly edged with longing, as if he wished to be back up in the stands.

Garth chuckled softly, saying nothing.

As the word of the prizes within the pots spread, the crowds came close to stampeding in their eagerness to position themselves near where the next pot might land. Fights broke out as people piled atop each other in their eagerness to snatch up a single coin, sufficient to keep them in ale or wine for half the winter. The dwarfs lashed their teams around the arena, firing their weapons, and then, pointing to where the pot landed, howled with delight at the antics of the mob.

From out of the access tunnel came scores of young women dressed in diaphanous gowns. As they danced around the edge of the arena they reached into oversize pouches that bounced against their naked hips and tossed handfuls of gold trinkets, and even gems, into the stands. This set off a near-insane frenzy of cheering, which became even wilder when, from out of the north, four dragons, each half a dozen fathoms in length, came soaring in. The crowd looked up, on the edge of panicking, fearing that the great beasts were out of control and intent upon attacking the audience. The dragons, however, flashed into puffs of smoke and from out of the spreading clouds came a heavy rain of silver necklaces, baubles, and yet more coins.

The clouds, after emptying out their rain, drifted down into the center of the arena and coiled in around the throne of the Grand Master. The clouds became one and swirled inward. There was a flash of light, an explosive roar, and there, standing upon his throne, returning from his midday meal, was Zarel Ewine, the Grand Master.

The mob broke into a wild, hysterical cheering and Zarel, turning to each corner of the arena, bowed low.

Hammen, shaking his head with disgust, spit on the ground.

“The mob,” he said coldly. “Now all is forgiven.”

“But not for long,” Garth replied.

The last of the women and dwarf catapult teams left through the access tunnel and a groan of disappointment rose from the crowd.

“Don’t worry, my friends.” Zarel’s voice boomed across the arena through the power of his far speaking. “They will come back again at the end of the day’s festivities with even more gold.”

His words were greeted with cheers of anticipation.

Garth looked back over at Hammen and grinned.

“Is it taken care of?”

“I can’t promise, but you sure did pay enough.”

“Fine.”

“The drawings have started,” Hammen announced, and he pointed across the arena field to where a single monk was now reaching into a golden urn.

“It’s no longer by Houses,” Hammen said.

“You could be matched up against your own from now on.”

As he spoke Naru looked over at Garth and grinned.

“Maybe we fight now and I take all your spells.”

“Maybe.”

“One-eye!” The cry rose from the mob. Garth looked up to see that he was being pitted against an Ingkaran fighter.

“Who is he?” Garth asked.

“Ulin. Tough, maybe an eighth-rank by now. He’s incredibly fast gathering his mana in. I’d suggest going for him physically; otherwise, you might have a tough time of it right from the start.”

Garth stood up and looked over at Naru.

“Not this round.”

“Don’t lose, One-eye. I still wish to fight you.”

Naru’s match appeared on the board and the giant stood up, laughing and stretching.

Together they went out onto the field, the mob coming to its feet and applauding two of its favorite champions. Garth turned and looked back up into the stands. Some of the spectators were now sporting eye patches, which were being hawked by souvenir salesmen, and he could only shake his head over this new style that had taken the fancy of the crowd.

Naru thumped Garth on the back so that Garth nearly lost his footing as the giant turned to go to his own circle.

The trumpet sounded again as Garth reached his circle and stepped into the neutral box. Across the fifty-fathom width his opponent stood ready, arms already extended.

Zarel stood up.

“By my decision there shall be a new rule for fights, starting with the fourth elimination.”

The audience fell silent in anticipation.

“If either of the two fighters declares it to be a death match, then so it shall be. Payment on all bets of a death match shall not be charged my ten percent fee. All winnings are thus yours to keep. No spell of healing may be used on the fallen.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and an instant later the arena erupted in wild cheering.

“The mob,” Hammen sniffed angrily. “They’re back in his pocket.”

“Except for the private bookmakers. He just put them out of business unless they can offer better odds.”

“Also, my friends. Any fighter who declares a death match and makes his kill shall receive from my hands, from my personal hoard, a spell which he may draw out of my personal satchel, or five hundred pieces of gold.”