Rebel of Antares (13 page)

We were given red breechclouts and a cloth band to tie around our foreheads to keep our hair tidy and to hold a single red feather. The men stuck the feathers in awkwardly, talking in frightened whispers. Like a fool, I own, when I put the red feather into the cloth headband I felt — not a thrill, dear Zair, no! — but a kind of spine-stiffener, a flood of memories, a final reminder of where I was.

The blow on my head which had caused those famous old Bells of Beng Kishi to chime in my skull could be used as an excuse for stupid behavior. Not one of us was damaged goods, for the arena managers were strict; but some of us were in a sorry state, right enough. The face I now had was my own, if rather hangdog. The cheldur strutted out and stood on his pedestal and rested his fists on the wooden rail. His face was a mere mass of scars, although he still had both eyes. His red jerkin and his saffron kilt and his silver greaves made of him a figure of splendor. But it was his sword that marked him off from us, for we stood sullenly before him unarmed.

He shouted in his bullfrog bellow.

“Coys! You now fight for the Ruby Drang. If you live you may become kaidurs. If you die — die well! There is gold and wine and women and ease for those who live.”

He swelled there above us on his pedestal. “I am Hundal the Oivon! You do as I say and you do nothing else. Or by the glass eye and brass sword of Beng Thrax you
will
do nothing else — ever!”

We believed him.

A sense of much greater speed in all the aspects of the Arena was clearly apparent from the days before the great war on the continent. We coys were assigned quarters and given some sketchy training with tricks and stratagems. But it seemed to me the blood fever gripped these people, clasping them helplessly in its grip. Spectacle was demanded, and more spectacle. The hunger for sensation, for blood and death, was insatiable.

Hundal the Oivon sweated over us. Like anyone closely involved with his color faction, he wanted the reds to win. At the moment the blues, devotees of the sapphire graint, were in the ascendant. We, we were informed, if we lived, would help to redress that balance and once again place the red of the ruby drang at the summit of the victory poles. These cheldurs who train up the apprentices for the Arena are singular to Kregen, it seems, for although they have wide privileges, they do not have the same opportunities as the old Roman lanistae. Hundal sweated over us — and he made us sweat, by Kaidun!

Well aware that the first fight I got into was likely to be the last, and that this first encounter out on the silver sand carried more danger by reason of the surroundings, I felt relief mixed with annoyance that a group of us was chosen to test out some apprentice yellows. It was to be a sword and shield encounter, a minor bout during a slack time, mainly to determine what quality the new material might be. Well, the spectacle of the amphitheater with the tiered seating lofting up into the sky, the rows of eager, blood-obsessed faces, the yelling and the infernal din, the stink of blood and animals, the smell of sweat and oiled leather... Yes, the Jikhorkdun can get under a man’s skin, well enough, once he is a kaidur and understands what he fights for. I would have none of it. I intended to keep a whole skin and get out of here as fast as possible.

The coys went in awe of the kaidurs and hyr-kaidurs, who strode about like gods. To face one of those superlative fighting men would be the end, and yet, in many and many a breast beat a heart that would thrill to the kaiderin of it all, before it was stilled forever...

To perform a High Kaidur, that was the dream...

Preparations were still very thorough. Hundal chose an interesting mix of men; half were those who in training appeared more likely to cut off their own ears than their opponents’, and the other half consisted of men who showed promise. We waited behind the iron-barred gate and the racket from the Arena, this close, dinned in our ears maddeningly. Fristle women poured the coarse red wine, called Beng Thrax’s spit, into leather cups for us to refresh ourselves in the dust and heat. And I still did not know that drink was spiced with drugs that inflamed a man and turned him into an insensate fighting fury. So we waited until it was our turn to step out into that oval of death, a melting pot of passion, a crucible of conflict, and stake our lives for the enjoyment of the populace of Huringa.

The storm of emotions that hit me as I stepped out onto the silver sand! Instinctively I turned to look up at the royal box, glittering and high; the place gaped empty. Fahia would not waste her time on a program filler like this. As a devotee of everything pertaining to the Jikhorkdun, a woman who could recite the names of hyr-kaidurs for seasons past together with the kaidurs they had performed, she reserved her patronage for the best displays.

“By Havil, Chaadur! Don’t stand gawping! Here come the yellows!” Norhan yelled at me.

Chaadur was the name I had given. I looked across the Arena and the yellow coys, shrieking and yelling and waving their swords, charged toward us. Hundal had warned us. “They’ll come out like evil spirits from Cottmer’s Caverns. Don’t let that worry you. Just get stuck in.”

So we did.

The fight proved Hundal’s eye. The yellows’ training had been just as thorough as our own in the time, I daresay. I recognized a few men who had waited in line with me to be chosen in the yard. Of the reds, we lost all those who had failed to measure up, and the yellows lost all except one, who ran shrieking about the Arena, under the wall, with the crowd yelling at him to stand and fight. A couple of our blood-crazed reds ran after him. It was left to a couple of the Arena guards to step out from a pillared area offset from the queen’s box and feather him as he ran. He sank down, and that was the last of the yellows. The red totem would move up by a fraction of a notch. It would take a much more important kaidur than this to make any significant changes. Yet, as we walked back, feeling the aches and the aftereffects, Hundal greeted us warmly, and pointed out that we had lifted the ruby drang, not depressed the red, and that was as it should be.

Norhan, a shock-headed fellow with a twist to his lips and a remarkably evil eye, said, “You were moonstruck in there, at first, Chaadur. It is just as well I am quick-witted.”

“Indubitably, Norhan. And my thanks.”

He cocked that fishy eye of his at me and licked his lips, and we trailed off to the barracks.

During the next few days we trained hard and fought twice more, and Hundal and Oivon called me aside as we washed ourselves of the blood and filth after a grueling set-to with a pack of blegs of the blues. We’d drawn. And, with the old fever for the ruby drang hot upon me, I raged that we had not won.

“We are gaining strength, Chaadur,” said Hundal. He glowered at me, a bluff, ruddy-faced professional cheldur. “I see you are of the reds.”

“Aye.”

“And also, Chaadur, I think you have fought before. You were a paktun, a mercenary, perhaps?”

That seemed the easiest thing to agree to. I nodded as I sluiced water. The basins ran red.

“You will make kaidur very soon. It is in my mind to try you single tomorrow.”

Again I sluiced water, and nodded. The quicker I could rid myself of being a coy and apprentice, start to climb the ladder of victories, win my way to a position as kaidur, the quicker I would get a freer run of this place. We were prisoners. There was no easy way past the guards, as I well knew. I did not intend to rot here until I was killed. This was my route out.

“Tomorrow, then. You fight a churgur of the greens. As ever, by Kaidun, he will be good. I rely on you, Chaadur.”

So it was fixed. I did not doubt there were wagers even on so small a match. The pairs paraded in their armor and feathers across the silver sand, the trumpets pealed, the suns cast down their mingled streaming lights, and we fought. Afterwards, as I washed myself again, Hundal said, “You may count that as your first victory, Chaadur.”

We stood by the door and the noise of splashing water and yelling almost obscured the footfalls. I turned, warily.

Hundal said, “Lahal, Cleitar. Did you see Chaadur just now? Have you come to sniff him out for yourself?”

Cleitar Adria still appeared a little strange to me, with the dead scar tissue glistening down the left half of his face and the lifeless socket that had once been an eye. He looked just as tough and ruthless as he had when we’d been taken up together as slaves and fought in the arena. I had won free, with help, and Cleitar had gone on to become a hyr-kaidur and then a senior cheldur. I noticed Hundal’s respectful attitude, despite his pointed remarks about another trainer looking over his men. I had to speak up sharply, and yet not arouse suspicions.

“Lahal, cheldur,” I said. “I am new here, very new. It is all strange. But if you—”

And then Hundal’s outraged bellow silenced me.

“Coy! You do not speak until spoken to! And especially to a kai-cheldur! Impudent fambly! Onker!”

But Cleitar had taken the message. He understood, for I had told him in a drinking den here in the Jikhorkdun that I worked in secret for Queen Fahia. As a story, I had taken some good mileage out of that, by Kaidun! Now he nodded, very much the superior officer, and said that he had seen me fight and was faintly interested. “All the new young coys are flatfish these days. It is pleasant to find a man who can use a sword.”

“He can, Cleitar, he can,” burbled Hundal.

They talked on and I stood back respectfully. Cleitar might give me considerable assistance to escape, and I was not going to miss that opportunity. They knew how to manage men in the Jikhorkdun, especially recalcitrant men.

The proof of that came very quickly when I got Cleitar alone for a few words. His scarred face sobered me, dashed my hopes. “Escape, Chaadur? No, dom, that is not possible. Not for you, until you become a hyr-kaidur again, as you will.”

“In that case will you see that Hundal arranges fights? You know what I mean. I have to get out of here—”

At that, Cleitar’s slashed lips curved into a mocking smile.

“Don’t they all, by the brass sword and glass eye of Beng Thrax!”

My reactions might have puzzled me had I dwelled on them. I did not feel the biting sense of frustration I ought to have experienced. I was desperate to get away; and yet I felt that in a remote, disinterested fashion. It was not just that I was caught up again in fighting for the ruby drang. That was far below the worth of my feelings. But undoubtedly, although conscious of my duty to get away, I felt nothing was being lost.

“You were a hyr-kaidur once, Chaadur, when you fought under the name of Drak the Sword.” I had known, then, that Cleitar Adria resented the bestowal of that name on me. “And you say you escaped by the queen’s connivance? Then, why—?”

This, I had foreseen.

“Doing the queen’s bidding is a hard road, Cleitar. I must get out of here and see her, for I do not think she can know I fight for the ruby drang again.” That was true, by Vox! If fat Queen Fahia knew that Dray Prescot fought in her arena, she’d nigh choke herself laughing. Then — then she’d probably be highly unpleasant. She must by this time know who I was. It was not all gloom. Cleitar took in news of the outer world, and I learned that, yes, there had been a conspiracy against the queen, the latest in a long series, and the plotters had been taken up, except the ringleaders. They had escaped. It was known that Vad Noran was the chief criminal, and he was being sought over all Hyrklana.

“And the others?”

“There is a rumor, denied from the palace, which says that the visiting prince of Hamal was involved. It is a story not believed.” Cleitar moved his shoulders. “I do not believe it.”

“It is not very likely.”

“No. Anyway, this prince has returned home.”

My first and only genuine feeling was one of relief. Tyfar had gotten clean away, and that helped to make my own capture and incarceration and combats worthwhile...

He promised to do what he could to secure me promising contests. When I pointed out that, if Beng Thrax turned his glass eye favorably upon me and used his brass sword for instead of against me, Cleitar could pick up easy winnings, he merely smiled and tapped his nose and laughed, the scar glistening.

“That is what friends are for.”

While not necessarily agreeing with that, I had to admit that friends are vital to both an emperor and a man trying to stay alive in and get out of the Jikhorkdun. Now I will pass rapidly over the ensuing period, for it was a simple round of combats in which I was concerned to keep a whole skin, and to pick up every scrap of information I could. By this time I was nowhere near the flamboyant fighter with the sword I once had been, although always preferring neatness and economy. Since my encounter beside the caravan with Mefto the Kazzur I had taken great thought to sword fighting. I was better than ever, but, as always, the thought remained with me that I could easily meet a man far superior to me out on the silver sand. If I did, if I met another such as Prince Mefto, then all my plots and stratagems would go for naught.

So I did not take this period lightly.

Norhan said, on one day of madness filled with the shriek of sword and the ragged swellings of death, “Chaadur! You are the simplest swordsman I have ever seen. You seem to do nothing, and yet you do everything.”

I turned away. I remembered another man who had said that to me, laughing, bright, eager — Barty Vessler, who was dead. I turned back. “Better to be quick and safe, than showy and dead.”

“True. I prefer a pot of combustibles, myself.”

The guards were herding in a bunch of miserable felons, men and women shackled together and doomed. They were to be turned out with a short sword between two of them to face wild beasts. It would be horrible and unpleasant. And yet many had chosen this death to life in the Arena...

“That must be why they call you Norhan the Flame.”

“Smart with a pot of the right stuff, and a light, that’s me.” His high opinion of himself, I saw, extended to his skill with combustibles. All the same, it was difficult not to respond to his brashness, for there was nothing repellent in it, nothing to make a dour old fighting man like myself dub him an empty braggart.