I nodded and started to rise from my seat, but Tyron shook his head. ‘You might as well watch another contest. It’ll do you more good than biting your nails down there.’
So I settled back in my seat, pleased that Tyron thought so highly of Deinon. I’d tell him what had been said later. It would cheer him up after that defeat.
‘This should be worth watching,’ said Tyron. ‘The boy behind the tri-glad is called Scripio – he’s from the same stable as the one you’re listed to fight. Wode tells me that he’s the most able trainee that he’s ever had. He’s fighting Cassio, who’s also a promising young combatant from this year’s crop. So watch closely – you might learn something.’
The contest was evenly matched and lasted for about fifteen minutes. It wasn’t particularly exciting because both combatants were very cautious. No risks were taken and the spectators were mostly silent, occasionally breaking into applause at some display of skill that I couldn’t yet appreciate.
Tyron watched the struggle intently, but I had to force myself to concentrate. My stomach kept filling with butterflies in anticipation of my own first appearance in Arena 13.
With my thoughts elsewhere, I missed what happened at the end. I should have been watching more closely. It seemed to me that the single lac of Cassio, the min combatant, had surged forward in the first real display of aggression. It engaged violently with the tri-glad of Scripio, which fell back hastily. One of these lacs stumbled into Scripio, and both human and lac went down in a tangle of limbs.
I wondered why Cassio wasn’t pressing home his advantage. Instead, he stepped back, a look of horror on his face. No blade had found the throat-socket of the fallen lac to call endoff, and it quickly scrambled to its feet.
For a moment the arena was totally silent, but then, from behind and to our left, someone began to cry, wailing in anguish. I stared down into the arena, trying to make sense of what had happened.
The fallen boy did not rise. His eyes were open and staring, his head lying at an impossible angle. His neck was broken.
Poor Scripio was dead.
By the time Palm and Deinon returned to the gallery, the body had been removed from the arena, but they’d already heard the news and sat down with shocked expressions on their faces. The spectators were quiet – apart from a few of the girls, who sobbed or sat with their faces buried in their hands. It had been a terrible accident and it made me realize just how dangerous Arena 13 was. In spite of the change of rules, a boy had died.
Nobody made a move to leave, and I wondered how long we would sit there. I was shocked and needed to get out into the fresh air. I kept seeing Scripio lying on the arena floor with his neck at that terrible angle.
At last the Chief Marshal entered and looked up at the gallery.
‘Our condolences to the family and friends of poor Scripio,’ he said, his voice quiet but easily heard in the intense silence. ‘A boy of great promise has been taken from us. The tournament is suspended for twenty-four hours.’
As he left the arena, people began to rise from their seats. We followed Tyron home in silence.
Because of the threat from Hob’s tassels, Scripio’s body was burned that very evening, and a service held in one of the few small churches in Gindeen. The family wanted it to be private, so none of the dead boy’s friends and colleagues was able to attend.
‘These things happen,’ Tyron told us back at the house. ‘Each time you set foot in Arena 13 you place your life on the line. But we just have to get on with it. There’s still time for your usual theory lessons before supper. Keep busy – that’s the best way to take your mind off things. The tournament will begin tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you get an early night.’
When I entered Kern’s study, to my surprise I saw that he was not alone. His son was sitting on his knee, scribbling energetically on a piece of paper.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, patting the boy on the head. ‘Teena’s feeling a bit off colour so I’m looking after little Robbie.’
I smiled and took my seat. The child looked up at me with wide eyes. He was curly-haired and fair like his mother rather than dark like Kern. He was big for a two-year-old.
‘Robbie, say hello to Leif,’ Kern told him.
‘Hello,’ the child said, and then went back to his drawing.
‘How are you feeling?’ Kern asked.
‘It was a shock. I thought the TT was safe.’
‘Nothing is safe in that arena,’ he told me. ‘It must be terrible for the boy’s family. It’s upset Teena – she’s always thinking about our own son, worrying about the future. Sometimes it makes her quite ill. She says Robbie’s first word was Mama, his second Dada and his third endoff. She’s joking, of course, but she has a point.’
Kern was smiling, but I saw the concern in his eyes. He’d never opened up about his family life before. The death in the arena had clearly affected him deeply.
‘The trouble is,’ he continued, ‘it’s in our blood; it’s the family business. Tyron fought in the arena, and if he’d had a son, he would have fought too. Instead it’s me – the son-in-law. It’s natural that Robbie should follow in that tradition. For Teena’s sake I just hope that he turns out to be a brilliant patterner like his granddad and eventually makes his living that way.’
Little Robbie was still busy drawing, his face screwed up with intense concentration. He paused and started to suck the end of his pencil.
‘Well, any questions before we examine a few new wurdes?’
This was the way Kern started off his lessons, so I always had a question ready.
‘I know that gladius means a sword, but I still don’t see why they call the form of fighting in Arena 13 the Trigladius. There aren’t three swords. Each lac has two blades, and there are four lacs – that makes eight altogether, plus the weapons of the human fighters.’
‘You’re not the first newcomer to make such an observation, Leif. But the name comes from the fact that the min combatant faces three lacs that seek to cut his flesh. They represent the three swords.’
‘I suppose that makes sense . . .’
‘What have you drawn?’ asked Kern, turning back to his child. ‘Let me see. Shall we show Leif your drawing?’
He picked it up and showed it to me. ‘Maybe he’ll be an artist,’ he said with a smile, kissing the top of the boy’s head.
The ‘drawing’ was just a crisscross scribble of pencil lines.
‘Well, maybe not!’ Kern said with a grin.
23
Arena 13
Learn how to lose so that later you may learn how to win.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
The following afternoon I was back in the green room, nervously awaiting my turn to fight.
For what seemed like an age I sat with the others in silence. I’d never imagined it would be like this, with combatants sharing the same room before they went up to fight. And was it as quiet as this for the senior combatants? Or did they sometimes exchange angry remarks?
I knew that there were some bitter rivalries in the Trig – though of course, the scabbards at the belt of each contestant were empty. Nobody was allowed to carry a blade into the changing rooms or the green room.
I wondered how yesterday’s terrible accident had affected the contestants’ mood. The boy’s death had dampened my excitement at finally getting to fight in Arena 13. I’d already witnessed a death in the arena – that grudge match I’d seen on my first visit – but the accidental death of Scripio had made me realize just how dangerous the Trig could be.
At last it was my turn. I followed a grim-faced marshal along a passage until we came to the min door. I was surprised to see Tyron waiting there, but grateful that he’d taken the trouble to come down and wish me luck. He held out the blades he’d lent me and I sheathed them quickly, taking up position behind my lac, which had already been brought up to wait before the door to Arena 13.
Tyron patted me on the shoulder. ‘Just do your be
st, boy,’ he said. ‘If you do that and lose, then nobody can blame you.’
When the door rumbled open, I followed my lac into Arena 13, where my opponent and his tri-glad were already waiting. It was a strange feeling to be standing there; I was shaking with nerves.
There was no going back now.
I glanced up towards the gallery. Here, the great candelabrum shed a bright circle of light; beyond it, in relative darkness, the spectators were anonymous shapes. I could hear their applause, but it was restrained and polite, with none of the shouting and foot-stamping that greeted the contests that I’d witnessed from the gallery. It reminded me that we were just young trainees; they didn’t expect too much of us.
The Chief Marshal entered the arena and we bowed to him. He withdrew to stand just beyond the mag door. An assistant handed him his trumpet, and he blew a shrill blast.
Then both doors rumbled shut and the tri-glad began to advance towards my lac, which stood unmoving. I hadn’t heard my opponent’s Ulum. Maybe he’d drummed out instructions while the trumpet was sounding?
I found myself signalling the routine opening. Two steps to the left, two to the right, then a reverse diagonal to the right. I was just reacting conventionally to the attack, rather than initiating some significant move of my own. But that’s what I’d decided on before entering the arena. It was the recommended manoeuvre for a min combatant facing a challenger of unknown ability.
The tri-glad came in fast, six blades threatening, while Marfik danced close to the back of his central lac, seemingly relaxed and comfortable while my mouth was dry with nerves. Under pressure, we were forced back towards the min wall.
The tri-glad surged forward and I didn’t react quickly enough. My lac stepped back, bumping into me and knocking the wind out of my lungs. I stumbled and felt a stab of fear, remembering how Scripio had died. I dropped to one knee, afraid that my lac would fall on me with the full weight of its armour-clad body.
But it held its ground just long enough, allowing me to scramble to my feet. I took a deep breath, attempting to calm myself.
Think! Think! I told myself as we were forced back against the wall.
I made a quick signal with my right boot, and we moved rapidly to the right, my back bouncing off the wall.
It was one of Kern’s favourite moves, one that he taught during the training sessions. I’d practised it carefully, but still fell a long way short of his expertise. Nevertheless, the manoeuvre brought us clear of the menacing arc of blades and back into the centre of the arena before the tri-glad could complete its turn.
Executing that move successfully made me feel better. My confidence was returning.
Then things improved even further. My lac struck: it stepped towards its nearest opponent, right arm stabbing forward, and, to my surprise, buried its blade to the hilt in the lac’s throat-socket.
Marfik’s lac fell backwards and hit the boards with a loud metallic sound. I’d already taken my first step towards victory!
Of course, it had little to do with me; so far I’d been ordinary. It was the skilful patterning of Tyron that was responsible. Now I needed to keep a cool head and concentrate. The inert body of the lac was an obstacle that would remain there until the end of the contest; I had to use it to my advantage.
What I planned was not an attractive way to achieve victory. I’d seen it used in Arena 13 before, provoking a chorus of catcalls and boos from the crowd. But the tactic was simple. All I had to do was keep circling, using the fallen lac as a barrier. This meant that only one of the tri-glad’s remaining lacs could attack us at any one time – unless they both moved away from Marfik in a pincer movement, leaving him alone and dangerously exposed.
That was exactly what happened. I kept signalling right and left, playing a game of cat and mouse that, in a senior contest, could have gone on for some time. There were brief clashes of blades, but that was all.
It couldn’t last long. Marfik was a novice like myself, and when the mutters of disapproval from above turned to howls of derision, he took it personally and launched a lac from the left in a desperate attack.
By now I was totally relaxed. My nerves had disappeared. I knew that I’d as good as won. I’d already seen my lac in action and was confident that Tyron had done an excellent job. It was ready and it reacted quickly. Marfik’s second lac went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Then we became the hunters and it was Marfik’s turn to signal the retreat. Moments later we had him cornered, his back against the wall. When his final lac had been brought down, he stood waiting, his eyes filled with fear.
I watched my lac approach him, lifting the blade in its left hand. I knew how Marfik felt. As the defeated combatant, he had to accept the ritual cut to his upper arm. It was done quickly, and a thin red line of blood appeared.
Afterwards he smiled in relief, and there was a muted round of applause from above, acknowledging my victory. I’d won my first Arena 13 contest, but the crowd were grudging in their praise.
Still, what did it matter? I’d also won my bet against Palm. Not only had I avoided a big debt, but now he would have to pay me. I suddenly realized that I could afford a good quality lac of my own.
The gambling houses had made Palm the favourite. It was all based on complicated statistics and the gathering of data. They knew what each patterner was capable of, and the relative quality of the lacs. They were very good at predicting the outcome of a contest.
As Kern had explained in one of our lessons, they adjusted the odds so that it was difficult for a punter to win significant amounts, the profits of the gambling houses were guaranteed. And you didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to work out that Palm was the likely champion – he had the best artificer patterning his tri-glad and the best lacs his father could buy.
The tournament proceeded. Normally the loser was eliminated after each bout, but as it was generally the mag combatant who won, there was a device ensuring that a min faced a mag in the final contest; it was a points system which ensured that not every winning mag would get through to the next round. It depended on how quickly they won. It was in the interest of every mag contestant to do more than just win. He had to get the bout over as quickly as possible to earn the points that would allow him to continue in the TT.
That helped me to win my second contest: my opponent, desperate for points, was in too much of a rush to finish me off. He became careless and I won again.
However, in my third bout, the first of the knock-out stages, I was outclassed and defeated within three minutes. Still, my overall performance in the tournament filled me with elation. I had won twice when one victory would have sufficed.
Not only had I progressed far enough to help Tyron’s stable’s position in the rankings; I had also earned a reputation as a somewhat pedestrian combatant. So Tyron had won twice over. We would get good odds when I fought in the future.
And the gambling houses showed that even they sometimes got it wrong.
In the final contest of the TT, Palm lost.
It cost them a lot of money, and they had to pay out large sums to those who had taken a real gamble by betting against Palm. It was the biggest shock of the tournament.
Deinon and I were walking across the plaza. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon but the breeze was a little chilly. Autumn was approaching and already the sun was losing some of its warmth.
Deinon was in a good mood. He’d won his second contest and was still high on the afterglow of that victory.
‘What will you do at the end of the season, Leif?’ he asked me.
‘I’ll go south, but further than Mypocine,’ I replied. ‘I want to visit the Genthai lands and see where my father was born.’
‘That sounds exciting,’ he told me. ‘Far better than what I face – a cold winter working on the farm.’
I had told Deinon that my father was Genthai, but hadn’t, of course, revealed that he was Math.
‘Did your father tell you much about his peop
le?’ Deinon asked now.
‘Not much – only bits about their beliefs. They worship a new god called Thangandar, a wolf deity, but they also have ancestor gods called Maori, who are supposed to live on a long white cloud.’
‘How do the Genthai make a living?’ Deinon asked. ‘Some come to Gindeen to trade. They sell wood carvings.’
‘Those Genthai aren’t part of the main tribe. There are some like that who live in shacks on the edge of Mypocine. They’re poor – they drink too much and gamble away what little money they make. But the tribes in the southern forest are different. They keep to the old ways, hunting and fishing. They’re warriors too.’
‘Warriors? Who do they fight?’
I thought about what the Genthai called Konnit had said to me after driving away the tassels and hammering on the great gates of Hob’s citadel:
We must take back this land from the traitor who calls himself the Protector and cleanse it of abominations such as Hob. That done, we will ride forward beyond the Barrier to defeat those who confined us here.
They were preparing for future battles they surely couldn’t hope to win. But I didn’t tell Deinon that.
‘They probably fight each other,’ I said. ‘Anyway, that’s part of what I want to find out.’
We walked on in silence, and then Deinon changed the subject.
‘I see that Kwin’s speaking to you again,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Just about,’ I replied. ‘She nods and smiles when we pass each other, but hasn’t offered much in the way of conversation.’
‘You’d think she’d be more grateful after the way you risked your life like that to fight the tassel. But it’s always hard to work out what’s going on inside Kwin’s head.’
We reached the long row of shops and paused outside the one that sold Trig paraphernalia. I saw that the red boots were still there.
‘It took Palm down a peg or two, losing in the final,’ Deinon said. ‘But he didn’t deserve to win, did he? He grew reckless. All the other victories went to his head – he kept glancing up at those shrieking girls. Has he paid out on the bet yet?’