wearing the markings of the Red Watch. Theo turned to run just as the sivak reached out with his one good arm and lifted him off the ground by his collar.
“Dark gnome, is it?” barked Commander Aggurat.
“I demand to be taken to your leader!” said Theodenes feebly.
“With pleasure,” said the sivak, and flew off toward the khan’s palace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vanderjack leaned against a post, arms folded, watching the column of arrivals enter the city by the west gate.
Leaning against the post and folding his arms wasn’t just for appearances. He badly needed a breather, and when his arms were folded across his chest, it kept his rib cage in one place too. He was trying to appear confident, calm, and in control of his life-all part of the illusion.
Vanderjack took note of who was arriving in the city for the games. Many of them were Nordmaaran natives, both the rugged horse barbarians of the grassy plains to the west and tribal folk from the Sahket Jungle. There were a handful of banners from mercenary companies, war bands, and minor nobles who had benefited from the dragonarmy occupation.
In addition to the spectators, Vanderjack observed a few groups of large and intimidating men who he identified as gladiators. In occupied Nordmaar, as with other regions of Ansalon still under the control of the highlords, slavery and gladiatorial combat were rife. Many gladiators were free men, used to the lifestyle and capable of making more of a living killing others for glory than killing others for a cause. Vanderjack had known a few. He realized as he watched them move along, some sitting on wagons and others talking among themselves on foot, that he could probably join up with them.
As soon as the next group passed him by, he flagged the man in front. He was tall, tanned and skinny, but had muscles like steel ropes and sharp features. He was probably the lanista for the men with him, a combination of trainer, manager, and representative. They weren’t slaves because they weren’t in chains. That meant they might be amenable to a recruit.
“I’m looking for work,” Vanderjack told the lanista, who was staring at him, up and down. “I’m a freeman from Ergoth. Fought in the pits in Gwynned, and I know my way around a chariot, horse, meredrake, whatever you like.”
The lanista nodded appreciatively. “From Ergoth, huh? My last Ergothian got himself killed in the round in Jelek. Been looking for a replacement. Chariots, huh?”
Vanderjack shrugged. “You know how it is. Can’t ride a chariot in Ergoth, may as well just kill yourself.”
“Thought you were all sailors and pirates!” exclaimed the lanista.
“On my mother’s side.” Vanderjack grinned.
The lanista scratched his chin. “All right,” he said, cracking a smile. “My name’s Broyer. Jump on the wagon. You look like you could use some patching up, though.”
Vanderjack shook the man’s hand and headed to the wagon, where four other gladiators reclined, sharing a skin of wine. He pulled himself up onto the back and groaned as the movement shifted his ribs. One of the swarthier gladiators, an Estwilder by the looks of him, leaned over, helped him on, and said, “Need bandage? Got bandage.”
Vanderjack nodded. The Estwilder reached into a box at the front of the wagon and pulled out a thick wad of linen soaked in liniment. It looked dirty and well used, but the liniment smelled strong, so Vanderjack pulled his arming doublet over his head, tossed it to the floor of the wagon, and wrapped his ribs. He oiled his other cuts and bruises as the wagon passed through the gates of Wulfgar and into the Merchants’ District.
“So, Ergothian,” said Broyer as the wagon came to a halt in front of a scorched tavern or alehouse about a hundred yards inside the gate. “Got a name?”
Vanderjack thought about it for a moment. “Cordaric,” he said. He figured the Cook wouldn’t mind Vanderjack borrowing his last name.
“Nice name,” Broyer said. “You get an hour to sleep, then we’re in line to go to the Horseman’s Arena for the opening races. We’ll get you a chariot, don’t you worry. But you don’t get paid until after the games. If you stay alive.”
Vanderjack nodded. Then he went to sleep for an hour on a lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress inside the tavern, in a dormitory alongside the other gladiators. As he rested, he dreamed of the Sword Chorus, murmuring their advice to him over and over: “Look to the left!”
“Hold your breath!”
“That wizard is trying to set off a bolt of lightning!”
“Wizard! Bolt of lightning!” echoed Vanderjack, opening his eyes with a start.
The gladiator who had woken him frowned. “Cordaric?”
Vanderjack swallowed, blinked a couple of times, then sat up. “Sorry about that. Dreaming. What hour is it?”
“They rang the bells for Seventh Watch a little while ago.” That was an hour after midday. He’d completely missed his meeting with Theodenes. “We’re heading over to the arena soon.”
Vanderjack rose and dressed. He met with the other gladiators in the common room, sharing their food and listening to their banter. The liniment and the sleep had revived him somewhat, and the food tasted good. When the conversation between the gladiators turned to the highmaster, he began to pay strict attention.
“Every year it the same, yah. Rivven Cairn stop what she doing and attend the games, yah.”
“Cairn used to be a gladiator herself. Oh, yes. So the rumor goes.”
Vanderjack leaned in, helping himself to a chunk of bread on the table. “She fought in the round? Where?”
The first gladiator shrugged. “Some say Lemish. Before she learned magic. Anybody who has seen her fight knows what I’m talking about.”
“She have a good fighting style, does she?”
Another gladiator nodded. “Oh, sure. You seen that sword on her back? It’s an elven sword, so sharp it could cut you in half and you wouldn’t know it until the top half fell to the ground and you saw your legs just standing there.”
One of the other fighters shrugged. “Yeah. You know, she’s half-elf, see. She can pull it off.”
Broyer the lanista stepped in through the door of the tavern and clapped his hands. “All right, boys. Time to go. We kit up in the arena dungeons, as usual. When it’s showtime, we’ll take the elevators up to the track.”
Outside, it had begun to rain again. That suited Vanderjack fine because it meant he had an excuse to throw a cloak over his head and shoulders as he walked through the city. He couldn’t believe his luck; if what Broyer said was the case, he would be right underneath the arena. His only concern at that point was how to hook up with Theo.
“So, Cordaric,” said Broyer as they approached the center of the city. “If at any point you want to grab a charioteer and pull him off the thing and commandeer one of those chariots, the crowd would love it. Extra pay too.”
Vanderjack nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Good man. Any preferences for kit?”
“Sword. If you’ve got scale mail, that’ll do too.”
Broyer slapped Vanderjack on the back. “I think we can do that.”
The avenue they walked led upward on a ramp at a sharp angle and provided access to the elaborate porticos in the front of the Horseman’s Arena. Mighty pillars supported the arena’s walls, which were essentially the backs of the stadium seating. The arena was modeled after ancient Istarian coliseums, oval in shape and featuring row upon row of stone benches rising up and away from the arena floor. Spectators walked along a colonnade and under the eaves of the portico, after which they would take stairs to reach their seats. Gladiators, on the other hand, were directed down ramps into the tunnels underneath the arena, where it was said the most unfortunate of Rivven Cairn’s prisoners and captives were locked away.
