Under the Crimson Sun

least of Calbit’s problems.

Of course, he had no choice in the matter. How could he? The king’s chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard wanted Mandred, and that was the end of it. People who went against those who represented the king could measure their life expectancy in seconds.

It had all been going so wonderfully. When he first saw those three goons beating up on the Black Sands Raiders, he immediately started talking to Tirana about ways to get them into the stone carriage. After all, anyone who could take down eight raiders and leave the remaining four scattered to the sands without mounts were people he could count on to give good value in the arena.

Tirana inherited her looks and seductive capabilities from her mother. Thankfully, she didn’t inherit the bitch’s personality. That meant, though, that she could make any man do her bidding with just a few well-placed words.

Calbit had done worse to get fighters for the arena.

He’d only left Urik in the first place because Gorbin’s success was making it damn near impossible to find anyone willing to get in the ring with the bastard. He’d had to travel across the wastes for weeks, hoping that Jago didn’t make a mess of the place while he was gone. All their excess capital-which was damned little-was used to buy slaves, which was why he had to resort to kidnapping. That, and taking some prisoners from a town magistrate eager to clear space in his jail, a transaction that only required a modest bribe. Said bribe garnered him a dozen slaves, and it was the same amount that he paid per head for the merchandise he got from the other slavers.

And then there were Mandred and Storvis, who were quite literally a steal.

It was a pity that the third one died at the hands of the Black Sands Raiders, though Calbit got the impression that the other two didn’t care all that much. Perhaps the one who died was their original owner, and they’d been hoping that his death meant freedom. Or maybe they didn’t like him very much.

Maybe they were in his debt.

Not that it mattered anymore.

For a few days, everything was perfect. Up until last year, even with declining attendance thanks to the sameness of the main event, they were still making a profit. Any and all attempts to change things up were even bigger failures. True, Gorbin wasn’t much of a draw, but no Gorbin nearly resulted in a riot every time. The few people who did show up did so because they wanted to watch the mul pound the hell out of his opponents.

But it became a case of diminishing returns, and last year they were starting to lose profit.

Hence Calbit’s taking his daughter on their extended trip.

Sure enough, they found everything they wanted and more. Mandred was an even more amazing fighter than his singlehanded defeat of the anakore indicated. Within two days, they were back to breaking even, as the crowds poured in, eager to see who managed to defeat the mighty Gorbin.

He was muttering as he walked down a corridor toward the office that he and Jago maintained. “Conscription, my right toe-what’s he trying to pull, anyway? Taking coin away from honest folk …”

“Talking to yourself, Calbit?”

Looking up, he saw that Jago was also approaching the office. The shorter man was rubbing his hands with glee.

“Yes,” Calbit said sharply, “it’s my only guarantee of intelligent conversation.”

Jago just shot him a look.

“Things are finally looking up, and those idiots from the court have gone and-”

“Made everything better. Are you mad, Calbit? I was ready to hand Mandred over to them right then instead of waiting until this morning when the guards came.”

Calbit frowned as they both entered the office. The space had been a guard post when the catacombs were part of the mine. It had no windows, and so had to be lit by torches regularly, but Calbit actually preferred that. After weeks spent trudging through the wastes with the sun beating down on him, being surrounded by cold obsidian and firelight was oddly appealing.

“What are you on about, Jago?” he asked his partner.

“We had to put down the last thri-kreen today. Mandred must’ve bled on him or something. In fact, Douk is the first one he’s infected that hasn’t gone crazy-and that’s probably just because he hasn’t had a chance to yet.”

Reluctantly, Calbit said, “You may be right.”

Jago’s eyes widened. “May be? The guards have barely been able to contain him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s strong enough to break down the cubicle door. Honestly, if we didn’t have Storvis, I think he might’ve already broken out. Ironic, given that breaking out is all Storvis talks about.”

“Well, there’s no chance of that-he’s our best fighter, now.”

“In any event, we’re well to be rid of Mandred. Even with all the other issues, he wasn’t any better than Gorbin.”

Calbit blinked, stared at Jago, then blinked again. “Are you mad?” he finally blurted out after being unable to make his mouth work for several seconds.

“No. Mandred was beating everyone who came at him. Hell, he was beating several people who came at him at once.”

Pointing at the door to the office, Calbit said, “And the audience was devouring it whole.”

“For now, yes.” Jago shook his head. “Once the novelty of Mandred wore off, though, we were gonna be right back in the same hole.”

Calbit hadn’t thought of that.

Jago went on. “Now we have fights without predetermined outcomes. There’s unpredictability again.”

“I suppose. Still, I really wanted Mandred to bring us back into a profitable zone before we’d have to coast.”

“We won’t have to coast.” Jago walked up to Calbit and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re back, my friend.”

Shrugging the hand off his shoulder, Calbit turned his back on his partner. “Stop calling me that.” Calbit had never liked Jago, but he had been the one to put up the initial capital that allowed them to purchase the mine from the king once it was tapped out. Plus, he was much better at working the crowd than Calbit ever was. Jago actually liked to talk to people, whereas Calbit found pretty much everyone save for his daughter to be useless.

“Fine,” Jago said, “but we’re-”

“Excuse me?”

Calbit turned to see his lovely daughter standing in the doorway with another smaller woman with ice blue eyes and curly blond hair behind her.

Very rarely did Calbit smile, but he was willing to do so for his child. “What is it, Tirana?”

“This woman is named Wimma Anspah, and she’s here about Mandred and Storvis.”

The blonde barged past Tirana into the office. She wore clothing with brightly colored ostentation, as one would expect from a woman of Raam, an elaborate dress and equally elaborate shoulder bag. “Are you in charge here?”

“We are,” Jago said quickly. “What is the issue?”

Squinting down at the woman, Calbit asked, “And why is your name so familiar?”

Tirana answered the question. “She bears the same family name as the man who was killed by the Black Sands Raiders.”

The Anspah woman snapped at Tirana. “He was my husband. And from what I’ve been able to piece together from the caravan station in Raam, he died saving your worthless hides.”

The sharp-tongued woman reminded Calbit far too much of Tirana’s mother for his liking.

“As my daughter said, your husband was killed by Black Sands Raiders,” was all Calbit was willing to say.

“Yes, he died, and those two idiot slaves tried to run off.”

Calbit frowned. “What are you on about, woman?”