Under the Crimson Sun

“She’s saying,” Jago said with a smile, “that Mandred and Storvis are her slaves. Am I correct?”

The woman-Wimma-smiled insincerely at Jago. “Ah, I see you must be the brains of the outfit.”

“That’s enough.” Calbit was losing patience. “State your business, madam, or leave our property.”

“Funny you should mention property, as that is why I am here. You have mine.” She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a parchment. Jago took it from her and unrolled it to look it over. “This is the statement of ownership stating that my husband, Fehrd Anspah, and I, his lawful wife, own Gan Storvis and Rol Mandred. You will produce them immediately.”

“Not really possible, I’m afraid.” Calbit smirked at Wimma, enjoying the fact that, no matter what the end result of the conversation was, she was not going to come out of it with what she wanted.

The new fact did explain why Storvis and Mandred were so tight-lipped regarding the third member of their party. They obviously didn’t want it out that they were his slaves and his death freed them.

Calbit admitted to admiring their plan. It might have worked if not for Calbit’s own greed-that and the tenacity of their owner’s wife.

“And why is that?” Wimma asked Calbit.

Jago interrupted before Calbit could answer. “This statement of ownership is genuine, and it is signed by the proper Raam authority.” He handed the parchment back to Wimma. “Sadly, Raam authority carries very little weight here.”

“Actually, it carries quite a bit. The most recent treaty between Grand Vizier Abalach-Re and King Hamanu has very specific language regarding the disposition of slaves between owners. There is not a templar in Urik who won’t honor this declaration of ownership.”

“You overestimate the power of the templars, my dear,” Calbit said nastily, “mostly because you don’t understand what, precisely, is going on here-or where it is you have stepped into.”

Again the insincere smile came out, directed at Calbit. “It’s a fighting arena called the Pit of Black Death, it’s owned by the pair of you, and your main attraction is a mul named Gorbin.”

“Yes, well, things have changed. Gorbin’s dead-killed, in fact, by your slave.”

Wimma’s mouth fell open. “Did he, now? Well, he was always a most excellent fighter. Which one was it, Storvis or Mandred?”

“Mandred. And therein lies your problem,” Calbit said. “You see, the lord chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard got it into their heads that they could use Mandred for some purpose or other, and so this morning the Imperial Guard took Mandred away to Destiny’s Kingdom. So if you want him back, you’re gonna have to take it up with the king. Oh, and best of luck getting a magistrate to side with you on that one.”

As soon as Wimma looked down at the floor, Calbit knew he’d won.

Then she looked back up again and spoke in a tight voice. “There is still the matter of Storvis. Or did the king take him as well?”

“No, we still have Storvis,” Jago said before Calbit could deny it. Calbit shot him an annoyed look-there was no proof that they had Storvis, after all, and he wasn’t willing to give up the only bright spot he had left. “However,” Jago continued, “we have no great desire to give him up.”

Wimma seemed to stew on that for several seconds. “Perhaps a templar will not side with me in prying my property out of your king’s hands, but out of yours?”

“Go right ahead,” Tirana said from the doorway, and Calbit took pride in how she matched the Raam bitch for haughtiness. “I believe the wait to see a templar for a new case is three weeks.”

“Oh no, Tirana,” Calbit said dramatically, “that’s for Urikites. For outsiders, it’s more like three months.”

“Fine.” Wimma pursed her lips. “What if I made it worth your while?”

Calbit was about to tell her to go frip herself, but Jago didn’t give him the chance. “How?”

“I have come into possession of a mul.” That last word was said with undisguised disdain. “He’s obnoxious, he smells bad, and he eats too much-but he can brawl, and I understand that that’s what you prefer in this place. I’ll gladly trade my slave for him.”

Before Jago could agree, Calbit said, “How big is he?”

Wimma shrugged. “Perhaps a head taller than I?”

Calbit liked the sound of that. They hadn’t had a decent mul in the arena aside from Gorbin in ages, and they always provided the best bouts.

He looked at Jago, who nodded. “Very well,” Calbit said. “Let’s see this mul first, and assuming we like the looks of him, you’ve got yourself a trade.”

Wimma’s smile was far more genuine when she replied, “Excellent.”

They arranged a time and place to make the exchange, and Calbit had been hoping that would be it.

But then Wimma said, “I wish to see Storvis.”

“What for?” Calbit asked angrily.

“I have no proof that my property is unharmed-or indeed that he is truly here. If I do not receive it, I will go to the templars, and I don’t care if I have to wait three weeks, three months, or three years, I will have satisfaction.”

Having lost patience with the woman about four seconds after first laying eyes on her, and not wishing to inflict her on Tirana, Calbit fobbed her off on Jago. “You take her.”

Shrugging, Jago said, “Very well. Follow me.”

Gan wasn’t sure how things could possibly get worse.

Just by thinking that, he knew that things probably would.

They should have just kept walking. Gone around the caravan and let the raiders have their way with them. Maybe they would’ve killed that old bastard Calbit and his treacherous daughter.

Failing that, they should have rejected the slaver’s hospitality. Both he and Rol should have known better than to trust someone who trafficked in human flesh to be in any way compassionate.

Since they’d taken Rol away, Gan had come up with several dozen scenarios that would have removed him from his predicament, with Fehrd actually winning his fight against the Black Sands leader and keeping them from being captured.

But the one scenario he’d been avoiding was the one that would have guaranteed that Fehrd would still be alive and that Rol wouldn’t be all sick and strong and weird and that Gan wouldn’t be stuck in a dungeon fighting people every night.

Because the guilt was too much for him to handle.

It was all his own damn fault for playing in that thrice-damned frolik game.

Fehrd had been right, of course. Fehrd was always right. It was why he was such a good friend and why he was such a spectacular pain in the ass. He had told him beforehand that playing in the frolik game was stupid, and he’d told him afterward that it was stupid, and like an idiot, Gan hadn’t listened to him.

And so Fehrd was dead, and it was all Gan’s fault.

Rol was missing, taken by the Imperial Guard somewhere, and that was Gan’s fault too.

Whatever was wrong with Rol was probably Gan’s fault as well.

He would never see Feena again, but spend what was left of his life fighting other idiots in the arena. He’d been lucky so far, but eventually one of them was going to figure out that all they had to do was approach him from the left, and he’d be doomed.

If he could just see Feena one last time …

The wish was so fervent within him, that when he heard Feena’s voice from the corridor, he simply assumed it to be a hallucination of his rapidly-becoming-deranged state.

“This is where you keep the fighters? I’m impressed-my slaves don’t live anywhere near this well back home.”

Gan wondered why, if he was hallucinating Feena’s voice, she sounded so brutal and nasty.