Chapter 0 - Accession Day

Accession Day
Mantabé I
 
              The roar of the crowd in his ears, Mantabé deftly avoided the ogre’s thunderous axe stroke. The weapon struck the sand and sent a gout of earth flying to one side. Its broad chest rippling with grotesque musculature, it turned to face its foe. The hulking brute came on again, a thousand pounds of alchemically bred muscle, sinew, and teeth, slicing with his wicked axe in a motion that would have cloven a slower man in two. But Mantabé was an experienced gladiator and, wearing nothing but sandals and a sword belt, he was light enough on his feet to leap aside. His dark, oiled flesh glistened in the sunlight, his powerful and well-toned muscles tensed and coiled as the ogre closed in again. Mantabé readied his sword, a three-foot long, double-edged wrought iron blade that widened into a leaf shape at the tip.
              As the nine-foot-tall ogre came charging in again, Mantabé darted aside and slashed viciously at his opponent’s leg. The blade opened a long red wound in the monster’s side, and it fell to its good knee, roaring in pain as it bled into the arena’s sandy floor. The crowd roared with delight. Mantabé took a moment to raise his arms triumphantly above his head and face the cheering throng. Polite applause from the lavish ring-side boxes was drowned out by the masses in the cheap stands above. At the rail separating the commoners’ stands from the luxury boxes, a tangle of women leaned over the barrier, screaming his name. Two of them bared their breasts at him, offering themselves up, pleading with him to take them to bed. Mantabé gave them a smile and a wave.
              He turned to a box trimmed in deep blue velvet, that of his master Didius, and was greeted by an approving smile from the man. Didius raised a crystal glass filled with rich red wine in a toast to his favorite gladiator. The spicer’s servants clapped diligently. 
              Mantabé turned from one side of the arena to the other, drinking in the accolades. Behind him, the wounded ogre was staggering to its feet. Hatred, pain, and rage clouded its thoughts but strengthened its arm. Slowly, it turned to face the gladiator’s unwatched back, hefting the cruel axe in its fat, sinuous hands. The monstrosity began to slowly lumber towards its foe.
              Mantabé smiled from ear to ear as he faced the crowd. Cheers rained down on him from the arena’s highest risers, the blood pounding in his ears as much as the crowd’s shouts. The cheers changed from admiration to concern, but he kept waving. They ran to the rail and leaned over, pointing, shouting, screaming at him to warn him of the ogre’s approach. Mantabé still stood triumphantly, motioning for more accolades. Frustrated and worried, the crowd screamed at him “Behind you! Behind!” they yelled and Mantabé feigned not to understand.
              At last, as the ogre loomed behind him, he feigned suspicion, he let the crowd believe he was slowly becoming aware of the danger even as it raised its axe. 
              Turning suddenly, he darted aside as the brute clomped past him, and slashed out its other leg from underneath it. An arc of black blood sprayed across the arena, falling into the sand in a crescent. The ogre spilled into the dirt, screaming in fury and agony. This time, Mantabé leapt onto its back, sword pointed skyward. From the crowd, shouts of “finish him!” rained down and this time, he gave them what they wanted, driving the point into the beast’s skull.
              The crowd erupted. His name echoed with a thunder that he thought might set the building rattling. Stepping off the ogre’s still-twitching corpse, he thrust his bloody blade into the sky and cried out in victory. The crowd was on their feet, chanting his name and drumming their feet on the risers. He made a slow lap of the arena, drinking in the praise, until he came to a stop before the grandest box of them all. Crushed black velvet, trimmed with ermine, covered every inch of the box and a sable canopy protected it from the sun. the box was guarded by tall, proud men in shining cuirasses and armed with halberds and rapiers. Their gleaming helms were topped with long plumes of black and white feathers.
              In the center of the box, on a gilded throne of black cushions, sat Lamira, Queen of Torvuls. Crowned with gold and rubies, she looked down from her throne upon the victor presented to her, her amused blue eyes dancing down his naked sweaty form to the cock swinging freely between his legs. She raised a delicate white hand and the crowd immediately fell silent. Rising to her feet, she strode slowly to edge of the box, her slender legs sliding out the leg slit of her lavish black gown. Her bejeweled hands clasped the rail of the box, rings shining in the sunlight.
              “Hail to the victor,” she said, her voice carrying throughout the expanses of the arena with ease. Mantabé’s eyes met her own, and she smiled down upon him, her beautiful face framed by long black hair. She swept her arm over the crowd, continuing “Here in sight of Arvoran, you have triumphed. With luck, you will fight again in two days’ time, in celebration of the anniversary of my accession. I now bestow upon you the crown you have earned.”
              A slave appeared at her side, extending a crown of laurels on the end of a spear. Mantabé took the crown and placed it on his head, causing the crowd to erupt in another round of cheering. He found his gaze drawn to the queen’s low neckline and the tops of her exquisite breasts. She noticed his gaze and gave him a wicked smile that set him sweating with excitement and fear. Best not to tread carefully with the queen, he told himself as the crowd chanted his name. The fall from the victor’s pedestal is quick and deadly.
              “Go now, and enjoy your spoils,” the queen said, gesturing to the gladiator’s gate. The arena’s slaves lifted the portcullis on the north side of the arena and he strode toward it. Slaves emerged from the opposite gate to dispose of the ogre corpse, but their labors went almost unnoticed by the crowd, fixed as it was on their champion.
              At the gate, Mantabé shook off the grasping of a throng of women, and a few men, leaning over the rails. He felt sweat and the blood from the gore-drenched sword dripping down his naked body. Fire still burned in his heart, unsated by the victory.
              In the marble chamber just inside, the air was cool and the lowered portcullis behind him dulled the crowd’s chanting. Agilos, his half-elven master-at-arms, rose from a stone bench to congratulate him. The half-elf leaned a cruel looking ranseur on his shoulder and carried an ornate saber on his hip. His torso was protected by a steel cuirass of exceptional quality.
              “Well done,” he said, the sunlight that streamed through the narrow windows dancing in his strange eyes, “that brute never stood a chance.”
              “Tell the alchemists to give it another elixir next time. One wound was enough to cripple the beast and then it was just a matter of giving the crowd the show they want.”
              “Another elixir to dull the pain and you might not have survived that stunt,” Agilos warned. It was so like the master-at-arms to worry over him, Mantabé mused. He had little appreciation for a performer’s flair.
              “That would have made it all the more entertaining!” Mantabé shot back.
              “Yes, nothing would be so entertaining as to watch the slaves mop up your broken pieces when the ogre catches you by surprise. Think of all the women who would throw themselves into the harbor if they saw you hacked to bits by a hulking brute like that.”
              “They come to see me win, but it’s nothing without a thrill. Why, if you had your way, they would just line up goblins in stocks and let me go down the line with an axe, chop, chop, chop! But where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill? You won’t get noblemen betting their fortunes on that.”
              “I won’t get noblemen paying me to train their gladiators if they keep going on and getting themselves killed while trying to impress the wenches of the crowd. Your drive to see another pretty pair will get you killed some day and then I’ll be out of a job.”
              “Oh, don’t you worry about that, there will always be more noblemen looking to field a gladiator. None of these rich men know a thing about swordsmanship, they’ll always need you to teach people like me.”
              “Speaking of rich men,” Agilos muttered as they both heard a familiar voice coming down the hall.
              Didius entered the room, trailed by a gaggle of servants and still holding his wine glass. It was even fuller than it had been outside. He was thin and balding, dressed in a richly dyed tunic of deep green and fine sandals. He wore a belt clasped with the symbol of the Spicers’ Guild, engraved in gold and studded with diamonds. 
              “Oh well done, well done indeed!” he crowed. “They all thought you were done for when that thing came storming out the gate. You’ve made me a rich man today, my boy!”
              Mantabé laughed. “You were not already a rich man?” he asked teasingly, “I had no idea that spice was a poor man’s trade.”
              Didius laughed. “A man can always be richer! I will collect on my bets tonight and turn those earnings to my favorite pursuits. It is nearly time to expand my ranch, after all, and the prices of horses never seem to go down, no matter how many ships range between here and the mainland. Oh, but you care nothing for my horses,” he said, patting Mantabé on the shoulder. “Fear not, I have arranged for you to receive your customary reward. Get yourself to the bath and enjoy the fruits of a well-earned victory. I must receive the purse and then get back to my seat. Halakar has arranged for a bout between two minotaurs! Oh, I do love this time of year!”
              The spicer departed from the room, prattling on to his servants about minotaurs and horse bloodlines as they followed him obediently down the corridor. Agilos shook his head and went back to the window to watch the next bout. Mantabé handed the armsmaster his laurel crown and passed through the arch after Didius, heading to the baths where his reward waited.
              He was provided a private bath, a stone chamber beneath the arena with a circular tub in the middle of the floor. Sprigs of incense burned in sconces above the bath, combining with the steam off the bath to give the small chamber a smoky air. As a victorious gladiator, he was provided with spirits, arranged for his selection in crystal bottles. Thanks to Didius, he found within the room two of Didius’ slave girls, Sharra and Katiya. Sharra was dark-skinned and slender, with long reddish-brown hair and perky breasts that clung close to her lithe frame. Katiya was blonde and pale, with wide hips and shoulders and small breasts with wide pink nipples upon them. They both waited for him in the bath, naked and wet. 
              “Hail to the champion,” Katiya whispered, leaning over the rim of the bath to afford him a view of her bare back. “And without a scratch on.”
              “Good thing that,” Sharra said, lifting a soapy sponge over her chest and squeezing it until the soap ran down her breasts. “Then it won’t sting when I wash you.”
              “Didius said we’re to wash you like you’re Arvoran’s idol,” Katiya continued, laying her naked body on the heated stone floor. 
              “That’s a shame,” Mantabé replied, shedding his sword belt and unlacing his sandals, “there are things you cannot do to a statue.” He tossed his sandals aside and they made a loud clap as they landed on the floor. 
              “We have been known to blaspheme,” Sharra teased, raising her hips out of the water and letting the soap drip off of her. Mantabé sat down on the edge of the tub and put his hand between her legs. 
              “Congratulations again on your victory,” Katiya whispered in his ear, her breasts brushing against his bare shoulder. She kissed his cheek and ran one hand down his chest to his cock. Sharra squeezed the sponge over herself again and the soap dripped down to her shaven sex. 
              Mantabé pulled her in for a deep kiss while Katiya stroked his cock. He wrested himself from their embrace long enough to sink down into the water up to his neck. The water was hot and flowed into every crevice of his. He felt the soothing touch of the water from chin to toe, followed by the sensual touch of Sharra’s fingers between his legs. Katiya put his hand on her small breasts, then her lips on his. Sharra sank beneath the bubbling water and engulfed his cock with her mouth. He half-floated, half-sat in the steamy water as the girls tended to him. 
              Katiya pushed Sharra away and mounted his hard cock. He put his hands to her hips, steadying her as he rose from the bath to sit upon the stone rim. Sharra stood naked as well, her dark nipples peeking through the soap that dripped from her chest. She leaned in to kiss Mantabé, but Katiya got to his lips first, planting a hungry kiss on his lips while Sharra looked on in annoyance. The blonde girl worked her hips on his cock, moaning through their locked lips as she did. 
              Sharra at last pried her companion’s face away from the gladiator and planted her own kiss on him. Their eyes met and Sharra put a hand on his chest.
              “Master Didius sends his congratulations,” she whispered.
              “You, ah,” Mantabé gasped as Katiya wrapped slender arms around his neck and bit at it, “said that part already.”
              “Did I?” she said in feigned surprise, “I must have been distracted by other thoughts.” She reached underneath Katiya to grab Mantabé’s cock and extract it from the other girl’s purse. Grabbing Katiya’s chin with her other hand, she turned the girl’s head to meet her gaze.
              “This is mine now,” Sharra declared.
              The tall door to the bath chamber opened, and in stepped a pale, busty woman with dark red hair. Her wide hips and full breasts were only barely hidden by her robe of sheer red silk. Behind her trailed a meek blonde woman in a dark green stola and palla, carrying her mistress’ personal effects and outerwear. The redheaded woman stepped out of her fine leather shoes at the bath’s edge.
              “Run along now, kittens,” she said as she stripped off her silken dress, “the lioness has arrived. Go before you exhaust my man.” She stepped out of the dress and put one foot into the bath as her bodyslave collected her discarded clothes behind her. 
              Katiya and Sharra pouted as they rose from the bath, soap and water dripping from their naked bodies. They paused a moment, thinking to disobey, but Mantabé waved them along. They exited the bath and strode naked from the chamber, leaving wet and soapy footprints on the floor as they went.
              “Did you enjoy the show, Sabinia?” Mantabé asked, as she slid into the bath until its hot water reached as high as the wide pink nipples on her buxom breasts.
              “It was a thrilling show, my dear,” Sabinia said as she crept closer, “Though I wish you wouldn’t make it so close the way you do.”
              “Agilos said the same thing,” Mantabé replied, “I am surrounded by people who cannot enjoy a bit of fun.”
              “Oh, I know how to enjoy myself,” Sabinia whispered in his ear as her soft hands closed around his cock. “You are surrounded by people who have no wish to see you die in the arena.”
              “If you were not prepared to see me die, you would not have seduced yourself a gladiator,” Mantabé retorted. 
              “I was of a different mind about you when I first came to your bath,” Sabinia whispered, “Where once I looked for an amusing diversion, now I would be more upset to see you smashed to pulp by an ogre.” She stroked his hard cock and changed the subject. “I should thank them for warming you up for me. Not that you ever needed much preparation.”
              “I am always ready,” Mantabé whispered back to her, “so why are you standing here, talking?”
              Sabinia sneered at him in mock derision and twisted his thick, dark cock in her delicate hands. She threw a leg over him and settled her curvaceous body onto his cock, biting her lip in the familiar display of pleasure as the long shaft pierced her pink flower.               Watching his dark cock slide into her white flesh, Mantabé put his hands on her hips, and she put hers on his broad shoulders. The gladiator leaned in for a passionate kiss and his lover began to ride him. 
              The rising and falling motion of her bounteous hips sent waves rippling through the water. As Sabinia built her intensity, the waves washed over the rim of the tub and spilled across the floor, almost to the feet of her slave girl waiting patiently by the door while her mistress rode a man in front of her.
              Mantabé shifted his hands to squeeze Sabinia’s ample bosom, while Sabinia leaned forward and braced herself against the rim of the tub. Her cries of pleasure were briefly muffled by a kiss, then she buried her face in Mantabé’s shoulder. Around a mouth of his dark flesh, she begged him to fuck her hard, to squeeze her breasts and spank her round bottom. He acquiesced to all her demands, feeding her cock into her hungry sex with as much strength as he had exerted in the arena.
              Mantabé gathered her up in his arms and stood up in the bath, holding Sabinia over his cock as he forcefully thrust himself inside her. Suspended in his powerful arms, Sabinia let her head roll back as her lover fucked her, the slapping of his hips against hers and her resultant screams of ecstasy resounding around the stone chamber, through the doors and into the halls beyond. 
              “Don’t stop,” she squealed, “keep fucking me! Oh, fuck me like that! Oh, Nystra’s Tits, just like that!” she screamed a wordless scream of elation and her whole body spasmed. She sagged in his grasp and shuddered again, her head hanging back almost limp, but Mantabé did not cease fucking as he was close to finishing himself.
              As he approached climax, Mantabé hoisted her off his cock and she stood on her own two feet in the bath once again. Kneeling obediently before him, she received a spurt of hot cum across her face. Mantabé groaned in release as he painted her face with his seed, stroking his cock vigorously to knead out all of it. When no more was coming, Sabinia took his cock in her hands and mouth and licked him clean, moaning with pleasure all the while.
              “Goddess of Pleasure, you know how to fuck a woman,” she murmured as she ran her lips along the side of his cock.
              “Praise be to the Nystra,” Mantabé breathed, his breath coming in labored gasps as he looked down at the woman worshipping his cock, “Goddess of Tits and Wine… could She herself fuck any better?” he wondered aloud.
              “Mmm, perhaps…” Sabinia mused, kissing his shaft in a euphoric haze. “Perhaps it would be best not to challenge the gods. They can be so… jealous…”
              “Speaking of wine,” Mantabé said, looking up to Alami who was patiently waiting on her bench. “Girl, bring the red. I need a drink after a fuck like that.”
              “Vestinian or Golden Isle?” Alami asked, rising from her bench to attend to the array of crystal bottles left for his pleasure. Mantabé could make out a bit of wetness showing on her dress, just below the waist and between her legs.
              “Oh, who cares,” Sabinia groaned impatiently as she sank down into the water. “Just bring it all and let’s get drunk.”
              She submerged her whole body underneath the surface of the hot water, the cum flowing from her face as she sank below. When she rose again, her red hair clung to her naked body, wet locks wrapping from her shoulder down to her pink nipples like the tentacles of a sea creature.
              Alami left her seat to attend to her mistress’ disarrayed state, her feet splashing through the great puddle left by their fucking. Sabinia brushed her concerns away after a simple touch-up and then seated herself in Mantabé’s lap. Alami handed her a crystal bottle full of dark red wine, and another, larger bottle to Mantabé. 
              “Victories won in the ring and in the bath, that makes a successful day, no?” Sabinia asked, settling herself down into the warm water and unstoppering her bottle. “Whatever shall we do for the rest of the day?” She took a deep draw from her bottle and set it aside, studying Mantabé’s expression as he sank into the bath up to his chin.
              “I mean to linger here for a while,” Mantabé murmured, carefully holding the wine bottle just above the water’s surface. “The wine and the company are just too nice to leave.”
              Sabinia laughed and took another long draw on her bottle. “I am quite fond of Alami, myself,” she joked.
              Mantabé dreamily opened his eyes and fixed them on Sabinia’s wet breasts, her nipples half concealed just beneath the bath’s surface.
              “And the view is wonderful,” he mumbled, bubbles of water forming and popping in front of his mouth, which now dipped into the water as he sank lower.
              Sabinia sat back against the stone rim of the tub, holding her wine bottle in front of her with both hands. She drank in long gulps until at last she emptied the bottle.
              “More wine, mistress?” Alami asked, holding another bottle in her hands at the edge of the tub. But Sabinia waved her away.
              “No more, girl. I do plan to get out and about again sometime today.” She looked at Mantabé in expectation, but the gladiator had his eyes closed and his head faced toward the ceiling in any case. Sabinia prodded him with a bare foot but got no further response.
“After this, how about we go to the theater?” Sabinia asked and Mantabé made a noncommittal moan before playfully raising a toe above the soapy waters.
              “They are playing a farce at the Bridge Street Theater,” Sabinia continued, “it’s supposed to be very good.”
              “Is there any fucking in it?” Mantabé inquired lazily.
              “Oh, of course,” Sabinia replied. “Florian could not stop talking about it. He said the lead actress spends the entire second act in the nude.”
              “Sounds like our kind of play,” Mantabé smiled, running a hand down Sabinia’s naked leg. “Why, they should have us up on stage.”
              “You do love an audience,” Sabinia retorted with a wicked smile, climbing back onto him. Her wet hair clung to her bare shoulders, darkened by the water and contrasting ever more with her pale skin. Mantabé grabbed two handfuls of her ample ass, feeling his lust return to him once more. He took her big breasts into his mouth, twirling her nipple around with his tongue as he delved her womanly purse with his fingers. Sabinia reached between her legs to grab his cock again. Her stroking returned it to its hardness and Mantabé picked her up to lay her on her back on the stone floor, her hips hanging over the rim. Sabinia giggled in excitement, squeezing her breasts in her soft, white hands, and lifting her legs up.
              Taking his hard cock in one hand, he slowly spread her lips with it. Sabinia arched her back and cooed in delight. She clutched the tub’s rim as he began to thrust into her. He leaned over her for a bit position and Sabinia looked up into his eyes. Mantabé pinned her knees to the floor, fucking her with an animal intensity. She moaned in delight, loudly enough that Mantabé heard a muffled laugh from someone in the hall, and cried out for him to fuck her harder.
              Looking up for just a moment, Mantabé caught sight of Alami watching them intently, one hand up her dress. The slave girl smiled shyly at him and he winked back before returning his attention to Sabinia’s heaving breasts.
              At last, he climaxed again, spurting his white cum across her bare torso. Some of it landed in her open mouth and she giggled in delight, dabbing at it with a finger which then went into her mouth. More of it clung to her breasts, slowly dripping from nipple to sternum all the while glinting in the candlelight.
              They lingered in the bath for some time longer, though Mantabé could not be bothered to know how long. The hypocausts beneath the arena pumped hot air and water through the baths, keeping them delightfully warm and steamy even as they luxuriated in them overlong. 
              Sabinia rose dripping from the bath at last. Alami brought her her clothes and began to dress her. 
              “Come on, Mantabé,” Sabinia beckoned, “We have lingered long enough in this bath. Let us go out on. I feel like a stroll through the market.”
              Reluctantly, Mantabé dragged himself from the hot bath and dressed himself in the clothes Didius had left for him. His laurel crown he left for one of the attendants to retrieve for him. When Alami had finished dressing her mistress and retouching her makeup, they left the bath chamber and went into the halls of the arena. In the fighting pit, some bout still raged, judging by the roar of the crowd. But the lower halls were occupied only by the servants laboring to clean up the day’s mess. 
              Reaching the street, Mantabé pulled a dark blue cloak over his head, not out of concern for the late winter sun, but to abide by Florian’s wish that he and Sabinia not flaunt their affair in public. They went out into the press of the crowded streets, quickly becoming just another set of people in Torvuls’ traffic.
              They strolled through the serene Temple Gardens of Erchasos, an oasis of greenery in the city’s urban landscape, until they reached Market Street on the north side. This they followed to the west until they reached the east edge of The Market, at Palace Street, and Sabinia fell in behind him as they forged a way through the crowd. The city was always packed here, for the market lay at the very heart of Torvuls. On its north end was a cliff thirty feet high, atop which was the city’s most famous and luxurious brothel, the Black Lotus. Its legendary pleasures drew patrons from as far away as Parses or the Imperial City. Above the chalky white cliffs, the brothel’s walls of sun-bleached plaster were studded with windows and balconies of private suites. The brothel was always busy, though less so midday. 
              Still, upon one third floor balcony stood a naked man, fat and bearded, flanked by two dark beauties in naught but their gold and jewels, smiling as they took in the view of the city’s rooftops. From his own experiences in those suites, most often with Sabinia and a pretty, young, new companion, Mantabé knew those views stretched all the way down to the harbor, the tall ships within it and even to the Isle of Tides on the south side of the bay. 
              Opposite the Black Lotus on Palace Street was the Palace of Ivory and Roses, Queen Lamira’s residence in the city itself. Its white walls were topped with crenellations and guard posts, each shadowed by the boughs of fruit trees in her rich gardens. In carefully polished morions and cuirasses, her guardsmen peered out over the city with confident vigilance. Though her rule had gone unchallenged for all of living memory, the queen demanded nothing less than the utmost dedication of her sentinels.
              On the east side was the imposing bulk of Halakar’s Auction House, a famed purveyor of goods stolen all over the Devouring Sea. The auction house sold everything from slaves to ancient artifacts dug out of ruins in the sea. If a pirate stole it within a thousand miles of Torvuls, there was a better than even chance that it would pass through Halakar’s door as some point. Every captain in the sea wanted to remain on good terms with Halakar, and despite his love of gold, the man was easy to get along with. His position as owner of both arena and auction house made him second in status and wealth only to the queen.
              The south side of the market was lined with food vendors, restaurants, and shops such as jewelers, tailors and goldsmiths. Most famous of the establishments here was the Naked Nymph, an inn, wineroom, and gambling parlor popular among the city’s mercantile elite as well as its rougher inhabitants. Mantabé was especially fond on their roast chicken platter. 
              Opposite Halakar’s Auction House, on the west side of the market, rose the red stone edifice of the Scarlet Tower Bank. Thanks to the city’s reputation for crime, the Bank was among its most valuable institutions. None have ever succeeded in stealing from its deep vaults, and the diligent clerks kept innumerable records of the pirates, great or small, who left their ill-gotten gains in its care. While most in Torvuls would cheat a man as soon as look at him, the Bank zealously protected its reputation for fair dealing. To cross the Bank was to cross Kanaron himself.
              But today, they were in between all of these establishments, moving slowly between the brightly colored stalls and merchants’ carts in the wide-open market. The markets of Torvuls were famous far and wide not only for Halakar’s Auction House, but also for the lesser merchants. Mantabé passed a cart laden with boxes of pearls, black, white, and pink, for sale at a price that would draw suspicious eyes even in the great Imperial City. 
              Beneath a saffron-colored awning, a sculptor was displaying his life-sized marble statue of the queen, while across from him, a pewter sold idols of the gods. Mantabé and Sabinia examined bolts of brightly colored cloth, trying to ignore the aggressive advertisements of the woman in the stall. Nodding in feigned appreciation, Sabinia graciously extricated them from the encounter and ushered him and Alami down the aisle, out of earshot.
              “The way the woman talks, she must have found a way to spin thread with her tongue,” Sabinia laughed.
              They moved slowly between the market stalls, Sabinia’s eyes on the wares and Alami’s eyes on the patrons. A loyal bodyslave, she always kept a watch for pickpockets, though Mantabé thought himself adequate deterrence. Even with his identity obscured, few thieves were bold enough to rob a woman in the company of someone of his height and build. 
              Sabinia stopped at a trinket vendor’s stall, plucking a golden necklace adorned with small emeralds from the table. The merchant helped her try it on, babbling away in a foreign accent Mantabé did not recognize. Sabinia spoke back to him Lauratian, her native tongue, and Mantabé found himself unable to understand. Instead, he found his attention drawn away by the scene across from them, where market-goers crowded around cages full of brightly colored songbirds, happily chirping away. Behind them, in a cage of brass, was a large bird with plumage of bright orange and deep red. 
              “This,” a garishly costumed man in a plumed hat and silken cape declared, “is a firebird! I captured it myself in the deserts of Zahir. The tale is long in telling, but I will tell it if you wish to hear.”
              His audience seemed more interested in inspecting his birds, but one man leaned forward to listen and so the bird merchant launched into his tale all the same.
              “I was afield in the deserts of Zahir. The sands were blinding, the wind hot and stinging, but I had come in search of the rarest of birds. From the Wild Isle to the Ghostwood, I have always hunted the most exotic birds for sale and display. This time was no different. I had dined with the emir of Raqaba a fortnight before, and it was his personal sorcerer who told me of the firebirds’ aerie, deep in the desert.
              “He gave me an escort of his own men to guide me and shield against bandits in the desert. It was a perilous journey, for the men of the Black Tower are sometimes seen in the northern deserts and in any case there are all manner of other dangers, from quicksand to vipers. But our party was fortunate to encounter none but the harsh climate on our journey. We came at last to an oasis beneath a high rock outcropping, where the sorcerer told me the firebirds nested. 
              “However, it was no easy task. The oasis was the lair of a djinn, as are so many such remote locations in Zahir. These birds were its pets, and only through bargaining with the spirit might be take one and leave alive. One might have thought to find the djinn, but my experienced guides knew that such a foolish act would be rewarded only with death. Instead, it was my smooth words and the offer of a golden trinket to assuage its vanity that won me the prize.”
              Already tiring of the man’s story, Mantabé turned back to Sabinia, who was stepping away from the trinket vendor’s stall, stowing a new trinket in her bags.
              “Look at this,” he exclaimed, cutting her off as she tried to speak, “a firebird! Why, Didius would love to add such a creature to his collection. He has been so glum about the menagerie since the psychai sale didn’t work out.”
              She looked past him at the bird’s cage.
              “That’s no real firebird,” she said confidently. “I’ve seen a real one, in the possession of a mage of the Collegium. They flame like a candle. That is a Zahiri firebird, a mundane bird, though still quite beautiful.”
              “You’re sure?” Mantabé asked with disappointment.
              “Quite sure, dear. Someday I’ll ask one of them to show you. You’ll love it.”
              “Perhaps your friend, the sorcerer Calyran has one?” Mantabé asked hopefully, but he saw that Sabinia’s attention was drawn away, toward a crowd gathering at the south end of the market, where the Slaver’s Walk met the market square. Mantabé stopped talking as he realized, and the three of them crossed the market to join the crowd.
              The crowd had already gathered for what was a regular occurrence in Torvuls. It was an age-old ritual in the city and one Mantabé remembered well. Watching from windows, balconies and the crowded street level they waited as the procession of slaves was driven up the street from the harbor. At the procession’s head came the male slaves, most bound for plantations or mines where they would be driven by the lash until dead. They were a wretched lot, stripped naked and roped together at the neck, they made their way up the street with their wrists bound together and their heads bowed despair. Their backs showed the slave driver’s marks and their feet were dusted with the street’s filth. Usually, the priests of Askallon cleaned the Slaver’s Walk before such a march, but for whatever reason they were elsewhere today. However, dirty feet were the least of their concerns.
              Onlookers taunted and jeered from doorways, balconies and the Naked Nymph’s dining patio, but their full attention was reserved for the latter half of the procession, for next came the women. Some cast frightened and bewildered looks at the crowd while others kept their faces downcast as they marched. From rooftops, the cityfolk called out to them, either mocking or ogling their bared bodies. Mantabé saw some men pointing out those women they wished to buy at auction. He saw a few faces that he would not mind buying for himself.  Most of them were pretty, no doubt bound for brothels or private harems. For a man who spent most of his life as another man’s property, the thought of owning a slave of his own was as attractive as gaining his freedom. Though he tried not to, he could not help but see some of himself in the tear-streaked faces marching up the hill. 
              At the end of the Slaver’s Walk, the captives reached the market, where guards waited to usher them between the stalls. Merchants and patrons who had not waited on the Walk now caught close up looks as the captives walked by. Here again, some pointed out the slaves they hoped to bid on. One young man stepped between the guards and grabbed a young slave girl by her pale buttocks. The girl yelped in surprise and the youth darted back into the crowd before the guards could seize and beat him. Mantabé knew the game well. It was a favorite dare for rowdy sailors, bored youth, and drunken louts alike. One point for a handful of ass, two for a titty, and five for a kiss, the old chant echoed in his mind.
              The procession was driven through the market and into Halakar’s Auction House, where they would be confined in cells until sale. Mantabé remembered his own trip up this street many years ago, and the long wait in the bare cells until he had mounted the block and been sold to Didius.
              The crowd began to disperse as the slaves disappeared into the tall stone auction house.
              “The grab boy was brave,” Sabinia said as the throng around them scattered, “most of the guards are quicker than that one.”
              “My group favored a spot lower down on the Walk, between the Gull Inn and Cenbar’s courtyard. We could lurk behind the door and then dart flee through The Buckets. If we were feeling brave, we would double back and have another go at Potter’s Street. But never the market. There’s just too many people here. Too likely someone will trip you up as a favor to Halakar’s men. The guards love to catch a grabber. They’ll beat them something fierce.”
              “Were you ever caught?” Sabinia asked. 
              “Of course not,” Mantabé laughed, “I’m too quick for that. I was a champion at that game. No one had ever scored ten points in a day before me. Both of the girls ended up in brothels later, where I found them.”
              “I’m surprised you remembered them. You were a terror in your youth,” Sabinia said with a chuckle. “Come now, we’ve finished our shopping. Let us make our way east towards the theater and find some place to eat.”
              Arm in arm with Alami, Sabinia led the way down Bridge Street towards the theater as the day grew long. They strolled lazily through the Temple Gardens of Erchasos, across from the arena, before doubling back to the Three Queens’ Hall where they ate a sumptuous dinner of shellfish, grilled vegetables, and a green salad. Once finished, they walked back up the street to the Bridge Street Theater where the night’s crowd was beginning to flood its steps.
              The play was an Auric farce about a man caught between his wealthy wife and his nubile, but demanding, mistress. Through a series of welcome contrivances, the cast spent all but a few scenes of the play nude. The crowd laughed and cheered as the man fucked his wife while his mistress hid under the bed, then his mistress while his wife hid under the bed. In the third act, his wife and mistress fucked each other while he hid under the bed before the happy ending where they settled into a happy three-person marriage. 
              Mantabé and Sabinia walked up Palace Hill together, separating at the northern edge of Quene Lamira’s Palace, he going west to Didius’ house and she returning to her own home to the northeast.
              “I will miss your fight tomorrow,” Sabinia said as they parted. “I am sorry, but Florian demands that I meet with some merchants in the afternoon.”
              “I will put on less of a show if you are not watching,” Mantabé replied. “You will be there the day after?”
              “Yes, I will.” She kissed him goodbye. “See you soon,” she called as she and Alami vanished into the crowd. Mantabé turned and headed for Didius’ house.
 
              Mantabé rose early the next morning, just after dawn. From observing the movement of the house’s servants, he knew that Didius was still asleep. He ate his breakfast of fried eggs, cheese and pork, served over a thick slice of rye bread, then made prayers and sacrifices to Arvoran, Lord of Battle, and Enki, Master of Fate. The burning incense and goat’s flesh still in his nostrils, he went about his morning exercises in the courtyard.
              Agilos entered as he reached the middle of his routine, and sat down on a bench under a lemon tree.
              “The schedule for today has been set,” the half-elf said, running a whetstone along his sword. “You are to fight in the last bout of the afternoon, against Sweyn, the tall Northman.”
              Mantabé grunted in disinterest, continuing to focus on his exercises. “Who does he fight for?” he asked.
              “Sweyn, the tall Northman,” Agilos answered. “He is a freeman, come down from wherever he is from to win his fortune in Torvuls.”
              Mantabé grunted again. A hundred other men had come from a hundred other locales to seek their fortunes in Torvuls. Most ended up destitute or dead in the gutters.
              “He has done well so far,” Agilos continued. “He slew a thunder lizard in his first fight, then defeated the visling Inaris and yesterday he slew a minotaur patronized by the Shipwright’s Guild.”
              “All of which are nothing compared to my accomplishments,” Mantabé replied, picking up his sparring sword. “How does he fight?”
              Agilos rose from the bench and sheathed his steel saber and picking up a wooden sword of his own. 
              “The way you would expect. He wields an axe in both hands and exploits his long reach to keep men away. He prefers to hack away, but is not averse to a wrestling match if the enemy closes in. He has little of the flair of a true gladiator, but has learned to fight without a shield since he came here. You could beat him blade to blade, but you will have a greater edge at wrestling.”
              The half-elf assumed a fencing stance opposite Mantabé. “And the ladies will love to see the two of you come to grips,” he continued with a stone face. 
              “Perhaps,” Mantabé mused, “but I will beat him where he is strongest. I have a reputation to protect.”
              “A reputation that will get you killed someday,” Agilos replied, rapping his outstretched sparring blade against Mantabé’s own, “If Apliss be good, I will have to opportunity to remind you of this before you expire.”
              Mantabé smiled and dropped back into a fighting stance of his own. “There is a short list of those in this city who might kill me, and you are at the top of it, old friend.”
              Agilos made no reply except to thrust the sword point at Mantabé’s face. When it was batted aside, he stepped forward and pressed the attack. The clacking of their swords echoed around the courtyard, drawing a small audience of house slaves. Agilos scored two touches with his lightning-fast strikes and another victory by pushing Mantabé out of the designated sparring space. Mantabé replied with a single touch of his own.
              “Ha! It is too soon in our day for you to be letting your guard down like that!” he cried as Agilos reset himself for another bout. “You usually take longer than this to slacken your efforts,” he continued until he saw Didius standing on the second-floor balcony next to the household steward.
              “Master Didius, good morning,” Mantabé said in greeting and was quickly echoed by Agilos.
              “Good morning, gladiators!” Didius replied cheerfully. “Looking forward to the day? I know I am,” he continued without waiting for a reply. “So many shows to see today, why I hear that Halakar has brought a horned basilisk from the Wild Isle. I do hope you are not fighting that today, Mantabé.”
              “No, Master, I am fighting Sweyn the Northman.”
              “Oh, well that’s disappointing. How that man made it to today, I’m still baffled. Well, I’m sure it will be a good show. Be wary of him. Despite his apparent lack of skill, it would seem that he has the gods on his side. Tread carefully, my boy.”
              “If you say so,” Mantabé replied. 
              “I do say so. Well, then,” Didius announced, “I’m off to finish some business at the Guildhouse before the arena. See you there!” and he and the steward disappeared back into the house, followed by two scribes carrying ledgers.
              Mantabé spent the rest of the day in preparation and relaxation before joining Agilos outside the house in the mid-afternoon. Attended by a trio of house slaves, they set off across the city. It was unfortunate, Mantabé reflected for what must have been the thousandth time, that the Spicers’ Guildhouse was located on the opposite side of the city from Halakar’s Arena. How many hours of his life had he spent walking between the two of them, he wondered?
              Still, the walk was at least interesting. They wound their way through Dolphin Square, the heart of the city’s night life, though placid at this early hour. Passing in front of the Black Lotus, whose marble edifice towered over the Square, Mantabé found himself thinking of the victory celebration with Sabinia and some nubile pleasure slaves that was sure to be in his future. Reaching Palace Street on the east side, he and Agilos descended the stair by Halakar’s Auction House to reach Market Street, which they followed to Arena Street and then the arena itself.
              This late in the day, the arena was still encircled by a crowd outside. Street vendors were out in force, hawking trinkets, sugary drinks, and hot food wherever they thought they might find a customer. Men from the betting syndicates were moving through the crowd, talking up one combatant or another and taking coin from countless eager laborers, sailors, and wealthy burghers. A few streetwalkers even cruised the waiting masses looking for clients, their hair coiffed and breasts bared. 
              Mantabé and Agilos impatiently pushed their way through the crowd toward the gladiators’ entrance. Despite his hooded mantle, Mantabé was quickly recognized by a woman in the crowd who cried out his name. In short order, a knot of adoring fans formed around him, shouting questions about the upcoming bout, pleas to teach him the ways of a gladiator and solicitations to take a lady behind the arena for a good time.
              He ignored them all, allowing Agilos and his stern glare to blaze a path through the mob for him. The experienced half-elf split the crowd like a shark moving through a school of fish and soon enough, they were in the cool and quiet halls of the arena’s lower tunnels. Mantabé went directly to his assigned cell to await the summons. 
              Agilos waited with him, alternating between sparring exercises and watching the other fights. In between fights, Halakar sent out acrobats to amuse the crowd. A company of actors played out humorous skits in between two bouts. To excite the crowd for the next fight, a troupe of nude dancing girls led them in cheers for the fighters. Mantabé watched them with great interest for there were still some who he had not introduced to his bed. 
              Behind him, the door opened and Sabinia walked in. She wore a more reserved dress than the day before, it was not sheer enough to reveal her curvaceous body, and she covered herself in a red linen mantle. Her pale breast was bared and adorned by a necklace of a single pearl, while about her brow she wore a copper diadem studded with diamonds. Smiling, Mantabé left the window and went to embrace her.
              “The merchants changed plans. They came in the morning and finished by noon,” she said, kissing him. “Now I am here for you.”
              “It is good to see you again so soon,” Mantabé replied as Agilos gracefully excused himself, passing Alami, who stood silently by the door.
              “Florian is in his box. I will join him there when you are called to the fight.”
              “I am to fight the northman, Sweyn,” Mantabé said, “He is tall and strong, but no experienced gladiator. It should be a short fight.”
              “All the same, I came to wish you luck,” she said. “I will stay with Florian throughout the fights, though. I should be seen with him today. When he leaves, I will come and find you for our own celebration.” She leaned in and kissed his neck. “Think of me out there.” Mantabé nodded, putting his hands around her waist.
              A servant entered the room, carrying a cup of wine on a silver platter. He set the cup down on the cell’s small table, bowed to Mantabé and Sabinia in deference and left without saying a word.
              “Only one cup?” Mantabé complained, “Alami, run after the boy and get one for your mistress.”
              “Do not worry,” Sabinia said, waving dismissively. “I will have my wine in our box. Besides, your fight is to start soon.” She brushed her hair away from her breast, drawing Mantabé’s eye to her necklace. It was unfamiliar to him, a perfectly round pearl on a fine silver chain. He took plucked it from her breast between two fingers and inspected it closer.
              “I’ve not seen this before,” he said, “this is a beautiful pearl.”
              “I bought it in the market yesterday,” Sabinia replied, touching his hand, “the merchant said it was enchanted, but I put little stock in that.”
              “Enchanted? How so?”
              “He said that if I put it in a drink, it will turn black if the drink is poisoned. It was not so expensive, so I thought it might prove useful.”
              “Well, try it,” Mantabé said, offering his cup of wine. “Perhaps someone is trying to poison me.”
              Sabinia laughed and took the necklace from her throat. Holding the chain in her fist, she dipped the pearl into his wine and raised it up.
              To the surprise of all three, the pearl darkened and turned the color of a rotten piece of fruit.
              “Well, look at that!” Mantabé exclaimed. “I suppose the merchant could have lied.”
              Sabinia studied the blackened pearl closely, then the wine. Slowly, she said “Perhaps. I would not drink the wine in any case. Alami,” the slave girl straightened to attention, “Run and follow that servant. See if you can find out where he went.”
              The girl nodded obediently and went out the door. Sabinia took the cup from Mantabé and put it back on the table. “Save that, we should have an apothecary look at it.”
              Mantabé set it down, sadly forgoing his usual drink before a fight. He saw Sabinia looking at him sideways.
              “Who might be trying to poison you?” she demanded.
              “No one!” he insisted, his hands raised in a gesture of innocence, “I have not offended anyone recently! I think you might be putting too much stock in a trinket you bought at the market. Who is to say it will not turn black in any wine?”
              “Perhaps,” she said again, “but you should treat this as a serious attempt on your life until you know it is not. Caution is the best approach.”
              Mantabé sighed. Sabinia lived in a world where this was a common concern, he remembered, while he did not. Gladiators were beneath the notice of those who might seek to poison Sabinia or Didius. Perhaps the wine was meant for her?
              There was a knock on the door, and a man pushed it open. He wore the dark red tabard of Halakar’s servants and said “Mantabé, you are summoned to the gate. Your fight is about to begin.” The herald looked at Sabinia suspiciously for a brief moment before turning down the hallway.
              Mantabé shrugged at Sabinia. “Time to go. We can continue this later.” He then undressed himself for the fight, pulling his tunic over his head and dropping his breeches to the floor. Despite her concerns of poison, Sabinia could only admire his physique, biting her lower lip as she touched her bare neck. He smiled at her expression, stepping out of his breeches to stand nude before her, his large cock starting to stiffen at the sight of her.
              “I will see you soon,” he said before striding from the cell in nothing but his sword belt and sandals.
              The herald led him to a heavy iron portcullis that looked out into the arena. A pair of attendants began to pull the portcullis’ chain and raise the heavy gate. The crowd, already buzzing with excitement, broke out into cheers.
              Through the gate, Mantabé could see the queen’s box, where she sat under the sable awning next to another woman, shrouded in a long robe of gray. Their heads were together in conversation, Lamira’s chin on her upraised hand as they casually regarded the scene before them.
              The herald strode out into the arena, with Mantabé trailing just behind him. The crowd roared in delight, and Mantabé’s ears were assaulted by the screaming of his fans, some of whom leaned over the rail with hands outstretched. Once again, he saw them pull open their bodices to show him their breasts. One woman vaulted onto the rail completely naked, arms outstretched wide and legs open.
“Take me, Mantabé!” she screamed to the crowd’s delight. Two of the arena’s attendants grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down into her seat. Halakar stood up in his box and called out.
              “Who is our next fighter?”
              “I present to you, Master of the Arena, the gladiator Mantabé, owned by Publius Quintus Didius, Guildmaster of the Spicers’ Guild. He has won his place in this arena. Just yesterday he slew an ogre before this crowd.”
              The crowd roared in appreciation. Mantabé’s gaze went to the box of Florian, who sat his aged body next to Sabinia, the two of them playing the expected role of husband and wife for all to see in public. She smiled at him as openly as good taste permitted and he returned her expression. Halakar let the cheers rebound around the arena several times before continuing. 
              “A worthy combatant indeed. But who will be his opponent?”
              From the opposite gate, a second herald approached, followed by a tall, red-haired man carrying a great, double-bladed axe over his shoulder. Like Mantabé, he was naked except for a pair of sandals. There were those in the crowd who shouted his name, though they were drowned out in a chorus of disdain.
              “Master of the arena,” this second herald called out, “I present to you Sweyn the Northman, a free man fighting for fame and fortune. He has also won his place in this arena. Yesterday, he slew a minotaur in sight of those assembled here.”
              “Another worthy fighter,” Halakar intoned. “This will be a fight for the ages! But first, let us give prayer to Arvoran, Lord of Battle.”
              The heralds retreated into the arena’s halls as the portcullis’ were lowered. A man in a long white robe trimmed with red silk stood up from the seat behind Halakar, carrying in his arms a smoking censer. The crowd quieted down, and he called out in a voice that carried across the vast expanse of the arena.
              “Arvoran who is Lord of Battle, King of Armies, we gather here to witness a display of martial prowess in honor of your sacred charge. May your holy guidance bring the spoils of victory to the triumphant. Cast your vigilant gaze over this fight and may the best man win!”
              Halakar struck a bell, and the fight was on.
              Sweyn closed with Mantabé quickly, his axe raised for a killing stroke. Mantabé refused to be caught standing still for such an attack, darting to the side before the stroke fell. That seemed to surprise Sweyn, who found himself off balance as he tried to recover. Mantabé attacked from the side, slashing at his foe’s exposed side. Sweyn narrowly escaped the strike, which would have doubtlessly ended their fight right away. 
              Mantabé danced back, raising his arms up high. The crowd cheered for him, beating the rails and risers with their fists and stamping their feet. Three young men leaned over the rail and blew shrill whistles through their fingers. Mantabé smiled at Sweyn, safe in his adoring crowd.
              The tall northman came on again, driving Mantabé back with swings of his axe. He cut air again and again, doing no harm to his foe, but driving him back against the wall. Before he could be cornered and hacked to pieces, Mantabé darted underneath a wild swing of the axe and was back in the open arena. As he passed by Sweyn’s thigh, he slashed at it with his sword, drawing a line of blood.
              The northman shouted in pain as his hand went to the wound. He staggered against the wall in pain, his hateful gaze going from Mantabé to the wound and back again. The crowd roared in anticipation of a bloody victory. Mantabé waited in the open expanse of sand near the middle.
              Sweyn quickly collected himself and began to advance, favoring his wounded leg. His expression was one of determination, but also a bit of surprise in his green eyes. His red beard contorted as he snarled, showing yellowed teeth. 
              As he drew into striking distance, Mantabé gave ground, ensuring that his foe was always a step and a half away from landing a blow. Unfortunately, due to the northman’s long reach, that crucial distance also meant that Mantabé was two strikes away from landing one of his own. Sweyn lunged forward to strike, and Mantabé moved back to bleed momentum from the attack before knocking the axe aside with his own blade. From somewhere in the stands, he could feel Agilos’ disapproving gaze on him. The half-elf was surely disappointed in his student for fighting this way. But the crowd hated quick fights. 
              Mantabé fought from a distance, using Sweyn’s lunging attacks to bleed the taller man of his vigor. Twice, he got close enough to slash at the man’s extended hands, leaving cuts on his wrists. The crowd cheered for them, hollering with each clash of blades, though louder still when Mantabé delivered a cut. He noticed that his foe had no admirers hanging over the rail for him, no women who bared their breasts to attract his attention. Despite fighting in the nude, his muscles oiled and his cock swinging between his legs, the northman was unremarkable to the crowd. Against him, Mantabé was a ebon demi-god of battle, his own oiled flesh glistening in the late afternoon sun. He felt the crowd’s cheering in his heart, channeling their worship into his own strikes and drawing strength from it.
              By now, he could see that the northman was flagging. His strides were shorter, his axe drooped, his breath came more slowly. Mantabé feinted a strike high, throwing the taller man off balance. His fatigue showing, Sweyn responded slowly, and Mantabé spied his opening.
              Leaping inside Sweyn’s range of motion, Mantabé threw his shoulder into the northerner’s chest. The man grunted as the breath was knocked from him. His tall, lanky body hit the ground in a spray of sand. The crowd was on their feet, chanting for blood. Mantabé knelt down and seized his foe by the throat, his sword point poised to deliver the final blow.
              Sweyn raised a hand. “I yield,” he gasped. From the stands, the priest of Arvoran shouted, “Sweyn the Northman yields! The fight is won!”
              Mantabé stilled his blade. The crowd chanted his name once again. Some cried out for blood, screaming “finish him!”
              For his own part, Mantabé wondered what role Sweyn had played in the delivery of the poisoned wine. Had he intended to cheat a win for himself?
              The northerner had fought well, and there were scant few in the crowd who wished to see him died. The crowd’s usual appetite for blood had seemingly been sated earlier in the day.
              Sweyn lay prostrate at his feet, arms outstretched. Mantabé stood above him, arms and sword raised in victory. Queen Lamira stood up in her box and silenced the crowd with a raised white hand. 
              “Hail to the victor,” she said to him for the second time in as many days. Raising her arms to the crowd, she intoned, “Here in sight of Arvoran, you have triumphed. Tomorrow, you and your sponsor will have the honor of being seated at my side during the banquet. I now bestow upon you the crown you have earned.”
              A slave appeared at her side, extending a crown of laurels on the end of a spear. Mantabé took the crown and placed it on his head, causing the crowd to erupt in another round of cheering. 
              “Go now, and enjoy your spoils,” the queen pronounced, gesturing towards the gate, where a pair of slaves were working hard to raise the portcullis.
              As Sweyn was carried from the sand, Mantabé retreated through the raised portcullis. The chamber was empty, so Mantabé took a seat on a stone bench and waited. Outside, the crowd continued to chant his name even as some began to head for the exits. Even without the prospect of further fights this day, the crowd was still reveling in the spectacle they had just witnessed.
              Didius entered the room suddenly, the sounds of his approach masked by the thunder of the crowd in the arena.
              “Well done, well done!” he crowed. “Oh, you’ve saved me a good deal of money today, Mantabé,” Didius went on. “I had done something foolish, I fear. I bet a new acquisition on this fight before I even knew what it was. It was most careless of me and I won’t do it again.”
              “You should feel safe to bet whatever you please on me, master. I will not let you down.”
              Didus waved a hand dismissively. “The uncertainty is what makes it so much fun. I never bet on you unless I am fleecing a rube, but this time… Oh, as I said, I was foolish. Letting myself get baited like that… No matter. You have rescued me from my own stupidity, and you will be rewarded for that.”
              “As you say, master.” Mantabé hesitated, then “have you… perhaps upset someone recently?” he asked.
              “Upset? Why of course, I’m always upsetting people. The Guild always makes someone unhappy when it makes it money. But nothing out of the ordinary, I should say. We apprehended a crew of smugglers last week, fresh in from Leiyan with a king’s ransom in spice. But they’ve all been rotting in the gibbet for three days by now.”
              “I see. I wondered if perhaps someone might be angry with you.”
              “Angry? Why would you suspect that?”
              “It’s nothing, master,” Mantabé said, losing his resolve. “I just thought… you said you were baited into betting something…”
              “Oh, yes. That. Just a bit of posturing among us rich men, I’m afraid. Nothing to be concerned about. I certainly would not have lost enough money to endanger your position.”
              “That is good to know. Apliss keep you, master,” Mantabé said with a deferential bow.
              “Well, enjoy your reward as usual,” Didius said, slightly confused at his slave’s sudden concern for Guild politics. “Oh, I am so pleased that we have not lost the spot at the queen’s table! It is bad business to let anyone else have the queen’s ear during these banquets. The Guild expects me to keep her on our side, and Septimius might use such a failure against me, perhaps try to dethrone me as House Master. Well, no use worrying about that. My boy, you have come through for me once again! Do enjoy yourself.”
              “Of course, master,” Mantabé said, unsure of whether to press the poisoning issue.
              But the Didus turned back down the hall and wandered off and Mantabé lost his opportunity. Mantabé let his mind wander to the next day. The reward of a seat at the Queen’s table during her Accession Day banquet was little to him; being seated anywhere else in her hall afforded the same food, wine and entertainment. But Didius and the other schemers of the city saw it as a most valuable opportunity to gain her ear. For a man like Didius, who enjoyed her ear every day, it was more about denying the opportunity to any other upstarts. The Spicers’ Guild was full of schemers like Septimius and Didius kept his position only by frequently slapping down the ambitions of lesser men.
              All the politicking was too much for Mantabé. He preferred his foes in front of him, where he could strike them down. Two-faced intrigue bored him as much as it confused him, though between Didius and Sabinia, he was surrounded by people whose skill at such things far outstripped his own. Even Agilos was better at playing the game than he, Mantabé reflected. The half-elf did his best to hold himself aloof of petty concerns, but a keen mind lurked behind his strange, starry eyes. 
              Presently, the slapping of sandalled feet on stone heralded Sabinia’s arrival. 
              “Well done,” she congratulated breathlessly, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Then she continued in a more hurried tone. “Alami followed the servant who delivered your poisoned wine and he went to the box of Bannert Guillen.” 
Mantabé shrugged. “He is unknown to me.”
              “He is a rich man in the Chyrosia Coaster,” she said, “Before today, I would have considered him unremarkable. But he is leaving the arena as we speak. Come on,” she beckoned, starting toward the outside gate. 
              “My things,” Mantabé protested, “I can’t go out on the streets like this,” he said, indicating his nakedness.
              Sabinia frowned. “Run and get dressed then. Then meet me out front, he might still be there. If not, I’ll follow him and meet you back here when I know something.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried off down the hall.
              Mantabé ran the other way, back to his cell, and dressed himself. He left his laurel crown in the cell, to be retrieved by one of Didius’ servants later. Throwing the hood over his head, he looked at the abandoned cup of wine on the table. He could not bring himself to leave it, but there was no one around to warn others off it. He knocked the cup over and its contents spilled over the stone floor. A servant would see to it.
              He then ran from the room to catch Sabinia out front. There he found her standing with Alami in the shadow of the arena’s gate, looking out into the square. Sabinia beckoned to him and he ducked into the shade to stand at her side.
              “That’s Guillen,” she said, as quietly as she could over the noise of the crowded square. She nodded her head in the direction of a fat man clothed in dark silks climbing into a richly appointed sedan chair. A group of burly slaves hoisted the chair onto their shoulders and started off into the crowd. 
              “Where is the servant?” Mantabé demanded.
              “He disappeared into the crowd,” Alami replied. “I could follow the rich man, so I did.”
              “Damn,” Mantabé swore, watching the man’s servants close him into the carriage and perch themselves on its rear. “Should we follow him? Where would he be going?”
              Before Sabinia could answer, two noblemen stormed into the arena’s foyer behind them, followed by a gaggle of servants. They paid no notice to Mantabé and Sabinia, speaking only to each other.
              “Apliss above!” cried a man in white robes trimmed with gold and a pillowy white hat. “I’ve never lost so much money in a day!”
              “I dread to think of this afternoon,” grumbled a man in a long red tunic, black leather boots and the deep blue sash of the Spicers’ Guild. Mantabé recognized him as an associate of Didus, though he could not recall his name.
              “There goes Guillen,” the first man commented. “No doubt to enjoy the spoils he won betting against Sweyn. Damn that Kaunitzen! The first time all week I took his advice was the first time he was wrong! What have I done to offend Apliss?!”
              “Kaunitzen is no doubt in a more temperate mood now that his luck has broken,” the Spicers’ Guild man said. “Come, we should see to our ledgers. If need be, we might approach Didius to borrow money. He must have won a tidy sum just now.”
              “In the first fight of the day,” said the first man as they passed into the square, heading for a lacquered white carriage, “Ulgeren looked uncharacteristically slow and timid. He took three wounds and looked about to yield, but the visling killed him before he could raise his hands.”
              “Something strange is happening,” Sabinia said as the men passed them by. “If you were poisoned, Sweyn would have won, and that man Guillen would have lost quite a bit of money it sounds. And these men taking advice from Kaunitzen would have won. It sounds as if this Kaunitzen has won money on every fight except yours.”
              “You think this Kaunitzen is fixing fights?” Mantabé asked. “Perhaps that servant belongs to him. Who is he? I’ve not heard of him before.”
              “He is a merchant from Anhalmuria. Florian says he is cousin to their king, though not so close. He has gathered the other Anhalmurians to him since his arrival last year.”
              “Didius said something just now about a foolish bet. He said he had wagered something before he knew what it was.”
              “It must be related somehow. We should ask him,” Sabinia suggested. “And also Halakar. No one will have their thumb on the pulse of the city like him. He will know who has lost money and where it has gone.”
              From within the arena, they heard the final horn heralding the end of the day’s celebrations. Soon, the foyer in which they waited would be swarmed with bodies. 
              “Come on,” Sabinia said, pulling Alami back inside, “Halakar will meet his carriage around the back. We should catch him there.”
              Mantabé followed them through the lower tunnels of the arena to the rear of the arena, which faced onto the river. Two long barges were moored against the arena’s dock here, laden with empty crates that had once contained lions, thunder lizards and stranger beasts for the arena. Mantabé suspected that the tall, upright cage he looked upon had transported the ogre he slew the day before. Teams of slaves hauled the corpse of a minotaur from the tunnels under the arena to a barge piled with other corpses. 
              In the middle of the courtyard waited an ornate carriage drawn by four white stallions. The coach was lacquered in red with gold trim and seats of crushed black velvet. The waiting coachman stood in front, wearing a tunic of red velvet and white breeches. 
              As soon as Mantabé and Sabinia entered the courtyard, Halakar emerged from another entrance, attended by a gaggle of scribes as he dispensed instructions. Upon seeing Sabinia, he ceased speaking to them and dismissed them with a wave.
              “Sabinia, my dear,” he said as he approached them, “What can I do for you?”
              “Mantabé and I would question you about some goings on in your arena,” she said.
              “Well, I am always happy to answer questions for you, but I am awaited at my offices. Ride with me?” he gestured toward the coach. 
              “Gladly,” Sabinia said, leading the way to the coach. Halakar graciously ushered them into the coach first, before giving his driver further instructions and then taking his own place inside. He settled into an overstuffed seat across from the three of them and beamed.
              “Now then, what do you want to ask?”
              The coach went out through wrought iron gates, opened for them by two halberdiers in fine coats. The street crowd parted to admit them, and the coach began its progress across the city.
              “Watching the fights today, I noticed a good deal of upset victories,” Sabinia began.
              “I noticed the same,” Halakar said, unsurprised. “The betting syndicates are most pleased, I expect.” 
              “I heard that Kaunitzen was very successful today,” she continued. “Have you any idea how much he won?”
              “A great deal, so I have heard. Many men of the city are indebted to him for quite a lot of money now.”
              “Men such as yourself?” Sabinia asked and Halakar smiled. 
              “I am no stranger to betting. He has some of my money now, but not so much as to concern me.”
              “Is there anyone who should be concerned?” she asked and Halakar smiled again.
              “There are a good many men who should be very interested in anything Kaunitzen has to say to them.”
              “Is Didius in his debt?” Mantabé asked.
              “Didius won his bets, as far as I heard. Though I am told that Kaunitzen was quite disappointed that you won.”
              Sabinia clearly thought something of that, but said nothing and instead chewed her lip. They passed the rest of the ride to Halakar’s office by making small talk about the events of the day, as Sabinia was unwilling to tip her hand anymore and Mantabé was inclined to follow her lead. At last, they disembarked from the coach in front of Halakar’s Auction House.
              “Good day to you two,” Halakar said, as the three of them separated from the coach. “I hope to see you again tomorrow, and to see Mantabé victorious.” He bowed and then turned and went inside the auction house.
              Sabinia led Alami and Mantabé across the street to stand in front of a chocolatier’s shop and out of earshot of any of Halakar’s people.
              “We should look into Kaunitzen,” she suggested quietly. “He lives up on the hill, somewhat near Didius.”
              “If we are to pass by, I want to ask Didius about a bet he made,” Mantabé said. “He mentioned being baited into betting something he did not know the value of. I find it likely that whoever he bet against did know the value of it.”
              “Very well, I have no means to enter Kaunitzen’s house in any case.”
              They went up the hill to Didius’ house, where Mantabé found his master enjoying a late afternoon drink. 
              “Welcome back, Mantabé,” the man cheered as his prized gladiator walked in. “I thought you would spend more time in the city before you returned.” Seeing Sabinia enter behind him, Didius continued, “Good afternoon, Lady Sabinia. If you are looking to be discrete, I will not reveal your affair, but others in your position often prefer brothels, or the Temple of Nystra.”
              “We are not here for pleasure, master,” Mantabé said. “I have come to ask you of the bet you won earlier today.”
              “Again with the betting?” Didius asked. “Why such an interest?”
              “Someone delivered poisoned wine to Mantabé before the fight,” Sabinia replied. That caught Didius by surprise. 
              “You drank it? Or someone else did?”
              “No one did,” Mantabé replied. “We were saved by a stroke of fortune. But we have heard that many other fights went against expectations today. I suspect it was part of a match fixing scheme.”
              Didius mused quietly into his wine. “Such a scheme would bring terrible retribution from Arvoran,” he said quietly. “He will not take such interference in his affairs lightly.”
              “It would seem that Mantabé was intended to lose today,” Sabinia said, “which would mean that you would have lost your bet, whatever it is. Who had you bet against and what did you wager?”
              Didius grimaced, clearly having thought the matter settled.
              “That wily Anhalmurian, Kaunitzen. I got to talking to him at a banquet last week, and he needled me over and over about you, Mantabé. Before I knew what I had done, I had bet this trinket against him.”
              “What trinket, master? It seems likely that he wanted this trinket from you, perhaps enough to poison me.”
              “In truth, I am unsure of what the trinket does. I bought it at auction the day before the banquet and thought to have it looked at by a sorcerer, but never made the time.”
              “Did Kaunitzen bid on the trinket?” Sabinia asked.
              “Only for two rounds,” Didius replied. “I outbid another Anhalmurian, Radobel, for it. Now that it’s mine for good, I suppose I should find out what exactly it is that I bought.” He turned to one of his house slaves and told the woman to bring him the item he had put away earlier.
              “What did you think it was?” Sabinia asked.
              “The auctioneer said it was an abjurer’s stone, an enchanted item that allows the bearer to pass through arcane wards without fear. It seemed unwise to leave it out there, so I bought it so that it could not be used against me. But I’ve no idea if the auctioneer was telling the truth.”
              Mantabé had never known Halakar to be an outright fraud, though he was surely a cagey player of the game. 
              “I will take it to a sorcerer, if you like,” he said.
              “Queen Lamira’s man Calyran lives near us,” Sabinia said, “I have known him and I think I could get him to help us.”
              “Very well,” Didius said. “I never liked dealing with sorcerers anyway. Except,” he amended for the benefit of any lurking spies, “for our beloved queen, of course.” His servants entered the room, carrying a smooth black stone, carved with all manner of ancient runes.               “Take this to Calyran and see what he says. If it is not what the auctioneer said, I will take it up with Halakar in the morning.”
Mantabé took the stone from the slave and stowed it in a bag Alami presented for him. 
              “I will see you later, master,” he said to Didius, who waved goodbye to them as he poured himself another glass of Vestinian wine. 
              Out on the streets once again, Sabinia took the stone from Alami and bid her to retrieve some coinage from her house before meeting them at Calyran’s residence. As the slave girl set off through the streets, she and Mantabé made a short stop at the shop of a sandwich maker on Dolphin Square. Their hunger satisfied, they passed through the square and underneath the shadow of the queen’s lavish palace, soon finding themselves outside the abode of Calyran, the queen’s personal sorcerer. 
              Alami arrived mere moments after them, carrying a nondescript purse heavy with coins. Sabinia went to the house and knocked on its black oaken front door. The upper floor of the house hung over the front porch, a great bay window projecting out into the street to offer shelter from the sun and rain to those standing at the door. A wrought iron lantern hung from underneath the window, glowing with the warm white light of a magical crystal. 
              Almost as soon as she had knocked, the door slowly swung open before Sabinia’s hand. The darkened foyer beckoned to them. Cautiously, Mantabé stepped inside. As soon as his foot touched the floor, candles in wall sconces flickered to life in the foyer, illuminating a wood-paneled room whose walls were decorated with tapestries and oil paintings. Scenes of ships at scene, nymphs bathing in forest ponds and pastoral vistas played out along the walls. The floor was covered in a richly dyed rug in which Mantabé’s foot sank up to the depth of his big toe. The distinct aroma of indigo spice was everywhere.
              “Go on in,” Sabinia urged, “He usually does not greet his guests at the door, but if we were not welcome, we would not be here.”
              Mantabé crept slowly into the house and Sabinia followed with Alami bringing up the rear. No sooner were they in the hall than the door swung shut behind them with a loud bang that made Mantabé jump a little. Sabinia tried to hide a smile at his unease while he glared back indignantly.
              At the end of the hall, Mantabé turned through a doorway to a sitting room. The room was richly appointed, with a mahogany coffee table and couches of crushed green velvet. Tall bookshelves stocked with leatherbound tomes reached to the ceiling, which itself was decorated with a stuffed heron in flight.
              With Sabinia following close behind, he passed through the sitting room to find himself in a parlor, wherein sat a tall, black-haired elf in front of an easel. He wore a long robe of dark gray cloth trimmed with white at the hem and shoulders. His long, black hair was brushed straight and hung over his shoulders except for a bit of it that had been braided and circled his head like a crown. His fingers were stained with paint, and all manner of painting implements lay on the canvas underneath his seat. In front of him was a painting in progress, and beyond that the model for said painting, a beautiful young woman in the nude. Her hair was golden and her skin white. She lay on the couch with her legs crossed just enough to hide her sex from view. Resting on one arm, she stared coolly at the interlopers to her salon. 
The elf looked up from his painting, and Mantabé could see the naked woman and her surroundings expertly depicted on the canvas in extreme detail. Like most of his kind, the elf was quite tall, perhaps even taller than Sweyn. He prowled towards the three of them, circling around Mantabé like a wolf and then standing behind Sabinia. He reached around her body to touch her breasts, leaning his head in close to hers.
              “It has been too long since you graced my bedchamber,” he nearly whispered into her ear. “Have you come to rectify that?”
              “No, my dear sorcerer,” she said, gently pushing his hands away and turning to face him. “We have come to ask for your sorcerous expertise in a matter.”
              Disappointed, Calyran stepped away. With a clap, he dismissed his concubine, who rose from the bed and strode naked into the garden to settle herself onto a couch by the fountain. He then wiped his hands on a rag and threw it aside. 
              Ignoring his lustful gaze, Sabinia went to his table and set down the abjurer’s stone atop the leather bag she had carried it in. The elf’s interest in her body disappeared, going right away to the stone. He picked it up and examined it closely, intently reading the runes on it as he turned the stone in his hands.
              “Yes, yes,” he murmured before continuing in a foreign tongue. “Where did you get this?” he inquired.
              “My master Didius bought it at Halakar’s,” Mantabé replied. The elf looked up from the stone and studied Mantabé for a moment.
              “Didius… yes of course, you would be the gladiator.” Mantabé disliked the way he was being studied. He cast his gaze about the room at all the oddities the elf had piled up about the place. A human skull adorned one of the tall bookshelves in the room, alongside it was the skeleton of a snake. Yellowed scrolls lined the glass-fronted shelves, neatly filed as carefully as in any library. Outside, in the garden where Calyran’s concubine waited, Mantabé could see flowers floating in the fountain’s water. They were in bloom, wide and dark, with petals of dark violet ranging to black and blood red stamens in the middle. He was no apothecary, but still Mantabé recognized the infamous black lotus, further adding to his sense of unease. 
              The elf was still speaking to himself in his foreign tongue as Sabinia carefully approached him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she tried to get a closer look at the stone. Her touch brought him out of his reverie, and he set the stone down.
              “Very well,” he said, “What is it you wish to know about this?”
               “What is it?” Sabinia asked. The elf snorted delicately.
              “It is a stone of passage. Simply put, it allows passage into places. Whether protected by locks, sentries or sorcerous wards, it will allow its bearer to enter places undetected. It is cleverly disguised, though. It appears to most as a simple abjurer’s stone, allowing the wielder to dispel simple spells of warding.”
              “How does one use it?” Sabinia asked, picking up the stone for a further look. The elf merely shrugged in response. 
              “It will do the hard part. The bearer must merely believe. Though I would caution against using it,” he said sternly, “it is quite the tool, though her majesty has even greater tools at her disposal. You might think to penetrate the wards of her palace or even the Bank, and you may succeed, but she will unmask the thief in time and her justice will be swift and merciless.”
              “We had no thought to use it for ill,” Sabinia said and Calyran laughed at her.
              “Of course not,” he chuckled, “your master merely acquired this stone because he liked the way it looked.”
              “Didius acquired it because other men wanted it, I am sure,” Mantabé grumbled, knowing the ways of his master. “He thought it better in his hands than those of anyone else.”
              “Were there other bidders?” the elf asked in a deceptively aloof tone as he let his gaze wander back to his impatient concubine.
              “A few,” Sabinia said, “that Anhalmurian Radobel went in on it before Didius outbid him.”
              “Those impertinent upstarts,” Calyran said, half to himself, “guard this stone well if you do not mean to use it. If you have no use for it, sell it to her majesty before it is stolen and used for ill. She would pay a hefty sum to keep it out of the hands of the city’s roofcrawlers and sea rats.”
              “I will tell Didius as much,” Mantabé said.
              “We must be going then,” Sabinia said as she prepared to leave, but Calyran laid a hand on her shoulder.
              “So soon? My dear, my bed has missed you and we have so much to catch up on. Have I introduced you to my newest toy, Ilvina? She was plucked from the sea cliffs of the Ghostwood by slavers a year ago, and I have since made her the most beautiful mortal in Torvuls. She would be delighted to share her bed with you. And your gladiator if you wish.”
              “A tempting offer, Calyran,” Sabinia mused, her eyes wandering over the naked girl in the garden, “but we have come here on an errand and must be going. Perhaps I will return some night in the future.”
              “Night, day,” Calyran said with a shrug, “you are always welcome in here.”
              “Yes, well,” Mantabé said brusquely, “we will let you return to your painting before you lose the light,” Mantabé said and the elf just laughed, the waning sunlight dancing aglitter in his alien eyes. Mantabé felt foolish for saying such a thing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. His face burning, he tried to beat a dignified retreat from the room, though he feared he did not manage it.
              Outside, he stopped and waited for Sabinia, who took her time admiring the fixtures of the sorcerer’s house and negotiating his payment as she made her way out the door. Twice, Mantabé heard the elf offer to waive payment if Sabinia bedded him. Though clearly interested, she bargained him down to a kiss and some silver. Mantabé scowled at her as she finally came out onto the street.
              “Well, we have neatly solved our problem of having no way into Kaunitzen’s house,” Sabinia said.
              “Have we now?” Mantabé asked sourly.
              “Oh, don’t be so petulant,” she laughed, “I dallied with the sorcerer before I met you, another stop on my road away from boredom. He was a flavor of the day.” She reached up and pinched his dark cheek affectionately, “you are something special,” she reassured him, but Mantabé remained unconvinced.
              “Florian chokes back his jealousy and he has far more pride than you do,” she admonished, handing the stone back to Alami for safekeeping. “And I only bed him on arrangement. But, as I was saying, we can use the stone to get into Kaunitzen’s house and learn what he is up to.”
              Mantabé frowned, still unwilling to forget her flirtation with the presumptuous sorcerer. 
              “I don’t know how to use it,” he complained. 
“Calyran says the stone will handle the hard work itself,” she reassured him again. 
              “So what am I to do?” Mantabé demanded, “just walk up to the gate and wait for the stone to do everything?”
              Sabinia sighed in exasperation. “Break in as you would anywhere else. If something gives you trouble, use the stone. Or let the stone handle it.”
              “Alright, but this stone had better be all your sorcerer says it is.” Mantabé paused in thought. “What am I looking for?” he asked. “We still don’t know what they want, other than money. But would they do all of this for money?”
              “Kaunitzen must have an office with letters, and perhaps a ledger. Find them and we may know what he is after.”
              Mantabé scowled. “Shall I just look at everything then? Go through his entire library while trespassing in his house?”
              “Well, then don’t,” Sabinia snapped, “it was you he tried to poison, after all.”
              Mantabé threw up his hands in frustration. “Very well then. Lead the way to his house and let us see where this plan gets us.”
 
              Kaunitzen’s house was a tall, slate-roofed building at the southern edge of Palace Hill, atop the chalky white cliff that divided it from the lower city. From the house’s upper floors and high-peaked turrets, an observer would be afforded good views of West End, especially the grand guildhouse of the Spicers’ Guild on West Square. 
              The narrow garden around the house was separated from the crowded city streets by a low brick wall topped with a wrought iron fence. A band of bronze ran along the fence, just below the sharp points of its iron fenceposts, encircling the entire property. The main gate, similarly banded in bronze and decorated with brass figures of leaping dolphins, was watched by a single guard. The guard was a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown hair and the classic sharp nose of an Anhalmurian. He wore a cuirass of polished steel and a heavy broadsword at his hip and armed with a spontoon. Despite his polish, as Mantabé and company approached, the guard was leaning lazily on his polearm, his eyes half closed in the dusky twilight. 
              They passed him by, stealing looks at the house as they pretended to be uninterested pedestrians on their way down the cliff to the nightlife attractions near West Square. The house was well lit, though no silhouettes moved in the upper floors. 
              Sabinia led them around the block to the side of the house, where the brick wall topped with iron was instead replaced by a stone wall ten feet high. Here the house hung over the courtyard, the support pillars of the upper levels descending from above to meet the boundary wall.
              “Here you can peer over the wall into the back,” she suggested. Mantabé wasted little time finding his footing in the aging masonry and slowly lifted his head to peer over the wall and into the rear courtyard of the house.
              Just below him, he spied four ornate carriages, parked with their horses harnessed. The four coach drivers were dicing among themselves as they waited. Mantabé dropped down to Sabinia.
              “There are four coaches here. Kaunitzen must be hosting a meeting of some kind,” he whispered. 
              “Maybe you can overhear something,” Sabinia suggested. “Look there,” she pointed to where the pillars met the wall. “Perhaps you could climb up those to the window on the third floor.”
              Mantabé studied the climbing path she had indicated. The window she pointed out was high off the ground, but slightly ajar to admit a cool, late winter breeze. Well worn by wind and rain, the stonework offered many handholds, but the climb would have to be quick and silent to avoid the notice of the dicing coachmen.
              “Alright,” he whispered, “here goes.”
              With the aid of Sabinia and Alami, he clambered up the wall to where it met the support pillar. After ensuring that the coachmen were distracted, he pulled himself onto the pillar like a cat climbing a tree. Looking down, he could see moonlight reflecting off a band of beaten bronze that ran around the inside of the boundary wall. The merchant’s house was well warded and Mantabé could only hope that the stone in his pocket would protect him. 
              Hand over hand he went up the pillar as quickly as he dared, all the while fearing an errant piece of stone would break off and fall clattering to the courtyard below. His fears proved unfounded, however, and soon enough he reached the open window. He peered inside, and found the room dark. Content with that, he pulled himself over the windowsill and alit on the floor. The wooden floor was solidly built, and no creak betrayed his presence. He peered out the window and signaled his status to Sabinia down below. She could only wave for fear of alerting the coachmen, so Mantabé withdrew into the house. 
              He crept from the window to the door. It was closed and when Mantabé tried to open it, he found it locked. Now was the first time to use the stone. He took it from his pocket and examined the stone. No obvious solution presented itself. Sighing, he grabbed the door handle again and squatted to examine the lock.
              As he did, he fell, and tore the handle off. Staring at the door in bewilderment, Mantabé saw it swing slightly open. He rose to his feet and pulled the door the rest of the way open. 
              “Well, that was easy,” he muttered to himself as he peered out into the hall. It was lit by candle sconces, but deserted. Voices echoed up to him from somewhere further on, audible but unintelligible. They continued undisturbed and he grew confident that his sudden clumsiness had not alerted anyone. Slowly, he crept down the hall towards the source of the voices.
              He soon found himself in an upper galley, looking down into a grand dining hall. The walls were lined with tapestries and a long dining table of oak was draped in fine red cloth. Candlesticks of brass sat upon the table. The chairs were made of polished oak and masterfully carved. The seats were of rich red velvet. A dozen rich men sat at the table and some were those Mantabé recognized. Septimius of the Spicers’ Guild was here, as was Bannert Guillen. Each of them had at their place setting a fine silver plate that bore the remains of a sumptuous meal. Crystal goblets, either in their hands or on the table, contained red and white wine, as well as more potent spirits from the city’s distilleries. A pretty, young, serving girl wearing only a girdle and sandals poured fresh wine for the assembled men. 
              At the table’s head sat a short, rotund man who nevertheless had the classic Anhalmurian nose. He wore a coat of deep black velvet and white hose on his legs. His belt was embroidered with gold and his wore a wide chain of brass around his shoulders. Upon his fat hands were golden rings studded with many-colored gems that glowed in light of the enormous chandelier that hung above them. 
              Surely, this was the notorious Kaunitzen. Behind the man, Mantabé spied two men in dark blue coats and white hose, wearing tall, pointed, caps of black fur. The caps were trimmed with gold and decorated with roundels of red cloth on the front. Each man wore a sword as his hip and held a battleaxe at his side. They stood at rapt attention as Kaunitzen spoke in the Common tongue to his guests.
              “Yes, debts will be forgiven,” he said in his halting accent. “But only in exchange for your aid.”
              “Aid in what?” one of the rich men inquired around a mouthful of tender beef. While some of the men here were eagerly devouring the wine and meat, most were a good deal more suspicious in their demeanor. Mantabé spied that some men had hardly touched their meals. 
              “Aid in changing the course of history!” exclaimed the man at Kaunitzen’s right hand. He was blonde and bearded, a finely cut thing that clung close to his fleshy jowls. His belly was even heavier than his host’s and he was clad in red velvet all about him. Like Kaunitzen, he wore a brass chain about him and many rings. 
              “Indeed,” Kaunitzen agreed, “my loyal companion Radobel speaks the truth. For I see what you long have not. This city is rich beyond measure—”
              Bannert Guillen cut him off. “Damnation, you Anhalmurians are an arrogant lot. We can all see that!” He gestured around them, from his ravaged dinner plate to the fine wall hangings. “This is the richest city in all the world!”
              Mantabé was glad Didius was not here, for he knew that, if he were, that little remark would have provoked a long diatribe from the Spicer about the opulence of the Imperial City and the Empire as a whole. 
              “Yes,” Kaunitzen hissed, his hand tightening around a dinner fork, “I know that much. But you are all content to sit here feasting on scraps while the queen gorges herself on all the rest. The upjumped witch has a hundred palaces across this island and never sees half of them! She has grown complacent in her long life, and that had made her weak.”
              “Better men than you have tried to unseat her,” a man in Zahiri robes scoffed. “Go and look for them now.”
              Kaunitzen continued disturbed. “You all owe me great sums of money. I could merely take my winnings, return to Anhalmuria and hire an army of mercenaries to install myself here. But I offer you an alliance instead. Make me king in her place, and I will divide the spoils among you. Her lands, her treasure vaults, her libraries, her slaves—they will all be yours! If you follow me.
              “Tomorrow, at the banquet, with the aid of the Shrouding Stone, we will slay her. All her magical protections will be useless against it. Then, I will take the reins of power in this city, and you will all receive your dues. The queen’s children rule the outlying islands, we will have to unseat them. But they rely on this city and their mother for their true strength. Without the city, they will be divided. We will descend upon each of them in turn and destroy them.”
              “You are a fool, Kaunitzen,” the Zahiri man laughed. “Lamira commands the myriad pirate lords in way that you could never hope to!”
              “And what of the Empire?” shouted another man in an Auric accent, “Lamira rules at the sufferance of the Imperial Armada! Overthrow her and you will see a thousand ships in the harbor before the year’s end, flying the imperial eagle and disgorging the emperor’s finest legions! Your arrogance will be no match for his guns.”
              “The emperor cares not a whit for Lamira!” Kaunitzen shot back. “He cares nothing for the Sea as a whole! The Spicers’ Guild guides his hand when it comes to our corner of the world and all they care about is the spice monopoly. We will guarantee their sole right to trade in spice and they will accept us as they accepted Lamira these past centuries. Isn’t that right, Septimius?”
              Septimius shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The Guild wants their monopoly,” he agreed, “but trade must flow. If the disruption in trade through the Devouring Sea becomes too great, they will demand that the emperor send his armada.”
              “That will not be a problem,” Kaunitzen waved his hand as he tried to turn his attention elsewhere. The disruption will only be temporary, as we crush the queen’s children and their allies.”
              “Lamira has allies beyond her children,” Septimius warned, “Her consort, Draithan---”
              “We will kill him at the banquet as well,” Radobel insisted, slamming a meaty fist down on the table. “Him and their little daughter. And all the queen’s household in the palace!”
              “What about the Sultan?” the Zahiri man demanded. “He and his forefathers have been allied with the queen since your people were building huts in the forest and dressing in rags!”
              Kaunitzen’s eyes narrowed. “The Sultan is a soft, indolent man. It will take weeks for news of the battle to reach him and months beyond that before he can reach us with a fleet. By then, there will be nothing for him to do, and he will slink away to his harem and his wives. Speed will be our ally, and confusion the bane of our enemies. We must strike quickly, and ruthlessly, leaving them no time to gather themselves. Without the queen to rally them, they will fall to indecision and infighting.”
              “Tomorrow, once the deed is done,” Radobel added, “I will order my men to seize the channel forts and close the harbor to prevent news from getting out. The first news the queen’s children will receive of her downfall will be when our fleet descends upon their islands.”
              “And where do you expect to produce this fleet of yours?” demanded another man, dark and swathed in many-colored robes. He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Will you command the pirates? They will cut your throat and leave you naked and penniless in the gutter before you can even open your mouth.”
              “The pirates will obey me as they obey Lamira. They will not pass up the chance to loot her palaces. If need be, we will offer them an island to set themselves up as lords on its lands. The retirement every pirate dreams of; land, serfs and gold.”
              A quiet settled over the conspirators. Mantabé lurked in the upper galley, struggling to decide if Kaunitzen was making sense. He had charisma to be sure, but the queen had defeated all comers for a thousand years, if the legends were to be true. Could a man rise from fixing arena fights to unseating a mighty sorceress queen? 
              The door to the main hall swung open and, to Mantabé’s surprise, a familiar figure strode inside.
              “Well now, Kaunitzen, why have you summoned me here?” Didius demanded. “I have told you our business is settled, so why have you elected to harangue me so?”
              Kaunitzen smiled as a wolf. “Master Didius, so good of you to finally arrive. I have been waiting for you.”
              “And I have been waiting for you to explain why I am here,” Didius snapped in annoyance, “I have so many more important things to attend to.”
              “I am afraid you have nothing more important to attend to,” Kaunitzen replied. “But first, give me the stone.”
              “I won the bet, Kaunitzen. I have heard many disparagements of your people, but I had expected that they would at least understand how a wager works.”
              “Indeed, you won the wager. But now I am demanding that you give me the stone.” Kaunitzen beckoned to his guardsmen, who hefted their axes and advanced on Didius. A murmur went through the room as men rose from the table. Behind Didius, two house slaves slammed the door to the foyer shut. 
              “What is the meaning of this?!” Didius demanded. “Have you summoned me here to rob me? The gods will cast you down for this violation of hospitality!”
              “What hospitality?” Kaunitzen replied, “I summoned you here to hear my demands, not to share my dinner table. Now give me the stone!”
              “I don’t have it!” Didius said, backing away from Kaunitzen’s men until he ran up against the closed door. 
              “That is a shame,” Kaunitzen gestured to his guards, who seized Didius by the arms and pressed the naked blade of an axe against his neck. “Where is it?”
              “I—I gave it to my gladiator!” Didius cried as the axe blade touched his bare skin, “he took it to the queen’s sorcerer!”
              Kaunitzen balled up his fists and leaned forward on the table. “Well, then. Radobel,” he said to the man beside him, “Send your men out and find this gladiator.”
              “No need for that,” Mantabé whispered to himself as he vaulted onto the rail of the balcony. He looked down at the tall fur hats of the guardsmen and hoped they made a good cushion. Taking a deep breath, he leapt from the galley and came crashing down atop the nearer of the two guardsmen. The man’s neck seemed to snap under his weight and Mantabé spilled to the floor. 
              The assembled men gasped in shock and went scrambling out of the way. Chairs fell to the floor, the great crack of one breaking resounded throughout the room. One panicking man bowled over a serving girl, sending a pitcher of wine spilling across the floor.
              Mantabé fought his way to his feet and seized the fallen man’s sword. The other guard shook off the surprise and raised his own weapon. Mantabé tried desperately to wrest the sword from the man’s scabbard, but it had become hopelessly entangled in everything from the fall. He abandoned the sword and dodged out of the way of the oncoming axe. He ducked behind an ornate pillar, just in time for it to eat the axeblow meant for his head. 
              More guards entered the room, all dressed alike and with swords drawn. Mantabé, unarmed, found himself cornered. With swordpoints at his throat, he at last raised his arms in surrender.
              The guards threw him to the floor next to Didius, who knelt with a sword at his throat. The men roughly rifled through his pockets until they found the Shrouding Stone. Kaunitzen eagerly hurried through the press of startled men and servants to seize his prize.
              Reverently, he took it from his guardsmen and handled it as a man might handle an enormous gemstone.
              “Wonderful,” Kaunitzen whispered as he beheld the stone in his hands. “I’m afraid I have no further use for you, Didius.” He looked from the stone to Didius’ ashen face and then gestured to his guards. “Kill him, and the gladiator too.”
              There was a sudden crash outside, following by much shouting. Kaunitzen looked away in confusion, and Mantabé seized the opportunity. He headbutted his captor in the stomach and seized the sword that fell from the man’s grip. Lunging forward, he drove the sword into the gut of the man who held Didius on his knees.
              Again, the dining hall erupted in panic, men running everywhere. There was a blast of gunfire outside and then the sound of battering in the front hall. Wide-eyed, Kaunitzen dropped the stone and ran from the room, only to become entangled in the press of bodies trying to do the same.
              Mantabé pulled Didius out of the way just as another of Kaunitzen’s guards lunged at the two of them. Behind the guards, the door to the hall swung open and eight men with swords and bucklers burst into the room. Kaunitzen’s guards, attacked from behind, never stood a chance. In mere moments, they were overwhelmed and went down in a frenzy of hacking and stabbing. 
              The men trying to flee the room suddenly began backing into it, and soon more swordsmen appeared at the other exits. The swordsmen were all dressed in tabards of sable emblazoned with saltires argent. 
              “No one is to move, on pain of death!” a woman’s voice proclaimed from the hall. Following it, a woman entered the room in a whirl of her black dress. She was tall and dark-haired, dressed in a black gown and a bronze cuirass. In her hand, she carried a short spear of elden oak tipped with a shining spearhead. 
“Just as I told you, Mother,” Fethira, the queen’s spymaster and second daughter, said wickedly. “A bunch of fat, soft men making foolish plans.”
              “Indeed,” the queen said, her black dress flowing behind her as she strode into the room. “The crows will feast well tomorrow. What better way to celebrate my accession than with the execution of traitors?”
              There was a sudden clamor, as men rushed to disavow their part in the plot. Lamira raised her hand and the room felt silent once again. 
              “I have seen this night long ago in my scrying pool. A plot to slay me and my children was hatched here tonight, and no pleading on your parts will save your necks. This conspiracy will be crushed and I mean to demonstrate the futility of plotting against me. Kaunitzen, this is your house, and you are responsible for all that occurs beneath your roof. Tomorrow, I will have you fed to a basilisk, you scheming viper. You sought to take my throne and you will pay for it with your life. Think on how you have repaid my hospitality as it feasts upon your innards.
              “As for the rest of you, you will be allowed to prove your innocence. Guards, take them in for interrogation.” Her black-coated guardsmen began rounding up the conspirators, roughly shoving them into line as they brought forth shackles. Didus and Mantabé were hauled to their feet and thrown against the wall until their shackles were brought forward. 
              Lamira stepped forward and picked up the Shrouding Stone from where it had rolled under the table. 
              From the hall, Mantabé heard yet another familiar voice.
              “Your Majesty,” Sabinia called as she pushed her way past a queen’s guardsman, “Your Majesty I must protest on behalf of Master Didius and his gladiator there.”
              The queen gave her a bemused look, rolling the stone between her hands. Her daughter Fethira stepped up next to her and whispered in her ear.
              “Lady Sabinia,” said the queen, “what brings you here tonight? I do not see your husband among my new prisoners.”
              “No, fortunately you do not, Majesty. I came here with Mantabé, the gladiator of Didius. He and I have been investigating a poisoning attempt on him this afternoon.”
              “Indeed,” the queen said. “And how has that brought you here?”
              “We believe that Kaunitzen was behind the poisoning, as a means of fixing the fight. Mantabé was one of the few favored fighters to win his match today, and Kaunitzen collected great winnings on all the other fights. If not for a stroke of good fortune, Mantabé would have drunk his poisoned wine and likely been defeated by Sweyn.”
              “My wager on the fight was that stone you hold,” Didius added as a guardsman shackled his hands behind his back. 
              “Hmm.” The queen said, her attention on the stone as she tossed it from hand to hand. “Fethira, can you verify all of this?”
              “Yes, Mother. This slave was the only favored fighter to win. Kaunitzen did bet on the other winners and lost a bet on this one’s bout.”
              “Very well,” the queen said. “I will grant them their freedom, for now. If any other reason to detain them comes up, we will meet again. Guards, let them go.”
              The guards reluctantly but obediently unshackled Didius and allowed him and Mantabé to leave. The queen held up the stone in her hands.
              “This, however, I will be keeping. Don’t worry, you will be compensated for it. But it is too valuable to leave in anyone else’s hands.”
              Didius waved his hands in frustration and stormed out of the house. Mantabé and Sabinia hurried out of the room before the queen could change her mind.
              “Well done,” Mantabé said, “I have no interest in meeting the queen’s interrogators.”
              “Yes, I should like your fingernails and eyelids where they are now,” Sabinia replied. “What happened in there? I only saw the queen’s men arrive and shout ‘traitors!’ as they gunned down Kaunitzen’s men.”
              “It was an entire ordeal,” Mantabé replied. “I shall have to tell you about later. For now, I just want out of here.”
              They made their way through a press of Lamira’s guards and Kaunitzen’s detained servants. The coachmen had been lined up in the front hall and placed under the guard of a bellicose minotaur with a wicked looking cleaver. Some of the guards were plundering tapestries and candlesticks from the house. The servants huddled together in fear as their home was torn apart around them.
              In the garden, they could see a crowd of onlookers gathering in the street. News was moving fast in the city. The queen’s guards had formed a cordon around the property, keeping back anyone too curious, or anyone intent on looting. 
“Well,” Sabinia said with a heavy sigh after they had made it to the street. “That was a night to remember.”
              “It’s not over yet,” Mantabé replied. “And all our previous nights to remember have involved the Black Lotus, wine, dancing and several nubile courtesans. Why should this be any different?” he extended his arm to Sabinia, who smiled and put her own in arm in his.
              “I can agree with that. Come along, Alami, we’re off to have some fun.”