Firesign 1 - Wage Slave Rebellion (27 page)

Nothing they could see, at any rate.

In one section near Kitpicc Square at the front of the arena, two guards were patrolling in silence when the arena master appeared around the corner and waved. “I need your help with something,” he said, his tastefully cut clothes and rolled-up sleeves doing little for the frumpy, doughy body beneath.

The two guards altered course for the arena master without comment. Behind him were a man and a woman they didn’t recognize, but they paid them no mind. The kind of people who can patrol for hours on end weren’t usually the naturally curious type.

“Yes sir,” said the rightmost guard as they stopped in front of the arena master, saluting lazily. His companion said nothing, though his sloppy uniform and even sloppier salute told the arena master everything he needed to know about his readiness.

“Could you please help these two—wait, hold on!” said the arena master.

Two cultists dropped out of invisibility behind the guards and raised their fists, indigo mana crackling as they collided with the back of the guards’ necks. The two guards went down, their bodies twitching as they hit the floor.

The woman behind the arena master stepped forward and pressed a knife into his back. “That’s the sixth group. Is that all of them?”

The arena master squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, that’s all of them,” he said, his balding head gleaming as he swallowed. “There might still be some gladiators down in Gladiator’s Way, though. They’ve been in and out practicing all day.”

“Please go and tell the gladiators they need to leave for the day,” said a new voice behind them. The arena master turned and watched as a man in simple brown robes with a waist-length gray beard walked toward them. Behind him was another man, this one wearing black robes and a crimson armband.

“All right,” said the arena master weakly. He couldn’t conjure up anything else.

The bearded man’s hand disappeared into the darkness of his hood, and he scratched his chin. “How do we get onto the arena floor?”

The arena master produced an iron key that was hanging around his neck. “The quickest way is to go down to Gladiator’s Way and enter through the Gate of Life.” He waved the key at them. “This will unlock the gate. I-if I need to go talk to the gladiators anyway, I can take you.”

The bearded man nodded. “By all means. Lead the way.”

The arena master hesitated, and then shuffled forward. The woman behind him stepped forward to jab him with the knife again, but the bearded man held up a hand to stop her. He watched as the arena master shuffled past, his eyes fixated on the ground and his hands shaking.

“You look like something is bothering you,” said the bearded man finally.

The arena master hesitated. Then: “Why are you letting the gladiators go when you took everyone else captive?”

The arena master couldn’t see past the darkness that filled the bearded man’s hood, but he got the distinct impression he was smiling. “The gladiators are powerful, and will fight back. You, on the other hand, may run or fight, but I don’t suspect you’ll be any good at either. Plus, if you try anything we’ll kill you and all of your staff.”

“Ah,” said the arena master. He couldn’t argue with that. “Makes sense.”

“Good,” said the man in the brown robes. “Just tell the gladiators you’re closing the arena for emergency repairs, and that it will be reopened tomorrow.” He smiled his hidden smile again. “We wouldn’t want them to worry.”

“Right,” said the arena master weakly. “This way, please.”

The arena master led the cultists to a heavy iron gate cut into an alcove under the stands. It sat next to the arena master’s offices, where the cultists captured him and his staff not long ago. The arena master quietly prayed for their safety while he fumbled with the cast-iron lock.

The gate swung open. The arena master tugged a torch off the holder just inside the doorway and, with the bearded man’s permission, lit it. He held it up and led them down the roughhewn staircase and into the tunnels below.

The Pit was much larger than just the arena itself. It sat at the middle of a complex of buildings that served the games, and which were connected to the arena by a series of underground tunnels. Of these, Gladiator’s Way was the largest and most important.

An artifact of the days when gladiators were condemned slaves rather than well-paid entertainers, the tunnel known as Gladiator’s Way led from the Gladiator School—now a preparatory area and armory for the entertainers, rather than a guarded barracks for the soon-to-die—directly to the Gate of Life, the massive gate through which all gladiators entered the arena. Though designed to ferry the condemned into the arena rather than risk their escape on the streets above, The Pit’s arena masters still found it useful for preventing their popular gladiators from being mobbed by fans before they got a chance to compete.

The stairs they were walking down were a recent addition, cut directly out of the tunnel wall so the arena master could react to any problems with the gladiators quickly. Now the arena master walked like the condemned of old, the torch bobbing over empty air as he weakly grasped the wall.

They stepped down onto Gladiator’s Way. The tunnel was massive, tall and wide enough to accommodate two elephants walking abreast, something which had been done many times
⁴⁷
. On the other side of the tunnel was an elevator large enough to support twenty people at once. It went down into the Catacombs, a network of rooms and passages directly under the arena floor.

The arena master pointed to their right. “That leads out onto the arena floor. I-I’ll just go this way and speak to the gladiators,” he said, nodding into the long darkness on the other side.

“Let’s go,” said the woman with the knife. The arena master visibly shuddered as she and her companion followed him. The bearded man and the cultist with the crimson armband headed the other direction, toward the gates still open from the gladiators’ practice earlier.

As soon as the two men stepped out onto the arena floor, they looked up.

The sight was breathtaking. The bearded man looked up at the three tiers of seating above them, the great slabs of benches staring down at them as if the spectators were up there right now. The arena floor stretched in front of them, covered in a uniform shade of dull tan, save for where the sand was stained with dried blood. And up past the very top level of the arena, past the uppermost seats and the stretched awnings that hung over them, were buildings.

The Pit’s unique design made for a four-story building that looked two stories tall to its surroundings. Soon after The Pit’s completion, some of the tallest buildings in Houk went up around it, the upper levels fetching high prices as the rich paid a hefty premium to be able to watch the games from their balconies. What most people didn’t know was that the people who owned The Pit also owned most of the buildings around it. To them, letting people see the games for free wasn’t theft; it was another revenue stream.

From down on the arena floor, the effect was of the entire city pressing in around them. It felt like all of Houk was
there
, thousands of eyes all focused intently on the events unfolding on the arena floor. The bearded man stretched his arms out and raised his shrouded face to the sky, exalting at the feeling of being at the center of it all.

“I’m going to stand back, my Lord,” said the cultist with the crimson armband, slinking back into the darkness of the gate. “At least until it’s completely dark.”

“Fine, fine,” said the bearded man, his arms still held out as if he was accepting the blessings of the heavens. He watched as people scurried invisibly among the stands above.

“Are the crystals still there?” asked the bearded man as he walked back to the tunnel mouth and picked up the satchel he dropped there.

The cultist with the crimson armband already had one hand to his ear, listening. “Yes, they are,” he said, as up in the stands, cultists poked and prodded the four special enclosures that sat atop the sheer walls that encircled the arena floor. “The barrier crystals are still in place, and we’ve returned the workers who unlocked them for us to the tunnels with the rest of the sacrifices.”

“And are the tunnels cleared out?” asked the bearded man. He waved at one of the cultists walking down the tunnel toward them. She walked over and held out her hands, and the bearded man began pulling clothing out of the satchel and handing it to her.

“Mostly, my Lord,” said Crimson. “We’ve already sealed off the other two tunnels
⁴⁸
, and we’re combing through the tunnels below the arena now. Everyone we’ve found has already been added to the sacrifice pool.”

“And how are we looking on sacrifices?” asked the bearded man. He pulled a pair of rich, pitch-black robes from the satchel and laid them across the other cultist’s arms.

“With the ones we brought in from outside, the ones we captured here, and the ones that were sacrificed before we lost the—before, we should have enough,” said Crimson. He listened to the voices in his head for a moment, but they were talking about something else. “Not by many, though.”

The bearded man motioned for the others to turn around, and then shrugged out of his brown robes. They fell to the ground, pooling at his feet.

“We tried to do this the slow and steady way, but that didn’t work,” said the bearded man. “The ritual won’t be as potent this way, but there’s little we can do about that now. Once they’re finished locking the area down, send teams out to capture more sacrifices. I want extras.”

The cultist with the crimson armband transmitted his leader’s wishes to their allies. “Where would you like us to take them from?” he asked. “The immediate area is fairly affluent, so capturing people here might be problematic.”

“Are there any good options nearby?” asked the bearded man.

Crimson relayed the question, and grimaced. “There’s an orphanage six blocks away.”

The bearded man waved a hand angrily. “No. There’s no reason to take children who still have long lives ahead of them. Send teams to the slums. This city is full of sweatshops, drug dens, and whorehouses where we can get the necessary sacrifices without arousing suspicion.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Crimson, bowing.

There was a pause. “And?” said the bearded man.

“Yes, my Lord?” said Crimson.

“Stop avoiding the subject you know I want to hear about. If there is any bad news, I would know it. You know I don’t take my anger out on those who bear bad tidings. What of the Edge?”

Crimson hesitated. “The thieves have proven … difficult to capture, my Lord. They’re fast and clever. Our people even lost them for a while.”

“By the way you said that, I assume they’ve rectified the problem,” said the bearded man. The sound of shuffling clothing had stopped. “Answer the question. Have they been captured or not?”

“No, my Lord,” said Crimson.

A long second passed, pregnant with ill-intent. Then:

“Turn around,” said the bearded man.

Crimson turned around, and found his master standing in his renewed splendor. Gone were the plain brown robes of a traveling caster, and in their place were magnificent robes of deep obsidian, complete with sparkling sequins, encrusted gems, elaborate runes, and giant raven’s feathers woven into its sleeves, hem, and hood. The man’s luxurious beard flowed from within his cowl, the jewels woven into it glittering like cat’s eyes. His walking stick thudded angrily against the tunnel floor as he stalked forward.

“Well? What’s the situation then?” asked the True Head Cultist.

Crimson scratched his chin, searching for the right words. “Uhm. Well…”

*      *      *

“Get out of the way!” yelled Mazik.

Pedestrians scattered as a wagon barreled through the crowded intersection. People yelled and horses brayed as the wagon swerved around obstacles like a dog among confused cows, only with less mooing and far more property damage. The open-backed wagon just barely avoided skidding into a lamppost, scattering cabbages as it escaped.

“We ought to be running away as quietly as possible and hiding when the opportunity arrives, but we’re escaping in the loudest and the most conspicuous way imaginable,” said Raedren as he shoveled cabbages out the back. “This may be your worst idea yet.”

“No, it’s the silliest,” said Mazik as he kicked more produce behind them. The explosions around them diminished as the cultists following them on horseback were forced to slow down, for fear of turning their mounts’ ankles. “See? My bad ideas don’t work. This one is just ridiculous.”

“Well, nothing new there,” said Raedren.

Gavi smirked, but kept her eyes on the road. She was suddenly very glad her father taught her how to drive a wagon. He did it so she could become a traveling merchant like he was if she wanted to, but this was the first time it had come in handy. He was going to laugh about this later on. Hopefully.

“Shit, they’re everywhere,” said Mazik as he kicked the last few cabbages out the back. He watched as their pursuers veered around them and kept coming. He went back to firing spells. “Look, don’t worry about it. We don’t have to outrun them forever, just until we reach the river. How’s your mana?”

“About as good as can be expected,” said Raedren as he refreshed the barriers around the three of them, and then added ones around key points of the wagon for good measure.

“Gavi?” said Mazik.

“Too busy, can’t think about it,” said Gavi, her eyes locked on the road ahead.

“You need me to take the reins while you channel?” asked Mazik.

“Have you ever done this before?” asked Gavi as she tugged at the reins, urging the horses around a parked carriage, and the children disembarking from it.

“Nope,” said Mazik, as he sighted a cultist and fired. He missed.

“Well I have, so no thanks,” said Gavi as something
whoompf
’ed in the back, setting it on fire.
A couple of times
, she didn’t add. She decided they didn’t need to know. “Just transfer some mana to me when you’re done. It won’t take much to fill me back up.”