Midnight Falcon (15 page)

Bane did not respond and Girta moved to the doorway. 'The others will be here within the hour. I'll serve the meal then,' she said.

'Others?'

'The other gladiators,' she told him. Then she pulled shut the door behind her and Bane heard her walking away down the corridor. Taking off his cloak he draped it over the back of a chair then pushed open the window. From here he could see a line of wooded hills, and the distant stone road that led to Goriasa. The sky was clear above the hills, but in the distance dark storm clouds were bunching over the sea.

Tired from his efforts that morning he pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. He thought of Banouin, and wondered again why his friend had deserted him. Oranus had told him Banouin had boarded a ship the morning after the killings. It made no sense to the young Rigante. They had been friends. Did I misjudge him so badly? he wondered.

Then he slept lightly, and dreamed of Caer Druagh, and of Lia. He was holding her hand on the mountain slope, and pointing down at the settlement of Three Streams. Then she began to float away from him. He ran after her, but she was swept along like a leaf in the wind, ever higher, until she vanished among the clouds.

A sharp rapping on the door roused him from sleep. 'Come in,' he called.

Cara pushed open the door. She was dressed now in a knee-length tunic of bright blue. 'The day is not for sleeping,' she chided him.

He grinned at her. 'Ah, but I am old and tired,' he said.

'You are not old. Grandfather is old, and he doesn't sleep in the daytime. Anyway, Polon and Telors are here. Would you like to meet them?'

Bane pulled on his boots. 'They are gladiators?'

'Yes. Grandfather has called a meeting.'

Bane followed the girl downstairs, through the kitchen, and into a long room containing a dozen chairs and six couches. Two men were lounging there, one tall and wide-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed black beard, flecked with silver, the second smaller, sandy-haired with close-set grey eyes. Cara ran to the black-bearded man, who grinned widely and lifted her into a hug, kissing her cheek. Bane paused in the doorway. 'Telors,' said Cara, 'this is Bane. Grandfather is teaching him to be a fighter.'

Black-bearded Telors lowered the child to the floor and stepped forward, hand outstretched. Bane shook hands. 'Good to meet you,' said Telors.

'You'll make no money with Crises,' said the sandy-haired man, not offering his hand.

Telors shook his head. 'Polon is not in a good mood today,' he said. 'He spent last night gambling and now is without a copper coin to his name.'

Polon swore at him.

'That is not nice,' said Cara. 'Those were bad words.'

'Aye, but he's a bad man – and a worse gambler,' said Telors, with a grin. 'Now why don't you run along and fetch us some hot drinks, princess?'

Once the girl had left Telors's expression hardened. 'You shouldn't use language like that in front of her,' he said sternly.

'Like I should give a shit?' answered Polon, moving to the window.

Telors turned to Bane. 'Are you Gath?'

'No. Rigante.'

'That will draw the crowds. Especially in Stone. Demon fighters, the Rigante. Or so we're told.' He gave an easy smile as he said it, and Bane found himself liking the man.

'Here they come,' said Polon. Bane glanced out of the window and saw five riders approach the farmhouse. A servant took charge of their horses and the men came inside. All were in their middle to late thirties, lean, grim-faced men. No-one introduced Bane, and he wandered to a seat against the wall, where he sat and observed the group. The clothes they were wearing were of good quality, but not new, and their boots were worn. Three more riders arrived within minutes. Then four more. Girta and Cara brought cups of hot tisane, leaving them on the table at the centre of the room. Telors took one, but the others ignored the drinks. Finally, with fourteen men gathered, Rage entered the room. He was dressed now in simple farm clothes, a sleeveless leather jerkin over a thick woollen shirt and leather leggings. Even so, he created a magnetic centre to the room. Bane watched him. The man radiated power and purpose, and all conversation ceased as he moved to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire.

'You have all heard of the offer from Palantes,' he said. 'Persis Albitane needs to send them an answer. So . . . let us discuss it. Who wants to begin?'

'How much coin?' asked Polon.

'Five thousand in gold guaranteed to the circus, plus a third of the gate. I would think at least four thousand people would attend. Persis has agreed to give one-tenth of the receipts to the eight who agree to take part. That should mean around two hundred in gold for the fighters.'

'For the survivors of the eight, you mean?' said a swarthy, thin-faced man at the back of the room.

'Aye, Goren, the survivors,' agreed Rage. 'Moneys earned by those who die will be paid to their kin – or to any named by the fighters before the bouts.'

'That's fair,' said Telors. 'I have an ex-wife and two daughters. If I were to . . . fail . . . I would expect my tenth to be given to them.'

'She left you, man,' snorted Polon. 'She's not worth a bent copper coin.'

Telors ignored him.

'Are they sending Names?' asked another man.

'No Names,' Rage told him. 'All are young gladiators, yet to be blooded in the arena. But we are talking about Palantes and they do not sign cowards. All will have been soldiers, and all will have proved themselves in exhibition displays.'

'How do you feel about this, Rage?' asked a stocky man with close-cropped blond hair and a flattened nose.

'I am against it, Toris. But if seven are willing I will be the eighth. One fact needs to be made clear: Circus Orises has made another loss this season, and there will be no moneys to pay winter wages. Now some of you obtained employment at the docks last year, others with the timber men in the high country. This year, with the crop failures, there are some six thousand extra workers seeking employment in the city. Work will not be so easy to find. If the Palantes offer is accepted, every man will be on half wages until the new spring season.'

'I want no part of it,' said the thin-faced Goren. 'I quit the major arenas ten years ago. I knew then that I was no longer as fast or as strong. I would not have lasted another season. Now I'm ten years older, and certainly no faster. I have no wish to die on the sand.'

'I understand that view,' said Rage, 'and I share it. It is eminent good sense. We are none of us here young men . . .'

'He looks young to me,' said Polon, pointing to Bane.

'He's not ready,' said Rage, 'and has no vote in this. You should all, I believe, consider the words of Goren. We are past our best, and Palantes would not have made this offer without first sending scouts to watch us. It is my belief that – should we go ahead with this venture – few will survive to claim the gold. Now let us have a show of hands. How many believe this death bout should be refused?' He raised his own hand, the move echoed by Goren. All the others sat very still. Bane thought they looked uneasy. Rage lowered his arm. 'Those for?' he asked. The thirteen others raised their hands.

'Very well. Now the question is, who will compete?'

No-one moved. Rage shook his head and smiled. The gesture shamed the fighters.

'I'll fight,' said Polon. 'The gods know I need the money.'

'And I,' said Telors.

Five others raised their hands, including the flat-nosed Toris. 'I don't relish begging for winter work again,' he said.

There was a brief moment of silence, then Telors looked at Rage. 'Why are you fighting, my brother?' he asked. 'The farm may not shower you with gold, but it does keep you fed.'

Rage shrugged. 'Palantes have a new man they are seeking to promote. They think killing me will enhance his reputation.'

'Is it pride, then?' asked Goren. 'Or do you think you are immortal?'

'I expect to find out,' Rage told him.

The conversations went on for a little while, but then Rage dismissed the men and they filed out. Telors was the last to leave. He approached Rage and they shook hands. 'Not a good day, brother,' said Telors sadly.

'Poverty makes fools of us all,' replied Rage.

When they had gone Rage sat down in a wide chair and drank some cold tisane. Then he glanced at Bane. 'That's the reality, boy,' he said. 'Menial labour on the docks, or an agonizing death in the arena.'

'Then why do it?' asked Bane.

'It is all they know.'

'I meant you.'

Rage took a deep breath. 'Without me there would be no contest. I am still a Name. The man who kills me will become one.' He leaned back in the chair. 'Palantes is the largest – and richest – of the circuses. For seventeen of the last twenty years they have owned Gladiator One – the greatest of fighters. I was with Palantes, as was Voltan, and now Brakus. But in order to stay at the top Palantes must acquire new fighters, fit, strong young men. Brakus is close to thirty now, and it is said he was cut badly in his last fight. So, they need to blood young fighters – prepare them for the noise and the crowds, the tension and the fear. What better way than to bring them to border cities and towns, pitting them against old and tired men who have forgotten how to fight for their lives?'

'You sound bitter.'

'Aye, I am a little bitter.' He rubbed his hand across his face, and pulled clear the red silk scarf. He looked older without it, thought Bane. 'So,' said Rage, 'how did you enjoy your first morning?'

'It was tough. I have been . . . ill for some time. I am weaker than I thought.'

Rage nodded. 'I have been doing some thinking about you, Bane. Word reached us here three months ago that two Knights of Stone were killed during the execution of the general Appius across the water. A third Knight completed the execution – and in doing so slew the young tribesman who had killed his comrades. This was in Accia. You came from Accia. Would I be right in thinking that the tribesman did not die?'

'You would be right,' admitted Bane.

'He fought to save a Stone general – or so it is said. Why would he do that?'

'Perhaps he liked him. Perhaps he liked the man's daughter.'

Rage fell silent for a moment. 'Did he save the daughter?'

'No. He arrived to see the killer plunge his blade into her heart.'

'Did he know the name of the killer?'

'Not at the time.'

'But he knows now?'

'Aye, he knows.'

'I suppose it would be reasonable to assume that the tribesman will seek out Voltan and challenge him?'

Bane looked directly into Rage's deep brown eyes. 'What do you think?'

'I think Voltan is the best I have ever seen. He is uncanny. Almost mystical. He has a talent – like a stoat with a rabbit – for making his opponents feel mortal. He casts a spell over them. They become clumsy, or reckless.'

'Why did he quit the arena?'

Rage shrugged. 'He ran out of good opponents. Then Nalademus, the Stone elder, offered to make him the Lord of the Stone Knights. Voltan accepted. He got a title, estates in Turgony, and the opportunity to kill without consequences.'

'He will find there are consequences,' said Bane. 'I—'

'Say nothing more, boy!' snapped Rage. 'I have no wish to know of your feelings on this matter. If this tribesman we are talking about does hunt Voltan, I hope he has the sense to train first, and to learn from his betters. But that is all I have to say on the matter.'

'Why are we being so careful?' asked Bane.

'These are difficult times. There are spies everywhere. Some spy for Jasaray, others for Nalademus. I have no interest in politics or religion, and so I am safe. I will not be drawn into conspiracies, nor will I lie. So the less I know, the better for all concerned.'

For five days Rage pushed Bane through an increasingly gruelling routine. Leather straps, with lead weights sewn into the lining, were placed on his wrists and ankles for the six-mile runs that began each morning's work. Bane was almost continually exhausted. On the morning of the sixth day, following the obligatory run – which was made without added weights, and at an almost leisurely pace – Rage led Bane back into the house.

'No more work today,' he said.

Bane hid his relief. 'Why not?' he asked.

'The body needs a little time to recover from heavy exercise. Today is a rest day. Work five rest one.'

'Do all gladiators use these methods?'

'No,' said Rage. 'Most rely on what they perceive as their natural strength and skill. Telors runs most days, but the others . . .' Rage opened his hands. 'They do not see the need to punish themselves.'

'But you do.'

'Aye, I do. Always have.' Outside the sky darkened, and heavy snow began to fall. The farmhouse was empty, Cara attending lessons at the home of a teacher, the house servants not yet arrived.

'You'll have to think of armour,' said Rage. 'Persis will offer to have some made for you, but he uses a cheap armourer, with no pride. Do you have coin?'

'Aye.'

'Then tell Persis you wish to find your own man. I would recommend Octorus. He is one of the best. You will need a good breastplate, greaves, a kilt of bronze reinforced with leather strips, wrist guards and a well-fitting helm.'

'No mailshirt?'

'Mailshirts are outlawed in the arena, as are neck torques. Even the breastplate is not worn in death bouts. They are meant to be bloody. That is how the crowd obtains its pleasure. Nothing pleases them more than seeing a brave man stagger back, his life blood pumping from a severed jugular.'

'Were you always so contemptuous of your calling?' Bane asked him.

'Always,' Rage told him. 'And it was not a calling. I went into the arena because it was the only way I could make money. I never learned to love it.'

The snow began to ease around noon, and Bane saddled the grey and followed the directions Rage gave him to the forge of Octorus. It was two miles north of Goriasa, in a small settlement of some twenty stone-built houses, constructed close to a garrison fort. Children were playing in the snow as Bane rode up, hurling snowballs at one another. One sailed close to the grey, who reacted skittishly, and almost slipped on the ice.