The crowd quieted down as the last of the bets were placed, all now waiting for the ritual of preparation to end. Garth turned back to watch the show, arms folded, pulling his robe in tight to keep the chill out. “One to four,” the gambler snarled, as he made his mark on a smooth chip of wood and shoved it into Garth’s hand. The gambler looked around furtively and saw that there was no support from the mob. “One to four,” Garth replied softly, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his dagger. “One to two,” the gambler replied sarcastically. The man looked about furtively at the crowd, which had grown silent, even though they thought Garth a yokel from the outback for wasting his money on what would obviously be a certain win on Webin’s part. “Do you work for him? Is this fight a setup?” Garth replied smoothly, still holding the gambler with his gaze. There were snickers from the bettors gathered around, as if Garth was a fool, but Garth kept his attention fixed. The gambler looked Garth up and down and started to laugh, and then fell silent as Garth stared at him coldly. “On Orange,” Garth said, referring to the bright livery of House Fentesk. Finally he extended his hand and the gambler looked disdainfully at the bet. He moved over to the gambler, taking the coins out, waiting quietly. Reaching into the satchel that hung under his right arm, he fingered the few coppers that were still there. Garth stood silent, watching the two prepare. I’ll cover your bets if you think Gray will win,” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd, and instantly there was a frenzied move toward him as the mob started to place their bets. The raggedy man continued to strut around the circle, waiting while the two fighters went through the ritual, their heads lowered, arms extended outward, gathering their strength. Okmark shrugged his shoulders, resigned to what was coming. Webin spit angrily on the ground and the crowd cheered. He looked straight at the fighter in gray livery and slowly extended his arms, palms turned slightly downward, the gesture of reconciliation with the subtle distinction, however, of not submitting. “This fight isn’t really necessary,” Okmark said quietly.Ī hooting roar thundered from the mob but Okmark ignored them. The Fentesk fighter turned, fixing him with his gaze, and the boy stopped. The boy looked at the finely embroidered robe and started to back away. The Fentesk fighter, standing a good head taller than his rival, snorted disdainfully at his opponent as he calmly took his robe off and passed it to a street urchin who had sidled up to the edge of the circle. Old men, women, and even young boys started to recite the wins and losses of the two fighters and arguments instantly broke out as to which one would win. The crowd excitedl y shouted the names back to those who were too far back in the press to see. “One spell cast which is also the wager,” Okmark said. “Webin of Kestha,” the stouter of the two fighters snarled, puffing his chest out and thumping it. With a broken stick in place of a golden staff he drew a circle in the mud. The raggedy man, chest puffed out, strutted about, his spindly, dirty legs kicking high as if he was a true Grand Master of the Arena.
Overhead, shutters were pulled open, people leaning out of the windows to watch the fun. After all, it wasn’t every day that one could watch a fight for free, even if there was a minor risk of getting hurt when the spells started to fly. The crowd around them was swelling, pouring out of the alleyways, hovels, and swill houses, shouting and laughing. In the middle of the street the two fighters, moving warily, paced back and forth, eyeing each other as they pulled off their robes in the chilly evening air. Seeing none, he moved in closer to watch the excitement.
He adjusted the patch which covered where his left eye used to be and then moved around the back of the crowd, looking for other such opportunities. Drifting away from the stand, he pulled out his dagger and sliced the treat open, tilting his head up to drain out the juice, which washed away the dust of the road. The owner of a fruit stand set up in the shade of the building was preoccupied, eagerly watching the excitement, and Garth helped himself to a Varnalca orange. Stretching lazily, Garth moved to the back of the gathering crowd. Garth One-eye, a thin smile of amusement creasing his face, followed the orders of the raggedy man who had appointed himself as circle master.