Chapter 9: Deal with the Devil
Belgrade had watched the fights at the Copper Coronet from the viewers' stand with barely disguised revulsion, wincing at every blow, battling to keep his lunch at every gory death. Whilst the seasoned Harper was no stranger to such hardships or such viciousness, to see it in such circumstances, between two people who were fighting for no cause other than the entertainment and gold of others, churned his stomach.
Darial sighed a little as she caught the hints of expression on his face, threatening to betray his emotions and their cover. "We're here for entertainment. Try to not wear the expression you favour whenever I force you to sit through a song of my own composition," she whispered lightly to him, and he smiled wanly. "Look a little… more cheerful."
Belgrade whimpered slightly, then shook his head. He was, as was necessary, dressed in all the finery of a wealthy Amnish merchant, and it was beginning to itch. After growing up in the streets of Luskan, being asked to enjoy the sort of luxury he was faced with here tasted sweet from the spoils, yet bitter from the blood that tainted it. "I shall tolerate this. No more, no less, and only as a means to an end. The end happens to be bringing this sort of practice to its downfall." He paused, then gave her a sideways glance. "You seem to be managing with all of this easily."
Whilst Darial's expression didn't flicker for an instant, her heel slamming down on his toe was quite noticeable, as was the anger in her voice, so skilfully hidden that he only knew of its presence due to experience. "You, Belgrade, are not an actor. You may have a quick tongue and wit, but you've never been able to quite go the distance when having to falsely immerse yourself in something which goes completely against your morals. It's pretending, Belgrade. See it as such, and try to be more convincing when we talk to Ployer."
Belgrade sighed. "Very well. But we are supposed to be a married couple; this would be more convincing if you were not trying to eradicate my toe. The plain fact that your expression speaks of a desire to throttle me also hinders our role."
"Call it a lovers' tiff," Darial replied lightly, catching the slightly guilty glance this suggestion brought. "I'm angry at you, my wealthy husband, because you decided to bet all of our winnings on a diminutive gladiator," she continued, her keen gaze settling on Xanthus, who had only then just emerged into the pit.
Belgrade frowned. "This is to be Ployer's biggest fight; what is he doing using someone so small of stature to play such a key role? I would have assumed he would have placed his greatest thug to deal with the Copper Coronet's best!"
"This wasn't to be predicted. Maybe that's the idea," the bard replied, shrugging a little. "Ployer's bound to have a card up his sleeve. Perhaps a pair of nobles with a vested interest in the baron's slaves should have a conversation with him?" Darial nodded over to where Ployer was standing with the pit-master and owner of the Coronet, Skorrid, barely ten metres to their left.
Belgrade raised an eyebrow as he followed her gaze, and smiled a slightly predatory smile. "Let's go, shall we?" he asked, falling into step behind her as she wound her way through the throng of shouting aristocrats.
The cause of the racket, namely the two pit-fighters, were unaware of anything other than each other. So far, The Hammer had failed to land a blow on Aergoth Xanthus, who had similarly inflicted only a few minor wounds, which did nothing to his opponent's hefty armour.
Xanthus was speedy and The Hammer was strong; this balanced it. However, the gladiator of Rashemen had one minor advantage: he was used to these sorts of fights. The Hammer had anticipated a burly warrior like himself he could crush with his flail; he had not expected a tiny blur, whirling around him at speed, strongly deflecting blows with his oversized sword.
"Tell me," Xanthus panted, in a momentary lull as the momentum of a swing of the flail left The Hammer unable to change direction and strike him, "where are you from, man? Northern peaks, or southern plains?"
He got an elbow in the face for his troubles, but had seen it coming and managed to turn his head so the blow didn't break his nose as it was intended to. It still cracked his skull back and would doubtless leave an oversized bruise on his cheekbone.
"North," was the gruff reply of The Hammer, who moved surprisingly swiftly to the side as Xanthus darted forwards in a stabbing motion with his sword, and the blade deflected off the chunky armour harmlessly. "And I'll be grinding your eastern hide into the dust!"
The Rashemani twisted to avoid a downwards swing of his enemy's flail. "I'm not sure your limited brain will be aware of this, but grinding hides into dust is quite difficult. If you'd said 'eastern bones' then it would have been a little better, but hides? Maybe skin me and turn me into a coat, but grinding flesh is not an easy matter."
The Hammer hesitated a moment, evidently faced with a form of combat in the ring he had not anticipated but automatically searching for a retort to deal with the impertinent midget Xanthus seemed to be. This fleeting lapse of concentration cost him dearly as his opponent's fist, still wrapped around the hilt of his sword, slammed into his face, bloodying the nose.
The Hammer staggered back, his vision exploding before his eyes, but the seasoned pit-fighter would have died ten times over if he had not learnt to manage to cope with these sorts of tactics or injuries. He whirled his flail in front of him, timing it so that anyone foolish enough to launch forwards in an attempt to finish him off would have their skull split in half.
But the attack had not come from in front of him, for Xanthus was an equally seasoned pit-fighter who had been forced to learn all the tricks giants like The Hammer and had anticipated the tactic a more blundering gladiator would have fallen for. So the Copper Coronet's champion was most surprised when he felt, for only a split second, the tip of a steel blade biting into the back of his neck, in between the small gap between helmet and plate armour.
Although the way The Hammer was already falling to the floor with a half-severed head suggested he was already dead, Xanthus still whipped his small dagger from out of the sheathe inside his sleeve where he kept it and stabbed it into another chink in his opponent's rusty armour.
The cheer of the crowd went up decibels at the final strike and despite himself the Rashemani gladiator felt the adrenaline surge through him at the rush of the kill. This euphoria, a mixture of elation at surviving and glee of despatching an enemy both sickened and incensed him, but he managed to maintain control enough to turn to where he knew Ployer was standing in the crowd, screaming with utter delight, and raise his sword to the Calimshite in a subtly mocking salute.
"Ten thousand! Ten thousand gold, you piece of scum, and I'll even take it in instalments if this defeat has left you penniless!" Ployer shouted gleefully to Skorrid over the roar of the crowd. The Copper Coronet pit master had turned an odd shade of green, beyond amazed that his giant of a champion had been defeated by a whelp of a fighter.
"You… cheated," Skorrid spat, wringing his hands together nervously then wiping the sweat from his bald dome of a head. "That was an unfair match. You've been magically pumping the midget up, making him stronger. There is no other way that he could have beaten The Hammer!"
Ployer grabbed Skorrid, still too delighted to take offence at the accusation, and pulled him around to stare him straight in the eye. "Bring in all the mages you want; they'll confirm that this boy has no enhancements!" he laughed happily. "The lad is golden! Absolutely golden! He'll make my fortune!"
Skorrid pulled himself from out of Ployer's grasp, and straightened his clothes haughtily. "Yes. He is powerful indeed. I would like to suggest that you consider taking up that partnership I had offered Mayberry… after all, his slaves didn't fight too well today; there's minimal profit there."
Ployer smiled a feral, cat-like smile. "I believe that last time you said you wouldn't stick your name next to mine even if the Abyss itself sent demons after you. This is a sudden change of tune, no, Skorrid?" The rat-like owner of the Coronet glowered a little, and the Calimshite relented, extending his hand. "Very well. I accept. 'Tis a lucrative deal."
Skorrid smiled slimily. "I'm glad you agree, Baron Ployer." He withdrew his hand and subtly wiped it on his tunic. "But I must go attend to the crowd and the next entertainment. I believe fortune awaits us both, my friend," he continued, slipping in between a pair of nobles and disappearing amongst the masses.
"It can await many of us," a voice by Ployer's ear murmured cheerfully and playfully, and the baron whirled around to see a tall, dapper-looking character in all the finery of a local noble. A slender, dark-haired woman in a neatly-fitting fine dress was attached to his arm, large dark eyes staring at him in a rather disturbingly innocent fashion above a playful smile.
"The name's Lord Belgrade," the man declared cheerfully, extending his hand. "Of Luskan. I'm here in Athkatla looking for… any interesting business opportunities. I believe I've found one."
Ployer paused, taking in Belgrade's accent, garb, and mannerisms before slowly smiling a broad and mildly greedy grin, his eyes lighting up at all of the prospects that were being thrown at him today.