Noble Cause

By Dan McGirt

Jason Cosmo, Champion of The Gods, vows to end slavery in Caratha, greatest city of the Eleven Kingdoms. But powerful Carathans like things as they are and will stop at nothing to stop Jason.

Meanwhile, a giant bear roams the city, eating anyone it can, while an ancient evil seeks to rise again. And those are only the start of Jason's problems. He must also confront homicidal monkeys, hostile priests, and a band revenge-minded brothers who blame Jason for a crime he didn't commit.

Book 2 of the Jason Cosmo series, following Hero Wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trove Books
• Release date: Nov 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465986061

Dan McGirt

Dan McGirt is the author of the Jason Cosmo fantasy adventure series, the Jack Scarlet action-adventure series, Sarah Palin: Vampire Hunter and assorted other tales, some sordid, most not. His most recent story is Glass Darkly & The Skull in the Box, an occult mystery short story. When not writing, Dan enjoys whitewater kayaking, long walks in the forest, and building homemade time machines.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Run for your life! He’ll kill us all!

Two dozen men surged from a narrow side passage and sprinted down the aromatic Street of Meat Pies. Most wore the plain garb of laborers and slaves, but there were gentlefolk too. From fleet-footed youth to stooped greybeards hobbling with canes, each ran heedless of his fellows, arms flailing, eyes bugging, chests heaving. Pure fear propelled them.

I shook my head in resigned dismay. When would these mad scenes end? When would the good people of Caratha not flee in wild panic every time I came near? When would Carathans finally believe that I, Jason Cosmo, was no bloodthirsty, soul-devouring, genocidal monster who wanted to kill them all, but actually a pretty decent guy?

Apparently not today.

The running men were a flash flood of flesh flowing down the street like a mountain stream swollen by the melting snows of spring, sweeping up all in its path. They crashed against a pushcart piled high with succulent sausage pastries, smashing it beneath their pounding feet. Naught but splinters and greasy smears remained in their wake. One unfortunate runner stumbled and fell. The pack trampled him into the paving stones. When they passed, he struggled to his feet and staggered after them, bruised and bleeding.

Poor fellow. This was the irony. Newspapers such as the Daily Pus called me Arden’s Archvillain. Dark tales told in hushed whispers accused me of the most horrible crimes of cruelty, torture, and murder. Yet more people were hurt trying to avoid me by jumping through windows, leaping off bridges, flinging themselves from speeding carriages and the like than ever were harmed by my hand. If Carathans would but think, they might realize I had dwelt in their city for weeks without performing any mass murders, unholy rites, or other acts of ultimate evil.

But it was not to be. My foes in the Dark Magic Society had done their work too well. When that cabal of evil wizards put an outrageous price on my head—ten million gold carats!—they also blackened my good name with a campaign of gossip, lies, and slander. To hear it told, Jason Cosmo ate babies for breakfast and drank blood by the bucket. Depending who you asked, I was a ruthless barbarian warlord, a savage pirate king, a two-headed necromancer, or a Demon Lord in human form. Some said I was Death’s own cousin.

Or nephew.

Possibly an in-law.

I was none of the above. Quite the opposite: I was a hero, the chosen Champion of The Gods. But folk across the Eleven Kingdoms were in utter dread of me. Mere mention of my name caused seizures and heart attacks. And I could not get a dinner reservation anywhere.

The number of runners grew. Pedestrians in their path had either to join the crazed flight or be crushed underfoot. They were stopping for no one. And they were coming my way.

Wait—coming my way?

This was new.

Shouldn’t they be running away from me?

I considered ducking into a doorway to let the crowd pass. But they were scared of something. Something that wasn’t me. This might be an opportunity to do my good deed for the day.

I stepped into the mob’s path. I did not fear being overborne, for I had a woodcutter’s sturdy build and wore beneath my tunic a miraculous suit of armor—I privately called it the Cosmosuit—that was impervious to harm.

Halt! I commanded.

No one halted. Runners bumped and jostled and flowed around me as I stood my ground. I grabbed the next man to pass. He was a burly fellow clad in a brown tunic marked with the distinctive yellow badge of the Upstanding Brotherhood of Fetchers, Getters, and Lifters. The frightened fetcher flailed as my big hands gripped his shoulders, but I was too strong for him to escape.

You! Why do you run?

It’s huge! Let me go!

What is huge? What is it, man?

His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. It tore a man in half! For love of The Gods, let me go!

I released him. The danger would be here soon enough. I drew my sword Overwhelm. It was no ordinary blade, but had once belonged to the Mighty Champion of distant legend. Now it was entrusted to me by The Gods, to wield as their newest Champion. Forged of mystic miraculum, Overwhelm sliced through granite as if through soft cheese left too long in the sun.

All along the street, meat pie sellers slammed the shutters of their shops. The hindmost runners swept by me. Their footfalls faded around the next bend in the street. Soon I stood alone.

Without warning, a tremendous animal roar rolled down the street like a big ball of thunder, rattling windows and kicking up whirlwinds of debris. The sound was not unlike a barrel of rabid wolverines with hacking coughs bouncing down a mountain during a earthquake, followed closely by a pallet of bricks, several kegs of rusty nails, and a large temple bell yoked to a bleating moose.

Only louder.

The hair on the nape of my neck went stiff as the bristles of a scrub brush. Whatever was coming, it was big, mean, and angry. A dragon? No. I had once heard a dragon’s dreadful roar. This was no dragon, thank The Gods. Gorgoratops? Bullsmasher? Pearly-eyed horngrim? Dread beasts of every kind were sold here in Caratha’s Grand Bazaar, and escaped with alarming frequency. Perhaps it was only the hellacious hobcat, small in size but terrible in its cry. But I doubted I’d be so lucky as that.

The second, and much louder, roar made me consider all the places I would rather be than standing on a deserted street waiting for whatever made such a noise to appear. I was late for a date and the only one still in danger here was me. Why stick around? I could do a good deed after lunch.

Then I saw her.

She was tiny, frail, wide-eyed with terror, dressed all in rags. The one-legged little beggar girl staggered from the alley. She tripped on a stone, lost her balance, dropped her crutch, and flopped to the pavement in a heap. She struggled to stand, but could not get her crutch to cooperate.

A monstrous shadow passed over her.

The monster itself followed, coming now fully into view.

The little girl screamed like a little girl.

So did I.

***

It was only a bear. But this is like saying the sun is only a bright light in the sky. That the Great Eastern Ocean is only some water. That the Black Death is merely an illness. Lumbering along on all fours, the bear stood more than six feet at the shoulder. Its fur was deep purplish-black with a pattern of white spots on the back. Its ears were the size of garden spades. Its snout was unusually long, more wolfish than ursine, and slick with fresh, red blood. A torn sleeve of rich fabric containing a fleshy arm hung from its mouth.

I rushed forward, but knew I could not reach the girl before the bear. Waving my sword, I shouted to divert the monster.

Hey! Giant bear! Over here!

The beast swung its massive head around and regarded me with baleful orange eyes. It growled a stone-rattling warning and rose to its hind legs, stretching its enormous body up, up, up, to reach a full height of more than fourteen feet. From where I stood it seemed to blot out the sun.

This would not be easy.

I racked my brain for some brilliant stratagem by which to save the girl. Perhaps I could end the fight with one mighty thrust to the bear’s heart. I would have to jump to make the shot. I would risk a swipe of those platter-sized paws. But with a bit of hero’s luck I just might do it.

Sword ready, I trotted toward the bear, gathering speed for my leap. The beast dropped into a half crouch. Dagger-like claws extended from its massive paws. I came on, zigzagging to confuse the animal. I steeled myself to spring and strike.

Then a strident voice behind me commanded, "Don’t you dare hurt that bear!"

***

I skidded to a stop just shy of the ursine colossus. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw a bespectacled potato sack of a man with a fussy beard and a bad comb-over scurry my way. He wore a dull green robe. Pinned to his scrawny chest was a leaf-shaped badge.

Don’t hurt the bear! he repeated.

Why not? I demanded. Is this a friendly magical bear that is not truly violent, just misunderstood?

No, said the man. It’s a vicious man-eater, responsible for the deaths of scores of free Carathans, numerous slaves, several head of cattle, a prize camel, and a shipload of rare birds from the Cycloon jungles. Not to mention thousands in property damage and unpaid bar tabs.

The bear drinks and doesn’t pay?

Of course it doesn’t pay! It’s a bear!

But is it really an unfortunate prince transformed into a dangerous bear by an evil sorcerer?

Ludicrous!

Escaped from the circus, where it was cruelly mistreated, and now lashing out in blind fury against an uncaring world?

Unlikely.

Family pet of a rich eccentric?

Are you mad?

Then why, sir, should I stay my hand?

Why? You fool, that’s a long-snouted specklebacked indigo mountain bear, one of the last of its kind!

And?

And it’s an endangered species! You can’t kill an endangered species!

I can’t?

No!

Not even to save this poor, lame, crying beggar girl from being torn apart and eaten?

Yeah! said the poor, lame, crying beggar girl. Cute as a bucket of buttons, she had stringy red hair, big blue eyes and a constellation of freckles across her dirty face. She was also missing her left leg below the knee. It wants to eat me!

By the Laws of Caratha, the long-snouted specklebacked indigo mountain bear cannot be harmed! said the man.

What kind of man would sacrifice an innocent, though admittedly disheveled, child to this murderous beast? I cried.

The little man drew himself up to his full unimposing height. I am Chief Inspector Cierrus of the Ministry of Environmental Services and Sanctions. It is forbidden, on pain of death, to engage that bear with a deadly weapon of any kind!

The bear grinned at me, drooling blood. It cracked its bear knuckles with a loud series of pops. The beast obviously recognized Cierrus. This was likely not the first time the man from MESS had saved the animal from sudden extinction.

Then how do we stop its rampage?

Cierrus shrugged. Once he’s had his fill, Chompy will wander off somewhere to take a nap.

Chompy?

We call him Chompy.

"You let this vicious beast run loose in the city, eating whomever it pleases, and you give it an affectionate nickname?"

People should stay out of Chompy’s way if they don’t want to be eaten! said Cierrus.

What of those who can’t get away?

Yeah, like me! said the beggar girl. I’ve got one leg! Rats ate the other when I was but a babe.

I’m not concerned with filthy beggar girls, sniffed Cierrus. My sole concern here is the welfare of the bear.

My concern is defending the defenseless, I said. I won’t let this bear eat poor little—what’s your name, dear?

Saka, kind sir, supplied the girl.

I’m not going to let Chompy eat precious little Saka.

You have no choice! said Cierrus coldly. My MESS Squad will see to that! He snapped his fingers. A squad of crossbowmen in spiffy green uniforms rounded a corner and assumed firing positions. Their weapons were trained on me, not the bear.

Listen, Inspector, I said calmly.

Chief Inspector.

Whatever. Suppose I fight the bear without my sword?

You would face Chompy unarmed? said Cierrus doubtfully.

Yes. I’ll put away my sword and wrestle the bear instead.

Cierrus laughed harshly. You want to wrestle a long-snouted specklebacked indigo mountain bear?

No! I want to kill it with my enchanted sword! But if I must wrestle to save little Saka, then wrestle I will. Deal?

Cierrus shrugged. No law prohibits suicide by bear.

I sheathed my blade. Chompy growled and shrugged his barrel-sized shoulders, as if to say let’s get on with it.

Saka tugged at my sleeve. You’re mad, sir. But I thank you.

Thank me later. If I live.

The bear stepped forward. So did I. Warily, we circled, with Saka between us. Chompy had advantages in weight, height, speed, ferocity, weaponry, and reach. But maybe, just maybe, I had an edge in strength. For I had the Blessing of Rae!

I was Champion of The Gods. All of The Gods. But divine Rae, Goddess of the Sun, was, for better or worse, my personal patron deity. As a sign of her luminous favor, the Bright One had granted unto me the strength of ten men, possibly eleven, whensoever the rays of the sun touched my skin. Fortunately, this was a sunny day.

I raised my fists. Without warning, the bear hit me with a combination of two left jabs, a strong right, and an uppercut. I landed flat on my back, staring up at the morning sky.

Great. Just great.

The bear could box.

Chapter 2

Chompy’s jaw was a good twelve feet from the ground. Even when I slipped by his seven foot stand-off jabs, I got in only quick combinations to the body before darting back to avoid a crushing clench. Thick fur padded the bear’s mid-section, backed by a generous layer of fat derived from a diet rich in people. My strongest blows had no effect. But, when Chompy connected, I hit the ground like a wet sack of cement.

And I was slower getting up each time.

Chompy drove me steadily back. Why little Saka hobbled along after us rather than getting to safety, I didn’t know. Cierrus and his men followed too, along with a growing crowd of gawkers. Some cheered Man! Man! while others rooted Bear! Bear! with equal gusto. As best I could hear between cuffs to the head, betting action strongly favored the bear.

The fight soon took us to Pastry Plaza, home of the beloved Sparkling Sugar Fountain. Its centerpiece was a statue of the Sugar Rush Fairy and her magical helpers, all sculpted from enchanted sugar that did not melt away in the sun or rain. Portrayed alongside the Fairy were Lump the Diabetic Donkey, Fructose the Frog, and Carl the Fruit Bat. According to tradition, the Sugar Rush Fairy brought gifts of sweets to good little boys and girls on Mixelmas Eve. Unless she forgot. The Sugar Rush Fairy was notorious for her short attention span and wild mood swings, ranging from manic to very sleepy.

What made the Sparkling Sugar Fountain so popular was the endless stream of thick, sugary glaze that gurgled from it and filled the surrounding pool in lieu of water. Visitors loved dipping bread, fruit, and other snacks—along with their grubby hands—into the bubbling sweet goop. They did not love the clouds of bees and flies swarming the fountain day and night.

Chompy’s nose twitched. The crafty bear herded me this way on purpose! After munching on fresh pedestrians all morning, he wanted dessert.

Despite my Rae-given strength, trading punches with a bear was a losing proposition. Chompy was far stronger than ten men. Or even eleven.

Then it hit me. Not the bear, but the flaw in Chompy’s technique. The brawling bruin repeated the same combinations over and over:

Jab-jab-right uppercut

Jab-right hook-uppercut-jab

Jab-hook-jab-jab-right-jab-uppercut-uppercut

Jab-jab-wild roundhouse

Chompy only paused when a punch connected and I went down. Then the bear waited patiently for a referee’s count that never came. When I regained my feet, Chompy resumed the sequence.

My guess was Chompy once belonged to a traveling carnival, despite what Cierrus said. The Roving Folk taught dogs to play poker. They taught raccoons to pick pockets. Why not teach a bear to box? By confronting Chompy man-to-bear, I triggered his pugilistic training. He saw me as opponent, not prey. Despite the beating I was taking, I had to admit Chompy fought fair.

I would not do the same.

Now that I knew Chompy’s pattern, I could dodge every blow. Giving ground bit by bit, I brought our bout ever closer to the Sparkling Sugar Fountain. I timed my retreat so Chompy delivered his roundhouse punch just as I reached the fountain’s sugar-coated edge.

Chompy’s form was sloppy, putting him off balance. I stepped under the blow, threw my weight against his pivot leg, and used Chompy’s own momentum against him, flipping the bear into the pool of warm liquid sugar. Gouts of goop gushed into the air as Chompy’s broad back hit the sugary surface. The bear’s bulk shattered the icon of Lump the Donkey, sending chunks of sweetened shrapnel in all directions. Dazed and disoriented, Chompy was upside down in the sugar pond. He thrashed and flopped about, struggling to right himself and getting thoroughly glazed in the process. The sugar-frosted bear finally got all four paws pointing in the proper direction and swung about to confront me, snarling with rage.

For the first time, Chompy’s snout was within reach. Ignoring a mouthful of teeth like yellow daggers, I put all my strength into one mighty punch.

I almost broke my hand.

Chompy didn’t move.

I braced for a savage counterattack.

Chompy blinked twice. Then he sank slowly into the sticky morass of sugar. His huge head rested on the fountain rim.

Victory was sweet indeed.

***

You saved me! said Saka. She threw her slender arms around my leg. You beat up the mean old bear!

"Argh! cried a man in the crowd. I had fifty on Chompy!"

A squad of City Guards moved in to push the crowd back a safe distance. Cierrus directed his MESS Squad to loop ropes around the comatose Chompy and drag him from the fountain. While his men secured the cords, the inspector peeled Chompy’s eyelids open, checked his breathing, and felt for a pulse.

Cierrus shot me a look of pure poison. Chompy lives.

More than his victims can say.

You gave him a nasty concussion! continued Cierrus. I’m of mind to arrest you for animal cruelty!

Despite our bargain? I said.

The law is the law. Who do you think you are anyway?

Jason Cosmo, I said.

My name had the desired effect. Cierrus went pale. He looked to the MESS Squad, but they were already gone, and the City Guards with them. Bystanders vanished like snow on a hot stove.

Sometimes being Arden’s Archvillain had its advantages.

Are you truly Jason Cosmo? asked Saka. Her blue eyes grew even bigger and rounder.

Yes, I said. Please don’t be scared.

Why should I? You saved me from a big stinky bear!

Stay back! said Cierrus. He stroked Chompy’s head tenderly. You’ll hang if you harm this poor animal again!

Poor animal? I said hotly. If I catch Chompy eating people again, I’ll make him into a rug!

You wouldn’t dare! seethed Cierrus.

Try me.

Cierrus turned away, evidently done with our confrontation.

I scooped Saka up in my arms. Now what shall we do with you, little princess?

Oh, I’m not a princess! she said, giggling. I’m a beggar girl! Completely different.

My mistake. So where are your parents? They must be worried about you.

She shook her head. They’re with The Gods now, in Paradise. That’s why I live at the Underfunded Home For Unfortunate Urchins and spend my days begging in the streets.

I’m so sorry. My parents died when I was young too.

So we’re both orphans! Saka beamed. Neat-o!

I guess. But begging is no life for a little girl.

Saka’s sweet face twisted into an angry pout. What mean you? Girls can be beggars too! I’ve my Beggars Union card and everything! I’m a top earner in my territory and still but an Urchin, Second Class! I’ll make Full Beggar soon! You’ll see! Now put me down! She squirmed and kicked until I released her.

I meant no offense! I said.

That’s okay! said Saka, all cream and sugar again. You saved me! But now I’m behind quota for the day.

Oh?

Saka peered up at me. Her sad eyes glistened. Her lower lip quivered. Her face seemed dirtier, her hair more mussed, her clothes more ragged, her one good leg more wobbly. I wonder, good sir, could you spare me a few coins?

Wow, you are good! I fought back a tear as I withdrew a handful of gold coins from my purse. Here you go!

Saka’s face lit up. She bit one of the coins and nodded, satisfied with its authenticity. Thanks, Jason Cosmo! You’re the greatest!

I am?

Absolutely! You’re my favoritist hero forever!

She hobbled away, whistling a merry tune.

I beamed. I was still the unintentional terror of the Eleven Kingdoms, but one less person feared me now, and an adorable little child at that. It was progress.

But I was still running late.

***

Hello, darling!

Sapphrina flung herself into my arms and kissed me as if we had been apart for days, not mere hours. Rubis next brushed her lips demurely across mine. I took a seat between them at a café table outside Moonbuckles in fashionable Galleon Square, near their penthouse apartment. Sapphrina Corundum and her sister Rubis were identical twins. They shared the same long golden hair, jewel-blue eyes, jaw-dropping figures, and heart-melting smiles. No casual observer could tell them apart, save that Sapphrina dressed in blue and Rubis favored red. Today they wore matching off-the-shoulder shawl tops and scandalously skimpy skirts.

How was your morning? asked Rubis.

Bit of a bear, I said.

That explains the fur, said Sapphrina. It’s all over you.

You need a good brushing, said Rubis, giving a saucy wink.

I do at that. How has your own day gone?

Sapphrina sighed prettily. The usual. Yoga. Nail salon. Meeting with our agent. Shopping. Reviewing our investments.

And your own, added Rubis. You’re doing quite well.

How well is well? I asked.

Let’s just say you’re not only a man of parts, but a gentleman of substance, said Rubis. She giggled.

What’s that in round numbers? I asked.

Sapphrina pursed her pillowy lips to blow a bit of foam off her extra shot ubi half skim quarter soy no whip orange mocha. Fifteen million carats, she said with a smile.

I don’t get it, I said, shaking my head. When I claimed the Dark Magic Society’s bounty for myself, I received ten million carats. Since then, I’ve bought several houses and seen them destroyed. I’ve spent freely and repeatedly to replace furnishings and closets full of clothes. I’ve paid household staff, taxes, fees, fines for disturbing the peace, and massive compensation for the extraordinary amount of property damage that seems to accompany me everywhere I go. Being an unsung hero pays nothing, and I don’t accept rewards or tips, not that many have been offered. Yet each time I ask, you tell me I have more money today than I had yesterday.

Correct, said Sapphrina.

And you’re sure there are no talking fish or genies involved?

None, said Rubis.

Then how is this possible?

Money makes money, said Sapphrina.

If you know how to make it purr, said Rubis. Which, lucky boy, we do. Many Carathans are losing their shirts in this down market, you know.

I have seen an unusual number of bare-chested people about.

The ways of wealth were a mystery to me. Caratha was a realm of stocks, bonds, letters of credit, and other sophisticated instruments of finance. My homeland of Darnk had more of a barter economy—a goat for a pig, a turnip for an old sock, that sort of thing. In Darnk, silver was rare and gold unknown. Our national coin was the lead dreck, supplemented by the wooden skank. In a pinch, pine cones were also legal tender.

Rubis and Sapphrina, by contrast, were the exiled daughters of the richest merchant in Zastria, the wily Corun Corundum. They had inherited their father’s fabled business sense—though they could never inherit his business, the mighty Corundum Trading Company. Zastrian law allowed women to be property, but never to own it. Hence their relocation to Caratha to seek their own fortunes.

Sapphrina waved the day’s Tower Street Journal, with its long rows of indecipherable figures. Shares are down sharply. Prince Ronaldo’s lingering illness make investors nervous.

Do they fear catching what he has? I asked.

Sapphrina laughed. No. But the good health of the realm depends on the good health of its ruler.

Having a steady hand on the tiller is always important, said Rubis. Ronaldo has not been seen in public for weeks now. Many begin to wonder who is truly in charge—and who will be in charge tomorrow.

Tomorrow is always an open question, I said.

So true, my love, said Sapphrina. But you are newly arrived in Caratha. You cannot know how important Prince Ronaldo is to his people. He has ruled longer than most Carathans have been alive. He is stability itself. A constant, like the sun.

I’ve met the sun. She’s not that stable.

Mayhap, said Rubis. But without Ronaldo, it’s all comets and meteors for Caratha.

And that makes the stock market go down? I said.

Sapphrina shrugged. Or up, depending on the rumor of the day. She turned to Rubis. Should we trim our hedges, dear?

We could get into some shorts, said Rubis.

Or swaps, said Sapphrina, arching an eyebrow.

Puts and calls? mused Rubis.

We must explore all options, said Sapphrina.

However exotic, agreed Rubis.

I don’t understand anything you just said, I said.

The twins laughed. Oh, Jason, said Sapphrina. "You need not worry your handsome head about it. All you need know is you are rich and getting richer. If I don’t miss my guess, you’ve reached ninth on the Trove 100 list!"

Is being rich a contest? I asked.

Usually, said Rubis.

Speaking of contests, said Sapphrina, placing a slender and perfectly manicured hand on mine. Rubis and I would love for you to take us to the gladiator fights this afternoon.

I groaned, and not merely at the awkward transition. My disagreements with the twins were few, but this was one of them. I fought a bear this morning. I’ve no need to see a fight.

But, Jason, you’ve not escorted us even once, said Rubis. She made a pouty face that would melt almost any man’s resolve.

Almost. Watching men hack each other to bits is not my idea of entertainment, I protested.

They don’t hack each other to bits, said Rubis.

No?

Granted, bits are lost now and then.

Aha!

But that isn’t the object at all. And women fight too! They’re quite good!

I don’t doubt you, I said.

One of my recent foes was the fierce female fighter Natalia Slash, a relentless mercenary who hunted me for the Dark Magic Society, only to become a grudging ally in the end. Along with my wizard friend Mercury Boltblaster, Natalia stood with me against the Society’s ruler, Erimandras the Overmaster. Unfortunately, Natalia was swallowed whole by the mythical Jaws of Death during that confrontation.

But watching fights holds no appeal for me, I continued.

If we arrive early we’ll catch the Nurf League bouts, said Rubis.

Nurf League?

Kids with foam swords! said Rubis. They’re adorable!

Battles between children? That isn’t helping, I said.

Sapphrina squeezed my hand. Jason, darling, I know you find such violent pastimes distasteful.

I do.

Which I respect. But you did ask us to teach you the ways of Caratha, so different from your simple village of Lower Hicksnittle.

Well, yes, I did, but—

If you truly want to know Caratha and Carathans, then you must see the arena at least once. Also, it’s a key plot point. For good or ill, Carathans love the fights.

Why is that?

"It is as the poet said: In the arena is all pretense shed, all illusion shattered."

"Life or death," said Rubis.

"Death or life," continued Sapphrina.

"Are all, and all that matter," they ended in unison.

Chapter 3

We made our way to MagiCom Stadium for the World Gladiating Federation’s weekly Hackdown. We breezed past a long line at the turnstiles to enter a VIP gate. An unctuous usher escorted us to the club level. Rubis, it seemed, was a season ticket holder.

A preliminary bout was underway. Sapphrina produced a set of sapphire-studded binoculars from her purse. Ignoring the gladiators, she scanned the crowd. The first rule of fight day, darling: The real show is in the stands.

MagiCom Stadium seated one hundred thousand. Every strata of Carathan society was represented, from common folk sweltering in the hot sun of the upper deck to the aristocrats in their shaded suites. I saw at once what Sapphrina meant about coming here to better understand Caratha. This was the city in microcosm.

Fah! said Rubis, grabbing my arm. The action is in the arena! I’ll tell you all you need to know!

What do I need to know to watch a fight?

Rubis sighed with mock exasperation. Jason, there is so much more to gladiating than the fight. You must know the fighters, the customs, the rivalries, the storylines.

Must I?

Yes! See there? The lower ranked fighter enters from the Burgher Lord Gate of Blood, on the west side of the arena. Opposite, there, is the Wargear-Pro Gate of War, for the fighter of higher standing.

I see. And the north portal?

Rubis frowned. The Cheez Woozle Gate of Claws. From there dangerous beasts and monsters are released.

They fight animals? I was aghast. Saving a little girl from a bear was one thing. Killing captive animals for sport was barbaric—not something I expected at the center of civilization.

I avoid those matches, said Rubis, frowning.

I should hope so. And what of the south gate?

The Sudsy Soap Gate of Gore. Mainly used in triple threat matches.

What is a triple threat match?

A three-way! Rubis giggled. But we’re lucky. Today there is a title match. The WGF champion is Vrax Vrrl. They call him King of the Gladiators, for he is unbeaten in more than fifty bouts. And no one has seen his face.

Why not?

You’ll see, said Rubis coyly.

Rubis has a crush on the mystery fighter, teased Sapphrina, still scrutinizing the spectators. Or on so much of him as she has seen.

Which is plenty, said Rubis, grinning.

Now study the crowd, said Sapphrina, pressing her viewing glass into my hand. That club box above the War Gate is the Consular Suite, reserved for Prince Ronaldo and his guests. It is always fascinating to see who is there and who is absent.

This is one of those see and be seen things, right?

Sapphrina nodded. We know Prince Ronaldo is not in attendance because the consular standard is not set. This will only feed the rumors he is on his death bed.

Poor thing, said Rubis, as she trained her own ruby-studded spyglass on a group of well-muscled gladiators limbering up between bouts. He is such a dear man, Prince Ronaldo.

Poor Caratha, amended Sapphrina. Already the sharks circle.

What do you mean? I asked.

Ronaldo lacks a clear successor, said Sapphrina. He outlived his own son, you know. Sad, that.

But his grandson Lord Rolando is a total hunk, said Rubis, momentarily diverting her gaze up to the Consular Suite.

And were Caratha a hunkocracy, all would be well, said Sapphrina. She pointed out a handsome, stylish fellow a few years older than me. Laughing with his comrades, he filled his wine cup, drained it at a toss, and poured again. Were the succession determined by feats of drinking, he would have it cinched. But the thought of Rolando as Prince of Caratha troubles most who matter.

I’ve seen that man before, I said, studying Rolando’s jaunty goatee and merry green eyes. We met in that wild tavern brawl the other week, where I almost got burned alive. He was not so finely dressed, but I swear it’s the same man.

Most likely, said Sapphrina. Rolando is a notorious carouser, gambler, brawler—

And chaser of women, said Rubis. She coughed into her hand. Or so I’ve heard. Jolly Rolly, he’s called.

Rolly! Yes! That’s him, I said. He seemed a good sort.

None deny Jolly Rolly is an amiable fellow, said Sapphrina. But hardly the figure of a statesman.

Still, he’s heir to the throne, isn’t he?

"Bzzzt! said Rubis. Caratha has neither heirs nor thrones."

Sapphrina nodded. The prince-consul is elected by the Senate from among candidates put forward by the Seven Princely Houses. She pointed across the stadium. All the contenders are on display here, maneuvering in the stands as surely as the fighters on the sands.

How so?

See to the left? That is the skybox of the princely House of Brant. Green and gold their colors. Note the crowd of blue-cloaked senators and other notables. The silver-haired gentleman in the big chair is Lord Beren Brant.

One of the circling sharks?

A friendly shark. But, yes, a would-be Prince of Caratha. On the right, in scarlet and sable, the House of Slash. The scowling bald fellow is Lord Damien Slash. The most dangerous shark of all. Brant may equal his ambition, but Slash has no equal for ruthlessness.

I did a double take. Slash? As in Natalia Slash?

Sapphrina nodded. Her brother.

I had no idea.

I told you there was much to be learned here, Jason. Slash is chief of the Optimates, senators of the old aristocracy who feel Prince Ronaldo has too much trimmed their ancient privileges.

You called Brant a friendly shark.

Brant heads the Consular party, supporters of Prince Ronaldo and his policies. With the doubts about Jolly Rolly, the Consulars look to Brant as a more seasoned alternative.

Optimates bad. Consulars good. Got it.

Then enough chatter! said Rubis. They’re announcing Vrax!

***

Welcome to the WGF Hackdown Title Match! boomed the deep-voiced announcer. A cunning system of tubes, fans, bellows, and sound mirrors amplified and transmitted his words throughout the stadium. Coming now from the Burgher Lord Gate of Blood, standing twenty-one hands and weighing five kegs, the Blue Behemoth...the Cyrillan Cyclone...the one and only...Gorndak the Tall!

A towering mass of muscle strode onto the sunlit sand of the arena. His skin was deep indigo. He wore his black hair in long plaited war-braids. Garbed in loincloth and sandals, he swung a spiked club as thick as a wagon axle. Perhaps a quarter of