Pinnatte felt good. Very good. In fact, he could not remember when he had last felt so good. It was as though his every heartbeat reinvigorated him as he strode through the gloomy streets towards the Jyolan Pits. Among the many fantasies that he toyed with on the way was one that had him seeking out the Kyrosdyn who had left the mark on his hand, and thanking him for setting him on the path to finding a new future for himself. It made him glow and he rubbed the back of his hand delightedly.
As he neared the Pits he made a conscious effort to calm down. Strutting conspicuously through the darkened side streets and alleys was not only out of character, it was foolish. Once or twice he actually fancied that he was being followed, though when he spun sharply on his heel he caught no sudden tell-tale shift in the shadows behind him. However, drawing attention to himself in the Pits would be particularly unwise. He was known to be one of Lassner’s Den-Mates, and if he were to act the way he felt, the eye of every Pitguard in the place would be drawn to him inexorably. The very least that would happen then would be Lassner hearing of his excited behaviour and presuming, naturally, that he had been less than honest about his takings for the day. The worst that could happen would see him trying to convince the Pitguards that he hadn’t suddenly had a ‘stroke of particularly good fortune’ which he might like to ‘share’ with his old friends. No, this night was for watching, not being watched. He must be his old, insignificant self.
Apart from his own safety, this was the correct way to behave in any event. He had no clear idea of what he intended to do, or to whom he might wish to ally himself, but he knew that it would have to be done discreetly – very discreetly. He had seen enough in his time to know that the people who were really successful – the likes of Barran, for example – were not flashy and raucous, but modest in their public appearances, and silent and secret in their business dealings.
Barran…
The name had slipped into his mind unexpectedly. He mulled it over. To be part of Barran’s ever-growing empire was an improbably high aspiration, but then, today was proving to be an improbable day. And if he was looking to improve his lot, there was really not much point in following the star of just another Den-Master, someone precious little better than Lassner.
Why not Barran? he decided extravagantly. There was no harm in dreaming, though even in his elated state he knew there was little chance of finding a way into such a man’s service – not least because he had no idea where to start.
He came to the top of a rise and joined the street that led to the Jyolan Pits. To his surprise, it was much busier than usual, with almost everyone walking or riding in the same direction. And while there were some familiar faces to be seen, the majority were not the typical night people that were usually to be found here. He joined the stream.
Intrigued, he was taking a considerable interest in the crowd as he rounded the final corner before the Jyolan – part professional, part curiosity. As he looked ahead however, he stopped with a violent intake of breath, and all thoughts of the crowd were gone. In front of him, chilling and awful, was a malevolent, winking face. It filled the entire street. His knees started to buckle and his mouth dried as he saw that the surging crowd, now no more than a black flood, was disappearing into its gaping, blazing maw. For an instant, heart pounding, he was about to turn and flee back into the darkness, to the safety of his Den. But even as the intention formed, the image changed. He gave a nervous, self-deprecating laugh. It was only the Pits. Normally, all that could be seen of the place at night was such as the inadequate street-lighting revealed, and whatever light spilled out of the entrance door. Tonight however, the place was illuminated. The high-arched entrance was ablaze and lights on the roof played on the carved figures there, making them seem to move like restless guards around a flickering campfire. Lights too, hung all about the front of the building, and some had been placed behind the windows to the upper floors, to glint through the ornate metal frames like so many squinting eyes. Pinnatte let out a noisy breath and shook his head to dispel the residue of the image that had greeted him.
Everyone around him was heading towards the Jyolan, to join an already large crowd gathered there – a much larger crowd than was usual, he noted as he drew nearer. And much more excited. And richer, he realized very quickly, as he reached the outer edge of it. He could see liveried menservants, maidservants, grooms, formal guards and more than a few individuals whose sharp-eyed attention to their surroundings marked them out unequivocally as bodyguards to the very quietly rich. Coaches bearing the insignias of noble houses and rich traders were arriving and leaving, or just standing in the street, their horses skittish in the noisy crowd. There could have been real pickings for him here had he so chosen, but though he could feel his instinct for theft stirring, he kept it sternly under control. Apart from his new-found ambition, purse-cutting at the Pits was profoundly foolish even under ordinary circumstances, with so few avenues of escape and so many Pitguards about. Apart from the fact that most of them knew him, they guarded their exclusive right to separate the spectators from their money most jealously. To be caught stealing by them meant a beating – no smaller matter in itself – but with the place alive with mercenary bodyguards, always alert for an opportunity to justify their wages to their employers, he could end up with a hand over his mouth and a silent knife under his ribs for his pains. No one would even know he was dead until the crowd moved away and he tumbled to the floor. And then there was the crowd itself. He’d heard tales of would-be thieves who’d been literally torn apart by a fighting-pit crowd.
He shook off the thoughts and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, as if to emphasize that he was keeping them out of trouble, he settled into the crowd’s shuffling progress. Whatever was happening was perhaps fortunate. At least he could look happy and excited and no one would remark on it especially. But what was going on? The Jyolan Pits were the oldest in Arash-Felloren and, reputedly, had once been the finest, but now they were rather down-at-heel and definitely not the kind of establishment that attracted this class of clientele.
A man, similar in build to himself, was jostled into him by a passing horse. Pinnatte caught and steadied him.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said after he had finished cursing the rider.
Pinnatte gave an uncharacteristically gracious nod. Then the man was stretching up and looking from side to side as if searching for someone. His modest height however, proved to be too much of a problem in the growing crowd.
‘Something special on tonight?’ Pinnatte asked.
The man nodded absently, still trying to look around. ‘Yes, more’s the pity,’ he said. ‘It’s a Loose Pit.’ He made one more quick inspection of the crowd then gave up. Turning to Pinnatte, he spoke as if they had known one another for years, as is the way with strangers thrust together in crowds. ‘I ask you, how often do the Jyolan have a Loose Pit? Once in a green-cheese moon, that’s how often – never. And they have to have one tonight of all nights.’
A Loose Pit! Pinnatte thought. He hadn’t expected that. But it accounted for the size and quality of the crowd.
‘You haven’t seen a man wandering about looking lost, have you?’ The man was speaking again. He held a hand above his head. ‘So high. Long riding coat and a big hat.’ He leaned forward. ‘Fine horse. And probably got a rat on his shoulder.’
Pinnatte’s eyes widened. ‘A rat?’
‘Well, a sort of rat.’
Pinnatte shook his head and smirked uncertainly. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m certain. I’ve only just arrived, but I’d have noticed someone with a big hat and a rat on his shoulder.’ Pinnatte’s smirk became a laugh. ‘You were waiting for him?’
The man nodded and grimaced. ‘He’s new in town, he’s probably got lost.’ He swore. ‘I shouldn’t have let him wander off. Years I’ve been training animals for the Pits – not in a big way, you understand, but I know my business – and that rat-thing would have made me a fortune. And the owner, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘You should’ve seen the way it backed down Ghreel’s dog at The Wyndering.’ He swore again.
Pinnatte had no great interest in some failed Pit-animal trainer, but the crowd was holding them together and he seemed affable enough. Besides, it dawned on him, failed or not, this individual would know more about the men who ran the Pit than he did. He could be useful.
‘He might be anywhere in this lot,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ll see him inside.’
The man looked unhappy. The crowd continued to edge forward. Pinnatte offered consolation. ‘Besides, I don’t think a rat would’ve stood much chance in a Loose Pit, would it?’
‘Oh no,’ the man said. ‘It wouldn’t even have got in, of course – an unknown fighter and all. But its owner was beginning to show a real interest. I was sure that if I could’ve got him in here and talked to him – shown him the way of things – he’d have been really enthusiastic. He needed the money, and that’s always a help.’
The crowd tightened around them. He held out his hand. ‘Irgon Rinter,’ he announced. ‘You haven’t got any animals you’d like trained up, have you?’
Pinnatte introduced himself, untypically using his real name. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not unless you count the bed bugs in my lodgings, they’re bloodthirsty enough for here.’
Rinter cackled. ‘Maybe we should run a miniature fighting pit. Fleas, maggots, spiders and the like.’
‘I don’t think two fleas battling to the death would pull a crowd like this,’ Pinnatte said off-handedly. He was not too keen on joining in Rinter’s humour. ‘What’s fighting, do you know?’ He slapped his pocket. ‘More to the point, what’s it going to cost to get in?’
‘A lot,’ Rinter said. ‘They’ll have opened up the top terraces for this crowd and I’ll wager they’ll be charging the normal Pitside prices just for them.’ He leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose. ‘As for what’s fighting,’ he said, in a conspiratorial undertone, ‘according to my friends inside,’ he nodded towards the building, ‘it’s something very special.’ He looked around as though someone in the heaving crowd might be eavesdropping, then mouthed rather than spoke his revelation. ‘Something the Kyrosdyn have found.’
He pointed downwards significantly. ‘From the caves.’
Pinnatte was genuinely impressed though he managed not to show it. He rubbed the mark on his hand unthinkingly.
‘Why here?’ he asked, for want of anything better to say.
Rinter maintained his conspiratorial air. ‘I don’t know. It’s unexpected – only heard about it myself this afternoon. But I’ve heard it said that Barran’s been taking an interest in the Pits. Probably looking for new businesses now he’s in control of so much of the crystal trade.’
But Pinnatte was not listening. The words Kyrosdyn and Barran had collided in his mind and were echoing there, taking on a life of their own. They began to circle round and round like high-flying birds of prey, their very presence slowly paralysing him. Then all meaning was gone from them and, sounding over and over, they became a cacophonous babble – a chaotic choir of innumerable voices crying out in a harsh and alien language.
And something was pressing down on him.
He could not breathe! It was as though an iron ring was tightening around him. He should go no further. He should get away from here!
‘Are you all right?’
Rinter’s voice filtered weakly through the clamour. Pinnatte seized it and clung to it desperately, and to the grip that was shaking his arm. The choir wavered and the ring tightened. He must get away.
‘Are you all right?’
Somehow, Pinnatte forced his head back. He had to look up – to find air to breathe above this choking press – to see if anything was indeed circling high above in the darkness, preparing to swoop down on him.
For he would be able to see it, he knew.
But instead, his eyes met those of the face carved on the keystone of the arch that spanned the entrance to the Pits. They seemed to reach out and embrace him. At their touch, he felt the sense of oppression lifting from him, or rather, being lifted from him by some unknown agency and replaced by one of elation. And the grip about his chest was gone too.
‘Are you…’
Rinter began his question for the third time. He continued shaking Pinnatte’s arm.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Pinnatte said, putting his hand over Rinter’s reassuringly to still it. ‘Just felt a bit dizzy for a moment. The crush, I expect.’
But his mind was racing, and he could not stop staring at the face. How could he have come here so many times and never noticed anything so beautiful? This was a word he could not remember having ever used before, but it did not disturb him. It must be the lights, of course, he thought, but that had a false, inadequate ring to it as an explanation. It was something more than that, for as he edged forward, the face seemed to be following him, telling him not to be afraid, telling him that all would be well, that great things lay ahead of him, that he was protected. His body was permeated with the knowledge. It was unlike anything he had ever known.
Then a sudden eddying shuffle ran through the crowd and he was carried under the arch. For a moment, it was as though he had been plunged into darkness, even though the lights inside the building were brighter than those outside. Part of him cried out in pain at the separation, but then the image of the face was with him again, distant now, but still sustaining him. And it remained there even though normality began to close about him again as the crowd slowly moved across the stone-floored entrance hall of the Pits.
‘Probably the heat, as well.’
It took Pinnatte a moment to realize that Rinter was diagnosing the dizziness he had claimed.
He nodded and smiled broadly. ‘Well, it’s gone now, and I’m in the mood for watching a good fight.’
The sound of angry voices rose up ahead of them. Rinter stepped up on to the broad foot of an iron stanchion to locate the source of the commotion. ‘Looks like we’ll see one before we get inside,’ he said. ‘Someone’s objecting to the price.’ He jumped down quickly and there was a ragged movement through the crowd as a figure, dripping blood through the fingers of his hand clasped over his mouth and nose, elbowed his way against the flow. Abuse and laughter followed him.
Pinnatte joined in. What an idiot! Fancy arguing with the Pitguards, especially in front of a crowd like this. Even so, he discreetly thumbed through the coins in his pocket. If Rinter’s previous estimate was correct, this was going to be an expensive evening and he’d no desire to go struggling back through the crowd, bloodied or not. He had plenty, he decided, after a second count, though he felt a brief twinge of unease about spending so much money. Still, he’d earned it today, and it would be folly indeed to walk away from an event like this, not only because of what it was – the first Loose Pit at the Jyolan, and with a Kyrosdyn animal as well – something from the caves – this would be a boasting point for years – but because of what he might learn and whom he might yet meet in such a crowd. Admittedly, all he had encountered so far was one unsuccessful Pit animal trainer, but he had made no effort to do that, and it was still a step into the world he wanted to explore. If, as Rinter had intimated, Barran was going to start taking over the city’s Pits as he had taken over much of the crystal trade, then the Jyolan would be a good place for him to begin. Old, respected, and long past its best, it occupied a building the constant complaint about which, by those who went there regularly, was that it could be used far more effectively than its present owners allowed.
‘Had a good day, young Pinnatte?’
He jumped. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not realized he was so close to the inner gate. The greeting came from one of the Pitguards.
‘Could have been better,’ he replied. It was his normal response. It was the normal response for most of the citizens of Arash-Felloren to such a question. He noted that the Pitguard was wearing not only a livery, but a new, albeit ill-fitting one, and that some of the others standing by the gate were unknown to him. He considered an ironic remark about the livery but decided against it; he did not know the man all that well, and he was looking both particularly proud and keen-eyed. Further, Pinnatte suspected, from the glances being exchanged, that the apparently friendly greeting had only been to identify him to the other Pitguards.
‘How much is it tonight?’ he asked.
The Pitguard wearily indicated a large notice dominating the inner gate. Having prepared himself, Pinnatte managed to keep his mouth from dropping open, but he still felt a wrench as he parted with the money. Then he was through.
‘Thought we’d never get here.’ Rinter was by his side again. He looked around. ‘Well, well, look at this. It’s not only the top terraces that have been opened.’
In front of them, the crowd was being shepherded with varying degrees of politeness by more strange Pitguards through a row of arched entrances. Rinter was drawing Pinnatte’s attention to two arches at the end of the row. These were normally dark and completely blocked by piles of rubbish. Now they were brightly lit and the rubbish had either been removed, or pushed aside.
‘That way,’ a nearby Pitguard called out before Rinter could say anything else. The man was pointing towards one of the newly-opened arches with a heavy baton which he hefted in a manner markedly at odds with his polite demeanour.
The building that housed the Jyolan Pits was very old, and no one now knew what it had originally been used for. Nor could a use be readily deduced from its construction, save that it must have been for some kind of public assembly. Externally, apart from being unusually ornate and patently much older, the building was not vastly different from most of its neighbours in that it was, in essence, a large rectangular block. Internally however, all was curved, sinuous and confusing. An oval arena with a central circular platform, raised and fenced, lay at its heart. It was surrounded by steeply stacked terraces on the lower steps of which the spectators usually stood. Around these, in turn, were several levels of cloistered balconies, each of which, disconcertingly, protruded further than the one below, forming an arching line which drew the eye upwards until the outer walls finally swept up to form a domed ceiling. The balconies were normally empty and the rows of arches and their broad separating columns which formed the balustrades, hovered around and over the assembly like dark, sightless eyes, giving the place not only a gloomy atmosphere, but, at times, a sinister one. More sinister yet was a circle of sharp-pointed horn-like spikes which unfurled from the ceiling. Each one bent downwards as if bowing in obeisance to a solitary barb which hung from the crown of the dome. Its curving sides swept down from a broad base to an almost needle thinness, at the end of which was what appeared to be a clear crystal about the size of a child’s fist. In the light now seeping from the balconies, this occasionally flashed bright, like a solitary silver star.
Stranger than this central hall however, was the access to it, which consisted of a complex tangle of interweaving and interlinked passageways. Like the streets of the city itself, these twisted and turned, dipped and rose, to no discernible logic. Some were wide and spacious, while others were narrow, with low, claustrophobic ceilings, though none maintained the same shape for any great length. And for each of these passages, there were innumerable other conduits threading unknowable pathways through the ancient stonework. These ranged in size from some that a stooping man might pass along, if he were so inclined, to others scarcely large enough to accommodate a probing forefinger. Whatever the passageways were for, it was questionable that even the widest were intended for people as all of them had uneven, curved floors, sometimes almost semi-circular, which broke the strides of walkers and constantly forced them into the centre, away from the walls.
One of the wilder tales that the smaller passageways spawned was that they moved. Ways that were seen one day were gone the next, and new ways appeared where none had been before. It was even said that, in the past, people, alone in the building, had heard voices and had wandered off and never been seen again. Certainly, sounds echoed strangely along all of the ways and even when all else was silent, a soft moaning filled the place. Sometimes it was like a wind from a distant and bleak land, while at others it had a living, chilling quality to it.
It was along one of the narrower passages that Pinnatte and Rinter found themselves walking, part of a long file of would-be spectators. Pitguards, or crudely-written signs, directed them at the many junctions. As at the entrance, there was an aura of hasty organization about everything. All around was the ringing clatter of feet on the stone floor and the echoing sounds of many people speaking too loudly. Excitement was the predominant mood, generated by the unexpected staging of a Loose Pit, the opening of the balconies, and the appearance of new, liveried Pitguards. But too, some part of the clamour was perhaps for reassurance in the long twisting passageway, with its low, oppressive ceiling and the uneasy light from intermittently placed oil lamps adding an escort of milling shadows to the moving line.
Rinter and Pinnatte were not immune to the general mood, but they moved along in silence, bonded enough by the new experience to stay together, but not enough to share any gleeful anticipation. Eventually, after a sudden steep incline, they were walking up a curved stone stairway. It opened out on to a cloistered passageway that formed one of the higher balconies. Though it was wide, the outer wall curved noticeably inwards and was paralleled by the inner face of the parapet wall, giving the scene that greeted the two men an odd, canted appearance as they stared from left to right, uncertain which way to go. They had little time for deliberation however, as the press behind carried them forward.
There were many people already there but there was still plenty of space along the parapet wall for the incoming crowd and Pinnatte and Rinter did not walk too far before choosing a place to stand. Peering out over the arena, Rinter looked immediately downwards, searching curiously along the lower balconies opposite. Pinnatte however, found himself looking upwards, towards the ring of curved spikes that crowned the dome. For a giddying moment be felt that he was looking not up, but down on the scene and that the spikes were like the petals of a great flower that had opened to release a central, solitary bloom that now seemed to be sweeping up towards him. Though not afraid of heights, he tightened his grip on the edge of the parapet involuntarily, as if he might tumble into the dome. He smiled uneasily as he realized what he was doing and the unsettling sensation passed as his gaze moved from the dome along the tapering stem to the solitary crystal. He moved his head slightly as if that might improve his view and, catching a light from somewhere, the crystal flashed brilliantly. The light seemed to Pinnatte to pass into him, unhindered by his body, and fill him utterly, shining to the heart of what and who he was. It embodied all that was perfect and pure, and he was once again outside the building, staring up at the face carved into the keystone of the entrance arch, though this time it was alive and radiant, and the entire crowd behind him was staring also, in reverence and awe.
‘I never realized how big this place was.’
Rinter’s voice, grating and sounding unnaturally harsh, cut brutally into the deep silence of Pinnatte’s vision. Flooding in its wake came the babble of the gathering audience. Pinnatte grimaced and his hands were halfway to his ears before he remembered where he was. Rinter, however, was too engrossed in the scene below to notice the reaction. Pinnatte took a deep breath to calm himself and looked again at the crystal. It glittered as brightly as before in the comparative gloom, but its strange, penetrating presence was gone. Unexpectedly, he was possessed by a terrible rage that Rinter’s mewling should have torn this wonder from him, and his mind was suddenly filled with a vision of the animal trainer flailing and screaming as he hurled him from the balcony into the arena below – a fitting sacrifice. But, just as suddenly, the mood was gone, leaving Pinnatte oddly empty and a little puzzled that such a violent image should cause him so little concern. He had been subjected to violence many times, and was not afraid to use it himself when he had no alternative, but it was always a regrettable necessity and certainly it was not his way to take vengeful delight in it. And yet the reason he had not attacked Rinter was not because of any moral scruple, but because the light from the crystal stayed his hand. It seemed to be reassuring him, telling him to remain calm; it was not lost, it was merely elsewhere; it had existed always, and would return to him. And it told him other things as well, just as had the carved face. It told him again of a future quite different to the one he would have thought was his but days ago. He took another deep breath. Just a reaction to all that’s happened today, he thought. So many changes. It wasn’t a very convincing explanation, but he’d think about it later. He forced himself to pick up the threads of Rinter’s continuing remarks.
‘There must be three times as many people here as normal, and there’s space for as many again – look.’ Rinter was almost having to shout to make himself heard above the clamour coming from every angle.
Pinnatte followed Rinter’s pointing hand down across the lower balconies and the terraces around the arena. The man’s estimate was probably right, he decided. There were far more there than he had ever seen before, and though the balconies were lined with people, they were far from crowded.
‘Where’ve they all come from?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know there was going to be a Loose Pit here tonight and I live quite near.’
Rinter turned to him questioningly. ‘Never been to one before, eh?’
Pinnatte shook his head.
Rinter became avuncular. ‘Loose Pit people are different from ordinary Pit watchers, Pinnatte. Richer, as you can see. More knowledgeable and discerning by far. Connoisseurs, you might say. And very well connected.’ He gave a knowing nod with the last remark, then leaned close. ‘For instance, when I was here earlier with my… colleague…’ He frowned at the sudden memory of Atlon and Dvolci, and cast a quick glance across the hall as if he might suddenly see them. It did not halt the momentum of his new tale, however. ‘When I was here earlier, they were closed because there was going to be something special tonight. But it wasn’t this. Not a Loose Pit. There was no hint of it. They’d have told me right away… me being known here. Don’t ask me why, but this has come about within the last few hours. But those people…’ Without looking away from Pinnatte, he pointed over the parapet, towards the crowd on the terraces below. ‘… are connected. News of a Loose Pit gets to them quicker than if it was being taken by a galloper. I’ve seen it happen before. They come from all over.’ He snapped his fingers.
Pinnatte inclined his head and pursed his lips by way of acceptance of this information. After allowing for a little licence by the teller, the suddenness of it all seemed quite plausible. The entrances to the passageways they had come along had only been roughly cleared of rubbish and the lighting and signs they had met all bore the hallmarks of hasty preparation.
Then he wondered whether Lassner was amongst the crowd – whether his Den Master was one of the chosen many who supported these very special events. The thought brought a flicker of bitterness. If Lassner was there, it would doubtless be his, Pinnatte’s, money that the old fool was wasting with his inept wagering. And, presumably, wagers too would be much higher than normal tonight. Almost as though he had accidentally picked up a hot coal, he let the thought go quickly – it was an unnecessary burden. All he needed to think about Lassner now was how to get away from him without causing problems that were likely to pursue him into his new future. Now he was going to enjoy the experience of the first Loose Pit at the Jyolan, and his own first Loose Pit.
Enjoy.
This too puzzled him a little. Though he came to the Jyolan fairly frequently, he would not have described himself as a great follower of the sport. In fact, there were times when he found it unpleasant and distasteful, not least the behaviour of the crowd. It touched something in him that he rebelled against. He went there as much for something to do as for any other reason – usually it was not an expensive evening. Tonight, however, continuing the mood that had started to possess him as he had sat on the roof of Lassner’s Den, he was actually beginning to feel excited. Perhaps it was the general mood, or just the strangeness of everything that was happening here. Perhaps it was the prospect of the yarns he would have to tell over the next few months. Then again, he thought more cynically, perhaps just parting with the extra money had induced in him the idea that what he was about to see must be worth paying a lot for.
Whatever it was, he was glad to be there.
‘Any sign of your friend?’ he asked.
Rinter’s mouth twisted irritably. ‘No. I doubt he’s in here even if he’s found the place. He didn’t have much money and he still needed quite a bit of persuading. I might go back to The Wyndering tomorrow to see if he’s still there. That rat thing was most impressive. I wouldn’t like to lose it.’ He shrugged regretfully. ‘But I’m afraid he might be another lost opportunity now. I should never have let him wander off on his own. He was very…’ He looked at Pinnatte while he searched for a word. ‘Innocent,’ he decided.
Pinnatte replied with an arch look that made Rinter chuckle craftily. He gave Pinnatte a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Well, better I show him the ways of the city than some unscrupulous individual who wouldn’t have his best interests at heart.’
‘Of course,’ Pinnatte concurred with mock solemnity.
The two men laughed as they turned their attention back to the arena.
It was the first time that Pinnatte had really looked at the scene below since they arrived and he was immediately struck by the remarkable view of the arena. It was not as good a view as Pitside, of course, but it was much better than he had imagined it would be when the Pitguards had directed them up here. Rinter was not as impressed. ‘I hope they’re big, whatever’s fighting tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be difficult to see any niceties from up here.’ He leaned back from the wall and looked up and down the balcony. ‘Have you seen any blues?’
‘No,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘But there’s plenty Pitside.’ He pointed. ‘And they’re signalling up here. There must be some further round.’
The blues were the ‘officials’ who controlled the wagering at the Pits. Wagering between individuals was expressly forbidden, and though it was common, it was risky. Anyone caught doing it would routinely lose any money and valuables they had on them, by way of fines, and could well be given a beating to emphasize the point. Ostensibly the blues were independent of one another, officially appointed by the Prefect, but everyone knew that they were chosen for their peculiar mathematical skills and, like the Pitguards, were employed by the people who organized the Fights. They were called blues because of the bright blue neckerchiefs that they wore, bearing the insignia of the Prefect in silver thread at one corner. Although it was a characteristic of them that they were loud in proclaiming their honour and honesty, it was a commonplace that they worked together to ensure that the odds remained decidedly in their, and thus their employers’, favour. Nevertheless, such judgements were invariably forgotten in the heat of a Fight and the blues were never short of customers. They communicated with one another above the din and confusion of the Pits by means of frantic elaborate hand signals involving great manual dexterity and many violent slashing and throat-cutting gestures. Several of them were standing around the Pit, signalling to others on the terraces and up to the balconies.
Rinter studied them for a while then pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not for me tonight, I think,’ he said. ‘Minimum bet’s too high.’
Despite himself, Pinnatte was impressed. ‘You understand all that arm-waving?’ he asked with a mimicking gesture.
‘Enough,’ Rinter replied. ‘I’ve picked it up over the years.’
Before Pinnatte could pursue this intriguing discovery a trumpet sounded. Four repeated notes echoed around the crowded hall and the audience fell silent.