Another trumpet joined the first. Then another. The sounds cascaded over one another, filling the hall. Traditionally, fighting pits always opened with a fanfare of some kind. More often than not it would be a teeth-clenching affair of split notes and dissonances, though occasionally it could be martial and stirring. Pinnatte liked that – he responded to music, and a good fanfare thrilled him. So much so, that when he heard one he would walk back to the Den, whistling a tuneless and inadequate descant to its echoing memory softly under his breath.
But this was such as he had never heard before. It was not merely confidently and accurately played, it had a driving, rhythmic power that seemed to pick him up and shake him. At its climax, he felt as though he was being transported to another place, far above and beyond this shoddy hall with its degradation and its stench of bloodlust and greed. He was wide-eyed and gaping in amazement when eventually the sound faded, and he felt as if every hair on his body was standing on end. How could such magic exist in a place like this?
Then a biting pain shot through his right hand and, for a moment, suffused him horribly. It was as though his body was rebelling against his elation at the music and it brought him crashing back to normality. Somehow he managed to reduce an anguished cry to a sharply indrawn breath, but he could do no other than seize his hand and hold it tight against himself. The pain began to fade almost immediately.
‘What’s the matter?’ Rinter asked.
‘Nothing,’ Pinnatte answered, grimacing. ‘I hurt my hand earlier and just caught it on something.’ Rinter nodded with casual sympathy and returned to watching the arena below. Unexpectedly, Pinnatte found that he was relieved at the other man’s lack of concern. He did not want to show the stain on his hand to anyone; it was his, and his alone. Fleetingly it seemed to him that the pain and the music were associated in some way – as if the pain were indeed a punishment because the music had taken him somewhere he should not be. He did not dwell on the notion, for it made no sense.
Then the pain was gone completely. Slowly he released his hand, fearful about what he might see when he looked down. He edged back a little from Rinter and, manoeuvring himself into the light from a nearby lamp, nervously examined the back of his hand. To his relief he saw that nothing had changed. There was no sign of inflammation or swelling, still less anything that might have caused a violent and sudden reaction. Indeed, the stain seemed to be a little fainter. Very tentatively, he prodded it with his finger. It did not hurt. He prodded harder. Still there was no pain. Whatever had caused it, there was not even the slightest tenderness now.
A raucous cheering came up from the crowd, dissipating his lingering concern about his hand. Like the fanfare, the roar grew in intensity and, also like the fanfare, it seemed first to pass through him and then to carry him away. This time however, he was not so much lifted out of himself as possessed by the wild-eyed and ravening excitement that was filling the hall. For the first time, the characteristic stink of the arena reached him. It had a peculiarly vivid intensity, almost as though for an instant he had been given the heightened senses of an animal. It mingled with the smell and roar of the crowd, exciting him still further. He heard, or rather felt himself joining in the noise even before he was again looking over the parapet to see what it was for.
The cause lay in the floor of the high platform at the centre of the arena, where three curved and overlapping sections were slowly drawing back to reveal a growing circular opening. Pinnatte stiffened as the oval arena became a great eye, with the dark circle that formed its pupil widening as if at the joy of seeing him. As it stared up at him, his own eyes widened in response.
Then a faint bloody thread was worming in the depths of the darkness. Only slowly did he realize that he was watching someone emerge through the opening. The image of the eye lingered however, until the man stepped on to the platform.
He was a familiar figure, to be found in all the fighting pits, though Pinnatte was not used to seeing him from such an angle. He wore a bright red, broad-brimmed hat, and a long coat of the same colour decorated with an elaborate gold tracery. In his right hand he held a slender silver staff, half as tall again as himself. This was the Master of the Pit, ostensibly the supreme authority over all matters that occurred in the arena. His decisions were not to be disputed, however arbitrary they might seem, however enraged the crowd. He it was who signalled the beginning and the ending of each fight and who determined the winner when any doubt existed. He also enforced discipline in the arena, the merest touch of his staff causing animals to release even the most tenacious of grips and leap back in pain. More than once, Pinnatte had seen a similar fate meted out to irate owners who had so much forgotten themselves in the heat of the moment as to approach the central platform and argue with the Master.
Following this tall and dignified figure came two men dressed in tight black tunics and trousers. They too carried staffs though they were shorter than the Master’s. These were the Judges of the Pit, though why, no one knew, for their opinions were neither sought by the Master nor offered to him. Their duties consisted of regaling the crowd with the breeding and fighting pedigrees of the various animals, with goading those that were reluctant to fight, and with dispatching any that were badly hurt.
Other figures entered the arena next through doors in the side of the central platform. They entered quietly and without ceremony. Carrying heavy staffs and long knives, they were known as the Clerks of the Pit. It was their task to implement any instructions from the Master and to help the Judges with the dispatching of animals – sometimes a difficult and dangerous duty – and to clean up the arena after each fight. Normally they were a motley, ragged group of individuals, but tonight even they wore liveries – pale brown in colour, not dissimilar to that of the arena floor. They were greeted with mock cheers and whistles which most of them managed to ignore.
The Master extended his arms with his palms upwards and turned round to encompass the entire crowd. The cheering became genuine and very loud, fading only as one of the Judges stepped forward to speak. Rinter and Pinnatte craned forward in anticipation of having difficulty in hearing a solitary voice from so far away. So did everyone else. It proved to be unnecessary however. When the man spoke, some quality in the construction of the hall carried his voice in such a way that it was as though he were standing only a few paces away from everyone there. A murmur of surprise rumbled through the hall, but he spoke through it. He had an ironic lilt to his voice.
‘Welcome to you all, my friends. Welcome to the Jyolan Fighting Pits…’
‘He’s a new one,’ Rinter said. ‘And the Master, too.’
Pinnatte nodded.
‘Welcome to the new andfuture Jyolan Fighting Pits.’ There was a cheer from parts of the crowd. ‘Tonight is not what it was going to be. Even this morning, this night was not foreseen. But changes have come about and tonight’s contests will show you things that will remain with you not only when you leave, but for the rest of your lives…’
‘That won’t be long at this rate. Get on with it,’ someone shouted.
There was some laughter, and the Judge turned and levelled an open hand in the direction of the heckler. ‘And we may decide to finish the evening by throwing some extra fresh meat to our magnificent winners.’ This was greeted with a raucous cheer from those standing near the man and, satisfied, the Judge returned to his speech. ‘Those of you who come here regularly, may doubtless be surprised at what you’ve found tonight’ He indicated the opened balconies.
‘And at the prices,’ came a cry. There were some angry voices raised in agreement with this.
The Judge gave an airy wave. ‘Quality, ladies and gentlemen. Quality. If you want to see rabbits, rats and bad-tempered dogs nibbling at one another, there are plenty of other places to go to.’ He became dismissive. ‘Some, I’ve no doubt, would probably pay you to go in and watch. But for what we have tonight, a grand re-opening, as it were, what you’ve paid is the merest trifle. You’ll not regret the modest amounts we’ve asked from you – not ever. For you are the fortunate, the privileged few whom fate has chosen to be present at the very beginning of a future which will see the Jyolan Pits restored to a splendour and fame that will exceed even its past greatness, the few who’ll be talking about tonight’s events to their great-grandchildren.’
Despite the unusual nature of the Judge’s preamble, sections of the crowd were becoming restless. The man faltered. Slowly, the Master of the Pits raised his staff vertically and brought the end down on to the platform with a crack which, like the Judge’s voice, carried round the entire hall. Very few of the crowd did not start at the impact and the hubbub faded rapidly.
The Judge cast a hasty look over his shoulder at the Master who gave him a sharp nod to continue. He cleared his throat. ‘My friends, we are providing you with this spectacle tonight, because the Jyolan – always one of the finest pits – now has patrons who rank amongst the city’s wealthiest and most powerful.’ He bent forward and put a finger to his lips. ‘Patrons who, as is the way with people of discernment and delicate sensibility, prefer to give their support discreetly and silently.’
‘It’s Barran, I’ll wager,’ Rinter nodded significantly to Pinnatte. He spoke softly, as if his voice might travel around the hall like the Judge’s. ‘I told you there’d been talk of it. And it’d take someone like him to see the potential in a place like this.’ He rubbed his hands gleefully.
The mention of Barran brought Pinnatte fully back to his reason for being there that night. ‘Have you ever met him?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Barran. Have you ever met him?’
Rinter paused for a moment then took on a proprietorial air. ‘Well, with his business interests, he likes to keep himself to himself and there’s not many get close to him, but I have met him – and spoken to him – and, of course, I know Fiarn from the old days. You’ve heard of Fiarn?’
Pinnatte looked at Rinter with considerably renewed interest.
He had accepted that this newly-found acquaintance might be a pit animal trainer – plenty of people claimed to be that just because they had a fierce dog which they occasionally entered in minor pits – but it seemed highly improbable that he would know people such as Barran or even Fiarn, not least because he was standing here in the cheapest part of the hall. Still, for some reason he had taken a liking to the man and he was loath to jeopardize their casual friendship by taxing him too closely on such matters. Nevertheless, first things first, he had a future to find for himself.
‘Yes, I’ve heard of Fiarn,’ he replied. ‘Used to look after miners in the Thlosgaral, didn’t he? Until he started working for Barran.’
The Judge below was beginning to describe the animals that would be fighting in the first contest. As was usual, the speech was full of flamboyant hyperbole and, also as usual, most of the crowd was scarcely listening.
Rinter chuckled knowingly. ‘Oh yes, that’s one way of putting it. Fiarn used to look after the miners all right.’ He turned round and leaned back on the parapet wall. ‘In fact, I worked for him for a while – looking after the miners.’ His face darkened and took on an expression almost of regret after this boast. ‘But it wasn’t for me. Not my kind of work. Fiarn’s a hard man – brutal when he wants to be. And I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the miners – or their families, anyway. It’s difficult to feel sorry for the miners themselves – they’re a dismal, driven lot at the best of times.’ His expression became reflective. ‘People go into a world of their own after they’ve worked in the mines for a while. You can see it when you look into their eyes – they’re not there really, though I wouldn’t like to know where they are. And the Thlosgaral’s a creepy place – downright frightening at times. You know it moves, don’t you?’ Pinnatte nodded vaguely. The Thlosgaral was not something that came up often in normal conversation, but he had heard tales about its constantly changing terrain. Rinter cast a glance back into the arena – the Judge was still talking. ‘But yes, Fiarn “looked after the miners” until Barran made him a better offer.’
‘What was that?’
Rinter chuckled again, then laughed openly. ‘A typical Barran offer – work for me or die. Mind you, it was more than he offered the rest of Fiarn’s gang.’ Pinnatte raised an inquiring eyebrow. Rinter looked at him squarely, as if making a judgement, then he leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘It almost makes you think there’s someone keeping an eye on you, the way things work out, doesn’t it?’ His voice fell lower still. ‘I’d left Fiarn only days before he and the others picked a fight with Barran and ended up…’ He drew his finger across his throat. Abruptly, the humour went from his manner and real fear came into his eyes. He turned quickly back to the arena.
This time, Pinnatte was genuinely impressed. Whatever Rinter might be, there was no denying the sincerity of his last reaction. This man had actually met Fiarn, Barran’s most trusted and feared lieutenant. He edged closer to him. ‘You think Barran would’ve done the same to you?’ he asked, almost whispering.
Rinter’s cheeks puffed out and he searched the arena below as if anxious to be firmly back in the present again. ‘No doubt about it,’ he said. ‘If I’d been there then, I wouldn’t be here now. I can take care of myself better than most would think, to look at me, but being able to fight wouldn’t have made much difference from what I’ve heard since. Fiarn’s men thought they were fighters – and they were, after a fashion, but Barran’s a real fighter – a mercenary who’s fought in battles far away from here, and he took them just like that!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Four men in as many heartbeats.’
The story excited Pinnatte. He could hardly help himself. ‘Do you know Fiarn now?’
Rinter hesitated, torn between telling the truth and bolstering himself with a fanciful tale. The latter would have been his normal response, but this young man was oddly engaging. He had the look of a thief – probably a Den-Mate – but he seemed intelligent, and there was something about him…
Untypically, he opted for the truth. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘We parted friendly enough. He knew I wasn’t much use for his kind of work – he only gave me the job because I was out of luck at the time and we’d known one another as kids. But we went our separate ways. I’ve seen him a few times since – had the odd drink and talk about old times – but I’d hardly claim to be a bosom friend.’
A roar from the crowd drew both men back to the arena. The Judge had finished his rambling introduction and, with his companion, was retreating to stand at the edge of the central platform. Two doors had opened in the outer walls of the arena, on opposite sides. As Pinnatte and Rinter began to watch again, the first contestants and their owners emerged from the doors. The two dogs were dark grey, squat-headed and bandy-legged, and both were straining at their leashes. The Master of the Pit looked down at each in turn then made a motion to one to move towards the other. This would determine the direction of movement of the first part of the bout. It was a long-established tradition which ensured that all sections of the Pitside crowd would be able to see some of the action at close hand.
‘Can you take me to meet him?’ Pinnatte could hardly believe the words he was speaking. What was he thinking about, making such a request of so casual an acquaintance? And what could he possibly say to a man like Fiarn, even if he did meet him? And say something he would have to, for to trifle with such a man…
He took a sharp hold of his thoughts as they careened recklessly into innumerable futures.
Rinter’s head jolted round, but somehow Pinnatte managed not to flinch away from his shocked expression. Right or wrong, the words were out.
‘Can you take me to meet him?’ he asked again in the hope that attack would be his best defence.
Rinter did not speak for a moment, then he said both hoarsely and urgently, ‘I… Watch the fight!’
Keeping his eyes fixed on him, Pinnatte nodded an acknowledgement, though with a slightly apologetic expression that indicated postponement of the question rather than abandonment. He leaned forward enthusiastically over the parapet wall. Rinter had not actually refused! Pinnatte had no idea what had prompted him to speak as he had, but he could sense that an important seed had been sown, and that it should be left to germinate for a while. And in what more favourable surroundings than these? Even allowing for the Judge’s exaggeration, this was probably going to be an exciting evening, and Rinter would almost certainly be even more forthcoming at the end of it than now. Pinnatte felt very relaxed.
The two dogs were brought together, or rather kept apart, for they were both still leashed, and their owners were keeping them sufficiently far away from one another to ensure that no serious damage could be done too soon. Each time one of them charged it was yanked back before it could make contact with the other. This was a wilfully provocative procedure which was used to raise both the animals’ fighting fury and the crowd’s anticipation to an even higher pitch. Slowly the snarling protagonists were dragged around the arena, followed at a watching distance by the Clerks and, around the platform, by the Master with the two Judges, one on each side of him, all bending forward and studying the proceedings intently.
Rinter, apparently recovered from the shock of Pinnatte’s abrupt question, was soon totally absorbed in the fight. He pulled a seeing glass from his pocket and peered through it. ‘I thought I’d seen them before when they first came out,’ he said. ‘They’re from the same litter. They’re brothers. This should be a very interesting night indeed if they’re starting with these two. They’d normally be brought on near the end. They really hate one another.’ He cackled. ‘I always say if you want a truly vicious fight, keep it in the family.’ He handed the glass to Pinnatte, who placed it uncertainly to his eyes. Though he had observed others using seeing glasses before, he had never actually used one himself, and at first he could see nothing other than a disconcerting rainbow shimmer. He drew his head back, blinking.
‘Move it backwards and forwards,’ Rinter said, taking his hand and demonstrating. ‘And turn this.’
Pinnatte did as he was told. Then, abruptly, he was looking at the two dogs as though he were standing at the Pitside. He gasped and jerked back from the vision, more than a little disorientated.
Rinter seized his arm. ‘Careful!’ he cried. ‘That’s a good glass. I don’t think dropping it from this height would do it much good – not to mention whoever it landed on.’ He seemed suddenly to be in remarkably good humour. He motioned Pinnatte to continue his watching.
Cautiously, his tongue protruding slightly, Pinnatte brought the glass to his face again, then he rested his elbows on the parapet to steady himself. The sight was incredible. On reflection he decided that even at Pitside it was unlikely he would have such a good view. For a moment, his old self reemerged. If he could steal some of these, he’d make a fortune selling them to the crowds that would be flooding here. He set the idea aside for future consideration and turned the glass from the dogs to the Pitside crowd. It did not take him long to appreciate the wealth that was gathered there – expensive clothes, lavish jewellery, bulging purses and, of course, bodyguards, both liveried and otherwise. He had to remind himself strongly of the consequences of succumbing to the temptations that immediately began tugging at him. It did not help that the first wagers were being taken and he could actually see large quantities of money changing hands as the blues scurried about in a frenzy of activity. Some of it was even the notarized linen money that was becoming popular amongst the city’s wealthy.
He followed one individual for a little while then it became too much for him and he reluctantly handed the glass back to Rinter who replaced it in his pocket. Looking now at the crowd as a whole, Pinnatte could see that all the terraces were alive with dots of blue moving to and fro frantically gesticulating to one another. And so too was the balcony he was standing on, he realized, as he became aware of activity going on behind him. Apart from a reluctance to indulge in it from what he knew of Lassner’s experience, wagering was in any event a mystery to Pinnatte and he had always had a little awe for these strange people who worked out and constantly changed odds and whose spoken language was only marginally less difficult to understand than their elaborate hand signalling.
Rinter was tapping his purse uncertainly.
‘No,’ Pinnatte said, with a determined shake of his head. ‘Go with your first judgement. It’s too expensive tonight. Why spoil a good evening by paying even more than you already have? I don’t think the blues will miss your contribution tonight.’
‘You’re right,’ Rinter said stoically, giving his purse a final slap and abandoning it. He seemed relieved that someone had made the decision for him.
When the dogs had made two circuits of the arena, they were pulled apart and the activity of the blues stopped almost completely. Then, at a signal from the Master, they began another circuit. This time, however, they were allowed longer leashes and it was not long before blood had been drawn from both of them, although great efforts were made by the owners to ensure that they did not actually come to grips. Despite this, one would occasionally succeed in seizing the other and then one of the Clerks would dash forward and insert something into the offender’s mouth to prise it open. This was far from popular with the crowd, who loudly abused the owner for his carelessness – and his intelligence, appearance, parentage, and general manliness. Such incidents were always followed by another flurry in the wagering, as calculations were made about the effect the incident had had on each dog, and whether the Master would have deemed it to be an offence against the honoured rules of the sport should the ending prove to be inconclusive and his decision be required.
The greater part of the fight was occupied thus, with the dogs being separated after each circuit. This was supposed to be for the Master to examine them and determine their fitness to continue, but in fact it was for the owners, who could choose to withdraw their animals if the fight was not proceeding as they wished – this often being determined by any wagers they had placed.
Then the Master gave the signal that the dogs were now prepared for the final stage of the fight. By an odd coincidence this decision was almost invariably reached at the same time as most of the betting had stopped, and when the crowd had reached a level of excitement from which it could only fall away.
The two dogs were released. Foaming and blood-spattered, they crashed into one another.
Rinter was laughing. ‘Those two must have given their mother a rare belly-ache when she was carrying them. Look at them. They’re almost human the way they go at one another.’
Pinnatte barely noted the remark, however; he was completely engrossed in the fate of the struggling animals as they began rolling around the dusty arena in a confusion of flailing legs and clashing jaws. The Clerks stepped in to goad them on whenever they stopped and just stood panting and staring at one another. Though he could no longer distinguish one from the other, Pinnatte suddenly wanted one of them to win, and to win outright, tearing the throat out of the other and leaving it to gasp its last to the roar of the crowd. It was not all that common a conclusion, happening, when it did, usually to animals that were nearing the end of their usefulness. Nevertheless, he wanted it. He was sweating. Though he had often been to the pits before, he had never had so powerful, so visceral a response. It seemed to possess him utterly. And yet a part of him was still and silent – watching – watching him coldly from some strange eyrie, far away, in another place. He could feel himself as part of the crowd, his body shaking to its will as he screamed at the betrayed animals. He could hear his voice as part of the awful howling chorus, and at the same time he could see his own tiny figure, distant and preposterous, bouncing up and down on the crowded balcony. One shimmering mote against thousands.
Abruptly, it was over, the Master deftly using his staff to separate the two animals and declaring one of them the winner. It was a nicely timed moment, provoking an equal mixture of abuse and cheers from the crowd. Pinnatte was venting the former and, for a moment, as he slid giddily back down to normality, he wanted one of the owners to dispute the decision and receive the Master’s staff for his temerity. But all was orderly and mundane; the owners reined in their dogs, by now exhausted as well as injured, and left the arena quietly; the Clerks began cleaning up the mess that had been made; the Master and the Judges conferred on some matter, and the crowd settled back into a state of noisy expectancy. Spasmodic cheering accompanied the movement of the blues through the crowd as wagers were settled. Rinter had taken out his seeing glass and was watching them with interest. ‘Smiling as ever, when they’ve got their backs to the crowd,’ he said sourly. ‘It’s a good thing you reminded me not to bet, or I’d have been the cause of some of that now if I had.’ He pocketed the glass. ‘I gather you enjoyed yourself,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Mind you, I got quite involved, too. That Master certainly knows his job. Couldn’t have finished that fight better myself. I wonder where they got him from?’
Pinnatte certainly could not affect a cool indifference to the conflict as the memory of his behaviour returned. He was both elated and disgusted. Unconsciously he rubbed the back of his hand. The whole experience had been something the like of which he had never known before. Would it happen again in the next fight? he wondered. Did he want it to? He had no clear answer. ‘It was exciting,’ he conceded awkwardly, leaning over the parapet as if fearful of what Rinter might read in his face.
The scene below was unchanged. The blues had settled back into comparative stillness, and were hovering at strategic positions, ready for the next frenzied burst of effort. The Clerks had finished tidying the arena, and the Judges were standing as if waiting for an instruction from somewhere. It was the usual, too-long pause between fights. The Master was turning round slowly, looking at the crowd, and the general hubbub ebbed and flowed.
Playing with us, Pinnatte realized. The thought burst into his mind with extraordinary vividness. It was as if he should have known it all his life. That was the Master’s job – not simply the controlling and adjudicating of the fights, but the sensing of the will of the crowd and, by his control of the rhythms of the fights, the manipulating of it.
To what end?
To the profit of those who employed him, of course – those who owned the Pits. It was obvious. Why had he never seen it before? Why had he not noticed this subtle, vital underplay in the great game of wringing money out of people?
Briefly he felt the distant detachment he had experienced at the heart of the fight. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t noticed it before. He noticed it now, and it intrigued him. He had been right to search out a new future for himself, and he had been right to come here as the first step – finding himself at the first Loose Pit at the Jyolan! And meeting Rinter, who knew Fiarn! As Rinter himself had said, it was almost as if someone were looking after him – manipulating his destiny the way the Master was manipulating the crowd. And more would happen tonight, he knew.
He could feel it.
He rubbed the back of his hand.
Below, a hooded figure at the Pitside turned and looked up at him.