Chapter Four The Arena of Inejio Setgad
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ARENA OF INEJIO SETGAD
T HE CITY OF Setgad was on the cusp of a golden spring when Lythlet and Desil received their invitations from the match-master:
“Madame Millidin’s already agreed to give me that day off,” Desil said. “I’ll have to rise before dawn if I want time to pray at the shrine.”
Lythlet took a sip of her monkfruit tea, complimentary of The Steam Dragon and its proprietress Madame Millidin, who had grown accustomed to her visiting Desil as he worked.
A well-known establishment which Madame Millidin had worked on tirelessly for decades, The Steam Dragon with its authentic Oraanu tea menu was the pride of the otherwise dismal sector of Southeast Setgad.
Even highborn peers from Central occasionally graced the teahouse with their presence, though hardly ever without a guard or two.
It was a sleepy, chilly afternoon with intermittent storms, and that kept the usual bustling hive of customers away.
Only two middle-aged patrons were dining at present, while Desil and Lythlet occupied another table.
Schwala, the teahouse dog, was lying by the moon-shaped entrance, staring at the rainy street with dour eyes, legs sprawled out froglike from behind.
It was customary for Oraanu teahouses to keep a dog, for well-fed canines were seen as harbingers of prosperity.
Lythlet read the invitation over, absorbing the words in a relentless loop. “I’m nervous,” she admitted to Desil.
“As am I,” he said, but she could tell he was lying to make her feel better. There was a steely, determined gleam in his eyes. Confidence borne from his brawling days. He knows full well how to perform for the entertainment of a massive crowd.
She fidgeted in her seat at the thought of hundreds of strangers staring at her, judging her. Every single one of Master Dothilos’s petty nitpicks flooded her mind. “Desil,” she started hesitantly, “is the way I speak strange sometimes?”
“I think it’s very uniquely charming,” he assured her, which was quite possibly the kindest way of saying ‘yes’.
Not cheered up in the slightest, she went on, “Do I mispronounce temerity?”
“I don’t know that word, Lytha,” he said, blissfully unbothered. “Does this have anything to do with conquessing?”
“No, I suppose not,” she admitted.
He patted her arm. “Let’s just focus on getting through the first match, shall we?”
One match. Depending on how many spectators bid on them, the jackpot could knock off a decent percentage of their debt to Tucoras.
Perhaps it would even cover their rent, food, census tax, and other necessities for some time.
And the spectators may welcome us back to the next round with more bids—and a bigger jackpot.
She exhaled, rooting herself back to the ground. She was getting carried away.
There is nothing more dangerous than hope , she warned herself.
· · ·
C OMPLETELY UNCONCERNED WITH Lythlet, Master Dothilos patted Desil on the back in greeting when they showed up on his doorstep for their briefing.
“My dear boy, your name alone on the roster was enough to stir the spectators into a frenzy. I’ve been getting more bids than usual for a first round!
Come now, follow me inside. The other first-rounders have gone ahead of us.
Their match is scheduled before yours, so they’re being briefed earlier. ”
“We’re sharing our match day with other first-rounders?” Lythlet said.
“Of course,” Master Dothilos said amusedly, as if the idea of doing it any other way were absurd.
“First-rounders rarely amount to anything, and spectators willing to watch them are scarce. The only way I can make it palatable is by bundling you lot up so there’s value in your match’s ticket.
Only by surviving your first match will you be granted solo match dates onwards. ”
Lythlet cast a glance in Desil’s direction. “I thought given Desil’s reputation, we’d be given some preferential treatment.”
“You have. I usually have three pairs of first-rounders on one ticket. Count your blessings that the name Desil Demothi still carries some weight. Hurry now, come in.”
“Surely we ought to have the briefing in the arena?” said Desil, stepping into the carpeted corridor alongside Lythlet.
“We are, my dear boy. Just follow me down to the basement and I’ll show you something very interesting.” That bright little twinkle had returned to his pale eyes.
Lythlet eyed him, not humored in the least. Few things were more suspicious than a shady fellow saying he had something interesting hidden in his basement. It’s a coin toss between a skeleton collection or a caged woman.
Amidst the chaos of broken bowls and locked chests in the basement, the match-master prised apart the floorboards, revealing a hole in the ground. A ladder, reaffirmed with wooden slats, was etched into a side, leading down as far as Lythlet could see in the dim light.
“Mind your step, the two of you. We go all the way down, then the road twists and turns before we reach the arena.” The match-master pulled at a chain around his neck, from which hung an oddly shaped piece of glass.
She heard a tap, barely audible, and then a startlingly bright light glowed from it, brighter than any hive-lantern.
Could that be baltascar? Lythlet wondered, intrigued. But an even larger question seized her attention as she examined the revealed passageway: “We’re going to Inejio, aren’t we?”
Master Dothilos glanced at her. “The one and only. I don’t suppose you two have ever been there before?”
Desil and Lythlet exchanged brief looks at each other, unbridled curiosity growing on their faces.
Where their ancestors had first settled the sacred land was now called Inejio by Setgadians, an ancient ruin completely walled up and over, anyone outside the United Setgad Party strictly prohibited from entering.
By the time the then government had decided it was time to transform Setgad from a humble safe haven into a city-state with proper walls, Inejio—once the nexus of a burgeoning populace—had deteriorated into nothing more than a dismal slum, tatters of humanity trying to scrape by.
With the aim of giving Setgad a fresh beginning with the newer sectors, everything was built over and around Inejio, segregating the shame of its poverty from its flourishing neighbors.
Central Setgad had been constructed directly over it, the apex of modern civilization resting upon the dilapidated shoulders of its forefather.
Of course, there was plenty of hearsay of how Inejio was still very much accessible for those desperate enough to seek it, of how both miscreants and misfortunates had found a refuge for themselves in those sprawling ruins, of how you’d find yourself there if you took a path by so-and-so—but Lythlet and Desil had never had the opportunity nor the excuse to test the veracity of those rumors.
With a small, knowing smile at their silence, Master Dothilos went down the hole, beckoning them to follow.
It was a long ladder plunging deep into the depths of the earth, and trepidation filled Lythlet as she latched onto the rungs.
She felt like an earthworm burrowing her way down the claustrophobically narrow tunnel.
Relief flooded her when she could put two feet on flat ground again, but they had a long way yet to go.
They followed an earthen road that snaked around in sharp turns, always going uphill at a slight incline, until at last they emerged through a wall into a blast of cool open air.
“This is it, conquessors,” Master Dothilos said, spreading his hands around. “Inejio—the ancient heart of the city buried beneath Central.”
Lythlet turned around in a circle, eyes wide at the long-abandoned world unveiled around her.
The home of their ancestors lay before them, a desolate ruin overrun with untamed green.
Tall pillars, larger than any kataka tree, dotted the landscape at regular intervals, stretching like monstrous stone giants holding up the darkness above.
Unwavering lights gleamed from them so that the entire ground was lit in an eerie pale glare.
Deserted streets stretched far beyond sight, made up of dilapidated buildings featuring broken windows and exposed rafters.
A shrine stood near them, its majesty humbled by the passage of centuries, nearly all of its warden statues beheaded and delimbed by time and pillagers foraging for lucky charms.
Yet where there was ruin, there remained life.
Tangles of flowering weeds sprang from the ground, and trees that had grown monstrously huge entwined themselves with abandoned buildings, roots and vines wrapping themselves over stone and brick.
Flowers bloomed lush and vibrant in the aftermath of their ancestors, and fruit hung overhead, ripe and fresh.
There’s no sun down here—how can anything grow?
Master Dothilos rushed them forth, and as they passed a row of old townhouses, their once colorful shutters now faded into demure shades, Lythlet peeped through the windows.
Remnants of ancient households lay under dusty veneers, a quick-fire montage of life long evacuated embedded in the memory-saturated interiors.
A rocking chair an elderly man might have played with his grandchildren in; a sweet-faced rag doll a child must’ve hugged to sleep every night now lying forgotten on a nightstand; a crudely carved eight-stringed izitana, a traditional Ederi instrument, that doubtless some youngsters had spent summers of their lives plucking away on with rapidly callousing fingers.