Chapter Four The Arena of Inejio Setgad #2
To think that a very long time ago, her ancestors had trawled through these very streets, living lives of which the memories were now lost to time.
Slowing momentarily, Lythlet dragged her fingers across her collarbones and looped them over her heart, performing the ritual of remembrance.
Bowing with hands steepled together, she muttered under her breath, “May the white wind guide your souls. Please watch over my match today and lend me your good favor.”
“The filial sort, aren’t you?” remarked Master Dothilos, glancing over his shoulder, his brisk march not faltering for even a heartbeat.
Lythlet dropped her hands, embarrassed, and picked up the pace. “I didn’t think anything of Inejio still stood.”
“There had been government plans to rejuvenate the area eventually, actually. Tear down the slums and turn it into an opulent, exclusive haven for certain dignitaries—and of course, all that’s been forgotten.
But I’ve heard word of that changing soon.
Fascinating, isn’t it? This whole place is like walking through a time capsule. ”
“Yes, much better than a skeleton collection.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” A question pricked her thoughts as they turned a corner onto a street of old terraced shophouses with cantilevered walkways, wooden doors hanging on their hinges, berry-laden vines twisting around arched doorframes. “Is it true the unregistered live here?”
“Where else could they? Census scribes don’t bother coming, of course. Too tedious, not worth checking on. So the unregistered sleep here, and if they ever need anything, they run up using one of the many paths and come back down if they spot any wandering scribes.”
Those who could not afford to pay their city taxes escaped the repercussions by failing to assign themselves to any address—and in doing so, they snapped loose all ties to society, rendering themselves unable to partake in any services the Court checked upon.
Schoolhouses, health wards, moneyhouses, the usurers, Faravind Post, landlords and landladies—anyone who wished to survive an audit by the Court turned away the unregistered.
Lythlet kept quiet. If they ever failed to pay Tucoras again, their only choice would be to run away and become unregistered themselves.
The debt may have been in Desil’s name, but she was so entwined with his life, the loan shark would inevitably chase her into vagabondage.
She stared at the ruins surrounding her, a sense of foreboding rising as she contemplated how much her future rested upon her upcoming match.
As scenic as it was, a verdant microcosmic glimpse at a bygone era, she prayed desperately this level of segregation would never become her fate.
“Here we are,” said the match-master jovially, slowing for the first time.
Looming before them was a tall, roofless, circular structure.
Many glassless windows ringed it, its formidable height supported by flying buttresses rooted into the earth around it, like a falcon’s talons sinking into the flesh of its prey.
“It was built hundreds of years ago—a proper symbol of mankind’s hubris,” said the match-master with a glimmer of pride, as if he had been the one painstakingly laying stone upon stone.
“Our ancestors found a sacred safe haven, and what did they do? Decide to bring in monsters and kill them for jollies! We are a wonderful, sensible bunch, aren’t we?
I restored the arena when I took over the matches, and it looks as good as new, if I do say so myself. ”
Boastful though he may have been, credit had to be given to him. The arena stood tall and proud, the pale walls gleaming under the Inejio light like a well-preserved relic.
“Right this way.” Master Dothilos ushered them around and through a small gate, one appearing more functional than extravagant; no doubt the main entrance was somewhere else, a cavernous mouth permitting throngs of spectators through.
After a series of long, narrow corridors, they reached a small room lit by a few hive-lanterns.
It was an armory, all but one wall furnished with nearly any weapon one could think of.
Rows of swords of various shapes and sizes, including traditional Oraanu blades; all varieties of polearms, bladed or otherwise; axes and hatchets; knives and daggers; rope darts; massive maces; bulky clubs; slings accompanied with heavy stones—
“No bow and arrow?” Lythlet noticed.
The match-master scoffed. “Never. No crossbows, either. Too easy for conquessors to climb up the scaffolding and pick off the beasties one by one. Too cheap a shot means no risk, and no risk means dissatisfied spectators. I save them for my servants to use on beasts after conquessors forfeit.”
Before she could examine the selection of polearms further, Master Dothilos had them follow him into another long hallway with a lifted gate at the far end.
“You’ll come through here and wait for my summons before going through that gate.
There will be an oath to swear on before you fight.
You know the words to say, Desil, the same as brawling. ”
He didn’t bother explaining what they were to Lythlet, she noted with slight offense.
“After that, my men will bring in the beast and the fight will commence. No holding back, please. There was an unfortunate incident a year ago when a couple of conquessors panicked at first sight of the beast. Didn’t even remember to forfeit!
Thoroughly entertaining, but it took my men days to clean up the gruesome aftermath. ”
Desil’s glare turned sharp. “I thought you said none have died.”
“Did I now?” the match-master returned absent-mindedly. “I don’t recall.”
Horseshit of the highest order .
They crossed the gate and entered the arena proper.
It was much larger than Lythlet had expected from the outside.
The only time she had seen such a huge circle of land, unfettered by buildings or taken up by shanties, was when she had worked on a farm, going through the wide fields for the harvest. But the ground here was different, not covered by soft grass but with hard-packed dirt, dust, and sand.
The other pair of first-rounders was standing at the diametrically opposite side of the arena, two young Oraanus being briefed by one of Master Dothilos’s men.
Empty spectator seats stretched in a full circle above.
Beneath them were protruding bamboo scaffolds ascending in random patterns along the walls.
In the center of the arena, eight enormously tall and thick bamboo poles erupted out of the ground, jutting into the heights, taller than even the topmost seats.
A vivid childhood memory swelled up in her, of swaying atop thin minstra bamboos and feeling the breeze on her face as funeral drums beat around her.
But these can’t be minstra. These are ginormous in comparison.
Lythlet pointed at the bamboo ring sprouting from the center of the arena. “What type of bamboo are those?”
“The platforms along the walls are made of common minstra bamboo, but those huge freestanding stalks in the center are yutrela poles. Lacks the fire resistance of the minstra, but they’re ten times thicker, as you can see, and a thousand times stronger.”
Lythlet paused, startling at the name. She had read about it in the legend of Atena in her youth, recalling how Atena had cunningly used a single yutrela leaf to calm one of the Heavenly Dragons, before learning of greater gifts awarded by scaling the heights of the bamboo.
“Yutrela? Isn’t that a divine touchstone? ”
Divine blessings were scant in their part of the world—while their Anvari brethren to the far east were still blessed with bloodrights that gave them the power to manipulate the world around them, the Ederi in the west had nothing more than the common ability to interface with divine touchstones, the few vestiges of the heavenly left behind in the mortal world: bits of nature that bestowed a temporary reward should you show respect to it by fulfilling its requirements.
Master Dothilos nodded. “Divine, indeed, if you believe the legends. Sadly, it’s been decades since we’ve seen anyone actually climb it all the way to the top, let alone manipulate the cosmoscape with it.
Used to be a requisite skill for any conquessor when the games first began—it was nigh an art in those days.
But none have the skill nor the daring nowadays. Pity.”
Lythlet circled the base where the yutrela cluster was planted.
She examined the length of one: natural notches ran along it, spaced far apart.
It was indeed a great deal taller and thicker than the minstra poles of her youth.
She ran her fingers along the rough texture of the bamboo, memories of joining mourning companies stirring in her.
Bells ringing, drums beating, all to chase away evil spirits and usher along the soul of the dead.
Herself, high upon a minstra bamboo pole, waving a white-and-gray pennant from the top, letting the breeze send the tangles of her hair askew.
Her thoughts progressed from the past to the folkloric, the legend of Atena gripping her mind.
If there were any truth to it, whosoever had the persistence to reach the very top of one of these poles and issue the right prayer to the divine would be blessed with no more than eight seconds to understand and alter the pattern of gravity written on the map of the cosmoscape, one of the most powerful meridian networks of the universe.