The Literary Diversions of K.T. Lazarus

Within the Grand Arena two boxers circled each other, trading feints and jabs. Each impact of knuckles on flesh was spurred on by the cheers of spectators watching from the terraces. A single bronze mark bought admission to the lowest terrace: standing room only, a broad, open disk at eye level with the boxers. The middle terrace consisted of fifty rows of bleachers, rising steeply out of the roof of the level below. It cost five bronze notes to get into the middle terrace, but the view—as well as the company—was unquestionably better. 

The smaller of the boxers slipped under a devastating haymaker thrown by his opponent, and delivered a precise uppercut to his jaw. The larger man’s head snapped backward with a spray of sweat and blood, and the arena erupted into raucous cries of elation and disappointment as he hit the ground. Copper and tin shavers changed hands in the bottom terrace, while in the middle, the spectators exchanged notes of bronze, with an occasional glint of silver. 

High above, in the shaded lounges and personal boxes of the upper terrace, the notebooks remained closed. Their aristocratic owners maintained a healthy disinterest in the base display of pugilism enjoyed by the commoners while they waited for the main event of the day. Many of them passed their time with sophisticated conversation underscored by subtle political maneuverings against one another; others just talked business.

Two ring attendants dragged the beaten man away as the referee raised the champion’s arm for a final round of cheers, and then they too were rushed out of sight. Runners circled the oval arena, dragging rakes and brooms behind them to smooth out the loose-packed dirt and cover the patches of spilled blood. Once the field was groomed, from the gates at the head of the arena emerged a venerable old wizard by the name of Crispin, the Grand Master of Ceremonies. Older than the dirt on which he stood, yet surprisingly spry for his age, Crispin had been running the main events of the arena for so long that there were only a handful of nobles left alive who could claim to have witnessed a tourney without his presence. A respectful hush fell over the audience, and even those in the upper terrace halted their conversations and turned their attention below. Crispin gestured to the top of the gate and dropped into an elegant bow as three noble ladies came forward and took their seats under shaded pavilions, while their servants filed in behind them with fans, parasols, and drinking goblets. Striding to the center of the field, the old man gave a theatrical flourish with his half-cape and then snapped his fingers with a crack that reverberated through the stadium.

With the groaning of restless steel and a great wash of steam from its every crevice, the arena began to shift. The field inched skyward, and the spectators in the middle terrace stood as their bleachers flattened out, every other row sinking to meet with the one before it until the level had become a shallow dish of twenty-five broad, short steps. The arena floor rose steadily until it was flush with the bottom of the middle terrace, eclipsing the rabble in the lowest terrace entirely from view—there were standards to maintain for the main event after all, and if one couldn’t afford a five mark ticket, they certainly wouldn’t fit those standards. 

Hastily finishing whatever back-handed deals, bribery or backstabbing they had been discussing, the nobility settled into their cushions and lounges as their personal boxes sunk down into the space the middle terrace had vacated to acquire the best views of the field. Nodding in satisfaction, Crispin then pointed to either end of the oval field, and four broad marble columns emerged from the arena floor in turn, rising up a dozen feet into the air. Each was scarred and blackened by the fires of battle, yet solid as the foundations of the arena itself. The old referee gave another flourish with his cape, and the duelists for the day’s main event paraded onto the field.

Leaning against a pillar in the back of the newly flattened middle terrace, a man known only as Dun shielded his eyes from the harsh sunlight beating down on the arena grounds. He glossed over the ceremonial pomp on the field indifferently, while his attention flitted through the crowd of faces around him in search of recognition. Though unremarkable in height and build, there remained a respectful barrier of space around him despite the press of the crowd. His face, masked by a few days’ worth of beard and scarred across the left temple, was the kind that inspired a sense of wariness even in those who were unaware of his reputation. 

On the field, sixteen duelists had emerged and were busily paying their respects to the three Ladies of Honor who would be passing judgment on their honor and prowess during the tournament to come. Their introductions finished, two of the lords were called forth and moved to either side of the field to prepare for battle while the rest filed back off the field to watch from the gate beneath the ladies.

His client still had not arrived. Dealing with new clients who lacked an understanding and aptitude for crime frustrated Dun to no end. His client had provided the Grand Arena as the meeting grounds, a reasonable request, as the vast majority of black market affairs between the nobility of Strata and the downtrodden of the undercity were conducted within its stands. But he had failed to specify a time during the tournament at which contact would take place. Dun had been forced to wait for the past hour, keeping a look out for his man. He didn’t mind overly much—a few of the boxers had shown excellent technique, and he’d collected a few silver notes off the upset in the final match. Still, he appreciated alacrity in a client. Waiting for one job to end meant he wasn’t out looking for another one—and he was more than ready for this lousy job to be over with.

Out in the arena, the less experienced of the two duelists facing off had been graciously offered the first pass by his opponent, which he accepted with the ladies’ permission. He flung his cape over one shoulder and drew his saber, raising it over his head as he chanted boldly in the ancient language of magic. His opponent, standing proudly opposite him, placed his hand over his own sword and began to chant as well, preparing his defense. With a sweep of the first’s blade, a blunt push was sent spiraling toward his adversary. Finishing the preparation for a rebound counterspell, the older duelist stepped forward, pulling his saber from the scabbard in a slash. Hoping to catch his less experienced opponent off guard and unprepared, he had tuned his rebound to accelerate the speed of the push at the expense of some power. The young man had expected something like this however, and quickly responded with his own counterspell, stepping forward with a second swipe of his sword. Short on time, the spell bounced off sideways, redirected at the marble column to the right of his foe. Blasting it off course to dissipate in a cloud of dust among the spectator stands, the older duelist prevented his column from being struck and costing him a point. The spell spent, Crispin looked to the Ladies of Honor, who nodded that all had been well-fought in the exchange. The duelists bowed their thanks and respects to the ladies and to Crispin, and then prepared themselves for the next exchange, in which the elder would strike first.

He turned his back on his opponent for that last counter. Sure thing that’s good fighting, ladies. Whatever you say.

Dun chuckled to himself, recalling with a hint of bitterness how completely he’d bought into the rules of ‘proper’ fighting what now seemed a lifetime ago. In truth, only eight years had passed since he’d stood on the dirt of this very arena, bowing to the ladies in his fine waistcoats and cloaks and offering to let his adversaries place the first strike.

He fingered the thick seam of scar tissue that ran from just under his left eye up through his temple to disappear under his hairline.

How things do change.

Keeping an eye vaguely trained on the arena for any stray spells being shoved his way, he pushed off the pillar and meandered through the crowd in search of his contact. Two more exchanges took place out in the oval with a point going to each combatant, until the older duelist cleverly sapped the energy of an assault and converted it into a restriction spell, immobilizing his foe and thus winning the duel. The ladies conferred and declared the exchange well and honorably struck, so the winning duelist retired for refreshment while the defeated bowed and strode from the oval. Runners re-emerged to smooth the dirt once again.

In the short intermission between bouts, Dun gritted his teeth as he caught sight of his contact. Instead of a lackey or manservant, the Second Lord James Struntley had come himself, dressed to the nines. He was slowly picking his way through the crowd, eyes shifting nervously from face to face until finally they fell upon Dun and lit up with recognition. He fucking waved.

That does it. I’m never working without references again. 

He turned on his heel and strode away through the crowd, ignoring the first crashes of spellfire that cascaded through the arena as the second bout began. The confused noble started after him, at least possessing enough sense not to shout out his name. Glancing over his shoulder periodically to confirm the fool was still with him, Dun led the lordling like a kite on a string out the back archway of the arena into the surrounding hall. As the painfully bright sunlight faded back into the comforting gloom of the undercity, Dun consulted his mental map of Foundation for a secluded enough spot to deal with his inept client. He crossed the hall quickly, counting on Struntley’s propriety to prevent him from running to catch up, and exited through a queueing barricade onto First Annular, the wide and tall street encircling the Grand Arena. Shying away from the glaring gas lamps mounted on the keystones of the street’s periodic arches, he chose the closest alleyway leading off the street and stepped into its shadows to stop and wait. The noble followed behind him shortly, and Dun grabbed him by the lace of his lapels and shoved his back against the soot-stained brick wall.

“Sshht!” he hissed, pressing a small dagger across the lord’s lips. Struntley froze at the touch of the cold steel, and then he recognized Dun and relaxed. Dun returned his knife to its hidden sheath, and the lord nodded.

“Follow.” Shaking his head in disgust, the mercenary strode off down the alleyway with his guileless employer in tow.

Artwork by K. T. Lazarus