Bane pulled on his boots. ‘They are gladiators?’
‘Yes. Grandfather has called a meeting.’
Bane followed the girl downstairs, through the kitchen, and into a long room containing a dozen chairs and six couches. Two men were lounging there, one tall and wide-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed black beard, flecked with silver, the second smaller, sandy-haired with close-set grey eyes. Cara ran to the black-bearded man, who grinned widely and lifted her into a hug, kissing her cheek. Bane paused in the doorway. ‘Telors,’ said Cara, ‘this is Bane. Grandfather is teaching him to be a fighter.’
Black-bearded Telors lowered the child to the floor and stepped forward, hand outstretched. Bane shook hands. ‘Good to meet you,’ said Telors.
‘You’ll make no money with Crises,’ said the sandy-haired man, not offering his hand.
Telors shook his head. ‘Polon is not in a good mood today,’ he said. ‘He spent last night gambling and now is without a copper coin to his name.’
Polon swore at him.
‘That is not nice,’ said Cara. ‘Those were bad words.’
‘Aye, but he’s a bad man – and a worse gambler,’ said Telors, with a grin. ‘Now why don’t you run along and fetch us some hot drinks, princess?’
Once the girl had left Telors’s expression hardened. ‘You shouldn’t use language like that in front of her,’ he said sternly.
‘Like I should give a shit?’ answered Polon, moving to the window.
Telors turned to Bane. ‘Are you Gath?’
‘No. Rigante.’
‘That will draw the crowds. Especially in Stone. Demon fighters, the Rigante. Or so we’re told.’ He gave an easy smile as he said it, and Bane found himself liking the man.
‘Here they come,’ said Polon. Bane glanced out of the window and saw five riders approach the farmhouse. A servant took charge of their horses and the men came inside. All were in their middle to late thirties, lean, grim-faced men. No-one introduced Bane, and he wandered to a seat against the wall, where he sat and observed the group. The clothes they were wearing were of good quality, but not new, and their boots were worn. Three more riders arrived within minutes. Then four more. Girta and Cara brought cups of hot tisane, leaving them on the table at the centre of the room. Telors took one, but the others ignored the drinks. Finally, with fourteen men gathered, Rage entered the room. He was dressed now in simple farm clothes, a sleeveless leather jerkin over a thick woollen shirt and leather leggings. Even so, he created a magnetic centre to the room. Bane watched him. The man radiated power and purpose, and all conversation ceased as he moved to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire.
‘You have all heard of the offer from Palantes,’ he said. ‘Persis Albitane needs to send them an answer. So . . . let us discuss it. Who wants to begin?’
‘How much coin?’ asked Polon.
‘Five thousand in gold guaranteed to the circus, plus a third of the gate. I would think at least four thousand people would attend. Persis has agreed to give one-tenth of the receipts to the eight who agree to take part. That should mean around two hundred in gold for the fighters.’
‘For the survivors of the eight, you mean?’ said a swarthy, thin-faced man at the back of the room.
‘Aye, Goren, the survivors,’ agreed Rage. ‘Moneys earned by those who die will be paid to their kin – or to any named by the fighters before the bouts.’
‘That’s fair,’ said Telors. ‘I have an ex-wife and two daughters. If I were to . . . fail . . . I would expect my tenth to be given to them.’
‘She left you, man,’ snorted Polon. ‘She’s not worth a bent copper coin.’
Telors ignored him.
‘Are they sending Names?’ asked another man.
‘No Names,’ Rage told him. ‘All are young gladiators, yet to be blooded in the arena. But we are talking about Palantes and they do not sign cowards. All will have been soldiers, and all will have proved themselves in exhibition displays.’
‘How do you feel about this, Rage?’ asked a stocky man with close-cropped blond hair and a flattened nose.