Druss chuckled. ‘You almost fooled me there, laddie. I thought you might be showing some respect for me.’ He lay back and closed his eyes.
Pars and Pellin strolled away to where a servant stood holding a pitcher of cold water. Seeing them coming, the man filled two goblets. Pellin drained his and accepted a refill, while Pars sipped his slowly. ‘You didn’t tell him about the prophecy,’ said Pars.
‘Neither did you. He’ll find out soon enough.’
‘What do you think he’ll do?’ asked the bald runner.
Pellin shrugged. ‘I have only known him for a month – but somehow I don’t think he’ll want to follow tradition.’
‘He’ll have to!’ insisted Pars.
Pellin shook his head. ‘He’s not like other men, my friend. That Lentrian should have won – but he didn’t. Druss is a force of nature, and I don’t think politics will affect that one jot.’
‘I’ll wager twenty gold raq you are wrong.’
‘I’ll not take that bet, Pars. You see, I hope for all our sakes that you are right.’
From a private balcony high above the crowd, the giant, blond fighter Klay watched Druss deliver the knockout blow. The Lentrian carried too much weight on his arms and shoulders, and though it gave him incredible power the punches were too slow . . . easy to read. But the Drenai made it worthwhile. Klay smiled.
‘You find the man amusing, my Lord Klay?’ Startled, the fighter swung round. The newcomer’s face showed no expression, no flicker of muscle. It is like a mask, thought Klay – a golden Chiatze mask, tight and unlined. Even the jet-black hair, dragged back into the tightest of pony-tails, was so heavily waxed and dyed that it seemed false – painted on to the over-large cranium. Klay took a deep breath, annoyed that he could have been surprised on his own balcony, and angry that he had not heard the swish of the curtains, nor the rustle of the man’s heavy ankle-length robe of black velvet.
‘You move like an assassin, Garen-Tsen,’ said Klay.
‘Sometimes, my Lord, it is necessary to move with stealth,’ observed the Chiatze, his voice gentle, melodic. Klay looked into the man’s odd eyes, slanted as spear points. One was a curious brown, flecked with shards of grey; the other was as blue as a summer sky.
‘Stealth is necessary only when among enemies, surely?’ ventured Klay.
‘Indeed so. But the best of one’s enemies masquerade as friends. What is it about the Drenai that amuses you?’ Garen-Tsen moved past Klay to the balcony’s edge, staring down into the arena below. ‘I see nothing amusing. He is a barbarian, and he fights like one.’ He turned back, his fleshless face framed by the high, arched collar of his robe.
Klay found his dislike of the man growing, but masking his feelings he considered Garen-Tsen’s question. ‘He does not amuse me, Minister. I admire him. With the right training he could be very good indeed. And he is a crowd-pleaser. The mob always love a plucky warrior. And, by Heaven, this Druss lacks nothing in courage. I wish I had the opportunity to train him. It would make for a better contest.’
‘It will be over swiftly, you think?’
Klay shook his head. ‘No. There is a great depth to the man’s strength. It is born of his pride, and his belief in his own invincibility; you can see it in him as he fights. It will be a long and arduous battle.’
‘Yet you will prevail? As the God-King has prophesied?’ For the first time Klay noticed a slight change in the Minister’s expression.
‘I should beat him, Garen-Tsen. I am bigger, stronger, faster, and better trained. But there is always a rogue element in any fight. I could slip, just as a punch connects. I could fall ill before the bout and be sluggish, lacking in energy. I could lose concentration, and allow an opening.’ Klay gave a wide smile, for the Minister’s expression was now openly worried.
‘This will not happen,’ he said. ‘The prophecy will come true.’
Klay thought carefully before answering. ‘The God-King’s belief in me is a source of great pride. I shall fight all the better for it.’