The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘Good. Let us hope it has the opposite effect on the Drenai. You will be at the banquet this evening, my Lord? The God-King has requested your presence. He wishes you to sit alongside him.’

‘It is a great honour,’ answered Klay, with a bow.

‘Indeed it is.’ Garen-Tsen moved to the curtained doorway, then he swung back. ‘You know an athlete named Lepant?’

‘The runner? Yes. He trains at my gymnasium. Why?’

‘He died this morning, during questioning. He looked so strong. Did you ever see signs of weakness in his heart? Dizziness, chest pain?’

‘No,’ said Klay, remembering the bright-eyed garrulous boy and his fund of jokes and stories. ‘Why was he being questioned?’

‘He was spreading slanders, and we had reason to believe he was a member of a secret group pledged to the assassination of the God-King.’

‘Nonsense. He was just a stupid boy who told bad-taste jokes.’

‘So it would appear,’ agreed Garen-Tsen. ‘Now he is a dead boy, who will never again tell a bad-taste joke. Was he a very talented runner?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Then we have lost nothing.’ The odd-coloured eyes stared at Klay for several seconds. ‘It would be better, my Lord, if you ceased to listen to jokes. In cases of treason there is guilt by association.’

‘I shall remember your advice, Garen-Tsen.’

After the Minister had departed Klay wandered down to the Arena gallery. It was cooler here, and he enjoyed walking among the many antiquities. The gallery had been included on the Arena plans at the insistence of the King – long before his diseased mind had finally eaten away his reason. There were some fifty stalls and shops here, where discerning buyers could purchase historical artefacts or beautifully made copies. There were ancient books, paintings, porcelain, even weapons.

People in the gallery stopped as he approached, bowing respectfully to the Gothir Champion. Klay acknowledged each salutation with a smile, and a nod of his head. Though huge, he moved with the easy grace of the athlete, always in balance and always aware. He paused before a bronze statue of the God-King. It was a fine piece, but Klay felt the addition of lapis lazuli for the pupils too bizarre in a face of bronze. The merchant who owned the piece stepped forward. He was short and stout, with a forked beard and a ready smile. ‘You are looking very fine, my Lord Klay,’ he said. ‘I watched your fight – what little there was of it. You were magnificent.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘To think your opponent travelled so far only to be humiliated in such a fashion!’

‘He was not humiliated, sir, merely beaten. He had earned his right to face me by competing against a number of very good fist-fighters. And he had the misfortune to slip on the sand just as I struck him.’

‘Of course, of course! Your humility does you great credit, my Lord,’ said the man, smoothly. ‘I see you were admiring the bronze. It is a wonderful work by a new sculptor. He will go far.’ He lowered his voice. ‘For anyone else, my Lord, the price would be one thousand in silver. But for the mighty Klay I could come down to eight hundred.’

‘I have two busts of the Emperor; he gave them to me himself. But thank you for your offer.’

Klay moved away from the man and a young woman stepped before him. She was holding the hand of a fair-haired boy of around ten years of age. ‘Pardon me, Lord, for this impertinence,’ she said, bowing deeply, ‘but my son would dearly like to meet you.’

‘Not at all,’ said Klay, dropping to one knee before the boy. ‘What is your name, lad?’

‘Atka, sir,’ he replied. ‘I saw all your fights so far. You are . . . you are wonderful.’

‘Praise indeed. Will you watch the final?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. I shall be here to see you thrash the Drenai. I watched him too. He almost lost.’

‘I don’t think so, Atka. He is a tough man, a man of rock and iron. I wagered on him myself.’

‘He can’t beat you though, sir. Can he?’ asked the boy, his eyes widening as doubt touched him.