Odds-on Favorite

Michael quickly taped up the wound on his arm and gulped down a cup of grog to ease the pain. It didn't hurt badly, but the shock had jarred him when it happened. He gently flexed the muscle and found it only superficially damaged. An arena slave brought him a meal and he tossed a silver coin to the boy out of habit. The child smiled widely as he tucked it somewhere safe. He ate with his bare hands in the sloppy manner most gladiators do. A manager came around and said, “There's a weird guy looking for you by name.”

Michael wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Weird guy? Did he say what he wants?”

“No, but he didn't seem the kind to like questions.”

Michael swore softly to himself in Italian. The manager looked at him oddly, but since he only knew rough Magiir and Gnomish, he might have taken it as merely a native language. He drank down another swallow of grog and tossed aside the cup. He walked to the exit and found Morgan standing there in his assassin garb.

“I didn't think you'd find me here, Andrew.”

“I did not think you would ever use the name Thusias.”

“So, what brings you here?”

“I heard the arena hosts deathmatches.”

The consternation in Michael's voice was more noticeable than the actual words. “Yes, it does. I don't participate in those.”

Morgan's head bobbed in thought. “That's all I needed to know. Try to find a hobby that doesn't cause my nerves to shriek out like glass through my face.”

Morgan walked away at that moment. Michael's reply died on his lips.

Later, Morgan found him inside as he was oiling and sharpening his sabre. Michael looked up and considered him. “To what did you agree?” he asked in English.

Morgan's face went blank. “A deathmatch.”

Michael continued running a stone along his blade's edge. “You have a job and this is the only way you can get close to your target?”

“Yes.”

“You do understand that this is blood sport? A straight, clean kill is not very entertaining.”

Morgan said nothing.

“Irrelevant?” Michael signed.

“Irrelevant,” Morgan confirmed.

Michael slid his sword into its scabbard and asked, “When is your match?”

“Tomorrow,” Morgan answered.

Michael got up to leave. He and Morgan did not acknowledge their relationship in this city. On the way out, he asked the arena herald about the fresh meat. Morgan had challenged the half-ogre champion on a 'matter of honor.' “That match is not going to be pretty,” he murmured to himself, “or sanitary.”