The Land Below the Sunset

Chapter Eight

When Merendaum first made anchorage at the mouth of the Ophis, the horses aboard his ships had been confined for months with almost no exercise. To remedy this he held a race to the top of the hill dominating the south bank of the river, where he was later to build the Citadel which became the nucleus of Deliverance.

It is not known who won this race. History records only that the first to the peak were Merendaum himself, his Nine Champions, his consort Venucula, and the page Sesban. None of them would ever reveal the identity of the winner.

To commemorate the race, an amphitheatre was built within the Citadel keep and atop its arcaded walls were placed crystal sarcophagi containing the mummified bodies of seven of the Nine Champions. Through the thick distorting lids of the sarcophagi, these seven had gazed down sightlessly for a span of more than two hundred years on innumerable chariot races and gladiatorial spectacles. Had they been in a position to comment, they would no doubt have noted with irony that the contests in the Stadium never followed the example of their own selfless fellowship on that far-off day. Every race had its winner, and that winner was seldom reluctant to take his boastful victory lap and accept the garlands of the crowd. Races now were run for the sake of hard coin, not sportsmanship.

The old days of honour were long gone.

Kethar leaned back on the hard bench and closed his eyes to listen to the thump of hooves and the rattle of chariot wheels as they thundered past on the track below, the crack of whips, the horses' snorts of breath, the charioteers' shouts and oaths, the continual hubbub of the spectators broken with occasional gasps and shrieks at some reckless manoeuvre or upset.

Sunlight and shade flickered across his eyelids as the breeze stirred the banners of silk that stretched across the Stadium from outer wall to central spine, leaving strips of sepia-tinted shade across the tiered benches below. On festival days so many thousands of people would crowd onto the tiers that the small patches of shade were never enough, but on a day like today, with only a few races scheduled and none of them greatly significant, the Stadium was barely a tenth full and each spectator could find his own cool spot out of the sun.

Kethar was like a cat. He liked his own space. When he heard someone move along the bench right behind him, he could not suppress a vague stab of irritation.

A length of cold metal was laid against his neck, just under the line of his jaw. He felt another knife prick the skin of his back through his tunic. A third was suddenly poised to skewer his right kidney.

The man holding the knife at his jaw leaned forward and said over Kethar's shoulder, "I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage, my good sir."

Kethar opened his eyes and looked askance at the hand holding the knife. "Surely I'm the one at a disadvantage."

"Hm? Ah, this." He stroked the blade across Kethar's cheek like a barber giving him a shave. "No, I meant that we do not know who you are - whereas you, it seems, know us."

Kethar craned his neck slightly to try to get a better look at the three men behind him. The knife in the middle of his back pressed harder until it drew blood. Kethar sat motionless. "I've no idea who you are. I don't care either. Perhaps this is a case of mistaken identity?"

The voice purred with amusement close to his ear. "Allow me to make introductions, then. I go by the name of Master Caligo. My accomplices are Master Crepuscule and Master Tenebrae. We are in business as undertakers, in the sense that we undertake projects that may prove inconvenient or unsavoury for our patrons."

"Debt collectors," said Kethar, jumping to conclusions. "I made good on last week's shortfall when I got here today. Look, would Froben have handed over my winnings on the last race if I still owed him?"