Two Cats

Chapter 16

I believe I've already talked a fair bit about the dueling area known as the Circles.

Like just about anything you could care to describe, there are certain features or aspects that become more important depending on your circumstances. When you're there for the purpose of relaxation or entertainment, you tend to notice the design features and the clean, rugged beauty of the place itself. If you're hungry, you notice the staggering quantity of shops and foods located nearby, the impossibly diverse mixture of scents that combine into a not unpleasant jumble of fragrances completely unique to the place.

When you're there to cross swords or some other sort of potentially fatal activity, you tend to notice different things. Things like the presence of old, dried blood that had somehow managed to survive the rains.

I was noticing a great deal of blood around me as I stood in the center of the magnificent open-air marble structure, ten feet or so away from the main dueling circle, a simple shallow metal ring that had been set into the well-packed earth. There was blood on the side of the ring nearest us, I saw.

I don't believe in omens.

The very air seemed charged with the undercurrents of potential violence, like a suspended moment of time between seeing lightning in the distance and hearing the thunder that you instinctively know is coming. The throngs of people that had shown up were not beyond my notice either. The stands were positively crowded today.

I suspected that many had been invited, or encouraged to come. Redforne's doing, obviously – you didn't go to all the trouble he did without wanting to share your success with as many people as possible.

Staring at the many faces in the crowd, I idly wondered what kind of headache I was about to create amongst those who made their livelihood through wagering and the placing of bets. It wasn't hard to get them all riled up, and with what I had planned I could almost picture some of them staring aghast or gnashing their teeth in frustration.

“Milord?”

“Hmm?” I looked to Cyrus, who stood off to my right, looking as though a few days rest would be a barely adequate start. I'd overworked him shamelessly these past couple of days in general, the last twelve hours in particular.

“You're smiling. Is there something new you've noticed or thought of?”

“Ah, no. Sorry, I was just thinking of something funny and useless. How are you holding up?”

“Well enough, Milord,” he said, his voice making him sound like a man who might commit murder in exchange for the promise of eight hours of unbroken sleep. His eyes were sunken into the sockets that held them, and the bags beneath his usually bright grey orbs had taken on a darkish blue quality. I also noticed that his eyes didn't seem to focus on anything at times.

“Cyrus. I need to know if you're going to be okay through all of this. I can arrange for things to be delayed long enough for you to fetch a replacement if need be.”

“I'll be fine,” he said, coming as close as I've ever heard to actually snarling at me. “I'm just – uh...”

“You'd kill someone for a good eight hours of sleep?”

He blinked, and then smiled ruefully.

“Close. I'll be fine Milord, honest. I ... say, do you happen to have any more of that tea handy?”

“No, fresh out. The only thing I thought to bring with us aside from the healing reagents was some vimroot oil, if that'll do.”

“That would do fine.”