Not after watching him beat Lem.”

“Would ten thousand denarii change your mind?” Silence filled the room. Moth could retire on that sort of money. He licked his lips. Greed warred with caution on his face. Ulrik let his gaze slip to the wizard. His face was smooth, bland, affable.

“Are you planning on starting your own stable of fighters, sir?”

Valerius shook his head. “I have something else in mind.”

Ulrik did not like the sound of that. There were many unpleasant reasons why a wizard would purchase a slave- as an offering to a patron demon, to use his blood and heart in alchemical rites, to have him broken up for spare parts. The organs of even unsuccessful pit fighters were said to trade at great prices on the black market. He wished he could read what was going on behind the smooth blank mask of the wizard’s features. He wished he knew what Moth was thinking.

“Fifteen thousand might do,” the old man said.

“Ten thousand is my first and only offer,” said the wizard. His tone was amiable but brooked no haggling. “You have five heartbeats to decide whether you wish to accept it.”

“I will take it.”

“Have the papers drawn up immediately. I want this man delivered to the Tower Karnak tonight.”

Ulrik’s heart sank. House Karnak had the darkest reputation of any ancient family in Typhon, and its wizards were famed for their depravity and evil. He considered hurling himself at the wizard but exhaustion and the futility of it overcame him.

He lay down on the bench and stared at the ceiling, wondering if it might have been better if he had thrown himself on his sword at the start of the fight.

 

 

“Why am I here?” Ulrik asked, trying not to be daunted by the strangeness of his surroundings. They fitted the popular idea of a mad wizard’s laboratory. Massive sorcerous engines of chrome and brass loomed all around him. Trapped lightning elementals pulsed within huge glass spheres, sometimes mere dancing lightning bolts, sometimes forming crude outlines, human in shape.

“Because I have need of your services,” said Valerius. His voice was smooth and compelling. Ulrik feared sorcery even though there was nothing he could do about it.

A monstrous machine filled one wall. Within it huge cogwheels turned, mighty pistons rose and fell, strange substances pulsed through pipes of crystal.

“You thinking of running a school of gladiators?” A corpse floated in a large translucent jar of preservative. Only when it opened its eyes did Ulrik realise that it might still be alive or perhaps undead. The air smelled of ozone and alchemicals. Ulrik wondered where the cat-girl had gone. She had seemed amiable, and at the moment even the face of a pretend friend would have been welcome.

“Alas, nothing so profitable”

“What do you require my services for?”

“I will answer your questions in good time.