Love, Life and The Old Stench of Luck

1. Strictly Eggs-2

“We had something the same down in Cumin,” said Deep, looking at the destination with new eyes.” Sabienn listened to each man recount their respective Academies where they had attended only months previously.

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” said Sabienn. “Salt. Coriander. Cumin. Why is this stadium intact?”

Before he could receive an answer, the party found one of the registration desks at the gate. Excitedly Idiz fronted up to an equally enthusiastic fat Turr man with a moustache and a ramrod straight back sitting in his chair.

“Welcome,” said the man at the desk politely. “And what feat of incredible manhood may I enter you, sir?”

“We eat,” said Idiz, throwing his shoulders back gallantly, as if he were recounting an activity of war-like skill. “We are eggs. Strictly eggs.”

“Ah!” said the desk man, searching through the list in front of him. “Your name?”

“I am Idiz Ferraz of the village Od,” said Idiz, introducing his entourage. “This is Kenzoo Ferraz my brother. This is a man we refer to as Lefty. But no more committed right-handed man would you ever find.” Casually Lefty proffered his credentials for the desk man’s perusal.

“Ah!” said the desk man, receiving the men as if they were family.

With great flare, Idiz grabbed Stork and brought him forward to the desk. “And this is my good brother Dooz. No finer servant of the President is there anywhere on the planet,” he said, slapping Stork’s back.

Feeling the need to respond, Stork smiled with effort. “I’m just glad to be here,” he said, trying to wrap his lips around the required Turr accent and tongue.

“Is this man slurring?” said the desk man with genuine concern, listening to Stork really mince the language.

“I sense President Ramm is near,” said Stork with mock enterprise. “I walk dizzy with the thought of being in his presence.”

“That’s my brother,” said Idiz, whacking Stork lovingly across the shoulder. “Also, a friend.” Idiz brought Deep forward to the desk. “He challenges for push-ups. Any cancellations?”

“For a pursuit so dangerous, there’s always a space,” said the desk man cheerfully.

“Dangerous?” called Sabienn with sudden concern.

“The champion doesn’t like to lose,” said the desk man. “And he’s a man of knives.”

“I’d just like the exercise,” said Deep innocently.

“May I be honest?” said the desk man helpfully to Deep. “You’re a strong and strapping nebulan. I am required to ask questions, like “Are you a human?” To which I tick the box, “No”. But then I’m required to ask, “Will you participate to the best of your ability?” To which I then tick the box, “Yes.” But the man you’re up against is not a forgiving man. If you seek success, there may be peril.”

Sabienn and Deep looked at each other before Deep replied, “Winning’s not everything.”

“Survival’s nice too,” said Sabienn.

“Though you didn’t hear it from me,” said the desk man. He then turned to Idiz, “And will you participate to the best of your ability?”

“For me, it’s been a journey, sir,” said Idiz kindly to the desk man. “My two brothers and I have dreamt of this moment. Long when we were kids playing at the sewer outlet. We’d practise swallowing. Imaginary eggs. Forty at a time. It was always eggs.”

“Well, sir, know you have arrived,” said the desk man. “This is the stadium of dreams. I salute you.”

The rest of the registration went smoothly and identifying numbers were passed across. Sabienn slyly proffered a rolled prime note across to the desk man for his troubles and it was accepted with suppressed glee.

The men entered the tunnel leading through to an open area within which was lit by blinding floodlight. The passage was impeded by fit and muscular yet polite guards acting as event marshals.

Two guards held a hand up to Sabienn and Bray, the only two not displaying fake or real Turr ears. “Humans,” one said amicably. “No further. This way.” They were pointed in the direction of the stone bleachers of the arena now filling up with spectators.

Quickly and without much fanfare, Sabienn slapped Stork and Deep on the shoulder and whispered, “Good luck.” Bray did the same and they watched their brothers be led away with the Turr egg-eaters, all numbered up and official for battle.

It wasn’t difficult to feel the excitement. The filling of the seats with nebulans and humans created a buzz which was contagious. Sabienn took a few shivers up his spine as he made his way to a seat on the edge of the aisle. Bray took his seat next to him and they let their eyes wander with wonder and tactical curiosity. The lighting left no shadowy areas of crafty concealment. And the athletes, for want of a better word, were guided to little pens within the centre of the stadium.

“There,” pointed Bray. In a guest box overlooking the arena giving the best view was a party of dignitaries. In the centre chair was a short human man dressed in a similar charcoal uniform that Sabienn associated with The Great Leader back in Hayddland. He was small, middle-aged and balding with a hair comb-over but exuded confidence enough to kill someone who may point that out. “President Ramm, I’ll wager,” continued Bray. “Oh, wait,” he added nervously. “We’ve been clocked.”

“What?” said Sabienn, looking glaringly up to the guests’ box.

“Eyes forward,” called Bray. “Man on the left of baldy? Just pointed this way. Man on the right. He’s trying not to look here.”

Sabienn knew enough about Bray’s eyes to know he could trust them implicitly. He slyly looked up at the men mentioned and saw both had there hoods up. He could see their faces but no other features.

“What do we do?” asked Bray breathlessly.

“Not much we can do,” said Sabienn. Cheerfully Sabienn offered a brief hand wave enough to be registered by the surreptitious glances. “We have no quarrel with him.”

“Yet,” added Bray, still uneasy.

“Keep an eye out for movement,” said Sabienn. “Otherwise, we enjoy the show.”

Turning to the arena, Sabienn could see the sturdy structure of this native auditorium juxtaposed with modern floodlights. He wondered what sort of strange rituals were once performed here long ago. And indeed if they were his own ancestors.

A voice came booming through the arena, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen.” Bray pointed to where the voice came from. A small Turr man with receding hair in an expensive cloak stood before a microphone up in the stands. “Please take your seats so formalities may begin. Tonight marks the fifth Contest of Rare Manhood and Strength for this year. For travellers far and wide, we welcome you.”

“As usual, we welcome our Most Magnificent Patron of this event. The Most Exulted of Leaders, His Highest Excellency, President Sydluss Ramm.” Sabienn watched as short and baldy stepped forward to the balustrade to accept the rapturous cheer, from the mainly Turr crowd.

“Unusual,” whispered Bray to the side. “Considering he’s Haydd.”

“How does that work?” offered Sabienn, feeling stunned.

“Not sure,” said Bray. “He’s no friend of The Great Leader.”

The announcer ploughed on in lofty praise. “Our Esteemed and Mighty Chief of Guards, Leelann Poss.” The tall man to the left of Ramm let his hood fall back to reveal a muscular neck and shining bald head. Sabienn looked at him to see he was of similar age to Ramm but had the air that he could severely do some damage to someone he was at a variance with. His announcement produced minimal cheer in the audience which seemed to please this man no end. He was unsmiling and his eyes looked forward towards the announcer with dark intent, as if his name had been mispronounced.

Unaffected by any evil energy, the announcer continued, “His Most Eminent and Erudite Servant of the Realm, The Grand Builder, Dice Bordd.” The short man on Ramm’s right let his hood fall down to show a man who enjoyed the privileges and excesses of a good life. Sabienn could see he was pasty faced and displaying a paunch.

“He’s got your name,” said Bray.

Sabienn indeed noted that the name he himself would sign to anything to that he didn’t want to put his real name to, was Cutting Bordd. It was his fake name of choice.

“Could be a brother,” offered Sabienn lightly.

“Welcome one and all,” continued the announcer. “Once again before us stand the pinnacle of Turr manhood. Here to pit themselves against each other in gallant contest. And just that it is clear, as stated at the registration desk, any human found mingling with the nebulans on the field will be taken out the back and shot.”

Aghast Sabienn looked towards Bray who’d just turned pale. “I don’t remember that bit,” said Bray.

“It does seem like an important detail,” said Sabienn now looking down on to the field feverishly for where their brothers may be standing. He saw Stork now on the field in deep discussion with Idiz who was shrugging his shoulders. Sabienn could see that for a man aware of the consequences, Stork seemed remarkably composed. He almost lifted his hands to adjust his ears but realized this may be what people were looking for.

“We need to get them out,” said Bray impatiently.

“We need to sit tight,” said Sabienn. “And we’ve got company.”

As they sat, Sabienn saw a young human man of medium height with thick short hair and wearing a good black cloak walk up the stairs adjacent to where they sat. He was trying not to look at them, but his glances were obvious even for Sabienn. At the last moment almost as an afterthought, the young man stopped walking and hooded up. He faced the arena standing in the stairway as if he were another interested punter taking in the spectacle.

“Stork and Deep are on their own for the moment,” said Sabienn. His head was swivelling around taking in everything within the auditorium. He felt trapped like a rat in the trap, so he pushed himself to his feet with explosive energy.

With a few short steps he stood next to their black cloaked guard. “Excuse me,” asked Sabienn politely of the stranger. “Can you settle something? My brother wants a roll with cheese, and I think he’s dreaming. What’s good here?” He spoke in his best most coherent Turr.

“Look, I may be sent to shadow you,” said the cloaked stranger. “But there’s no need to be insulting. How’d you know I was with you?” Sabienn was stunned to hear the stranger reply in his own Haydd tongue.

Sabienn replied casually, “Does the expression “stands out like dog’s balls” mean anything?”

“That obvious?” said the stranger. “Give me a twenty prime. Any self-respecting lout who comes to see Turr men rip their ears off in mortal combat, they eat the Squealer. We’re talking a roll. We’re talking chilli. Sauce and mustard. We’re talking twelve kinds of cheese. We’re talking pork like a pig died and went to heaven. Only to return to your nostrils like an angel fart.”

Sabienn listened to the man’s unstable demeanour and passed across a twenty. “What an outrageous performance,” said Sabienn.

“Three rolls?” asked the stranger. “I’ll join you.”

“We’ve eaten,” said Bray plainly, now standing next to Sabienn’s shoulder. “What makes you think we want to eat with you?”

“What makes you think you want to live?” said the stranger, offering a sly glance up at the President’s box. “Yes. Eyes straight please. I’m with him.” Sabienn viewed the stranger with interest. His gaze darted around the stadium with jittery eyes as if he were on some kind of substance. “Seriously, I’m starving.”

“Go,” said Sabienn, politely patting the stranger’s shoulder. “Get yourself one. Just bring us back a drink. Surprise us.” Sabienn proffered across two more twenty prime notes.

“Oh, you boys are sweet,” said the stranger kindly. “I’m going to enjoy being your handler.”