Prospero's Half-Life (35 page)

He found Tyler first, since the question of his sobriety was a
rather imperative one. Thankfully Tyler was mostly sober, having
only had a small amount of their potato moonshine several hours
before. The heavy-set, pot-bellied man assured Richard with great
alacrity that there would be no problem with
his
performance during the
entertainment; he intimated that he was gravely insulted by
Richard’s accusations and withered away from this sentiment under
the harsh lights of Richard’s staring, knowing eyes. When Richard
left him he was rousing the horses and beginning a last-minute
mucking of the stables.

Marcus and
John he found cooling their heels on a bench in the garden that
grew majestically behind the farmhouse. They were an odd couple – a
balding, cunning Trinidadian with the body of a boxer gone to seed,
and a scrawny young man of Irish heritage with a stutter – but they
were strangely effective at keeping order and security on the
property. Both of them stared at Richard as he approached them, and
their stares were empty enough for him to find them very
disconcerting.

“
Are you gentlemen aware that our VIP will be arriving within
the hour?” Richard asked them sharply. Both of them grinned at him
in a way that made them seem even less intelligent than Richard
suspected they were.

“
Sure thing,” Marcus boomed, his baritone rumbling Richard’s
eardrums. “Everything’s under control”.

“
Ye-yeah,” John seconded, “wuh-wuh-wuh-we have eh-everything
under c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c...”. Marcus whacked John on the back and the
skinny red-haired fellow nearly fell forward. “Control!” he
exclaimed, and both he and Marcus cracked up into irritating
schoolyard laughter. Richard rolled his eyes at them and drew
himself up with authority.

“
If anything goes wrong tonight –
anything at all
– I will come looking
for you,” he threatened. Marcus lumbered to his feet and Richard
stepped back unconsciously. He was a very big man, and were it not
for his position and the ultimate authority that Karl provided him,
he would have felt intimidated.

“
What will you do when you find us?” Marcus asked mildly. “Got
a plan for that, big man?” Richard stared at him, his eyes
narrowing.

“
I’ll have John whip you,” he replied flatly. “I’ll suggest it
to Karl and he’ll sign off on it without a second
thought”.

“
Maybe I’d like to see you try that,” Marcus said, and all
softness had vanished from his voice. His tone was almost a growl,
and Richard blinked before getting ahold of himself.

“
Would you?” Richard asked, putting every ounce of his
authority into his voice. It seemed to do the intended job. Marcus
sat back down on the bench.

“
I suppose not,” he rumbled genially. Richard shook his head in
disgust and left them to oversee the preparations in the
kitchen.

He found
Sandra, the chef, lounging on the daybed in the common area just
inside the farmhouse’s front door. She seemed indolent, but Richard
was much less irritated with this than he had been with the others.
Despite her lazy appearance she was keenly aware of everything that
was happening in a kitchen she did not even have in the line of
sight. This was proven when, as Richard approached her, there was
the slight clank of something being dropped within the kitchen.

“
Andrea!” she barked. “If you’ve dropped the spoon for the soup
on the floor and plan on continuing to use it, please do me a
favour and set yourself on fire now. It’ll save me burning you
alive later!” There was an awkward pause, and then the rattle of
utensils in a drawer could be heard, muffled by the intervening
wall. Sandra turned her attention to Richard and smiled wickedly at
him. He was willing to admit that the other reason that he was less
irritated with her had something to do with how devilishly
attractive he found her. She had a lush, overripe figure, dark,
earthy eyes, and the kind of pouty lips that seemed tailor-made to
dream about. She crooked a finger at him now and he felt his heart
pick up speed.

“
Care to join me for a word before we get the feast put
together?” she asked throatily. Richard chuckled nervously and
shifted his feet. He had the same reaction every time, even though
he’d taken her up on the offer several times before. “Having a
word” was Sandra’s euphemism for hard, enthusiastic pairing, and
she likely meant for him to join her on the daybed. He had to
reluctantly shake his head this time.

“
I’m afraid not,” he rejected her smoothly, “it seems His
Honour will be arriving within the hour”.

Sandra rolled
her eyes. “I suppose I should get in there, then,” she sighed. She
got to her feet and looked Richard up and down salaciously. “Maybe
in the kitchen?” she speculated. “Andrea knows enough to look away
– not that I care if she does”. Her eyes twinkled and Richard had
to laugh.

“
You’re insatiable,” he said. She joined in his laughter with a
thick laugh that came right up from her considerable
belly.

“
Maybe I am,” she admitted, and walked slowly into the kitchen.
She gave Richard one last glance as she left the room and he
chuckled nervously again. As soon as she was in the kitchen he fled
with his cheeks burning. There was still much to do and
distractions could prove to be fatal.

His last stop
was the arena and by the time he arrived there a number of
hard-muscled, dangerous-looking men were gathered around the gates.
Richard did a quick head-count as he approached and cursed his
luck. There were seven, which was an odd number and therefore a
problem. He centered his focus on a long-timer named Simon and
spoke to him directly as soon as he reached the circle of men.

“
Do you have any other friends who feel like fighting tonight?”
he asked hopefully. Simon shook his head.

“
This is all that wanted to come out tonight,” he replied, his
voice gravelly. “It’ll be harvest time soon enough, and a lot of
the men don’t want to ruin their livelihoods in weapon brawls. It’s
one thing to trade fists with someone for the locals – sort of
thing to blow off steam, I guess. But you put out word that
someone’s looking for people to fight and die for money, and
interest dries up real quick, unless they’re desperate for the
prize money”. He looked around at some of the others. “Or unless
they’re the type to need a good life-or-death fight just to feel
alive”.

“
Which are you, Simon?” Richard asked quietly, and Simon merely
smiled in response. Richard shook his head, made one last count of
them just to prove the number to himself, and opened the gate to
let them into the arena. The seven would-be gladiators began
stretching and preparing on the beaten-earth grounds of the ring
while Richard dragged the weapons cases out from the storage center
under the stands. He checked over the integrity of the contents,
testing the edges of the swords and making sure that the cudgels
were not cracked or bent in an unacceptable fashion. The weapons
were only used rarely, when visitors warranted the advance in
severity, and were thoroughly washed and maintained following their
usage; Richard gave them a once-over and declared them ready to
use.

An hour and a
half later Marcus came marching up the path to the arena carrying a
covered pot. He reported that the House Speaker had arrived and
that dinner had been served. He handed the pot over to Richard with
a blank expression and went to go lean against the gate without
another word. Richard took the pot to a seat in the front row of
the stands and ate while watching the gladiators prepare. The pot
contained a stew of leftovers that Sandra had thrown together from
what the freemen’s feast had been composed of. It was delicious and
Richard had to force himself to slow down as he ate. He needed to
be without distractions as the night unfolded, and an aching belly
would be a heavy distraction indeed.

He finished
eating and had twenty minutes before a ringing bell heralded the
arrival of Karl and the House Speaker, with their respective
entourages. Richard straightened himself, brushed off his clothing,
and walked out to the center of the ring to greet everyone. The
gladiators went to stand by the wall and watch the procession come
in, their faces unknowable.

The first
grouping through the gate were a quartet of women carrying brass
instruments, all of which were polished until they shone in the
setting sun. The women wore white, tightly spun dresses that seemed
to have been crafted with a loving touch. Afterwards a procession
of armed men entered, carrying assault rifles in their hands and
swords strapped to their backs; they wore a uniform of denim jeans
and thick black dress shirts, and they wore sunglasses to a man.
This group fanned out and watched over the entry of an eclectic
group of four people: Karl Tiegert, a tall Asian man dressed in a
resplendent teal silk shirt and dress pants, the stable-master
Tyler, and a man in a simple white robe that Richard recognized
with a brutal shock. The mans name escaped him, largely because at
the time that they had known each other, the man and his associates
had done everything in their power to freeze Richard away from
knowing anything. He had once upon a time been one of Brother
Bentley’s white-robes, and the mirrored look of shock on the mans
face was all Richard needed to see to confirm his identity. Richard
noted this, smoothed over his shock, and continued on with his
well-worn introduction to important visitors to the arena.

“
Welcome, honoured gentlemen,” he said in booming, theatrical
voice. “Welcome to the Tiegert Arena”. He spread his arms wide and
smiled with the satisfaction of a competent host; although he
addressed everyone throughout the rest of his introduction, his
eyes never quite left the rip in time that had appeared into his
midst. There was a pressure growing inside of his head, and he
wondered whether it was a physical headache or merely some grim bit
of precognition.

When he
finished his spiel, the man in the teal shirt, obviously the House
Speaker, applauded and asked where they might be seated. Richard
led them quickly to the ornately carved section where important
guests were seated – he had referred to it on a number of occasions
as the ‘Executive Box’. The House Speaker, Karl, and the white-robe
were seated with pomp and dignity; Tyler left the arena to bring
the horses into position. The Executive Box was given drinks, mugs
of foaming, locally-brewed beer, and Karl and the House Speaker
fell into a engaged discussion between themselves. Time passed and
others began to filter into the arenas seats. Most of the
spectators were local farmers and businessmen; one of Richard’s
many jobs was to keep undesirable elements from attending these
events if important guests were to be in the audience, but tonight
it seemed that he would not have to throw anyone out. He recognized
the overwhelming majority of those in attendance, and did not
suspect any of them of plotting some mischief. After waiting for
the seats to fill up, Richard cleared the gladiators from the ring,
stood in the center, and held up his hands. A hush fell over the
crowd.

He brought his
hands together in a loud clap; at this prearranged signal, Karl’s
personal horses came charging into the arena, with the proudest and
boldest being ridden by Tyler. Tyler brought them into sharp
formation and led them through a series of intricate manoeuvres
that charged and thundered around Richards place in the center of
the ring. The execution was slickly done and utterly professional;
Richard felt ashamed that he had ever doubted the man. When the
horses finally became still and Tyler held up his hands in triumph,
the crowd roared with delighted and the stands thundered with
applause. Richard noted with satisfaction that the House Speaker
was amongst the loudest and most enthusiastic of the crowd.

After Tyler
led the horses out of the ring and the crowd died down, Richard
held up his hands once again. The hush returned over the crowd and
he felt a small surge of triumph. They were his to command, an
audience rising and falling by the gestures he made. There was a
power in it that made his labours seem worthwhile. He spoke again
with a calm, powerful inflection.

“
For your consideration, I submit to our honourable guests a
tournament of fighters, six in all. Tonight, they will fight – and
die – for your amusement, and for a prize of six hundred standard
weight coins”. A murmur ran through the crowd; for some of the
farmers it was equivalent to a year’s wages, but it was nothing
compared to the revenue they took in from wagers made against
various fighters over the course of the year. In terms of sheer
currency, Karl Tiegert was a very wealthy man. On the spur of the
moment he made an offer that he had only tried a few times in the
past, when he’d attracted odd numbers of gladiators for large
prizes.

“
There is a seventh fighter in attendance tonight to seek the
prize. If there are any in the audience who wish to vie for the
prize themselves, they need only make themselves known, and they
will be accorded with the rights and responsibilities of the other
gladiators”. He paused to give the crowd time to consider the offer
and work themselves up to accepting it. When the House Speaker
arose from his seat, Richard’s heart sank into his stomach; surely
such an important man would not stoop to fighting in the dirt for
six hundred coins? If anything happened to him, Richard’s head
would be rotting in the far fields before the moon rose. As the
House Speaker began to address him he realized that he had ceased
to breathe.