Chapter 164: Martial Arts Tournament (2)
For the third match of the tournament, the honor of sending forth the first combatant once again fell to Suda.
With one of his water dancers dead and the other lying unconscious from poison, Suda was taking no more chances. He sent Ander Poole onto the battle platform to secure a victory, brushing aside any objections the man might have had.
Ander Poole was a fortress of steel, clad in a full suit of silver-white plate. He wore a closed helm, its gorget seamlessly joined to the spaulders. Mail patched the vulnerable gaps at every joint, and a skirt of steel lames, long enough to protect his thighs and groin, hung from his waist.
His weapons were a heavy war hammer and a half-sword; it seemed he intended to choose between them only after seeing his opponent.
Hazan's first instinct was to send Yada back into the fray. The water dancer had expended little energy in the second match, and his Valyrian steel blade was the perfect counter to Ander Poole's formidable armor.
But Ian refused, insisting that Yada be allowed to rest.
While it was true in theory that a master water dancer with a Valyrian blade should not fear a man in plate, Ian was wary. Ander Poole radiated a confidence that suggested he was more than prepared for such a matchup. From the beginning, Ian had no intention of pitting his own people against such a man.
Better that Hazan's men bleed for this victory than his own.
At Ian's insistence, Hazan fell silent. It was, after all, his tournament. To have a foreign champion fight three consecutive matches would be unjustifiable.
And so, for the third round, Hazan sent forth the mercenary king, Bali of the Summer Isles. He was a compact, dark-skinned man who wielded a hand axe with deadly proficiency. It was said that men of his short stature were uncommon in his tribe, but every tall man who had ever dared to laugh at him had, without exception, been sent to meet an early death.
As the two combatants began the customary salutes, Ian decided he had seen enough. Excusing himself from Hazan, he left the stands of the Prince's Square and made his way around to the garden behind the front hall.
He had a summons to answer. There, his cat had sent a signal.
Passing through a white marble archway entwined with smokeberry vines, Ian emerged beside a field of lavender.
Celia and Rohr were already waiting. His two loyal knights were pinning a man to the stone tiles bordering a flower bed.
"Ian Darry?" Belz Poole lifted his head, his face a mask of blood. He stared up at Ian, who had stopped just before him. "You're a player too. Of course. Where's Darren? Isn't he with you?"
The moment he saw Ian, Belz finally understood. He had been trapped by another player.
What he couldn't fathom was how. The captain of Governor Tetrus's own bodyguard had summoned him, claiming the governor wished to speak with him. But the captain had simply turned and handed him over to the woman in the red robe, the one who was always at Hazan's side.
What was happening?
"Surprised?" Ian smiled, taking a small vial that Celia offered him. "Did you really think there would be no consequences for your little mission to the Neptune Palace in Braavos? For convincing the Sea Lord to turn two water dancers against their prince? You nearly killed Hazan."
"Hazan? But the man who brought me here was Governor Tetrus's captain. You bribed him, didn't you?" Belz's eyes fixed on the vial in Ian's hand. A cold dread washed over him, and he began to struggle against the knights' grip.
"Bribe him? No. Governor Tetrus has been our friend from the very beginning." Ian's gauntleted hand flashed out, striking Belz across the head. The blow silenced him instantly. "Celia merely mentioned to the governor that Prince Hazan was… displeased with you. He was more than happy to hand you over."
"Impossible! Hey! Wait, don't—" Belz kicked his legs, trying to scramble away from the vial as Ian brought it closer. "Where's Darren?" he screamed. "I want to see Daeron! Why isn't he here? Are you trying to keep the profits from killing me for yourself?"
Before Ian could reply, Celia laughed. The fool still believed Darren was the leader of their alliance.
"What? Do you think you can still bargain?" Ian paused his advance. "Fine. I'll give you three minutes to prove your value. Give me one reason to let you live."
It had almost become his signature line. He couldn't remember how many players he had said it to.
A pity that none who heard it had survived. The only exception was standing right beside him. Ian couldn't help but glance at Celia; she, however, had never been in a position to hear those words from him.
By the time they were in his grasp, it was always too late to prove their value.
"Let me go, and I'll serve you," Belz said, the words spilling out in a rush. "I'll give you all the resources I get from now on. My points, everything. When the final victory is declared, all you have to do is refuse the pact. The alliance will automatically break, and you can enjoy all the bonuses yourself. You won't have to give me a thing."
"An interesting offer," Ian said, shaking his head. "But after signing the alliance, the system prevents me from forcing you to provide resources. That would be a backstab. And if you gave me everything willingly, what leverage would the alliance have over you? The system would have no hold on you at all. This reason is not enough."
Not enough? To work for him for free was not enough? Belz's mind raced, but he could think of nothing else.
"Then let's try another question," Ian said smoothly. "Tell me about Ander Poole's specific strengths."
"This… are you sure? The moment I tell you, he'll know his own ally stabbed him in the back."
"In the Prince's Square, no warrior escapes the battlefield. Whether he knows or not makes no difference… But you do have a point," Ian said. He pried Belz's mouth open and poured the contents of the vial down his throat. "If the system judges you for a backstab, I don't get your deducted points."
Within seconds, Belz began to twitch, then collapsed to the ground. The last light fading from his eyes seemed to ask, *What about the three minutes you promised?*
And in Ian's mind, the auxiliary system chimed with its familiar, impersonal tone.
To be honest, Belz's offer to work for free had been tempting. But his shapeshifter ability was still only at an intermediate level. He could only control two bodies at once—his own, and the cat he used to keep an eye on Celia. He had no third self to spare for monitoring Belz.
And Ian would never accept an ally he couldn't keep within his sight at all times. It had nothing to do with trust. His philosophy was simple: eliminate every conceivable risk.
"You know," Celia said, stepping up behind Ian, "his proposal was quite good. When our points finally add up to ten thousand, I could give them all to you. You let the alliance break, you win alone. We can split the money when we return to our world." She paused, a slight, forced smile on her lips. "You aren't planning to keep it all for yourself, are you?"
"If I'm the final winner, I would certainly accept such an arrangement. As long as you're willing to trust me," Ian said, raising an eyebrow. "As for splitting the prize, I can promise you half. Assuming, of course, we don't take on any new allies. But then, would you believe my promise? Since I came to this world, I have lived on lies. Even I no longer know which words I speak are true."
"I don't believe you," Celia said with a frank, genuine smile as she shook her head. "Just as you will never believe me. But I can tell you a truth. The real truth. I will not seek my own death. Ever."
*Unless you are absolutely certain you can kill me, you will never betray me,* Ian translated silently. He smiled back. "Then I will never give you the chance to die."
"Alright, get rid of the body," Ian said, turning to walk back toward the Prince's Square. He waved a hand at Celia. "Then get back to work. This is going to be an exceedingly long day."
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