Fade to Black by Francis Knight Page A

ramp.
    Pasha kept his eyes on the arena, scanning the crowd with a curled lip. “Because if they died too often, we’d have no one left to stage the matches, and the Ministry would have nothing to offer the people who watch, no sop to keep the people quiet except religion – and that’s not enough, not down here. People need somewhere to vent their anger, safely, not against the Ministry, and this is it. The matchers die often enough as it is, without anyone trying too hard. Gregor, the dark guy as you call him, may yet die from his injuries or infection. But it’s mostly a sham, Mr Dizon. A pretence to feed the crowd what they want; that’s what the men who run it say. The crowd think it’s real, but they love a matcher who shows a bit of mercy. Though, as it’s the Ministry that started it up, andsay it’s for the people, I don’t believe this is for the crowd’s benefit. Azama thought of it, and he’s one devious bastard. There are other reasons, I’m sure of it. Azama never does anything for only one reason.”
    A couple more men were clearing the worst of the blood from the sand and the windows. A damp cloth squeaked on the glass and the streaks of blood disappeared. “And those reasons are?”
    A wail of music drowned out the crowd for a moment and then a roar that made the previous chants seem like whispers almost deafened me. Pasha straightened in his seat.
    The crowd calmed a little, but there was a buzz in the air as they waited for something, someone.
    They didn’t have to wait long. A shout went up as music started up properly. A heavy throb of it preceded the man who stepped down the ramp. He swung his sword flashily in time to the beat, his black leather-armoured allover gleaming, matching the hair slicked back into an oily ponytail and the eyes that flashed with life. There were scattered cheers but some of those at the front of the crowd spat on him as he paraded down to the ring. He seemed not to notice, his eyes sharp and focused on something internal. He looked ablaze with confidence, as though he couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever seek to beat him.
    “That’s Jake?” I asked, though I couldn’t see how it could be anyone else from what Pasha had said. I was surprised when he laughed.
    “Oh no, that’s not Jake. That’s the Storad. He’s just here for the one fight.”
    A Storad? They supposedly came from outside Mahala, from a hard country to the north, one that had no love for us, for the way Mahala controlled its trade through the mountain pass. How did he get into the city, let alone down here?
    “Got some name no one can pronounce,” Pasha went on. “He’s the best from the north. Killed the last fifteen men in his fights. Three from poison, or so the rumour goes. He’s come because he thinks he has a chance to beat Jake.”
    “Poison? They poison the blades?”
    “Not here, no, and he’s not supposed to where he’s from either. But then, the Ministry doesn’t run things there. They fight because they’ve always fought, because the mountain tribes think that’s what they were born to do. Some religious thing, though luckily it’s only a few small tribes, or Mahala would be in trouble.” He shrugged, but there was a pinched look to his face. “Maybe he uses poison, maybe he doesn’t, there’s no way to know for sure. I’d plug your ears now if I were you: here comes Jake. Two hundred fights and not lost one of them, and never killed anyone, by accident or on purpose.”
    There was a blast of music again, more melodious yet just as loud as before. A figure appeared at the top of the ramp, and if I’d thought the crowd had been thunderous before, they were deafening now. Pasha said something and though he was right next to me as we watched, I couldn’t hear any of what he said. And not just from the noise.
    Jake stood for a moment before she descended the ramp, a lithe figure in black leather and steel with a shock of hair dyed cherry red pulled back from