the sand. He clawed at the metal noose constricting his throat.
She just watched him. She could've stopped it at any point. She could've killed him with her axe. But instead Callisto simply stood there and watched him suffocate.
It took fully four minutes for Rodriguez to die. Finally when his legs stopped drumming the ground, Callisto retrieved her chain, its links once again mere metal, and shook it at the crowd. The spectators howled.
I unclenched my fists. It had taken every ounce of my will not to jump into the Pit and pull that thing off Rodriguez's neck.
I hadn't believed I could think less of Saiman. He proved me wrong.
Four men in gray scrubs emerged from the Midnight Gate, loaded the corpse onto a stretcher,
and took it away.
Saiman leaned back in his seat. "As I said, mildly interesting."
"I find it horrific."
"Why? I've seen you kill before, Kate. Granted, you do it with considerably greater skill."
"I kill because I have to. I kill to protect myself or others. I won't take a life to titillate a crowd. Nor would I torture a man for the pleasure of it."
Saiman shrugged. "You kill to survive and to appease your own misguided conscience. Those in the Pit kill for money and the gratification of knowing they are better than the corpse at their feet. At the core, our motives are always self-serving, Kate. Altruism is a fog created by sly minds seeking to benefit from the energy and skill of others. Nothing more."
"You're like a god from a Greek myth, Saiman. You have no empathy. You have no concept of the world beyond your ego. Wanting something gives you an automatic right to obtain it by whatever means necessary with no regard to the damage it may do. I would be careful if I were you. Friends and objects of deities' desires dropped like flies. In the end the gods always ended up miserable and alone."
Saiman gave me a stunned look and fell silent.
Chapter 10
FIGHTS CAME ONE AFTER ANOTHER, ENDING IN death far more often than necessary.
Too much blood, too much gore, too much show. Too much amateur enthusiasm cut short by icy experience. Once in a while Saiman asked me who would win. I answered, keeping it short. I was ready to go home.
The gong tolled once again. The scoreboard descended carrying two names: ARSEN VS.
MART. -1200+900. Arsen was a heavy favorite to win.
"I would like to offer you a job," Saiman said.
I was too sickened to muster any disbelief. "No."
"It's not of a sexual nature."
"No."
"Out of six fights, you have picked a winner every time. I want to employ you as a consultant.
Members of the House evaluate the fighters prior to the event to determine the odds the House will give for each fight . . ."
"No."
Mart walked out onto the sand. He had lost the trench coat, and his black suit clung to his slender frame. He moved quietly, a dark, lean shadow, his blond hair the only spot of color.
He carried two swords like two sunbeams trapped in steel, one long, one short, a classic katana and a wakizashi.
"Three grand per evaluation."
I turned to Saiman and looked at him. "No."
A deep bellow rolled through the Arena. It started low, a long, heavy roar produced by an inhuman throat, grew to a thunder, and broke into a cacophony of snorts and rapid, sharp cries. The crowd went completely silent. My hand went above my shoulder, but my saber wasn't there.
" What is that?"
Saiman's face shone with smug delight. "That's Arsen."
A huge shape appeared in the dim depth of the Gold Gate. Slowly, ponderously, it moved just to the edge of the light. Shadows clung to the contours of vast shoulders and a thick, muscled torso, obscuring a large helmet.
The Red Guard holding open the wire fence door to the Pit looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.
Arsen bellowed again and burst into the light, galloping into the Pit. The Red Guard slammed the door closed and took off.
Arsen charged to the center of the Arena, put on the brakes, raising a spray of sand in the air, and roared. The silent audience stared in shock.
He was seven feet tall and layered with slabs of hard, carved muscle that stretched his coal-black hide. His short fur flared into a shaggy mess on his chest and ran down his stomach in a narrow line to widen at his crotch, striving but not quite succeeding in masking his generous endowment. A fringe