Bodok shrugged. “I’m sorry I did not die as you expected. It must be quite a disappointment.”
The other guards laughed at their disgruntled co-worker.
“There’s plenty of time for that next week,” the man leading the way said with a grin. “Though seeing who you’ll be fighting, I don’t think anyone is fool enough to bet against him.”
The announcer walked toward them down the long hallway, a look of annoyance on his face. “There he is,” he grumbled. “The one disrupting this entire tournament.”
“I did not mean to—”
“Silence!”
Bodok wisely shut his mouth.
Judging by the way the guards and staff moved around him, the announcer was clearly more than just a mouthpiece for the events. Likely, this entire operation was under his control. And Bodok had just upset a crowd favorite in a most disappointing way.
But the law was the law, and no Mondarian, no matter how connected, would dream of breaking them. The man dug in his pocket and removed a credit chit loaded with the prisoner’s winnings.
“Two fights, two payments,” he said.
Bodok reached for the credit chit only to have his hand slapped away by the guard.
“Whaddya think you’re doing?” he hissed.
“My winnings—”
“Will be kept for you,” the announcer said with an almost amused grin. “I will hold them for safekeeping until you earn your freedom.”
“And if I perish?”
The man gave a little shrug and laughed but didn’t answer. “Take him back. He needs to clean up properly if he’s to heal for the next match. And we do want to give the crowd a good show.”
The guards shoved Bodok forward toward the corridor leading to the back exit, but he held his ground.
“Wait,” he said. “You hold my winnings, but they are still mine to spend, yes?”
“Of course. But you are a prisoner, and as such there is little you can spend them on. No outside luxuries are allowed, and you certainly will not be traveling anytime soon.”
Bodok looked the man in the eyes, holding his gaze without subservience. “I do not wish to spend it on goods. I wish to spend it on services.”
“Women are not allowed in the training camp. Or men. Or whatever you prefer, so I am afraid you are out of luck. Take him.”
The guards pushed again, and once more Bodok held his ground. “I request a Skrizzit’s services,” he said. “Per Mondarian law, this request cannot be denied, am I correct?”
A shocked silence hung in the air. The prisoner had dared speak up to the most powerful man in the room, but despite the disparity in their positions, all present knew he was on the most solid of legal footing. Where runes were concerned, Dotharian Conglomerate laws were absolute.
A vein began to pulse in the announcer’s neck as he stared hard at the prisoner. “Very well. I will find you a Skrizzit. I am sure I can track down a reasonable—”
“There is one in particular I request,” Bodok interrupted. “A skilled artisan who is contracted by the magistrate himself. The one who applies pigment to those placed into indentured servitude.”
The announcer’s jaw flexed but he held his tongue. That particular Skrizzit was the most expensive in the entire city. Also the most talented and well worth the money, but this meant nearly all of the man’s winnings would be spent repairing his runes.
While they would be healed by the time of the fight, and having them all properly connected once more would certainly give him improved strength and stamina in the ring, he was going to be facing Maxxis. Sure, it might help him survive a minute longer, but this prisoner was going to die, and it seemed he would be taking those winnings that would have otherwise reverted to the announcer’s pockets with him.
But the law was the law, and even he knew better than to argue the request.
“It will be arranged,” the man grudgingly agreed. “Your skin will be whole enough for the process by tomorrow, yes?”
“It should be,” Bodok replied. “The full healing will take a few more days, but the superficial wounds will be ready by then.”
