Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: caz@owlnet.rice.edu (HWRNMNBSOL) Subject: [green] Breakfast of Champions Message-ID: Date: Mon, 15 Feb 1993 22:15:21 GMT Kukul sits in a little cafe tucked into a corner of the Street of Avenging Angels. It's actually quite a warm day for winter, since the clouds have decided to stay at sea for a time, and Kukul is quite enjoying the sunshine. He sips a tiny mug of sweet Rameshander coffee and watches the people go by. The Street of Avenging Angels is a good place to peoplewatch. Kukul carefully counts five copper wedges out of his purse and puts them on the table. A waiter bustles by and clears off the mug, palming the coins in the bargain. Kukul gets up in a leisurely fashion, still enjoying the clear air, and wanders across the street to the river bank. The Ceruputhon is too wide to freeze over, and small boats continue to ply the waterway on their regular business. By the railing, a goateed artist paints a watercolor of a small sailboat. In the background is the Chapel of Saint Vincent, its spires a swarming mass of roosting pigeons. The artist notices Kukul's appraisal and squints up at him. Kukul smiles and throws a silver wedge into the artist's hat. The artist grins and makes a gesture with his brush before going back to work. Kukul looks at the ships some more and then starts west along the street. At the corner of the Arcade of Fountains is a small plaza known as the Bridge Square. A market springs up here every morning; today is a busy day for the food vendors, whose cries fill the crisp morning air. Kukul stops to purchase a loaf of coarse peasant bread, half a round of Leiflander cheese, and a small jack of new cider. His purchases in hand, Kukul heads south towards the Arcade of Unforgotten Heroes. He smiles. "I'll bet someone's hungry......" - * - Kukul steps gingerly up the stairs of the old tenement. The old woman he rented it from claimed that it was structurally sound, but Kukul has very little faith in her opinions. Also, her sweetbreads tasted incredibly dry, which, to Kukul's discerning palate, is a sign of deep immorality during life. Three days, muses Kukul, is a long time. An old man could easily starve to death in that time. Especially an old wino. When that door opens, Kukul might only find rat food. That would not be good. On the other hand, he continues, a guide who is not hardy enough to survive a measly three-day fasting is a guide who should have been claimed by the Shark long ago. As Kukul mounts the stairs, he utters a silent prayer that the old man's will was strong. It would be a real waste of time to have to do this all over again. On the landing outside of the door, Kukul stops. He has heard a noise. He stands still and listens. There it is again! A regular creaking noise! Probably the floorboards of the room. Ah -- excellent! The old man must have survived. Outstanding. Kukul opens the door carefully, lest he accidentally harm the emaciated, starved soul. The source of the creaking noise is revealed. The old-timer lies flat in the center of the room, doing one-handed push-ups. The floor of the room is littered with tiny bones, which might or might not be rats. Kukul's jaw sags. The grey-hair turns to look at Kukul. The light of madness is in his eyes. He points at Kukul. No, not at Kukul -- at the loaf under his arm. "You gonna eat that?" - * - "Call me Kron." He finishes the loaf, and uncorks the cider jack. Kukul squats across the room from Kron, surveying his guide. Obviously, he has underestimated the old man's fortitude. His original appraisal, that this bum was a nobody who would never be missed, was probably incorrect. However, he might be more useful this way..... "I am Kukul, as you know. I am sorry to have done this to you, but I needed you sober." Kron shrugs. "Guess so." "Will you help me voluntarily? I need to find somebody in town." Kron stares coolly at his captor. "Do I have any choice?" Kukul decides to take a gamble. "Yes, you do. I would have offered you a deal to begin with, but in your state........" Kron looks impatient. "What's the deal?" "You act as guide and procurer for me while I'm in town. The period of service will not exceed two weeks. In return, you receive 1000 silver shekels. No payment until the job is complete." 1000 shekels?! Kron takes a sip from the jack. "What if I refuse?" "You walk out of here. No charge for the rehabilitation service." "Hee hee." Kron looks at his hands. They are shaky, but they are under his own control again. Also, he feels little urge to hit the bottle again. "What about expenses?" "Anything reasonable, I cover. Anything unreasonable, you cover. Deal?" Kron sticks out his hand. "Deal!" - * - Kron must hustle to keep up with Kukul. "Gypsies, huh? What do you want with them?" "It's none of your business." They round the corner onto the Avenue of Red Sunsets. "However," continues Kukul loftily over his shoulder, "if you must know, they have stolen something from me. Gypsies will do that, you know." Kron stops short. "The *Characo* Gypsies? I don't think you know what you're talking about." Kukul stops too, and looks at him. Kron explains: "The Characos aren't your regular, run-of-the-mill gypsies. Oh, they look like 'em, sure, but they act different. For one thing, they've got this religion that won't let 'em do anything bad. No killing, no lying, no cheating -- and no stealing. I've never heard of one being tried for any kind of crime, large or small." Kron neglects to mention that, as an ex-Watchman, he should know. "Also, they don't seem to move around much. They've got a base in this old, condemned sports arena -- Hyrexes' Battleground, it's called -- and they seem to stick to it like glue. They've got a little bazaar in there, and a number of gambling operations too. They stay in business because people know that they're as honest as they come -- in this town, anyway -- and their games aren't rigged. At any rate, I can't imagine that you would have ever met a Characo Gypsy unless you went to the Battleground yourself. And if you had, you wouldn't need me." Kukul digests all this. "How long have the Characos been in Generica?" Kron looks puzzled. "Hells, I don't know. Centuries." "But not forever?" "Um.......well, the Battleground must have been built by Hyrexes the Overlord, and it was used as a gladitorial arena for a long time.......they can't have been there for more than two hundred years or so." Kukul smiles triumphantly. "There you go, then!" With that, he marches on. Still puzzled, Kron follows. Kron points the way through the narrow streets of the southeastern part of the city. These neighborhoods are poor, but not as dangerous as the infamous Low City. Why this is is not well understood, but whatever the reasons, crime does not have quite the hold on this region that it does in other places. Eventually, the jagged spires of Hyrexes Battleground become visible over the low apartments and stores. A short walk later, Kukul and Kron stand in the middle of the Arcade of Iron Victory, looking at the main gates of the old colliseum. The Battleground is shaped like an oval, with stone bleachers rising high above the central arena. High towers overlook the rest of the complex; in ancient days the families of wealth and nobility sat in these aeries to better watch the action. The high granite walls of the Battleground are studded with windows leading to offices, apartments, and other rooms of unknown purpose and content. The buildings are obviously poorly maintained, but are far from unoccupied. The arena teems with life. Gaudy, colorful tents are pitched over almost every square inch of the Battleground. Banners stream in the air, and beautiful paper kites rise in squadrons from the towers. Swarthy children dangle their feet from the walls and cry for passersby to experience the wonders of the bazaar; meanwhile, the sounds of wonder and pleasure and money exchanged filter down to the streets. The huge bronze gates stand open, and a dozen Roms caper before them, ushering tourists inside with a bow and a flourish. Behind it all, the music of tambourines, citarelles, and shepherd's pipes sing out a merry melody. Kron breathes deeply, taking in the scents of garlic, rosemary, and cooked lamb. "Wonderful, isn't it?" Kukul sees all that Kron saw, but there is more: He hears the clash of sword on shield and hears the cries of the injured; he smells the coppery scent of blood; he sees the killing flash of crimson. His eyes transfixed on the gates, he walks forward into the Battleground: "It's beautiful." Puzzled once more, Kron follows. -- HWRNMNBSOL