Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [44]
“What about Hoelbrak?”
A slow grin began on Magnus’s face, extending into his eyes. “The people of Lion’s Arch are my people. I have chosen my battles.” Magnus shook his head and laughed ruefully. “The world is changing, Eir Stegalkin. You must change with it. Perhaps I should ask you to join me. Get some sun on that lily skin.”
Eir sighed. “When the Dragonspawn is dead, perhaps I will take you up on that offer. Just now, though, I need my own fighters.”
Magnus’s eyebrows lifted. “If it’s fighters you need, it just so happens that I have a side business that specializes in them.”
“What kind of business?”
“It’s an arena where criminals can earn out of their jail sentences while providing the people of Lion’s Arch with entertainment.”
“Brutal.”
Magnus let out a broad-beamed laugh. “They’d much rather fight in my arena than languish in a cell. I buy their billets, and the Lionguard makes sure they don’t run off, and they fight until they’ve paid me back. It’s in everyone’s best interest.” He grinned. “My booming enterprise might just be the place for you to find the fighters you need.”
Eir shook her head. “I come asking after a norn legend and get sent to jailbirds.”
Magnus laughed. “I saw a pair yesterday, a man and a charr. They fought like devils and destroyed a bearbaiting pit”—he paused to spit—“which I personally was glad of. But as head of the Lionguard, well, I had to lock them up. They’re stewing just now in the dockside row house, but I’m about to send my agent to buy their billet.”
“How much is their billet?”
“About five hundred gold.”
Eir whistled. “Thanks all the same. If you change your mind about the mission—”
“I won’t,” Magnus said, smiling.
Eir turned away. “Come along, Garm.”
“Nice wolf,” Magnus called after her. “He’d be magnificent for boardings.”
As Eir and Garm strode from the docks, she leaned toward her wolf and said, “You really would be.”
He pricked up his ears.
Snaff and Zojja ran to catch up to them.
“What now?” Zojja asked.
Eir looked at the sky, deepening to dusk. “Now, we figure out another plan.”
Caithe sat on a wooden bunk propped against a wall of thick-stacked stone. It was the only bunk in the cell, and she shared it with Logan and Rytlock. “We’ll have to sleep in shifts.”
“Logan better not sleep at all,” Rytlock snarled as he leaned against the wall of the cell, “trying to steal my sword.”
“You stole it first!” Logan growled, pacing along the bars at the front. “And now neither one of us has it. They confiscated it—and my hammer.”
“Worthless hunk of metal! I can’t believe you would compare my sword to your hammer!”
Logan whirled. “I don’t. That’s the whole point! I’m not carrying a fabled, sacred charr weapon.”
“And neither am I, thanks to you!” Rytlock spat back.
“Enough!” shouted Caithe, suddenly standing between them, her slim hands held out to either side. “You’re stuck together in a cell, and you’re fighting over an empire? Over a sword that neither one of you has?”
The man and the charr snarled one last time before turning away from each other.
Just then, a dark-complected man strode up the cell corridor. He had a stern face beneath long black hair, and he wore embroidered silk robes. Behind the man came an entourage of muscular warriors.
Logan glanced nervously at them. “Those guys aren’t Lionguard.”
The man stopped, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You fight well.”
Rytlock nodded. “If you’re talking about the bearbaiting den back there, yeah, we sure do.”
“I am Sangjo, an agent of Magnus, head of the Lionguard and member of the Captains—”
“The Bloody Headed,” Rytlock interrupted.
“The Bloody Handed,” Sangjo corrected with a wan smile. “He would like to purchase your billet.”
“What are you talking about?” Rytlock snarled.
“Your debt to society—specifically, repairing the portion of the