Chapter Eight: Playing Pretend

            Bailey stood in line, shifting uncomfortably. The damned weather was being it's usual unpredictable self, and after being rained on all of yesterday they were now being subjected to fur sizzling-temperatures. Behind him stood Dirk, whining quiet nothings to himself as he scratched at his neck. Most of the slaves were in a poor mood today, since Turin had kicked them up at the crack of dawn and started barking about uniforms. The ever-present wrist manacles weren't enough for today apparently, and each fur was dressed in a technically-clean white tunic (no buttons of course), as well as loose fitting trousers, secured around their waists with a stretch of rope. They were given no shoes, but told that any alteration to the outfit would result in a whipping that - as Turin put it -; 'even the slimes across the neutral could hear'. They'd been marched out of the encampment, this time a second group tagging along. Bailey didn't recognise any of them, but Dirk let him know that they were the furs belonging to the Slave Lord Derri, whose performance rate was second only to Turin. These furs were mostly wolves and goats (weirdly), and every time Bailey made eye contact with one they'd reply in turn with a scowl.

            A few nights ago, Resh had explained to him that all the other groups hated Turin's lot the most, for two major reasons. The first was that other Slave Lords would regularly use a transfer to Turin as a threat, since nobody wanted to go toil beneath the sadistic jackal. The second was that on top of being a constant threat, Turin's crew was the best performing (due to the aforementioned sadism), and so the other slaves were frequently punished for 'not living up' to the expectations. Bailey had pointed out that their group being fast didn't mean the others were bad, jus that one group had to be the fastest in the end, but Resh had said that logic was rarely a factor in the Slaver's decisions.

            The two lines they'd fallen into were standing in the shade for now, hidden beneath the shadow of a huge structure that Bailey recognised as the Tevarian Arena. It was a circular behemoth of a building, dwarfed only by King Hulrich's castle in the distance. When he was a pup, Bailey had loved attending the arena with his father, cheering on the blood-sport with all the other members of canine Royalty. As he'd grown into his teen years, his feelings had grown more and more cold with each visit, until eventually the young wolf had dreaded going to the arena. Something about celebrating such violence, while simultaneously condemning the brutality of old wars just didn't sit right with him, it made him squeamish, especially on the rare occasions when a competing fighter actually died. Just being near the building again now, seeing all of the excited Tevarian citizens flocking to watch, made him feel nervous. It was akin to a scratching in his stomach, a small bird trying to break free and climb up his throat. Bailey did his best to quell it, instead choosing to worry about what they would be doing there.

            Grown up he had heard – rumours from friends mostly – that in some of the less civilised cities out west, slaves had been thrown into arenas en mass, given a choice to either fight for their freedom, or die in the sand. It had never been confirmed this was a real practice, since all the adults refused to 'entertain such fantasies', but Bailey had never been sure either way. All these old rumours played over in his head, and he saw visions of himself and his friends dying, helpless against some 'great warrior' that had spent his entire life training.

            No…we're the two most valuable groups. He thought suddenly, grinding his teeth unconsciously. If they were going to send slaves to die, it wouldn't be the top two performers. It made sense, and to fear death here was illogical, but as most knew anxiety was rarely a subscriber to logic.

            There was a shuffling that emanated out from the front of the pack, and as Bailey strained to look he saw Turin and two other jackals he didn't know splitting furs up into groups. Behind them there were four smaller groups building up, and as the Slavers worked their way through the crew they would gesture sharply which sub-group to hustle to. The brute of a tiger that Bailey had come to recognise as Yuri was in front of him (as usual, since for some strange reason the slaves all tended to line up in the same order each day, with the only exception to this rule being Garrett, of course), and was told to report to the first sub-group,  on the far left. Yuri didn't move, growling low in his throat and looking to Turin.

            “Oi, what's going on? Why you breaking us up like this Turr?" He asked, and one of the subordinate jackals smacked him clean in the stomach with a cudgel.

            “Move, ya damn bleeder." His friend sneered as Yuri doubled over, falling to a knee with a pained grunt. Turin gave him a cool look, before Yuri picked himself up and headed over the small group, tail between his legs. Turin and his goons stepped forwards to look at Bailey, smirking and nudging one another as they did so.

            “Well, it's our little Lordling. Everything to your liking sir?" The jackal jeered. Bailey bit his lip, Turin had hardly spoke a word to any of the others, why did he always go and have to focus on him? The wolf said nothing, bowing his head slightly and staring intently at the ground. “Ah, you're a slow learner, but I knew you'd get there. Fourth group." Bailey nodded, and Turin laughed as he scurried away.

            The fourth group, the one on the far right, was by far the smallest. The others had roughly a dozen furs to each of them so far, while his own had barely eight. Garrett was already there when he arrived, and the Akita gave him a slight nod, but then turned away. Misha had limped over to the second, and Bailey couldn't see Resh anywhere. Yuri had gone to the first, Lug had yet to be chosen, and Benny was in the second. He smiled as he saw Dirk walking over to the fourth group, since the fox had always been relatively civil with him.

            “So." Dirk whispered, leaning in to Bailey as he arrived. “Whaddya think they've got us doing?" Bailey looked around to make sure none of the Lords were listening in. Turin and his two still had a third of the group to process, and Derri was somewhere over past the first group. They were clear, for now.

            “I have no idea. I thought you might know?" Bailey replied.

            “No clue, this is new to me."

            “I've never seen slaves working at the arena before…I wonder what changed?" Dirk gave him an odd look, and Bailey quickly remembered himself.

            “I-I mean, I used to come by here as a kid and try to get a peek at it y'know? Never saw no slaves." He hurriedly stammered, adding in some poor grammar for good measure. He was depressed that his previously eloquent vocabulary was slowly dying, since he was forced to use a lot of slave slang and verbal short-cuts nowadays. Using the bigger words he used to adore only drew unwanted attention to his background and confused furs, since the majority of slaves had never heard them before. Dirk nodded, oblivious to Bailey's internal struggle to hold onto his identity.

            “Yeah, I've been with Turin for a year and a half now, never been down this way at all."

            “It's probably clean up." A mixed-breed wolf from Derri's crew said, leaning in. Bailey didn't know his name. “We came here…a while back. They had us mopping up blood, cleaning armour, that kinda thing."

            “Yeah but, like this?" Dirk asked.

            “Yeah…nah. There weren't no crowds like today, and none of this groups shit."

            “Huh." Dirk said, looking away.

            “Do you think we'll get rained on again?"

            “What?"

            “I said, uh, d'ya think it'll rain? Open yer ears." The mutt shook his head, muttering. “Foxes."

            “Shut your mouth. Look at the sky, you damn idiot, does it look like rain?"

            “Well I mean it…"

            “Yeah, it could." Dirk interrupted testily. “But what makes ya think I'd know any better'n you?"

            “I was…just try'n ta make conversation…" The mutt said, rubbing his neck and blushing.

            “Well don't." The furs didn't speak again, and Bailey did his best not to look at them. He tried to stop worry too, he was a slave, living a horrible life, it could only get so bad before they hit the bottom. He could only suffer so much.

            Right?

            Eventually the groups were hurried away, Derri leading the first group, two other unknowns leading the next two and Turin ruling over the fourth. He barked at them to get inside, shuffling them up some stairs into the arena, following through tunnels and eventually coming into a small space a couple flights up. They stopped, and the group got antsy.

            “Hey Turin, what in the Allgod are we doing up here?" Dirk called, and Bailey cringed. He expected another hit like Yuri had gotten, but instead Turin did the unthinkable; he actually answered the question.

            “I've taken you sorry lot because you have the most important task. We…well, you are all catering to the fight today, cheaper'n real servants. You mutts'll be carrying little platters of dainty foods, pouring wines, and trying to act with some damned dignity, if you have half a wit left to muster that much." He snorted, his voice bouncing off the stone walls harshly. “You will not speak unless you are spoken to by a Noble first, and you shall not steal anything you are serving. At the end, the Arena-Master has said he will give the leftovers to our encampment, but if any of you scum start sneaking treats it's all going into the sea. Understood?"

            The slaves all grumbled their understanding, and Turin gave them a quick crash course on how to properly address their betters. Using 'My Lord' and 'My Lady' where appropriate, bowing, eyes downcast. He promised to flay anyone who made him look bad, and he said it with such vehemence that the group shared a collective swallow. Someone made a smart comment at one point and earned themselves a slap across the maw, but aside from that the Slave Lord actually seemed to be in a good mood.

            Eventually the group was dragged to the kitchens, where barrels of wine were stacked high, as well as large plates filled with tiny foods. Bailey knew what those tasted like, and his mouth watered viciously at the site and smell. As he, Dirk, Garrett and three others were saddled with the snacks and wine, and sent up to the High Nobility, Bailey realised something.

            He knows I used to have this. He thought with a pit lodging itself into his stomach. He oftentimes forgot about his old life, and even more often that the Slave Lords knew of his history. He did this on purpose, to hurt me. Indeed, as he looked at each of the items they were carrying, Bailey saw he had the most delicious item. He carried tiny pieces of roasted white meat, wrapped in bacon and topped with herbs. It was warm, and the smell wafted up to his nose effortlessly. He wanted it so badly his teeth hurt and his throat ached. The others all either had wine or cold dessert dishes, and they treated the food with something close to disdain. To them this was barely food, it was more like gold jewellery, the kind of thing that only Royalty enjoyed, practically a symbol of the inequality running rampant in the city. Bailey steeled himself as they each passed through a flap, the sounds of the crowd clapping and cheering near deafening. Looking down, Bailey recognised that the fight was beginning with the starter shows. Four wolves fought, each armed with a weapon of semi-novelty, while the main attractions geared up.

            The Akkedis Imperium could not be more different than the Tevarian Empire if it tried. The Akkedisians worshipped their Godking, they had scales instead of fur, held a different set of currency, and typically used those ridiculous two-handed 'great-weapons'. Despite all these differences, the very things that had in the past driven the two Dynasties to war, they shared one deep and fundamental core love; blood. Both of the nation's held a reverent, almost holy view of combat, putting violence above all other aspects of life. To be a great killer great warrior was the highest of honours in both cultures. It had been one of the things that had breached the divide between the two, after the war had finished and the city carved up like a pie. The duels had begun as fun, but slowly escalated until they became this massive spectacle that Bailey looked at now. Banners, kites, streamers and other kinds of celebratory paper flew in the air, raised up as the audience screamed. It was ironic really, the fact that the thing to help put past violence to rest was simply…more violence.

            It made Bailey sick, so he turned away.

            What he saw instead was worse. His stomach felt as if it had fallen out of his body, and his flesh went cold beneath his fur. He felt his tail fall lifelessly, wrapping protectively around one of his legs as his ears drooped. In front of him were eight rows of seating, each raised up slightly higher than the one preceding it and housing about four Royal members.

            Every Wolf and Fox there was a member of the Tevarian Court. Bailey recognised all of them, each of their faces, each of their lineage. He even saw Lady Yurintha, the King's own sister and mother to Laris Yurintha, the young black wolf that Bailey had been promised to marry. None of them looked to him. He felt Garrett nudge him, and started as he saw all his fellow slaves were offering the snacks and wine to the guests already. Bailey moved forwards, his face hot, but his blood cold. He felt so stiff and mechanical, as if his joints weren't quite working correctly. As he walked, bowing and silently offering the treats (As he'd seen servants do in his old life), few of the Lords and Ladies even looked at him. The ones that did give him a smile did it without their eyes, and none recognised him; they were really looking to make sure they got the largest piece on the plate. He had been the son of Lord Aldrich Varden, the Prince of War. He'd been heir to perhaps the second most powerful position in the Empire, and how quickly they had forgotten him!

            It had only been…what…six months? Eight? A year? Bailey had no idea anymore. It had been short enough they should still recall his face though, of that he was sure.

            He almost dropped the food in surprise as they all suddenly rose to their feet, clapping and applauding the show as one wolf on the field was left, his opponents mewling from cuts and scrapes. As he regained his composure, the royals sat for another fight, and Bailey felt himself panicking at it all. He couldn't get enough air. He took a step back, but Garrett passed behind him and elbowed him in the back, pushing him forwards and refocusing his attention. He didn't dare give the Akita a thankful look, but he wanted to. As Bailey rounded the rear of the pews, kneeling down to a Royal in the far back, he finally felt something akin to relief.

            He was serving Sanrivagh Leidal, a successful City Merchant and chief financial advisor to the King. Sanrivagh had always been close with Varden family, and he'd been nothing but kind to him when he was younger, especially after his mother had died. As the white-grey arctic fox leaned out to collect a snack, he paused, eyes finding Bailey's own. He smiled, and Bailey's heart soared.

            Thank the Allgod. He thought, sighing. They haven't all forgotten me. His heart rate picked up as he thought about Sanrivagh. The fox was a powerful merchant, and extremely influential in the city, even if he was starting to show his age. Could he help? Get me out of here? Bailey didn't want to hope, but it was the first real chance he'd had to get his old self back.

            “Hello Alistair." Sanrivagh said softly, taking a small bit of the tasty meat. It took Bailey a moment to react to the use of his old name, but he found himself.

            “Hi." He gasped finally, feeling stinging tears at the back of his eyes. “Sanrivagh, it's…it's so good to see you." The fox nodded slowly, looking back to the fight. Bailey felt a tiny stab of hurt, but then thought it was probably so he could avoid suspicion, for Bailey's wellbeing.

            “Are you being treated well?" He asked, and Bailey frowned. That was a strange question to ask.

            “No, not at all." He whispered conspiratorially. “It's horrible, this is the worst place in the world. We're whipped, and brutalised, and if we fall and get hurt they just leave us to die." He sniffed, quickly using his technically-clean tunic to wipe at his wet eyes.

            “Well." Sanrivagh said softly, still not looking at him. “That is the life of a slave I'm afraid." Bailey stopped, biting his tongue.

            “Do they know? Do the members of the Court know what happened to me? How did you know?" Bailey blabbered, a little too loudly. Sanrivagh hushed him, glancing around and sighing tiredly.

            “No, young Master Varden. Nobody in the Court is aware of your…new position. They think you're away, rotting in some dungeon."

            “But I didn't do anything!" Bailey hissed. “How is this not an outrage?! Sanrivagh, please, for the love of my family, please help me. I need you." The fox looked away for a moment, before turning back to the fight.

            “Alistair…the Tevarian Court holds many…machinations that you are simply too young to ever understand. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do right now, my paws are tied." He sighed, reaching over absentmindedly and taking a second treat from Bailey's tray. “You don't know how hard I had to fight to get you even here. Captain Menson wanted to execute you, the brute."

            What? Bailey had meant to say it out loud, but his mouth wouldn't move. Was that true? He licked his lips, but it was all so dry. Suddenly he was aware of every noise, every clang of metal on metal, each jeer of the crowd. His vision seemed to spin, and he could hear even his own breath echo.

            “You should be more grateful, honestly." Sanrivagh said dismissively, leaning back in his seat as the crowd erupted in applause yet again. Bailey looked down, and saw a tall drake walking out in armour, wielding a colossal spear. He looked back to Sanrivagh, feeling shattered. When it was clear the fox would speak no more, he turned and walked away, offering his little treats to each of the members he recognised, moving in a daze.

            I wish they had killed me. He thought, returning towards the kitchen as he saw his tray was empty. The main event went on for close to an hour, although a great majority of it was the two fighters circling one another, making slight feints and testing defences. In the end the lizard won, but Bailey couldn't care less. He wandered away, everything feeling so unreal. He half expected the walls to start melting, the ground to explode open and devour him; hell, he wished it.

            They had all forgotten him; left him behind like trash, just like Turin had to Misha. Because of something his father did? Something he had no clue of, something he would have been whole-heartedly against had that bastard he called father asked?! Sanrivagh, one of the few Bailey had liked, had sentenced a twenty-one year old youth he'd watched grow up, to a life as a slave.

            When the arena was finally cleared, he left in a daze. Turin informed them all they'd be back early the next day to clear all the rubbish, and that he was pleased with the outcome. On the walk back to their encampment, Bailey finally accepted that he would be a slave until he died. There was nothing in his future to fix this, and he let the dreams of Sanrivagh, or the King, or even Lady Yurintha coming to his aide and buying his freedom die. They'd all conspired against him, betrayed him, for no good reason. He turned his tearful eyes to the sky, and wondered how the Allgod could allow such a terrible injustice in the world. He then came to the conclusion that if everything else he'd been told to revere; honour, respect, duty, loyalty…if that had been a lie, then the Allgod probably was too.

            Why? He thought. Why had his life become one brutal act after another? His mother died, then he was promised to marry a girl he barely knew, his father rejected him, his father betrayed and abandoned him, a family friend sold him into slavery, and then his one new friend was nearly killed. Today he was being held in front of his old life on a tight leash, purely to cause him pain! What did he do to ever deserve this?

            Turin walked past at one point, slowing as he spied him quietly sobbing in the slow moving line. Bailey saw him smile and walked away, humming to himself.

            Why? Why did the world seem to hate him so much?