We ride toward Slaughterborne's camp in a column of six trikes, all flying the roach-wing pennants that apparently serve as a truce flag around here.

  I'm so tense my jaw aches where my teeth clench. If things are going to go horribly wrong -- as, I remind myself, they always, always do -- the most likely spot is right here, when some lookout decides Slaughterborne doesn't really need to hear what we have to say and starts shooting. An irony of my profession is that when you make your living being the smartest person in the room, your greatest weakness is the lout who starts swinging before you can say a word.

  Sweat trickles down the back of my neck and soaks my inner collar. This is partly from nerves, and partly because of my new garments, which are not exactly breathable. I'm wearing the full-on finery of a City grandee, or at least the closest approximation of such that we could run up in a few hours with the available supplies. It's not perfect -- a real City bigwig would wear costly cotton and linen instead of mostly silk, and the stitching isn't quite up to snuff -- but my guess is that it'll pass among these Sinisters who've never seen the real thing up close. It's got the classic high, stiff collar, loose sleeves, and asymmetric cape that even provincials will associate with the courts. Jewelry, gathered in a hasty whip-round from Atrax's clan, adorns my arms and fingers. Again, I'd be laughed out of a proper dinner party, but it's enough for the task at hand.

  The blat-blat-blat of small engines sounds from the rocks to either side of us, and my heart flip-flops. Six bikes bounce down from the heights, riders yelling wildly to one another as they careen over rocks and spray sand around. This show of acrobatics, presumably for our benefit, ends with them making a line athwart the narrow gully so our caravan is forced to halt. The lead biker gets down and swaggers toward the trikes, a leathery woman with an eyepatch and a jacket adorned with twin Fifth icons.

  "Who's this?" she shouts over the sound of a dozen engines. "Looks like Atrax to me, but that can't be right. Atrax promised our master, Fifth-on-Earth, that he and his would stay east of Broken Spear."

  "Your master promised that his raiders would leave me and mine alone," Atrax booms back. "But not two weeks ago Butcher and his gang of mewling cowards ambushed one of our patrols and took my sister hostage."

  The Sworn woman's one good eye is fixed on me. "I heard that didn't go so well for Butcher. Heard some Dextrals did for him and made off with that ship he's so bloody proud of."

  I affect a bored expression and inspect my fingernails.

  "That's as may be," Atrax says. "But there's still an offense to be answered."

  "This war, then?" the woman says, scoffing openly. She looks over the twenty or so clan members on the six trikes. "Going easy on us, are you?"

  "I have a proposal for Slaughterborne," Atrax says.

  "You can give it to me."

  "I'll give you a spear if you like," he says. "Then we'll have war, but you won't be around to see it. Otherwise, I'll speak to Slaughterborne man to man."

  Another look at me, assessing. Then she snorts and turns back to her bike. "It's your life to throw away. Stay in the middle of the canyon."

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  All the bikers rev their engines, the roar rising to a cacophony. They turn away from us, hooting and laughing, forming a vanguard for our little party of trikes as we descend into Slaughterborne's domain.

  ***

  There are many stories about the realm of the Fifth, Glad-of-War, Blood-drinker, Skull-taker, Gore-bringer, God of violently swinging pointy things around. His domain is called Grand Arena, and there the greatest warriors in the hereafter fight endless battles for the amusement of Eternal-Victor and his host. It is, according to legend, a blood-drenched hellscape, the mutilated bodies of the losers nailed to the walls still squirming and unable to die, their pooled viscera ever slick underfoot. Why the followers of the Fifth are so eager to earn a place by his side and spend eternity in a place that must stink like an abattoir is a mystery to me.

  Whatever the truth of conditions in the next life, it becomes evident that Slaughterborne is eager to recreate the legends here on earth. Sadly he's been let down by his victims, who, being mortal, are unable to struggle amusingly for all eternity while soaking the world in blood. Instead, the walls of the canyon are adorned with mummified bodies long since robbed of their moisture by the pitiless suns. Here and there, a fresher corpse is marked by a slick of fluid drooling down the rock, the body itself a solid mass of writhing insects and other vermin. Icons of the Fifth are cut into the stone or daubed in offal every dozen yards.

  More bikers fall in behind us as we approach, and the canyon walls grow steadily higher, until we're driving between two tall cliffs with a mass of raiders ahead and behind. It feels more like being a prisoner than being taken to a diplomatic negotiation, and I'm reminded once again of why I should never, ever listen to that little voice in my head that gives me ideas. I could have been of here by now, damn it. And yet.

  Up ahead, the canyon widens, splitting into several passages with a hump-backed hill between them. Tents and lean-tos cover this higher ground, many of them quite elaborate, while more modest shelters cascade down the slopes and spread out up and down the canyon floor. At the front of the hill, a large rock provides a natural stage overlooking a big patch of clear sand. Sworn raiders cluster on three sides of the open area, while atop the rock a smaller group of heavily armored people looks on with interest.

  "It will work, I promise you!" a man in the center of it all is shouting. "The finest spectacle of combat ever devised, as is fit for the greatest warrior on earth!"

  There's a brief hush as everyone waits for the figure at the peak of the rock to speak.

  "Looks like a rope on a stick to me," he rumbles after a few heartbeats.

  "Looks can be deceiving!" the petitioner says. He's standing beside a tall pole. A younger man waits beside him, stripped to the waist with a sword in hand, his arms connected to the top of the pole by looping blue cords. "My courageous volunteer will demonstrate the spectacular feats this invention allows!"

  He gives a nod to the younger man, who takes off running, stretching the blue cords behind him. They stretch and strain, and he has to dig his heels into the ground to make progress. Eventually, arms trembling, he comes to a halt and turns to face the stage.

  "Fifth-on-Earth," he yells, "I would be your champ--"

  His foot slips, and the tension in the rubbery cords yanks him off the ground. In a split second he hurtles toward the top of the pole, passing it in an ascending arc and catapulting high into the air until he's little more than a dot against the suns. Meanwhile the cords fall back, bouncing and juddering, each still tied to a bleeding, dismembered arm.

  Dead silence for a moment, even the motors of the bikes seeming to still. Then the missile falls to earth, slamming into the wall of the canyon so hard that blood sprays in a yards-long pattern.

  The inventor licks his lips. "Ah."

  Up on the rock, one man begins to laugh. He slaps his knee, going red in the face, and gradually the others around him start laughing and cheering too, a wave that spreads throughout the assembled raiders until everyone is wildly celebrating. The man on the rock waves a hand and fights for breath.

  "I have slain many warriors to serve me in Grand Arena," he manages to cough out. "But thus far no jesters! Consider yourself honored!"

  "But --" The inventor's shriek is drowned out by more cheers as he's dragged away. Someone else collects the bloody arms for the stew pot while the man on the rock continues to chuckle.

  This, then, is Slaughterborne.