“It seems to me that if I were to lose in the finals, it would damage my stellar reputation greatly.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that it would,” the Master retorted smoothly. He was clearly getting into the groove of the impending negotiation. “In fact, I dare say that it would help. Show that you’re only human after all.”
Beleg grinned, showing all of his teeth, “I prefer being the bedtime boogeyman that parents tell their kids about to ensure they behave. Plus, if I’m shown to be ‘only human’, that would put every wanna-be sword-fighter after me trying to be the second to take me down to prove that it wasn’t just a fluke.”
“Such attention could be profitable for you,” came the expected response. Even Kre could tell that Beleg had set up his argument in such a way so that would be the likely retort.
“Possibly, but exceptionally tiring as well. I’ve been honing my craft and keeping the riffraff away with my reputation. Without that in place, every pissant pretender will be disrupting every waking hour of my daily life with a new challenge.
“No,” Beleg said, pounding the table with his fist before the Master could interject with a counter. “I think… that if I am to lose this tournament, I should also change my career so as to wash away any opportunities for future challenges.”
The Master rubbed at his nose and smiled thinly, “A career change you say…”
Beleg nodded. “Truth be told, my body isn’t as young as I wish it were. That’s not to say that I can’t muster up enough energy to whip every pup here, mind you, but perhaps we can both benefit from a loss.”
“You have stolen the very words I spoke previously. I am heartened that you have come around to my way of thinking.” The Master laid his hands out in front of him, palms up. “Now we can move forward with the details of our arrangement.”
He hefted his left hand slightly and mimed weighing something heavy with it. “I stand to gain a substantial return on the stakes here, as you have deduced. The money I stand to win, however, is secondary to the prestige of singularly backing a previously unheard of champion.”
“Like owning the winning horse from a season of racing,” Beleg cut in flatly. “I imagine that you’ll treat that poor boy similarly, bringing him out for events with the rich and famous, using him to enter higher social circles.”
“My,” the Master murmured, “you are a sharp one. Or, perhaps you are speaking from experience?”
“That story would cost you more than you have,” Beleg said with a curl of his lip that indicated he wanted no further part in this line of discussion.
“It sounds like it could well be worth it, but we’ll save that for future business dealings. Now, where was I?”
“Loads of money from rigged bets,” Beleg said.
“Oh, yes.” He bobbed his left hand up and down again and said, “Loads of gold.” He tipped his hand over and mimed spilling its contents into his other hand, which he lowered significantly as if it sagged under the heavy weight it now bore. “Much of which would go straight to you.”
Beleg shrugged, “The image of invisible gold is all fine and dandy, but eventually I’ll need a number.”
“One hundred,” the other man said, finally speaking up. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and slid it across the table to Beleg. “A bank note, to show our earnestness.”