Neuvil couldn’t help but snarl at the obtuse Dark Elf, “By the thirteen sweet hells, man, how did you come to run the Matadoras? Is it really so rare for a visiting team to buy tickets for their fans?”
The stadium direktorus grew angry. “Ah, the notorious politeness of foreigners. Perhaps now you understand why we pen you up in your own quarter instead of letting you run loose around our city.”
Umberto nudged Neuvil out of the way. “Honourable sir,” he said, “forgive Coach Neuvil. He’s not well.” The direktorus gnashed his teeth but didn’t send them packing, so Umberto continued, “Yeah, it’s an awful lot. But we want ’em, see, and we have the coin.” He untied a heavy pouch from the baldric lying under his coat and set it on the counter between the Dark Elf and himself.
The direktorus emptied its contents onto the countertop and slid precise groups of coins into a new pile, counting as he went. He quickly tallied the gold and said, “I shall say this for you, foreigner, you were brave to walk with so much gold through Halos. The sum is adequate. The puzzle for me is, why? To deny our locals entry? To weaken our witchcraft? You know that Dwarrig, the League Officer for Conduct, will not want a near-empty stadium. It does the league no good. It does my masters who own the stadium no good.”