The trumpets blared, but they were almost inaudible for the shouting of the crowds-tens of thousands of voices all raised as one, fists pounding the air as the gladiators strode out onto the sands. Vendors hawked spiced cakes, fruited ice, and watered wine. Here and there, pockets of gaudy color marked the spectators: Men and women who rooted for particular gladiators, and wore gold or green or violet to show it. Some even dyed their hair to match the colors of their favorite combatant. But most were common citizens, commonly dressed, who had come to watch men fight and die-or pretend to die-for their amusement.
There were thirty-two gladiators in all. When the last of the numerous bouts was over, one would emerge triumphant, to be lavished with all manner of luxuries for the next season, until the Midsummer Games arrived. At the year’s end, the four seasonal champions could battle for the greatest prize of all: a golden key that would open the iron collars they wore around their necks. For today, though, the reward was glory, not freedom.
The “sands” were, in fact, large wooden platforms erected on the floor of the Arena, each dusted with sawdust. Between these were pits of fire and boiling oil, spanned by narrow wooden bridges: these were more show, concocted to make things more interesting for the audiences. No gladiator had ever died in the Death Pits.
Sitting between his sister and Lord Tithian, Cathan watched the gladiators take their positions on the platforms; they wore scanty armor of gold and jewels, useless when it came to stopping real blows. Their weapons-swords and tridents and knives-looked no different, at a distance, from those used in true battle. They flashed in the late morning sunlight as the warriors raised them high. The cheering grew even louder than before.
Amid the tumult, Rockbreaker and Raag emerged to stand together at the center of the sands. The dwarf flashed a wicked grin; the ogre folded arms like tree trunks across his chest and glowered. A hush fell over the crowd as Rockbreaker raised his stunted arms.
One by one, the dwarf introduced the warriors. There was Pheragas of Ergoth, a brawny, dusky-skinned man with a shaven head; Kiiri the Sirine, a broad-shouldered woman whose greenish skin was either paint or proof that she was one of the fabled merfolk who dwelt in the oceans off the Seldjuki coast; a man named Rolf who was more than seven feet tall and wore nothing more than a breechclout of metal scales; the Red Minotaur, whose horned head towered above the rest and whose snout curled in disdain as he regarded the crowds. These four, the most exotic of the bunch, were the crowd favorites; the rest were men assembled from all over Istar. Several looked terrified, but most grinned and strutted as Rockbreaker called out their names. When all had been named, they turned as one and looked up at the imperial box, at the gleaming figure sitting close to Cathan.
“Pilofiro, tam coledamo!” they cried, clapping their hands over their hearts.
Lightbringer, we salute you!
Merciful Paladine, Cathan thought, staring at Beldinas as he rose from his satin couch and signed the triangle over the assemblage. With a movement like the waves on the sea, the folk of Istar fell to their knees before the Kingpriest.
“Hear me, children of the god,” Beldinas declared, his voice easily carrying without shouting. “This is a great day for the empire. Our greatest hero has returned to us-a hero who was at my side from the beginning, who fought for me at Govinna and Lattakay, who strove for years to put an end to the darkness that lives among us, who even sacrificed his life to save my own. These Games shall be convened in his honor.
“People of Istar, I give you Cathan MarSevrin, the Twice-Born!”
Cathan felt the blood drain from his face as all eyes-spectators’ and gladiators’ alike-turned to gaze at him. He felt sick. He didn’t want this farce dedicated to him!
Tithian’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Don’t just sit there,” the Grand Marshal bade, grinning. “Wave to them, or something.”
“Oh,” was all Cathan could manage to say. Grimacing, he got halfway to his feet and raised his hand.
It was enough to set the mob off again, and then it was some time before they calmed down enough to hear the Kingpriest. “Bamenas fionant!” he cried.
Begin the Games!
Cathan sat back down, started to reach for the amulet, then stopped himself. Tithian touched his shoulder. He wore a mask shaped as a hawk’s head.
“Are you all right? You look ill.”
Cathan shook his head. “A little too much wine last night.”
“Again?” The Grand Marshal shook his head, chuckling. “You’d think you’d have learned, after that night in Chidell. Oh, look-they’re starting the first bout.”
Cathan stared at Tithian. His old squire was grinning, leaning forward as two gladiators strode out onto the sands. One was the Ergothian named Pheragas, which prompted a lot of hollering from the pockets of sea-blue in the crowds (and some jeers from the other colors). The other was a frightened-looking youth named Ajan, who looked like he’d been given his sword just this morning. They raised their weapons to each other, then to the crowds. Rockbreaker held a curving dragon’s horn to his lips and blew a long, thunderous note. Tithian cheered as loud as anyone. He was enjoying this!
By rights, the duel should have been over as soon as it began. Pheragas was a fine fighter, if a bit wild, and the Yule champion besides; as a warrior, Ajan left much to be desired. His footwork was atrocious, and he couldn’t keep his shield in line. Watching him, Cathan counted six fatal missteps in the first minute of the fight, but Pheragas-who surely noticed his opponent’s mistakes too-did nothing to capitalize on his advantage. Slowly, it dawned on Cathan: the fights weren’t just harmless, but were scripted as well. When Ajan exposed the flesh beneath his left arm, Pheragas held back; when he stumbled and fell to one knee, Pheragas’s finishing stroke went wide; when the younger man got frustrated and threw his shield at his foe, Pheragas actually backed off long enough for him to dive and get it back. The Ergothman drew out the performance with expert patience, toying with his opponent. Their swords came together, high then low, high then low, in a pattern so rhythmic it was ludicrous. The masses devoured it, gleefully crying Pheragas’s name.
Cathan bowed his head. He’d never despised the people of Istar so much in his life.
“Cathan?” Tithian asked.
“This is a mockery,” Cathan muttered.
“So it is,” the Grand Marshal agreed, nodding at the crowds. “But it keeps them happy, and who is harmed by it?”
Cathan was opening his mouth to argue the matter when cheering drowned him out. He looked down just in time to see Pheragas finish the match. Stepping inside the younger man’s defenses-a move that would have gotten him skewered in wartime-he brought his sword around and thrust it into Ajan’s breast, shoving its collapsible blade in down to the hilt. The younger gladiator’s eyes went wide, and a gallon of fake blood sprayed everywhere, spattering Pheragas and the ground alike. Cathan looked away, feeling ill. The crowd went berserk as Ajan staggered theatrically, then dropped in an unmoving heap.
Several gladiators in training-slaves all, by their collars-hauled Ajan’s “corpse” away. Pheragas lifted his blood-streaked sword, and the blue-clad onlookers whooped and pounded on drums. Terror gripped Cathan’s heart: in his mind’s eye, he saw the burning hammer, dropping down onto the Arena while these supposedly good folk cried for blood. He had to stop this.
Had to stop him.
Beldinas sat quietly, lost in his aura. There was no telling whether he was watching the Games, but Cathan stole glances at the Kingpriest for the next several bouts. He saw the Red Minotaur win the second, and Rolf the fourth; the rest he didn’t even notice. The fights were sloppy travesties of true battle. When he pointed this out to Tithian, however, the Grand Marshal shrugged.
“Half those men are still better swordsmen than the knights these days,” he sighed.
Wentha brushed Cathan’s arm. He saw that Rath and Tancred were both gone already. “It’s the seventh bout,” she murmured, waving toward the platforms.
The next two combatants came out, to cries from the onlookers. Rockbreaker announced them. The top-ranked was a squat man in ridiculous blue war paint, carrying a brutal-looking morningstar that was undoubtedly as harmless as the other weapons in the Arena. Valeric was his name. The other, a towering youth clad in furs, held a saber that looked like it could cleave a man in two. The dwarf called him the Barbarian, but Cathan saw at once that the man was Taoli, just like himself.
“Quarath’s new man,” Tithian said. “And Valeric belongs to Lord Onygion-he and the Emissary have been feuding for a while now. That should make things interesting.”
Cathan glanced at Quarath, who sat next to the Kingpriest, as always. The elf was glaring at a fat nobleman in an adjacent gallery. Beldinas continued to ignore the goings-on below. “Did you say Quarath’s new man?” Cathan asked. “What happened to the old one?”
Tithian said nothing, though the sour look on his face betrayed him.
The fight began.
For a champion, Valeric fought like an oaf; his balance was off, and his swings with the morningstar were foolishly dramatic, leaving him open to killing blow after killing blow. But the Barbarian was even worse; though he had strength and reach on his side, he wielded his saber poorly-swinging it like an axe rather than a sword. He had enough power behind him to cut a man in two, but no adeptness. What a warrior he could be, with the right training!
The crowd seemed to sense this too, for as the Barbarian battered at his foe, the tide of the cheering began to shift. With each stroke, with each step he took to force the other man back, more people cried out the Barbarian’s name, and fewer cheered for Valeric. Soon only the diehards-clad in deep scarlet, and fewer than most factions to begin with- were acclaiming the champion.
Cathan realized what was happening: this bout had been plotted as an upset, the debut of a new celebrity in the Arena. The feeling in the air was electric, and he even was clenching his fists, anxious to see how it would turn out. Flushing, he forced himself to be calm, leaning back in his seat.
And then, in a blur, the duel was over. With a sweeping kick, the Barbarian knocked Valerie’s feet out from under him. The blue-faced gladiator fell to his knees. A swing of the saber knocked the man’s morningstar from his hand-an obviously scripted move-then, with a mighty thrust, the Barbarian shoved his sword into Valeric’s stomach.
At once, Cathan knew something was amiss. He recognized the groan that issued from Valerie’s lips; he’d heard that sound too often in his life. It was genuine pain, kind even the best actor couldn’t mimic. The blood erupted naturally from this wound, flowing from the warrior’s stomach onto the ground. Worse, though, was the startled look in the Barbarian’s eyes: shock and abject horror as it dawned on him what had just happened.
The saber was not fake. He had killed his opponent.
The crowd cheered anyway-whether because they didn’t understand, or because they didn’t care, Cathan didn’t know. He looked at Beldinas as Valeric fell in a lifeless heap. The Kingpriest continued to stare into space, seemingly ignoring the carnage. Beside him, Quarath smiled with inordinate pleasure as Rockbreaker’s slaves hauled away the body. Cathan felt only disgust.
Now, he thought. Wentha had left partway through the bout. Now it was his turn. Idar would be waiting.
“Excuse me,” he said to Tithian.
He must have looked truly sick, because the Grand Marshal started to get up with him. “I’ll come with you,” he said sympathetically.
“No,” Cathan said. “I’m all right. Just need to get away from the noise.”
“Are you sure?”
Forcing a smile, Cathan patted his old squire’s arm. “Watch the Games and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a while.”
With a reluctant nod, Tithian sat back down. Cathan turned and hurried away, back up the aisle of the imperial box. He tasted bile the whole way.
Six-Sword Square was empty. Nothing moved in the windows and balconies overlooking it, and only a single gray cat skulked in the alleyways that led away from it. Its center-piece-a fountain with a circle of half a dozen arms holding blades up out of the waters-made the only sound within. The muted roar of the Arena could still be heard in the distance, though the square was more than a mile away.
Cathan stood at the square’s edge, fists clenched. He shrank back against a red-tiled wall, holding his breath as the shadow of one of Quarath’s griffins swept overhead. He’d tried not to draw the beasts’ attention as he made his way here. The griffin was gone in a heartbeat, banking away as it continued to circle above the Lordcity. Cathan breathed easier.
“Blossom? he whispered. “Rath? Tancred?”
Nothing.
He crept forward, pulling off his mask to get a better view. As he did, he spotted something strange: a scrap of white cloth, snagged on one of the fountain’s swords, fluttering slightly amid the spray. At once he knew what it was for. Reaching out, he touched the marble stump of the blade. It gave slightly, then pivoted when he put his weight behind it. There was a click, and a soft grinding sound behind him. Turning, he saw a narrow opening in the red-tiled wall, where there had been none before. A short figure lurked in the darkness.
“You’re late,” growled Gabbro. “Get in here. And bring that cloth.”
The secret passage was narrow and tight, even for the dwarf. Cathan had to stoop to follow Gabbro down a flight of steps. The secret door clicked shut behind them, and it took a while for Cathan’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“More tunnels,” he murmured.
“You say that like its a bad thing,” the dwarf said, grinning. “Go on. Your sister and her lads are down there already.”
They were waiting for him in a room at the end of a long, vaulted passage. Armed guards watched the door, one of whom was huge and sallow. Cathan guessed he had some ogre blood in him, and marveled at how that did not surprise him. Little would surprise him, any more.
Then he stepped through the door, and gasped with shock.
“Well, good,” said Idar. “I’m glad you hadn’t guessed.”
He sat at a long table in the room’s midst, a wine-cup in his hand. Wentha was there, too, and Tancred and Rath, their masks laid on the table before them. Another man was there, too: a man in white robes fringed with scarlet. He had a high brow and thinning, dark hair. His graying beard was braided, with beads of amber threaded through it. Jewels sparkled on his fingers, and a silver circlet, studded with sunstones, rested on his head.
“Sweet Paladine,” Cathan breathed.
Rath and Tancred both grinned, and Idar laughed aloud. Even Wentha’s eyes sparkled. “Not quite,” she said. “Brother, meet the leader of our movement.”
The bearded man rose, his vestments whispering about him. “Well met, Twice-Born,” said Lord Revando, First Son of the holy church.