“I know I shouldn’t be surprised by anything by now,” Cathan murmured. “Not after all I’ve seen since Chidell. But gladiators? When I left, there hadn’t been blood sport since Kingpriest Sularis’s time.”
“And there still isn’t,” said Wentha. Her mask was a Seldjuki stormhawk, with a plume of glittering blue feathers that trailed to the small of her back. “There’s no blood spilled at the Games.”
“Well…” Rath said, chuckling.
“Not intentionally,” Tancred explained. “It’s all show… a pantomime, really. Collapsible swords, chicken blood, and a lot of overacting. Now and then someone gets hurt, but only when there’s an accident”
“At least, that’s what they say,” Rath added. “There’ve been a few deaths, over the years. No one seems to mind, though. The gladiators are all slaves, anyway. Why should good people care what happens to them?”
Wentha shook her head. “Watch your tone. You sound bitter.”
“I am bitter,” Rath said. “Everyone knows the nobles buy the gladiators to pit against each other. Is it just a coincidence that one of them always seems to have an ‘accident’ whenever there’s a power play? They’re all giving Rockbreaker bags of gold to make sure their boys are safe, or their enemies’ aren’t.”
Cathan blinked, completely lost. “Rockbreaker?”
“Him,” Tancred replied, pointing.
Cathan looked, and saw a podium near the main gates where a small, stocky figure stood, long black beard tucked into his belt. He was gesticulating to the crowd and shouting something, but Cathan was too far away to make out the words. Cathan shook his head; another dwarf, even uglier than Gabbro. Even stranger was the figure beside him, nine feet tall and stoop-shouldered, with a stupidly cruel expression carved into his sallow face.
“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed. “That’s an ogre!”
“They call him Raag,” said Tancred. “He was Rockbreaker’s partner, back when they fought in the Arena. Now they run the School of the Games.”
“The dwarf’s the one who came up with all the fakery,” Rath put in. “He even convinced His Holiness it was a good idea. Putting on a show right in the Hall of Audience, sticking Raag in the gut with one of those false swords. Blood everywhere. Half the courtiers fainted before they revealed it was all a trick.”
He laughed, and Cathan did too, imagining the scene. True blood had only ever been spilled once in the heart of the Temple—his own, at Kurnos’s hands. Quarath would surely have suffered paroxysms to the see tiles awash with red.
“But why have the games at all?” Cathan asked.
“That was my fault, I fear,” Wentha laid. “I arranged the knights’ tourney in Lattakay, remember?”
Cathan nodded. He’d fought in that tourney, along with most of the Divine Hammer. It was a terrible day—a terrible memory. They’d been ambushed by quasitas, winged imps who slaughtered many good men before they were driven off. That had been the opening salvo in the war with the wizards.
“They started holding tourneys every year after that, Wentha went on. “Crime in the city dropped off to nothing for a few months after each one. The priests couldn’t help but notice that, and they convinced the Kingpriest to start having tourneys all over the empire. Even here, in Istar. But there weren’t enough knights for every occasion—so why not encourage gladiators?”
“His Holiness didn’t want to do it at first,” Tancred added, “but … well, there were fewer beatings, fewer murders in Lattakay. Watching slaves fight on the sands made people less likely to fight each other in the streets. One of the hierarchs likened it to steam escaping a volcano, and stopping it from exploding.”
That made sense, Cathan had to admit. “So they brought back the Games?”
“Thirteen years ago,” Rath said. “They used blunted swords for a while, but a gladiator got killed three years later—‘accidentally’ took a dagger in the throat, over in Ideos. There was a riot, the crowd damn near tore down the arena before the Hammer put a stop to it. And Beldinas banned the Games again.”
“Let me guess what happened next,” Cathan said. “The volcano boiled over?”
“No way to let out the steam any more,” Tancred agreed with a grim smile.
Wentha sighed. “It was bad. Six months after the ban, there was festering violence all over the empire. Brawls, looting, even a small riot right here in the Lordcity. That autumn, half of Tucuri burned… and there were rumors of underground fights held in caves and the like. The hierarchs argued for days about bringing the Games back on official occasions. That was when Rockbreaker showed them how to do it safely.”
“Except for the occasional ‘accident,’ ” Rath noted, chuckling. “But the dwarf knows how to keep those things quiet. If someone dies, they carry on, pretending it’s all an act. The body is carried off, and the dwarf just tells the crowd that the man’s been freed, so no one wonders why they never see him again. They’ve been doing it like that all over the empire, ten years now.”
They were almost at the gates now, bodies pressing in on them from all sides. Cathan eyed the dwarf and the ogre— Rockbreaker was yelling about the contests to be fought today, listing the past victories of the various gladiators. One warrior, a man named Talim Two-Blades, would not be appearing, having won his freedom at the Yule tourney.
“Everything’s in place?” Cathan asked his sister in a whisper as they passed through the gates into the cool shadows of the Arena. They started up a broad, shallow stair, leading to the nobles’ boxes high in the stands. Several knights stopped them to check their identities, then let them pass without comment when Wentha lifted her mask. “Have you talked to Idar?”
She shook her head. “We’re meeting with him today after the seventh bout. You can join us if you like. Tell the Kingpriest you need to be excused—Idar’s message this morning said he would be waiting at the Square of Six Swords.”
Cathan nodded. “The seventh bout,” he murmured. “I’ll be there.”
“Don’t let anyone follow you,” said Rath.
“And stop playing with that thing,” Tancred added.
Cathan realized his hand had strayed back to the amulet. He lowered his band, clenched it into a fist at his side as they reached the top of the stair. A long tunnel curved ahead of them; it was lined with archways with sunlight shafting through, dancing with dust. The shouts of the crowd were loud, bloodthirsty.
Gritting his teeth, Cathan followed his sister out into the heat and open air of the imperial gallery. With little enthusiasm, he waited for the first bout to begin.
Chapter 16
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 p
latforms; 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.
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