Phage rose and descended the stairs. She headed toward the royal box. Why would the First have summoned her during the opening ceremonies? Was he pleased or displeased? Did he wish to share this victory or to shame her in defeat?
It didn't matter to Phage. Her labors were done. Her creation would live or die apart from her.
"Mistress," called Zagorka, ambling up the stairs without her ever-present mule. "The First summons. It is urgent."
'Tell the attendants to rope off the landing platforms," she gestured over her shoulder. "Give the family our condolences and a thousand gold to make up for the death." Phage continued past the old woman.
Zagorka stood and gaped. "What if they still aren't satisfied?"
"Then they can challenge me in the arena," Phage said simply. She left the woman behind, knowing the matter would be resolved.
Ahead the stands gave way to a long ring of luxury boxes, the largest of which was draped in black and guarded at either door. In the midst of the populace, the First had a space that was all his own-ten rooms, including an exact replica of his inner sanctum in Aphetto. The only difference was that his full-size portrait had been replaced by a wide view of the arena floor. After all, it was in that portrait that Phage had first glimpsed the coliseum.
Phage stopped before the door to the First's box, but she needn't have. The guard had swung it wide and had dropped to his knee, head bowed.
Impassively, Phage said, 'The Cabal is here."
Without looking up, the guard muttered the reply, "The Cabal is everywhere."
Phage edged around him, lightly brushing past his tousled head. The hair withered and dissolved away. He gave a little whimper.
The way was clear through antechamber and chamber to the Inner Sanctum. She was expected.
He waited within, seeming almost an avatar of the black-walled room. He wore his full robes of stiff leather, the joints oiled to keep them supple, and a black miter on his head. Within all that fabric, his face was a pallid hunk of stone, and his eyes were steel bearings. Just now, his attention was focused on the match. Despite his impassive face, the hand servants that stood to either side occasionally clapped for him.
Phage bowed low. The First was her creator. He had made her what she was, and he was the only other creature in the world like her.
Without looking away from the battle, he began to speak. 'There is much blood. Perhaps too much, Daughter."
So this was to be a reprimand. Phage pressed her head into the thick carpet. 'They are convicted murderers. All matches to the death feature those who would be executed anyway. They are offered as object lessons-testimony to the horrible end that awaits wrongdoers."
One of the hand servants waved away Phage's defense. "It is not the killing, but the blood. There is too much blood for families. It is merely an aesthetic concern."
"I will charge the mages to use magic skin spells to keep the blood in."
"Precisely," said the First, turning at last. A servant motioned Phage to stand. "There has to be some, or the deaths will not seem real, but not gallons this way."
"Not gallons," she echoed as she rose.
The First approached, his own hands spread wide. He embraced no one unless he planned to slay-no one except Phage. His killing aura surrounded her, and hers surrounded him. He crushed her to him.
"You have done well, Daughter. I am more pleased than I can express."
She sighed. Those were the words she had longed to hear.
He broke the embrace almost too soon and turned his eyes back to the match. All the Invaders, including the demon, lay dead. Most of the Dominarians also had been destroyed. Just now, the two Dominarian gladiators fought each other. The crowd screamed its approval, and the First's hand servants clapped.
"How will you top today's offerings?" the First asked quietly.
Phage began to respond, but a rattling clamor came behind her. Someone arrived, a very certain someone.
Braids bounded in. No sooner had she arrived than she bowed, not in reverence but nausea. She vomited unceremoniously on the floor but lifted a grinning face. "Like the show?"
"Very much," the First responded regally. He did not look to the vomit, seeming to consider it an offering of obeisance.
"The rug will be replaced, of course," Phage said.
"Of course."
As if she had heard the First's question, Braids said, "You should see what we have planned for the future! Grudge matches!"
The First still did not turn toward her, but an eyebrow lifted, a sign of intense interest. "Grudge matches?"
Braids draped herself over a nearby chair and said, "Yeah. What's more entertaining than watching a fight between people who hate each other? When we can, we'll get famous feuds, but it'll also work to have theme days-cuckold fights, cat fights, holy wars, vendettas, revenge. We'll offer the combatants their choice of weapons, staging, and lethality."
"Good," said the First. "Very good."
Braids fiddled idly with her hair. "It's the first step toward your vision, making the arena a judicial system." She cupped her hands, using her barker's voice. "Don't fight in the streets like dogs! Come to the arena. You'll get justice, fame, and valuable prizes!" Dropping her hands, she said, "The fights will teach morality. When there is a draw, the citizens themselves can decide who wins and who loses, who lives and who dies. We can even make people feel it is their civic duty to attend such matches, to make certain justice is done."
The First nodded very slowly. "Let's not use the word 'duty' in conjunction with the coliseum. We want folk to think of pleasure and fun, not of duty. We want to lure them, not drag them in."
Braids was suddenly out of the chair, kneeling low in sick worship. "Forgive me."
The First watched the distant fight, seeing the Dominarian warrior decapitate the mage. "There is nothing to forgive." While the crowd roared, the First glanced toward Phage. "I have the perfect such match in mind for you. I have spent the last few months arranging it."
"Only say the word, and it is done," Phage said.
The First smiled. "You will fight your brother Kamahl. He is on his way. You will fight in a month."
Phage bowed. "Eagerly, Master."
"Forgive me," Braids snickered, bounding away. "I must announce the next match." Her voice faded as she withdrew through chamber and antechamber. By the time she got outside, the sound rose again. "Behold, young and old," she barked, leaping up the stands, "the miracle coliseum brings you none other than the miracle workers who built it. Behold!"
While giant lizards dragged away the remains of the armies, doors swung wide. A trudging platoon of dwarves emerged. Behind them came gigantipithicus apes and shorn rhinos, goblins and mule men. They were armed with the tools of their trades-hammers, chisels, ropes, wedges, chains. All had the sweat and grit of months of labor on them. Their faces were grim despite the glad shouts of the crowd.
The First watched in amazement. "Who could they possibly fight?"
From beyond the luxury box, the voice of Braids belted out. "A thousand slaves, kept in line by a hundred whips. Behold their foes, the taskmasters!"
More doors opened, disgorging a motley group of creatures in black leather suits and spiked helms. Magic scourges cracked in their hands. Hisses and boos greeted the taskmasters, but they only whirled their whips more viciously.