Then came a final soliloquy from the Lightbringer himself, and everyone surged to their feet and cheered so loudly the noise was heard as far away as the Hammerhall. The play was a triumph, undeniably Gendellis’s finest work to date. Word quickly spread after the audience filed out the Arena’s many arched gates: This would be a drama for the ages, one of the best ever to grace a stage in Istar, and surely there would be many more performances of it in the years to come.
That night, masked folk shouted and capered in the streets. Then, when the first light appeared over the Lordcity’s eastern gates, all eyes turned back to the Arena again.
The Games would begin on the third day.
Cathan swallowed, staring up past the Arena’s white walls, where statues of warriors stood with swords and spears held high. The sky overhead was clear, the blue of Zaladhi sapphires. Griffins wheeled across its cloudless expanse, their lion-eagle shapes strange to his eyes. Quarath and his elves kept them at an aerie in the hills north of the city; they let them out, every day of the festival, to thrill the people. Cathan didn’t think griffins were wondrous; he’d seen the winged creatures before, and knew their purpose for the festival. They were watchers, their keen eyes searching for signs of trouble. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, guilty. His hand went to the malachite amulet, hidden beneath his clothes.
“Please don’t do that,” murmured a voice to his right, half-muffled by the drooping nose of a troll. One of Wentha’s sons-both were wearing the same fearsome masks, so it took a moment to recognize Tancred-touched his elbow, gently forcing him to lower his arm. “Do you want to give yourself away?”
“You’re safe. Uncle,” said Rath, appearing on his right, nodding at the mobs that were inching their way through the Arena’s gates. “None of them know. None of them could know. Unless you go acting suspicious, of course.”
Cathan made a sour face, lost behind his own wolf mask. The crowd was full of thought-readers, each one searching the minds of those around him for evil notions. He’d already seen the Scatas move in and take three people away-discreetly enough, so as not to cause a stir. He told himself, as he’d done many times before, that if the Araifas could sense what he had decided to do, they would have taken him away by now. It didn’t make him feel any less helpless.
There was already a rumbling from within, the Arena, of feet stamping and voices chanting names Cathan didn’t recognize Every now and then, a muted explosion of cheers rang out, followed by the blare of horns.
“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.”