“You were gone quite a while,” Tithian remarked.
Cathan made a face. “I thought about not coming back at all. I keep seeing Valeric, the one who-”
“I know.” The Grand Marshal sighed. “There’ll be an official investigation, I promise you, but in the end we’ll be able to prove nothing. We never can. Rockbreaker’s too quick to dispose of the bodies-and who’s to say he’s dead if we can’t find his corpse? It’ll be kept quiet, and nothing will happen.”
The crowd cried out again as the Barbarian’s saber scored another red slash across the Minotaur’s thigh, making him stumble. Cathan glanced down and saw the beast trip his foe with his trident, then viciously drive the point down. The Barbarian twisted out of the way, made a clumsy kick, and hooked the Minotaur’s leg, sending him sprawling. The trident skittered away. The roars grew deafening.
“Why?” Cathan asked, raising his voice to make himself heard. “Why keep it quiet? If you raise the suspicion that some of these fights end in murder-”
“Then what? What do you think will happen?” Tithian demanded, jabbing his hand toward the crowds. “Look at them, Cathan! That’s real blood the Minotaur’s bleeding, and they’re cheering for it! If we told them some of the deaths were real, too-” He clenched his fist as his words sputtered to a stop, glaring at a point in the sky above the far side of the stands.
The Barbarian twisted to his feet, flourished his saber, and lowered its tip to the Minotaur’s throat-a thoroughly scripted move, one any competent warrior should have been able to avoid. When the Barbarian lifted his sword from the Minotaur and helped the creature up-loathing in its glinting eyes-Cathan knew these Games had been concocted to give birth to a new champion. He would have bet a hundred gold falcons that the Barbarian would be the last one standing when the sun set. A newcomer, fighting past overwhelming odds to win the adulation of the masses… it was the oldest tale beneath the moons.
Sure enough, the final bout of the day had the Barbarian fighting the reigning champion, Pheragas-and the battle was a consummate performance. It ebbed and flowed with perfect rhythm, first one man gaining the upper hand, then the other. They each took cuts. They even grappled and switched swords, something Cathan had never, in twenty years as a knight, seen happen in a real duel. Finally, shining with sweat, Pheragas came on hard, forcing the Barbarian back, back, until he was teetering at the brink of a pit filled with swinging blades. The boy hung there, teetering as the audience gasped. His sword dropped into the hole, and disappeared into the machinery with a metallic crunch. Then, his face tightening-a look that even made Cathan want to cheer, though it was all part of the act-the Barbarian threw himself forward, somehow avoiding Pheragas’s sword and ramming his shoulder into his opponent’s gut. The air went out of the big Ergothman, and with two quick punches the Barbarian had him on the ground, senseless. With a Taoli battle cry, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it with two hands above Pheragas’s breast.
“Istolud!”
The crowd’s cries of encouragement and glee suddenly ended. All eyes turned toward the imperial box, where the gleaming figure had stepped forward to stand at the gilded balustrade. Beldinas raised his hands, gazing down upon the battlefield. The sawdust was dark with blood and sweat. The single word he’d shouted had resounded back and forth across the Arena.
Stop!
“Spare him,” the Kingpriest went on. “Do not strike the final blow, brave warrior. There is no need, for you are the victor of this contest!”
Even those who wore the blue of Pheragas’s faction shouted jubilantly: a novice in the Arena had risen above all others to claim the highest honor a gladiator could achieve! Golden roses showered down onto the sands. Rockbreaker appeared, but could not make himself heard above the thunderous applause. A beautiful young woman with an iron collar came out to place a wreath of laurel-leaves on the Barbarian’s head. He caught her before she could withdraw and kissed her hard on the mouth, raising new cries from the onlookers. She resisted a moment then swooned-all of it as rehearsed as the fighting.
Cathan watched as the Lightbringer walked by, Quarath at his side. He found, as they passed, that he could not bring himself to meet Beldinas’s gaze.
Sword met sword, and Tithian shoved with all his might, sending Sir Bron stumbling back. The younger knight grunted, nearly lost his footing, then recovered, keeping his shield up the whole time. He came back with a hard flurry, battering away so that Tithian’s arms burned from the parrying and blocking until the two men finally parted, their feet covered with mud.
It had started raining a little after nightfall, but neither seemed to notice or care. They were sparring alone, in the courtyard of the Hammerhall, with no crowd to watch them. It was a better fight than any the Grand Marshal had watched today.
Another death in the Arena, the third in the past two years. Quarath and Lord Onygion’s feud was getting out of hand, but what could he do to stop it? Speak to the Emissary? To the Kingpriest? Neither would do anything. Rockbreaker would laugh in his face, but only if his mouth was too dry to spit. And the people would mock him-the last thing the head of the Divine Hammer needed.
Here came Bron again, high left, then low to the right, then low right again … each blow simple, economical, not the great sweeping swings of the gladiators. Tithian caught each stroke in succession, with shield and sword, and shield again, turning them aside, then hooking the pommel of his sword around and clouting the younger knight in the ear.
Bron caught most of the blow with his helmet, but he reeled just the same. Groaning, he slumped halfway to his knees. Tithian went at him again, this time with blunted blade, and caught the lad in the stomach with its full outward edge. Bron doubled over, whimpering, then dropped to the ground and stayed there, retching up his supper. Rain plastered his dark hair to his face.
“Watch your hilt-work up close,” Tithian said. “A good swordsman uses every part of his weapon, not just the blade-and expects his opponent to do the same.”
Bron grunted, started to rise, then thought better of it and stayed on his knees, gasping. Tithian watched him. He’d be a great fighter someday, if he could overcome his sloppiness. If not… well, the knighthood was full of passable warriors. There were few great ones anymore.
The thud of hooves in the mud drew his eye away, toward the gatehouse. A rider came through, protected against the rain by a gray, hooded cloak. He stopped for a moment to speak with the gate ward, who nodded and stepped aside. Then he rode on toward Tithian. The Grand Marshal eyed him, marking the anonymity of the man’s garb, and felt a sinking feeling. There was only one who would approach him at this hour with such nondescript garments. He watched as the man reined in, then swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a squire who came running through the muck to serve him.
“I thought you might come tonight,” Tithian said to the hooded man. “I guessed as much, when I turned around and saw there were no MarSevrins to be found.”
“You think the whole family is in on this?” asked the rider in return.
Tithian angled his head, water running off his helm. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
The man harrumphed, but didn’t answer.
“So,” Tithian said. “It’s really happening?”
“It’s happening,” the rider replied. “The day after the morrow, at the Vaults. They mean to take him, and the Crown.”
The Grand Marshal nearly spat, a sudden ferocity coming over him. “And Cathan?”
“The Twice-Born is a part of this conspiracy,” said the voice within the hood, “as much as I am.”