As one the Queen’s Daggers roared, a savage blast of defiance and bloodlust, waving their weapons at the Arisai and voicing taunts rich in obscenities. “I’ll feed you your balls, you grinning fucker!” a stocky man with a halberd spat at the nearest Arisai, who seemed to find this even more cause for amusement.
Lyrna met Lord Nortah’s gaze, reading a grim certainty in his expression. He glanced down at Snowdance, her eyes closed now, and his face spasmed in mingled rage and grief before he straightened. “We are taking our queen out of here!” he told his soldiers. “Assault formation!”
The response was immediate, the Queen’s Daggers moving with the unconscious precision born of months of training, ordering themselves into a wedge shape in the space of a few seconds. Nortah raised his sword, preparing to give the order to advance, then paused at the sight of some commotion in the ranks of Arisai. The throng parted to reveal a tall figure, armoured in red as they were, but his face that of a much older man, the features long and lean, thin lips and pale blue eyes. Also, unlike the Arisai, he wore no smile.
Lyrna saw Nortah’s sword arm sag as he gaped at the tall man, face drawn in mystification. “Aspect?”
CHAPTER NINE
Reva
“Why you not . . . afraid?”
Lieza’s Realm Tongue was adequate but not accomplished, though considerably better than Reva’s Volarian. She sat on the only bed, knees drawn up and clasped in her arms, eyes bright as she watched Reva go through her scales. On the first day of their confinement Varulek had provided her with a wooden short sword and some intently spoken advice, “Ready yourself with all vigour. The arena cares not who you were, only what you might be.”
Their quarters consisted of a windowless cavern-like chamber providing more than ample room for practice. Reva danced across mosaic-tiled floors, dodging between elegant pillars of black marble veined in white. The walls were decorated in faded paintings depicting various beasts and men in combat and she noted how Lieza did her best not to look at them. At the far end of the chamber a large bath was inset in the floor, supplied with hot water via some hidden contrivance of pipes. Besides the bed, however, there was little in the way of furniture, or anything of sufficient weight to make a decent weapon. Even her wooden sword was made from sandalwood and like to shatter at the first contact with anything substantial.
“Fear kills,” Reva told the slave girl, spinning through a final combination of parries and thrusts. “You’d fear less if you trained with me.”
The scale was her own invention, a much modified variant of one of Vaelin’s Order standards, designed for confronting the Kuritai. Although from what Lieza told her of the spectacles Reva concluded a contest with the slave-elite might be preferable. She had quizzed the girl closely for several hours, leaving off only when she began to cry, tears flowing as she stumbled over a description of some kind of cat with teeth like daggers.
“I not a . . . fighter, like you.” Lieza hugged herself closer, resting her head on her knees.
“Then what are you?” Reva asked.
“Slave.” The girl spoke in a murmur, not raising her head. “Always just slave.”
“You must have skills, abilities.”
“Numbers, letters, language.” Lieza’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “My master taught me much. Won’t help here. I am Avielle, you Livella.”
“And they are?”
“Sisters. One weak, one strong.”
Reva grunted in annoyance, going to the bed and grabbing the girl by the wrists, hauling her to her feet. “Look at me!” She took hold of her chin and raised it, shaking her until her eyes opened, wet and bright with alarm. “Enough of this. Whatever waits for us here will need all our strength, yours and mine, if we are to survive it.”
The girl sagged, tears flowing once again. “I not like you . . .”
Reva drew a hand back to slap her. Beat some spine into her, make her practice and beat her every time she falters. She’ll learn quick enough if I put some bruises on those perfect legs, the miserable, fatherless sinner . . .
Her hands gave an involuntary spasm, allowing Lieza to sink back onto the bed, head slumped in misery. “I’m sorry,” Reva said, retreating from the weeping girl, her heart thumping.
A jangle of keys came from outside the thick iron door. It swung open on squealing hinges to reveal Varulek with two Kuritai at his back. His eyes tracked from Reva to the still-weeping Lieza. “I have been instructed to punish this one if she fails to please you,” he said.
“She pleases me well enough,” Reva told him. “What do you want?”
He stood back from the door, inclining his head in a surprisingly polite gesture of respectful invitation. “The blond man fights today. The Empress thought you would like to see it.”
Her initial thought was to refuse, having little desire to witness the Shield’s murder. But she would find no opportunity for escape here, and perhaps the pirate deserved his end to be witnessed by at least one ally. She tossed the wooden sword onto the bed next to Lieza. “At least try,” she said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Copy what you saw me do.”
The girl’s head bobbed in what might have been agreement and Reva went to the door, noting how the Kuritai maintained no more than a six-inch gap between themselves and Varulek. He fears me, she decided, depressed by continual evidence the Master of the Arena was no fool. He remained unmoved by the insults she cast at him, was always just out of reach and ensured her wrists were shackled on the rare occasions she was permitted out of the chamber.
She kept still as one of the Kuritai held a knife to her throat, the other snapping the manacles to her wrists. She calculated dispatching one would be relatively simple, hook the chains over his throat and snap his neck, but had yet to formulate a manoeuvre that would prevent the other killing her a heartbeat later. Also, she considered it unlikely Varulek would simply stand idle and watch her escape. Although he was of average proportions, she could tell from his bearing and the evident strength in his tattooed hands, he was no stranger to combat. Once a soldier, perhaps?
“Your quarters are acceptable?” he asked, leading her along the passage. They were deep in the bowels of the arena, the passage leading to a long flight of stairs ascending in a curving arc in line with the giant oval of the arena.
“A table and chair would be nice,” she said as they began the climb.
“Also easily broken and the legs used for clubs,” he replied. “So, sadly, I must refuse.”
She concealed a sigh of frustration, wondering again at the Father’s liking for placing obstacles in her path. Why not allow me a stupid gaoler? she asked him. If it is your object to punish me, attempting to escape this place will certainly achieve such an end in short order. There was no answer, of course, the Father as deaf to her entreaties as he had always been, though now at least she discerned a reason. I lied in your name. I cannot think I deserve to live.
“Some books for the girl, then,” she said. “I think she would appreciate a distraction.”
“I’ll see to it.”
They climbed in silence for a time, passing by several sentry platforms, each home to a pair of Kuritai standing with their typical blank-eyed immobility. The higher they went the more ornate the surrounding structure became, bare, unplastered brick giving way to smooth walls decorated with mosaics and the occasional relief sculpture. She was surprised to note that most of the decoration showed signs of unrepaired vandalism: unfamiliar script chiselled away or motifs subjected to shattering hammerblows. From the colour of the stone she deduced this to be ancient damage.
“This is a very old building,” she observed as they neared the arena’s ground level, the narrow passage echoing with a low-pitched hum, growing with every step. It was a sound she knew well enough, similar to the collective shouts of the archers on the walls of Alltor when they called for the Volarians to march into yet another arrow storm, the baying of many souls hungry for blood.
“Indeed,” Varulek replied. “The oldest building in the city, in fact. Product of a less enlightened age.” She detected a new inflection to his normally uncoloured voice, a faint but clearly discernible note of contempt.
“Less enlightened?” she pressed.
“So the Imperial historians have it.” She saw how his eyes lingered on a statue as they crested the final step and emerged onto the broad arched walkway leading to the arena proper. It was a bronze figure typical of the many she had seen on her journey here, a man, as they usually were, holding a short sword aloft in a gesture of heroic defiance. She could tell from the lustre of the bronze the statue was relatively recent, but the plinth on which it stood was far older, a finely carved cylinder of red-gold marble, an iron plaque hammered onto its side with little regard for the stone, which was cracked and chipped in several places.
“Someone else stood there once,” she said. “Who was it?”
Varulek turned his gaze away from the plinth, lengthening his stride. “Savorek,” he said in a flat voice. “Greatest of the guardians.”
“Guardians of what?”
He led her to another staircase, this one leading to the upper tier. He remained silent until they had climbed the stairs, and the hum of the crowd became a ceaseless cacophony, almost drowning his reply, but she caught it, “All that was taken from us.”