“So how did you know he was dead?” Kihrin asked. He scrubbed himself with one hand while holding his goblet of wine with the other.
“We knew because inside the Arena, where the contest itself is held, past the great invisible barrier that surrounds it—came a great shining light. It was the light of the Crown and Scepter of Quur. They return to the Arena when the heart of their owner beats no more. And they wait there for the next man who dares claim them. You can believe me, child, when I say men wasted no time spreading the word that the old Emperor was dead. It was time to choose a new Emperor. Everyone came to see.”
“Everyone?”
“Oh yes,” Ola said as she nodded her head. “Everyone. Rich, poor, old, young, fat, thin, freemen, slaves, citizens, and foreigners came to the park that very day. Some folk go their entire lives without seeing the choosing of the Emperor. Gendal himself lived for two hundred years. The opportunity to see the Choosing happens at most once in any person’s life, and no one wanted to miss it: least of all the men who hoped to become the next Emperor.”
She smiled at the memory. “Ah, you should have seen it, my lambs. There was barely room to stand in Arena Park—barely room to breathe! There was no rank or status at such a time. Commoners bumped shoulders with High Lords. Guild masters found themselves boxed in by street thugs. Velvet girls were felt up by Ivory District priests! More purses were cut than ever before or ever since.” She paused significantly.
“But worse crimes than purse-cutting were committed that day.”
“Like what?” Kihrin raised an eyebrow at Morea, as if she might know the answer. Morea smiled and held up her hands.
“The contest itself, some would say,” Ola explained. “For thousands of years the Great Empire has chosen its highest ruler in the same way—by contest of blood. They lowered the invisible wall surrounding the Arena, and all those men rushed in to claim the Crown and Scepter—and kill anyone who might seek to claim it first. I watched the best and brightest wizards of a generation go up in brightly colored patches of smoke on that day. Believe me when I say that with a little magic, human flesh can burn any color you can imagine and a few you probably can’t. The land inside the Arena was a cooking pot: it melted, it boiled, it flowed, and it steamed. And out of the crucible was born our Emperor.”
“So, who won?” Morea asked.
Ola was thrown aback for a moment as she realized the slave girl genuinely didn’t know. Ah, but what need for a sex slave to know the name of the Emperor? She probably didn’t know how to read or write either. Not everyone’s master was as liberal as Ola’s master Therin had been. The madam swallowed bile, shook her head, and continued the story.
“To the profound embarrassment of the royalty, a commoner won,” Ola told Morea. “A peasant from Marakor named Sandus. But to win the Great Tournament is to become Emperor, no matter what your previous status, and so Sandus became our ruler. He still is to this day. When he finally exited the Arena, the crowd screamed so loud that you could hear nothing but a roar. And that, my girl, is when I found Kihrin.”
“Yup, it sure is.” Kihrin nodded in agreement, splashing water.
“I saw his mother first, noticed her through the crowd.” Ola’s voice turned at once sad and passionate with longing. “She was an extraordinary beauty with golden-wheat skin and a shimmering brown curtain of hair. Her eyes were as gentle and kind as a fawn’s. She was lovely enough to be a princess, dressed in an agolé of fine ivory satin. She carried a small package in her arms, no larger than a few pieces of firewood.”
Morea paused. She looked at Kihrin. The young man frowned and stared at the cloudy water as if it were a scrying glass. He was silent.
Morea turned back to Ola. “So, what happened?”
“I saw a man rush up toward her, place his hands around her neck, and choke the life out of her. There was nowhere for her to run to, you understand? And no way for me to reach her, because I was so crushed in with the others I couldn’t move. Still, she made a great showing for herself and fought valiantly, not that it did any good in the end.”
“Didn’t anyone try to help?” Kihrin whispered the question this time, his voice bitter.
“It is Quur, is it not? No one lifted a finger to help that lady. I saw the woman fall just as the roar of the new Emperor’s victory covered her screams, and by the time I reached the spot where she lay, her murderer was gone. Only her body and my darling, the babe she carried, remained. When I picked him up, I discovered, much to my amazement, that he was alive. He still had his birthing blood on him, and it was obvious little Kihrin had only come into the world that day. So if I had left him for someone else to find he would have surely died.” She grinned impishly as she finished the tale. “Kihrin is my one and only act of charity, which means that it’s true what they say about virtue.”
Kihrin stifled a yawn. “And what is it they say, Mamma Ola?”
“It never goes unpunished!” She snapped the edge of a towel at him and howled. He splashed bathwater at her. Morea quickly stepped out of the way.
Morea looked at Ola and then back at Kihrin, her expression wondering. “So, you really are an Ogenra then?”
“Garbage. Fewmets!” Ola sputtered. “What nonsense is this?”
Morea shrank back under the onslaught of Ola’s volatile anger. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s just a story, Morea,” Kihrin said. “A god-king tale. In this part of town there are a thousand orphans—ten thousand orphans. And if you got us drunk enough, every single one of us would admit to a dream that we’re a long-lost prince, that ours is a romantic tale of betrayal and woe. The truth is what I told you earlier: Surdyeh found me on the trash heaps. I was abandoned by a mother who didn’t want me.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
Morea would always wonder, though. Ola knew that had been Kihrin’s whole point—as well as the only reason Ola had played along.
Ola chuckled. “Can you see me naming a child ‘Kihrin’ anyway? Surdyeh picked out that one when he adopted the boy.”
“Captain Jarith said it was a traditional Kirpis name,” Kihrin said, drowsily.
“Did he now? You and he get all friendly?” A faint tinge of menace crept into Ola’s voice. She had no love for the City Guard or the army soldiers, but most of all—most of all—for the sons of men who had known her when she was a courtesan herself.
“He’s not so bad for a soldier. I don’t think he’d be so friendly if he knew what I do for a living—” Kihrin closed his eyes and began to slide down the side of the tub, the remaining wine spilling out of his goblet into the water like fresh blood.
“Quick girl, get his arms. Don’t let him go under,” Ola ordered.
Morea, used to following orders, grabbed at Kihrin. Ola roughly hauled the naked young man from the tub, a reminder that she was larger than most Quuros men, larger even than Kihrin.