Arakasi noticed Kevin’s interest. ‘Great Ones,’ he murmured in explanation.
‘You mean the magicians?’ Kevin looked more carefully, but the men in their dark robes sat silently or engaged in hushed conversation. A few watched the sandy expanse below, awaiting the first contest. ‘They look entirely ordinary.’
‘Looks may deceive,’ Arakasi said. At Lujan’s command, he helped the other warriors shoulder through a knot of bystanders.
‘Why are all these people hanging about?’ Mara wondered. ‘Usually there are no commoners on this level.’
Taking care not to be overheard, Arakasi answered, ‘They hope to catch a glimpse of the barbarian Great One. The gossipmongers claim he will be in attendance.’
‘How can there be a barbarian Great One?’ Kevin interjected.
Arakasi waved aside a matron with a flower basket who tried to sell Mara a bloom. ‘Great Ones are outside the law; none may question them. Once a man is taken and trained to wear the black robe, he is of the Assembly of Magicians. What rank he held before is of no consequence. He is only a Great One, pledged to act in preservation of the Empire, and his word becomes as law.
Kevin stilled further questions as Arakasi shot him a warning glance. They were too close to strangers for chance remarks or improper behaviour to be risked.
The arena was not yet one-third full when Mara reached the box set aside for her. Like her seat in the Council Hall, the position indicated her relative rank in the hierarchy of the Empire. By Kevin’s estimation, some hundred families were closer to the imperial box, but thousands were farther removed.
Mara sat with Lujan, the young Strike Leader, and the soldiers on either side; Kevin and Arakasi took up positions behind her chair, ready to answer her needs. Kevin studied the surrounding array of house colours and tried to puzzle out the pecking order of Tsurani politics.
Past the magicians’ area, and to the right of the Warlord’s dais, lay a box dressed out in black and orange, the colours of House Minwanabi. On levels above sat other families of lesser importance, but all clan-related or in vassalage to Lord Desio.
Adjacent came the yellow and purple colours of Xacatecas; the victory treaty with Tsubar had advanced Lord Chipino, and now he was second in power in the High Council. The Lord of the Chekowara took up his position in a box beneath Mara’s, on the same level as the Warlord’s, but as removed from the white and gold as she was.
A trumpet blast sounded from the arena floor. Wooden doors around the arena boomed open and scores of young men in various colours of armour marched out in formation. As they moved, they sorted themselves out into pairs and saluted the empty imperial box. At a second signal from the games director, who sat in a special niche by the gates, they drew swords and began to fight.
Kevin quickly determined that the matches were to first blood only; the bested man would raise his helm as a sign of submission. The winner would then take on another victorious partner and initiate sparring again.
Lujan answered Kevin’s query. ‘These are young officers of various houses. Most are cousins and younger sons of nobility, eager to show their prowess and gain a sliver of honour.’ He glanced around the stadium. ‘This is of little consequence, save for those down there and their families. Still, a man may advance himself in the eyes of his master by winning a contest such as this.’
There were no colours on the floor from Minwanabi, Xacatecas, or the other three Great Houses, nor from the Acoma, as houses recently covered in glory needed not bother with trivial displays. Kevin followed the combat with the trained eye of a soldier, but quickly lost interest. He had seen Tsurani warriors much closer and with much more serious intentions than those boys who sparred upon the sand.
Beyond the sunlit sands, lesser relations and servants were drifting into the boxes that would shortly hold the dominant Lords of the Empire. From the small size of their honour guards, none closer than a distant cousin had yet put in an appearance.
The contest among the young nobles ended, and the last-remaining pair departed, the loser with his sword lowered in defeat, and the winner nodding to the scattered cheers of those few interested spectators.
The air off the sand was hot, and the amphitheatre’s high walls cut off any breeze. Bored with the proceedings, and still rinding the social reasons for Mara’s attendance incomprehensible, Kevin bent to ask her if she wished for a cool drink. She had ignored him since they had entered public scrutiny, for reasons of appearance, but as she shook her head in curt refusal of his solicitude, Kevin noticed that his lover seemed uneasy. Protocol forbade him to make inquiry after her well-being. When Mara chose to assume Tsurani impassivity, a part of her became unreachable, though in most things he had come to know her moods as well as his own.