Until Arakasi tapped Kevin lightly and quietly on the arm. ‘Take this,’ he whispered.
A knife haft slipped into the barbarian’s palm. He all but flinched in astonishment before his fingers closed. For a slave to carry arms meant a death sentence, and honourless was the freeman who dared to flaunt this law. That the Spy Master did so indicated a circumstance of deadly peril. To Mara, Arakasi murmured, ‘Lady, I will fetch your guards and litter and have them brought as close to the arena entrance as the Imperial Guards will permit. Then I will run back to your town house and muster your remaining soldiers. Come away and meet us in the streets, as you can. I have . . . that feeling I spoke of earlier. I fear the worst from this.’
Mara gave no visible sign that she had heard, but Lujan set his hand upon his sword hilt, and Kenji and the other two warriors came alert. Arakasi slipped quietly away.
Kevin held the blade against his forearm, eyes glued to the strange tableau, while his peripheral senses took stock of the advisers who conferred with masters and mistresses in the adjacent boxes.
Within the imperial box, the Warlord surged to his feet. The resounding catcalls and shouts redoubled. Mottled scarlet with rage, he shouted, ‘Let the fighting begin!’
When the fighters on the sand defiantly held their ground, burly, leather-clad handlers rushed in to end their recalcitrance. They uncoiled needra-hide whips and began lashing the warriors.
The crowd began to shout their impatience. Whistles and obscenities blended into a note ominously rising, as even the wellborn nobles objected to watching motionless men being whipped. Suddenly one of the Thuril grabbed a handler, jerked the man off balance, and caught the trailing lash. He whipped the leather around his enemy’s neck and began strangling the life from him. The other handlers turned upon the renegade and flailed at him viciously. Their blows drove him to his knees, but his determination did not relent. He twisted the leather tighter and tighter, while his victim puffed and turned purple, and finally died.
In the next stunned instant, before any could react, the Thuril soldiers recovered their dropped weapons and surged to the attack. The Midkemians joined them, and handlers died, their whips cut into pieces and spattered red with their blood.
An ugly mutter raced through the upper concourses. Kevin glanced toward the magicians to see if they might intervene, but it seemed they had troubles of their own. The bearded one called Milamber was standing, and though the Black Robes on either side entreated him to return to his seat, the magician would hear no pleas. Rage burned in his eyes, hot enough to be felt across distance, and Kevin knew fear.
He glanced back to Mara, but a slight signal from Lujan indicated they must wait, even yet, to depart. Arakasi must have time to fetch the litter and guard and bring them to the outside stair. To be caught without an escort in the street was far too great a risk.
Suddenly a Black Robe at the Warlord’s side rose and swept his hand in an arc. A shudder ran down Kevin’s spine and the hair prickled at his nape. Magic! And done with no more effort than a wave of one hand; dumbstruck, the Midkemian saw the rebels on the sand buckle at the knees and fall limp.
The Warlord’s shout echoed over their helpless, prostrate forms. ‘Now go bind them, build a platform, and hang them for all to see.’
The crowd went still as a storm front. Lujan murmured, ‘Be ready!’
Kenji and the warriors shifted forward in their seats. Kevin put a hand upon Mara’s shoulder. Poised, and apparently at ease throughout the entire exchange, the Lady was hardly immune to the sense of danger. Through touch, the man who loved her could feel that she trembled. He ached to reassure her, but the tension in the arena continued threateningly to build.
Young officers in the first rank of seats cried out in rage at the Warlord’s order. Vociferously they raised objection and demanded the prisoners below be permitted a warrior’s death. Many had been Patrol Leaders in the forefront of the war against the Midkemians or the Thuril. Enemies or aliens, the captives on the sand had proven their mettle in battle; to hang them like soulless slaves would bring shame to all the Empire.
Neither were the Great Ones remaining passive. Milamber exchanged what appeared to be heated words with another Black Robe, who strove unsuccessfully to placate him. At length Milamber shouldered past, still speaking; the stout one rose to hurry after, too late. The Great One who had once been Midkemian was poised midway up the steps that separated the Black Robes from the imperial box.