“What’s that?”
“The greatest games in the calendar,” Sidonius replied. “Held at truelight, when all of Aa’s eyes are open in the sky. The purses are fortunes to the sanguila who win them. And to the gladiatii who wins the magni? He knows greatest prize of all.”
Hope gleamed in Matteo’s deep brown eyes. “Freedom?”
The big Itreyan nodded. “A gladiatii can buy his way free if he wins enough coin. But the gladiatii who wins the magni has freedom handed to him by god himself.”
The boy frowned in confusion, obviously oblivious. Sidonius rolled his eyes.
“You heard the tale of the beggar and the slave?”*
“Aye.”
“Well, to honor the God of Light during truelight, every beggar in the ’Grave is fed from the Republic’s coffers. And the winner of the magni is given his freedom by the grand cardinal himself. Clad in naught but rags, just like Aa was in the gospel.”
Sidonius leaned forward, eyes glittering.
“And then, if that weren’t enough, the bloody consul hands you your victor’s laurel. Imagine it. Crowd going berserk. That god-bothering bastard Duomo dressed like a beggar, and that marrowborn wanker Scaeva kissing your arse in front of the entire arena.” Sidonius grinned like a madman. “Every woman in the ’Grave would know your name. You’d be swimming in cunny for the rest of your life, countryboy.”
Mia looked to the ripples on the water before her. Imagining it, just as she’d imagined it for months now. Grand Cardinal Duomo, standing within arm’s reach, dressed in nothing but his beggar’s robes.
No cathedral around him.
No holy vestments around his shoulders.
And no trinity hanging around his neck …
And beside him, Consul Scaeva, victor’s laurel waiting in his hand …
“And all I need do is win the magni?” Matteo asked.
Sidonius guffawed. “All? Aye, that’s all you have to do. Just win the greatest games in the Republic. Against the finest gladiatii under the suns. This collegium hasn’t even won a berth in the great games yet.”
“Well, how do we do that?”
“With difficulty,” Mia sighed. “A collegium that earns enough laurels leading up to truelight can send gladiatii. But apparently this is our domina’s first competitive season, and it seems she’s but one victor’s laurel to her name.” Mia scowled. “Furian’s.”
“And we three are a long way from the sands just yet,” Sidonius growled. “Before we’re even counted among the gladiatii, we must survive the Winnowing.”
“So come to explanation, then,” Matteo demanded. “What is this Winnowing?”
“A cull,” Sidonius said. “They hold them before every major games in the lead-up to the magni. Separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“Nobody knows what shape the Winnowings take,” Mia explained. “The editorii change the format each time. But the next one is in two weeks. At Blackbridge.”
Matteo swallowed thickly, muscle in his jaw twitching.
“But if we don’t know what the format will be, how do we prepare for it?”
“Do you pray?” Mia asked.
“… Aye.”
Mia shrugged.
“I’d start there if I were you.”
CHAPTER 9
STEPPING
Mia walked slowly, service tray balanced on her upturned palms. Other girls passed her in the hallway, carrying drinks or bowls of purple slumberbloom or phials of ink. Her shirt had been left behind in her room, but she still wore her britches beneath the corset and gown, sword and stiletto and a pouch of wyrdglass strapped to her thighs. She proceeded up the hallway carefully, hoping she portrayed an image of poise, rather than that of a girl with a small armory bumping against her nethers.
She reached the stairs at the end of the hall, made to breeze past the two lumps of muscle there without a word. One spoke as she passed, freezing her in her tracks.
“Good eve, Belle.”
She’d tied the golden courtesan masque over her own, propped Belle’s powdered wig atop her head. She was a good inch or two taller than the serving girl, and harder muscled, but her curves were around the same, and that was where the bruiser was spending most of his eye time.
“Lazlo,” she said, giving a small curtsey.
“A stupid one,” Belle had told her. “Just give him a flirt and he’ll let you past.”
“You’re looking dashing as ever,” Mia smiled.
“Where you goin’ with that?” the second man asked, eying the tray.
“Dario,” Belle had warned. “A mean one. But even stupider than Lazlo.”
Mia nodded upstairs. “Toliver and Vespa ordered a bottle for the Dona.”
Dario looked to Lazlo, muttering. “We’re not supposed to let anyone up ’til—”
“Aa’s cock, man, leave her to it,” Lazlo said. He trailed one finger gently down Mia’s arm, and the girl had to steel herself from taking his hand off at the shoulder. “You head on upstairs, little dove.”
Skin crawling at the thought of a grown man calling a fourteen-year-old his “little dove,” Mia trod carefully up the stairs. From what Dario had said, the map still wasn’t here yet, but the seller had to be arriving soon. She could hear rain on the roof now, walking down a polished hallway hung with nudes of beautiful men and women. A double door flanked by two guards waited for her at the corridor’s end, and thanks to Eclipse’s scouting, she knew the Dona’s office was beyond it.
“… FIVE MEN AND YOUR MARK INSIDE…,” came a soft growl at her feet.
“… though one of them will prove little trouble…”
Four men, plus the Dona, plus whoever the map dealer brought with them.
Black Mother, they don’t make it easy, do they?
Mia had thought perhaps to wait in a side room until she heard the seller arrive, but the guards on the office door were staring right at her.
“Eclipse,” she whispered. “Head downstairs and look for our seller.”
Feeling her shadow ripple, she adjusted her wig and walked blithely up to the office, greeted both men with a smile.
“Maxis, Donato, pleasant eve,” she said, curtseying.
“Belle, you shouldn’t b—”
Before Donato could finish his objection, Mia rapped on the door with her foot. After a moment, it swung wide, and she looked up into the face of a tall Dweymeri man, his features inked with artful tattoos, his broad chest wrapped in a fine waistcoat with gold buttons. He scowled at the pair of guards beside the door.
“Thought I said no visitors ’til she arrives.”
“I tried to stop ’er, blame fucking Laz—”
“Who is it?” called a low, musical voice from inside.
With one last black scowl at the guards, the Dweymeri replied over his shoulder.
“Belle. And booze.”
“Four Daughters, send her in. I could drink the Sea of Stars.”
The braavi thug stared at Mia a moment longer, then stepped aside.