feuding for a while now. That should make things interesting.”
Cathan glanced at Quarath, who sat next to the Kingpriest, as always. The elf was glaring at a fat nobleman in an adjacent gallery. Beldinas continued to ignore the goings-on below. “Did you say Quarath’s new man?” Cathan asked. “What happened to the old one?”
Tithian said nothing, though the sour look on his face betrayed him.
The fight began.
For a champion, Valeric fought like an oaf; his balance was off, and his swings with the morningstar were foolishly dramatic, leaving him open to killing blow after killing blow. But the Barbarian was even worse; though he had strength and reach on his side, he wielded his saber poorly-swinging it like an axe rather than a sword. He had enough power behind him to cut a man in two, but no adeptness. What a warrior he could be, with the right training!
The crowd seemed to sense this too, for as the Barbarian battered at his foe, the tide of the cheering began to shift. With each stroke, with each step he took to force the other man back, more people cried out the Barbarian’s name, and fewer cheered for Valeric. Soon only the diehards-clad in deep scarlet, and fewer than most factions to begin with- were acclaiming the champion.
Cathan realized what was happening: this bout had been plotted as an upset, the debut of a new celebrity in the Arena. The feeling in the air was electric, and he even was clenching his fists, anxious to see how it would turn out. Flushing, he forced himself to be calm, leaning back in his seat.
And then, in a blur, the duel was over. With a sweeping kick, the Barbarian knocked Valerie’s feet out from under him. The blue-faced gladiator fell to his knees. A swing of the saber knocked the man’s morningstar from his hand-an obviously scripted move-then, with a mighty thrust, the Barbarian shoved his sword into Valeric’s stomach.
At once, Cathan knew something was amiss. He recognized the groan that issued from Valerie’s lips; he’d heard that sound too often in his life. It was genuine pain, kind even the best actor couldn’t mimic. The blood erupted naturally from this wound, flowing from the warrior’s stomach onto the ground. Worse, though, was the startled look in the Barbarian’s eyes: shock and abject horror as it dawned on him what had just happened.
The saber was not fake. He had killed his opponent.
The crowd cheered anyway-whether because they didn’t understand, or because they didn’t care, Cathan didn’t know. He looked at Beldinas as Valeric fell in a lifeless heap. The Kingpriest continued to stare into space, seemingly ignoring the carnage. Beside him, Quarath smiled with inordinate pleasure as Rockbreaker’s slaves hauled away the body. Cathan felt only disgust.
Now, he thought. Wentha had left partway through the bout. Now it was his turn. Idar would be waiting.
“Excuse me,” he said to Tithian.
He must have looked truly sick, because the Grand Marshal started to get up with him. “I’ll come with you,” he said sympathetically.
“No,” Cathan said. “I’m all right. Just need to get away from the noise.”
“Are you sure?”
Forcing a smile, Cathan patted his old squire’s arm. “Watch the Games and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a while.”
With a reluctant nod, Tithian sat back down. Cathan turned and hurried away, back up the aisle of the imperial box. He tasted bile the whole way.
Six-Sword Square was empty. Nothing moved in the windows and balconies overlooking it, and only a single gray cat skulked in the alleyways that led away from it. Its center-piece-a fountain with a circle of half a dozen arms holding blades up out of the waters-made the only sound within. The muted roar of the Arena could still be heard in the distance, though the square was more than a mile away.
Cathan stood at the square’s edge, fists clenched. He shrank back against a red-tiled wall, holding his breath as the shadow of one of Quarath’s griffins swept overhead. He’d tried not to draw the beasts’ attention as he made his way here. The griffin was gone in a heartbeat, banking away as it continued to circle above the Lordcity. Cathan breathed easier.
“Blossom? he whispered. “Rath? Tancred?”
Nothing.
He crept forward, pulling off his mask to get a better view. As he did, he spotted something strange: a scrap of white cloth, snagged on one of the fountain’s swords, fluttering slightly amid the spray. At once he knew what it was for. Reaching out, he touched the marble stump of the blade. It gave slightly, then pivoted when he put his weight behind it. There was a click, and a soft grinding sound behind him. Turning, he saw a narrow opening in the red-tiled wall, where there had been none before. A short figure lurked in the darkness.
“You’re late,” growled Gabbro. “Get in here. And bring that cloth.”
The secret passage was narrow and tight, even for the dwarf. Cathan had to stoop to follow Gabbro down a flight of steps. The secret door clicked shut behind them, and it took a while for Cathan’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“More tunnels,” he murmured.
“You say that like its a bad thing,” the dwarf said, grinning. “Go on. Your sister and her lads are down there already.”
They were waiting for him in a room at the end of a long, vaulted passage. Armed guards watched the door, one of whom was huge and sallow. Cathan guessed he had some ogre blood in him, and marveled at how that did not surprise him. Little would surprise him, any more.
Then he stepped through the door, and gasped with shock.
“Well, good,” said Idar. “I’m glad you hadn’t guessed.”
He sat at a long table in the room’s midst, a wine-cup in his hand. Wentha was there, too, and Tancred and Rath, their masks laid on the table before them. Another man was there, too: a man in white robes fringed with scarlet. He had a high brow and thinning, dark hair. His graying beard was braided, with beads of amber threaded through it. Jewels sparkled on his fingers, and a silver circlet, studded with sunstones, rested on his head.
“Sweet Paladine,” Cathan breathed.
Rath and Tancred both grinned, and Idar laughed aloud. Even Wentha’s eyes sparkled. “Not quite,” she said. “Brother, meet the leader of our movement.”
The bearded man rose, his vestments whispering about him. “Well met, Twice-Born,” said Lord Revando, First Son of the holy church.
Chapter 17
I should be kneeling, Cathan thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to do what was expected. The First Son said nothing, staring at him with one eyebrow raised. Wentha came forward and touched his arm. “Cathan…”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” he said. “Gods, how is it possible?”
“Through careful planning,” Revando replied. “It took a lot of work to insinuate myself into His Holiness’s court. A lot of work, and a lot of patience. I had to keep myself hidden-from him, from the elf, from the
Cathan stared at the high priest, noting the calm expression on his face. Nobody in the empire, save Quarath, had greater claim on the Kingpriest than this man. “Who-who are you?” he asked.
“Why, the head of the Revered Sons of Paladine,” said the First Son with a smile that would ruddy beatific in other circumstances. Here, in the hard orange lamp-light, it clung to his lips, sinister. “Or, do you mean before? I was head of a small church in southern Ismin, in a town called Pedrun. It was a little village, so small we had only two temples… one to Paladine, and one to Gilean of the Book. This was years ago, not long after the war with the wizards.
“The Lord Ascetic, a man named Lethar, had been a friend of mine since we were children. We shared
