It was two days before anybody even bothered to bring Blade food and water. When they did, the food was a loaf of sour, barely edible bread. The water was gray and scummy-looking, as if it might have been dipped out of the ditch around the city's walls. It tasted as bad. But Blade realized he had no alternative — he had to eat and drink what they gave him, or lose strength even more rapidly than he would otherwise. If he lost too much strength, escape would be impossible, even if he found an opportunity. He ate and drank.

He ate the sour bread and drank the murky water for ten days. Twice the guards brought in fresh straw and a bucket of almost-clean water for him to wash himself. But his hair and beard grew and became a tangled mess, and he could feel himself losing strength day by day. To keep his muscles in tone and his reflexes sharp, he did a series of exercises each day. The exercises made his blood race and his breath come faster and gave him at least a moment's illusion of continued health and vitality.

But it was only an illusion. It was obvious that nobody really cared about keeping him in shape to put on a good show in the arena. Or perhaps they were doing this deliberately, fearing that he would try to escape if he retained his strength.

But this hardly made sense. The bars of his cell were too strong and too solidly set to be broken or bent out. The guards who brought him his food and water were always on the alert, standing well back with drawn swords. At most, he could take one or two of them with him. Even if he was incredibly lucky in the cell, he would hardly be so lucky everywhere along the route to the open air. And it would be a miracle pure and simple if he were able both to fight off the guards and find Nugun.

Eleven days, twelve, thirteen. The morning of the fourteenth day came. Blade scratched the fourteenth mark on the wall and settled down to his «breakfast.»

The loaf of bread seemed even more battered and misshapen than usual. It looked as though someone had been using it for a punching bag before sending it down to him. He ripped the heel off the loaf and began to munch on it wearily. Apart from all its other faults, the bread was so hard that it was making Blade's gums raw and sore.

Suddenly his teeth came together on something so hard that it made him start and wince. Carefully he worked thumb and forefinger in between his teeth, grasped the object, and pulled it out.

It was a nut-a plain, ordinary black nut, of a kind that he had seen growing wild in the forests of Brega a dozen times. But it was an unexpected thing to find in a loaf of ration bread. Did it mean anything except that the bakers were careless?

It probably didn't, but he couldn't be sure. Blade waited until none of the guards were within earshot. Then he hurled the nut against the wall as hard as he could. There was a sharp crack. He went over to pick it up, found a hairline split in one half of the shell, and used his fingernails to pry it apart.

A small piece of paper fluttered out. Blade grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the straw, shielded it with his body, and read:

Blade. Wait for day of Great Games in arena. Plans to rescue you made. Fighters of Purple River and army of Rilgon both entering plains. Our sisters already leaving city.

— Truja

The handwriting and signature were unmistakable. Blade read the note over several times until he was sure he had memorized it. Then he tore it up and swallowed the fragments.

So Truja was in the city and working to get him out. Hopefully Nugun was there too, although the Senar was not mentioned in the note. Well and good-or at least well and better than anything he might be able to manage on his own. He would follow Truja's request for that reason-and that reason only.

Truja's plan was the best prospect Blade had, but not at all foolproof. With both Rilgon's army and the Purple River force on the march, someone might warn the city any day. Not likely, but not impossible either. If that happened, the Great Games would be canceled. And then the best opportunity for rescuing Blade would vanish.

Possibly Truja was bold enough to risk snatching Blade from the prison below the barracks. But unless Truja's raiders were strong or the guards distracted, the operation would be suicidal.

Blade sighed. For the week remaining until the games, his safety depended more on the undetected advance of Rilgon's army than on anything Truja or any other friends of his could do. Blade believed in luck-but as a professional, he hated like the plague to depend on it this much.

For the remaining week of his captivity, Blade's biggest problem was not to seem too eager for the day of the games to arrive. Even the least observant guard would start wondering why a man was so enthusiastic about the day of his death.

For the evening meal on the last day, they brought Blade an immense platter of meat that was raw on the inside and charred black on the outside. As much as he wanted to gorge himself, he ate only a few slices. He did not want to be slow and sluggish from too much food tomorrow morning when he entered the arena.

The guards came for him early the next morning, binding his hands but leaving his feet free. Then they marched him briskly, down the corridor and up the stairs to the courtyard of the barracks.

It was a bright day outside. After so many weeks of darkness the sun dazzled Blade. For his first few steps he had to grope his way forward, feeling for solid ground underfoot. Raucous laughter from all around the courtyard accompanied his fumblings.

Now Blade thought he understood why he had been ill-fed and ill-treated, left unwashed and unshaven and generally degraded. The ruling women of the city had to degrade a civilized man if they captured him. Otherwise those who saw him might begin to wonder if men might be worth more than the Laws of Mother Kina said. And if they began to wonder about that…

But understanding the reason for his treatment didn't make Blade appreciate it any more. His mood was savage as the women tied a rope around his neck and led him out of the courtyard like a prize steer. Once out in the street, they broke into a jog. They were obviously trying to wear Blade down and make him fall pitifully to the street. But his exercises in his cell had kept his muscles in better shape than the women had expected. His legs were aching and his breath burning in his chest and throat, but he was still on his feet when he reached the arena.

It loomed monstrous and black above him. The roar of the crowd from inside suggested that half the population of the city must be there already. And more were coming in each minute, most on foot, some in wagons, a few brought in on curtained litters. Several of the litters were festooned with brightly colored banners, blue and green. Even more of the banners flew from poles on the rim of the arena, so that it looked as though it had blossomed out in flowers.

That was all Blade had a chance to see before his guards hustled him through a small door near the base of the arena. Inside, a dark, dank corridor led steeply down, ending in a heavy polished metal door. One of the guards banged on it with the hilt of her sword, and it rumbled open.

Inside, the crowd roar came even louder from above, broken by occasional bursts of cheers and groans. Apparently the preliminaries to the games were already well underway. Working up the crowd's blood lust, Blade thought. He looked around the vaulted chamber, searching for a familiar face, searching above all for Nugun. But the Senar was nowhere in sight.

In the corner of the chamber stood a large, wheeled cage holding four Senar. They were even filthier than usual for the breed and were growling savagely and clawing at the bars of their cage. Chained to the wall just out of their reach was a nude girl, sitting slumped in total dejection and despair. Some lawbreaker, no doubt, tried and condemned to be thrown to the Senar in the arena. And the Senar would doubtless have been drugged or beaten to make them savage enough to put on a proper show for the bloodthirsty crowd in the stands. Blade wondered if he would get the same treatment or if they thought he would be nasty enough in his normal state. If they thought the latter, they were right. In his present mood, he would have torn any of the warriors of the city limb from limb, barehanded and without a qualm. Chivalry be damned!