“I think he’s gone,” Zarel said quietly. “He must be gone; there’s no place left for him now.”

And Uriah could sense that his master’s words were meant as much to reassure himself as they were meant to try and convince someone else.

Uriah withdrew and finally let his thoughts relax. The memory of what he had seen in the arena still haunted him. In the other fights One-eye had been nothing but a distant figure. But he had come to stand before the throne and in that moment all was made so clear. He was Galin. The boy who so long ago had ridden on his hunched-over back, laughing with childish squeals of delight and then enfolding him with childlike hugs and kisses.

But now he is a man, Uriah thought, a man who must be betrayed if I am to survive.

Groaning, Garth One-eye stirred. He tried to stretch but could not move. His arms were pinned and he tried to move his wrists. He could feel the cord that bound his wrists but there was more holding him.

“Damn him!”

Garth tried to turn, somehow to move out of the circle of the spell, but he remained pinned to the floor, as helpless as a swaddled infant.

The second bell of morning sounded as the sun broke over the horizon, rising dark and ruddy through the pall of smoke that hung over the city, its light shining in horizontally though the shutters of the garret.

“Help me this day,” he whispered. “Help me finally to set you to rest, both in my soul and in the lands you now walk. Help me now!”

He lay in silence for long minutes, concentrating, trying to break the spell through force of will. But it would not break. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, and still he prayed, turning his thoughts outward, and then he sensed the presence.

The door cracked open and a dark form stood before him.

He exhaled nervously.

“Last night I somehow sensed you were looking for me,” she said softly. “I knew where you were hiding; I followed you from the arena last night. I had to come.”

He heard her footsteps and she knelt down by his side.

“Hammen’s doing?”

“Yes.” His voice came as a hoarse whisper, the power of the spell still holding him.

She pulled her dagger out and he could just barely see her waving it about in a ritual manner. She moved around him, waving the dagger, cutting the air above him, then waving it again. As if a great weight had been pulled back, he felt the spell shatter. Gasping, he sat up and she cut his bindings.

“You called for me, didn’t you?” she whispered.

Exhausted from the struggle, his head throbbing from the blow, he nodded.

“I saw Hammen leaving here with your satchel.”

“So why didn’t you come quicker? He’s been gone for hours.”

“I half agreed with him. But then I sensed your calling and”-she fell silent for a moment-“damn you, Garth, I couldn’t say no,” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Enough of that for now,” he whispered. “Where the hell did that bastard go?”

“Toward the arena.”

“The oilskin bundle in the corner, please bring it to me.”

She went across the room and brought it back to him.

He brushed off the dirt that had clung to it from the hole where he had hidden it before first coming into the city. Untying the hemp rope wrapped around the bundle, he slowly opened it up and spread out the contents. Bowing low before it, he struggled to fight back the tears that clouded his eye.

Recovering his composure at last, Garth stood up and slowly started to undress. He hesitated, looking down at her.

“You might not remember but I helped to dress you once before”-she paused-“along with Varena.”

“Could you help me one more time?” Garth asked quietly.

The procession weaved its way down the main boulevard that ran from the center of the city, out through the gate, and on to the arena. The crowds lining the street were sullen, barely raising a halfhearted cheer even when the remaining champions passed by.

Zarel looked around at the crowds. They wouldn’t dare to try anything, not today, not with the Walker arriving. The crowd stared at him in silence, barely stirring when the girls flanking his sedan chair tossed out coins.

The procession reached the gate and for a moment he had a view of the harbor below. The water was dark with bobbing bodies and splashes of pink where the giant empreys and sharks continued their feeding frenzy. There was so much to eat that the harbor would not be cleaned by the time the Walker arrived. It would have to be explained. An outbreak of plague would be sufficient.

The procession continued on to the arena, which was already packed to overflowing, the hills above the arena black with people for this, the final day of Festival and the arrival of the Great Lord.

The parade passed on into the access tunnel and a moment later emerged into the brilliant sunlight flooding the arena floor, the white sand reflecting the midmorning light with a glaring intensity. A thin cheer rose up from the crowd, more in anticipation of the events ahead than for the Grand Master.

“I wish all you bastards had but one neck,” Zarel growled, mumbling his favorite sentiment when he contemplated the crowd.

The procession circled the arena floor, this time staying back far enough from the arena wall so that no objects hurled from the stands could reach Zarel. There was a scattering of catcalls and a light shower of wine bottles and beer tankards, the Grand Master’s agents in the stands scrambling to chase down the culprits, the crowd stirring angrily. Finishing the circle, the mammoths were unhooked from Zarel’s throne and driven back through the access tunnel. An expectant hush settled over the mob.

Zarel waited as the four Houses moved to take their positions at the four cardinal points around the golden circle, while the seven remaining champions took their positions in a line directly behind Zarel. Zarel stepped to the edge of the golden circle set in the arena floor and the four Masters moved to their positions around him.

He looked at each in turn, Kirlen of Bolk, Jimak of Ingkara, Tulan of Kestha, and Varnel of Fentesk.

“What you have allowed to happen is unconscionable,” Zarel snapped angrily.

Kirlen cackled obscenely.

“Tell it to the Walker. Tell him how you can’t control anything. Tell him what an incompetent fool you truly are that one lone hanin can plunge your realm into chaos.”

“And where is he?”

Zarel fixed each of them in turn with his gaze and sensed that none now held the man.

“Your offerings of mana?”

The four stirred reluctantly and finally turned, looking back to the ranks of their fighters. From each of the four colors came two fighters bearing a strongbox. The four boxes were set down, the air around them shimmering, so powerful was the concentration of mana. The boxes were opened and the contents turned over, the bundles spilling out into the golden circle.

Zarel looked down at them and nodded.

“And yours?” Kirlen asked sarcastically.

Zarel laughed coldly and motioned for one of his fighters to bring forth an urn, which was inverted over the pile.

“One hundred more mana,” Zarel stated.

“A fraction of what you extort. I think you’re holding out for your attempt at being a Walker,” Kirlen hissed.

“How dare you!”

“I dare because it is the truth,” Kirlen said.

“And where did you hear this falsehood?”

Kirlen smiled.

“One-eye.” And as she said the words she looked to the other three House Masters, all of whom nodded in support.

“That is why you grow stronger and we grow weaker. We pay the tax but you steal even more and turn over only a fraction,” Jimak snarled.