Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“She pleases me well enough,” Reva told him. “What do you want?”

He stood back from the door, inclining his head in a surprisingly polite gesture of respectful invitation. “The blond man fights today. The Empress thought you would like to see it.”

Her initial thought was to refuse, having little desire to witness the Shieldʼs murder. But she would find no opportunity for escape here, and perhaps the pirate deserved his end to be witnessed by at least one ally. She tossed the wooden sword onto the bed next to Lieza. “At least try,” she said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Copy what you saw me do.”

The girlʼs head bobbed in what might have been agreement and Reva went to the door, noting how the Kuritai maintained no more than a six-inch gap between themselves and Varulek. He fears me, she decided, depressed by continual evidence the Master of the Arena was no fool. He remained unmoved by the insults she cast at him, was always just out of reach and ensured her wrists were shackled on the rare occasions she was permitted out of the chamber.

She kept still as one of the Kuritai held a knife to her throat, the other snapping the manacles to her wrists. She calculated dispatching one would be relatively simple, hook the chains over his throat and snap his neck, but had yet to formulate a manoeuvre that would prevent the other killing her a heartbeat later. Also, she considered it unlikely Varulek would simply stand idle and watch her escape. Although he was of average proportions, she could tell from his bearing and the evident strength in his tattooed hands, he was no stranger to combat. Once a soldier, perhaps?

“Your quarters are acceptable?” he asked, leading her along the passage. They were deep in the bowels of the arena, the passage leading to a long flight of stairs ascending in a curving arc in line with the giant oval of the arena.

“A table and chair would be nice,” she said as they began the climb.

“Also easily broken and the legs used for clubs,” he replied. “So, sadly, I must refuse.”

She concealed a sigh of frustration, wondering again at the Fatherʼs liking for placing obstacles in her path. Why not allow me a stupid gaoler? she asked him. If it is your object to punish me, attempting to escape this place will certainly achieve such an end in short order. There was no answer, of course, the Father as deaf to her entreaties as he had always been, though now at least she discerned a reason. I lied in your name. I cannot think I deserve to live.

“Some books for the girl, then,” she said. “I think she would appreciate a distraction.”

“Iʼll see to it.”

They climbed in silence for a time, passing by several sentry platforms, each home to a pair of Kuritai standing with their typical blank-eyed immobility. The higher they went the more ornate the surrounding structure became, bare, unplastered brick giving way to smooth walls decorated with mosaics and the occasional relief sculpture. She was surprised to note that most of the decoration showed signs of unrepaired vandalism: unfamiliar script chiselled away or motifs subjected to shattering hammerblows. From the colour of the stone she deduced this to be ancient damage.

“This is a very old building,” she observed as they neared the arenaʼs ground level, the narrow passage echoing with a low-pitched hum, growing with every step. It was a sound she knew well enough, similar to the collective shouts of the archers on the walls of Alltor when they called for the Volarians to march into yet another arrow storm, the baying of many souls hungry for blood.

“Indeed,” Varulek replied. “The oldest building in the city, in fact. Product of a less enlightened age.” She detected a new inflection to his normally uncoloured voice, a faint but clearly discernible note of contempt.

“Less enlightened?” she pressed.

“So the Imperial historians have it.” She saw how his eyes lingered on a statue as they crested the final step and emerged onto the broad arched walkway leading to the arena proper. It was a bronze figure typical of the many she had seen on her journey here, a man, as they usually were, holding a short sword aloft in a gesture of heroic defiance. She could tell from the lustre of the bronze the statue was relatively recent, but the plinth on which it stood was far older, a finely carved cylinder of red-gold marble, an iron plaque hammered onto its side with little regard for the stone, which was cracked and chipped in several places.

“Someone else stood there once,” she said. “Who was it?”

Varulek turned his gaze away from the plinth, lengthening his stride. “Savorek,” he said in a flat voice. “Greatest of the guardians.”

“Guardians of what?”

He led her to another staircase, this one leading to the upper tier. He remained silent until they had climbed the stairs, and the hum of the crowd became a ceaseless cacophony, almost drowning his reply, but she caught it, “All that was taken from us.”

He led her through a series of hallways, their path lined with guards every ten paces. They were mostly Free Swords here, though their armour and weapons were of a less uniform appearance than the conscripts she had fought in the Realm. Despite their lack of uniformity, however, she noted they all shared the same expression: eyes wider than normal, faces pale and jaws bunching intermittently. Theyʼre all terrified, she realised, her gaze going to the balcony ahead where a slender figure sat in silhouette on a cushioned bench.

The Empress rose to greet her as she was led out onto the balcony, her smile disconcerting in its genuine warmth. She came close, leaning to press a fond kiss to her cheek. “Little sister, how nice of you to come.”

Reva clenched her fists at the closeness, disliking the fact that the Empressʼs perfume was a subtle delight to the senses. But any violent impulse was checked by the sight of the five Arisai on the balcony, each greeting Reva with a welcoming grin, infuriating in its familiarity. They think they see one of their own, she thought, sickened by the realisation.

The Empress moved back, turning to Varulek and waving an impatient hand at the crowd. “Shut them up.”

The black-clad moved to the balconyʼs edge, raising a hand to unseen eyes below. Almost without pause there came the sound of many trumpets, the notes forming a strident tune rich in implacable authority. The crowd instantly fell to an absolute silence, unbroken by even the faintest cough or wayward call, as if every soul present had taken a breath in unison and feared letting it out.

“Honoured Citizens and sundry scum!” the Empress called to them, moving forward until her bare toes protruded over the edge of the balcony, her voice carrying with almost unnatural ease to the farthest reaches of the arena. “Before I delight your pestilent hearts with yet more blood, I should like to introduce a distinguished guest from across the ocean.” She gestured to Reva, her lips formed in the encouraging smile of an elder sibling. Reva remained still until one of the Arisai gave a pointed cough, stroking his chin with an apologetic grimace, his other hand resting on a dagger at his belt. She moved slowly to the Empressʼs side, flinching as she took hold of her manacled wrist and raised it high.

“I give you Lady Governess Reva Mustor of Cumbrael!” the Empress called again. “Many of your sons and husbands no doubt met their end at her hands, deservedly so I might add. Still, even though none of you are worthy to kiss this womanʼs feet, I have still ordained that she will entertain you here in due course. Is not your Empress generous?”

Her grip on Revaʼs wrists tightened as she stood there, face set in a mask of profound malice. She stood regarding the crowd for what seemed an age, eyes scanning every silent row, darting about as if in search of the slightest expression of disloyalty. Finally she grunted and released Reva, moving back to her bench and gesturing irritably at Varulek. “Get on with it. Little sister, come sit by me.”