Metal clashed, so fast Rasim barely saw the attack. Dennel's mace smashed one of Agnet's whirling swords, and as the blade broke, she lunged forward to drive the other sword at his fighting arm. She scored blood and the audience screamed again. Arrogant and smiling, Agnet fell back to encourage their cries, then shook the sheath off her third blade as Dennel came in again, his flail swinging blindingly fast.

  The other woman was behind Agnet now, her breath coming hard as she lifted a shaking arm to aim her spear. "Throw it," Rasim whispered encouragingly. Untrained, she had less chance of hitting her target if she threw the spear than if she kept it in hand and charged Agnet with it. Then the two swordsmen were in front of Rasim and the Shenryalan, their blades glittering in the firelight. New cheers rose up and Rasim felt the hot breath of dozens of observers wash over him as they leaned over the arena's edge to watch the fight just below them.

  Rasim battered a sword away as the bladefighters pressed their attack, and swung the blunt end of the spear toward a fighter's head. His heart beat so fast he could hardly breathe, and he was afraid that his sweating hands would let the spear's haft slip. The swordsman ducked and Rasim flung himself sideways as the man drove his sword down. Rasim caught a handful of sand and threw it into the man's face, then surged to his feet again, gripping his spear. He had sworn he wouldn't kill anyone, but suddenly he wasn't sure he could keep that vow. If it was his life or the other slave's, he might fight to survive even if he thought he couldn't.

  Only a few feet away, the Shenryalan fought with a serene expression. He only defended himself, never trying to strike his opponent down. Admiration surged through Rasim, but was washed away as his own opponent came at him again. Rasim caught the man's blade on the spear haft and squeaked in terror as the sword cut halfway through the haft. The man, smirking, withdrew to strike again. Rasim, as quickly as he could, snapped the haft and shoved both broken ends toward the man's stomach.

  He caught him in the diaphragm, knocking the wind from him. The man's eyes bulged in surprise and dismay. He tried to gather himself to strike at Rasim again, but his own body was working against him now: all it wanted to do was breathe, and his fingers, clearly numb from a sudden lack of air, fumbled his blade. Rasim slammed one half of the haft into the soft spot in the man's wrist and the blade fell to the sand. Rasim kicked it away and bashed the man in the temple, sick with relief as the man collapsed.

  That sickness turned itself into a twisted grin. He glanced up to share that grin with the other boy, and went cold as he saw the Shenryalan had lost his spear. His opponent stood over him, blade lifted over his head to drive it downward into the boy's chest.

  Very suddenly, a spear sprouted in the swordsman's spine. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward, all slowly enough that the Shenryalan boy was able to scramble out of the way. The crowd's screams were incessant now, the sound of a people surprised and delighted by the turn of events. Rasim, gaping, offered the other boy a hand, then looked toward the center of the arena.

  The frightened woman, no longer looking in the least bit frightened, nodded once as she met Rasim's eyes. Admiration flashed through Rasim again. She had put on a show. Her fear had been a performance, and she had played it well. She could be an ally, if he could only talk to her.

  A smile of relief rushed his face and, as quickly, turned to dismay. He let go a hollow shout of warning too late. Dennel's mace whistled past Agnet and caught the woman in the back. She fell without so much as a change of expression, while behind her Agnet redoubled her attack against Dennel.

  They had been playing with each other before, Rasim saw now. They'd been performing for the raucous audience, whetting their appetite for blood and death. Now with the distractions removed, they could focus on the serious business of trying to kill one another.

  The audience sensed the shift as well, and for the first time, became quieter. Not quiet, but quieter, more intense and more divided: both Agnet and Dennel clearly had supporters within the viewers, and their names rang out as their weapons connected and came apart time and again.

  Agnet had the speed and the reach; Dennel, the brute strength. Rasim could see it wearing on the huge Northerner each time the blunt man slammed his mace into her swords. Only her swords: she was too fast for him to connect a bone-breaking blow to her arm or leg. But the reverberations through the blades were enough; soon she would slow, and then she would die.

  And so would Rasim and the Shenryalan. Agnet had agreed to protect them. The least he could do, Rasim thought grimly, was try to help her. He picked up his broken spear again and glanced at the other boy, who took up his own spear with a nod. Rasim moved to the right, Shenryalan to the left, both of them skirting Agnet widely. Dennel saw them and smirked, but didn't disengage from Agnet. He clearly didn't consider them a danger.

  Rasim could throw a rope; any sailor could. His broken spear wouldn't fly like a rope at all, but if it went near where he aimed it, he might distract Dennel a moment. He caught the other boy's eye again and they moved as one, flanking Dennel and raising their spears in threat. The thick warrior watched them from the corner of his eye, not fearfully, but appraising. A sneer flickered over his mouth as he saw Rasim's clumsy hold on the broken spear. Irrationally insulted, Rasim flung the weapon at him.

  It went so far off-target that Dennel didn't even bother to knock it away. But at the same time, the Shenryalan loosed his own spear, and if Rasim couldn't throw one, the other boy could. It flew swift and true, true enough that Dennel did stop advancing on Agnet to knock the oncoming weapon away.

  Agnet needed no other chance. She stepped inside the other slave's guard and slammed her blade through his chest, then stood, panting, above his body as it fell from her sword. Her face was empty, Rasim thought: no triumph, no sorrow. A job that needed doing was now done. This time the audience's roars did drive him to his knees, and there he sat, gazing blankly at the fallen, until the guards came to take him, at arrow-point, back to the cage.

  14

  The fights went on long into the night. Rasim turned his back on the arena and slept, although he didn't think he would. He was bothered by nightmares, with danger always just too far away for him to face.

  The silence after the arena emptied awakened him briefly, and he found that Agnet had draped a blanket over him. The other boy had one, too. Agnet herself, standing watchfully by the cage door, wore one wrapped loosely around her shoulders as well. Rasim thought she could be Coluth, the Stonemaster god, although usually Coluth was depicted as male. Still, she had that kind of aura, strong and broad and certain.

  Knowing she was there helped somehow. Rasim rolled back over and went back to sleep, his nightmares vanquished. He woke at dawn to the sounds of food and water being thrust through the cage doors. Even from where he lay at the back of the cage, Rasim felt the slosh of water in the skins, and hope lightened his heart.

  Agnet had cast away her blanket and wrapped her hands high around the bars, letting her weight pull her down and back a little as she spoke quietly to the slave bringing their food. She nodded once, then tore one of the haunches of bread in half and returned it to the man, who tucked it inside his tunic and ducked his head in thanks before he went on to the next cage. Rasim, sitting up with his blanket around his shoulders, said, "What was that?"

  Agnet tossed him a water skin. "He says we won't fight again for three days. I paid him for the information in bread, although I'm not surprised. After a big kill like Dennel, they like to whet the appetite for the next round. Is three days enough?"

  Rasim turned the skin in his hands, feeling the water inside. It had to be laced with mindkiller. There was no way they would stop drugging him. But any sea witch could purify sea water and it couldn't be harder to take a drug from water than salt. A touch of witchery sweetened the water and he sipped, then drank deeply. Then he turned and, without much thought, sank his hand into the wall.

  Agnet inhaled sharply. Rasim took his hand out of the wall, pulling the stone back into the shape it had been, and stared at his fingers. "It'll be enough. The mindkiller—either they're not drugging me or it isn't working. I don't know why they wouldn't drug me, so I have to think it's not working."

  "Then let's get out of here."

  "In broad daylight?" Rasim smiled faintly. "Even if they're not checking on us every half hour, someone's going to see a tunnel opening up on the outside wall and be standing there ready to kill us. We don't have any weapons, and..." He turned his attention toward the arena sands, which were warm and dark in the shadows cast by the rising sun. "We have to wait until the next fights. That way you can get weapons and if my witchery is at full strength I can...create a distraction. Free all the arena slaves at once. We'll escape in the chaos."

  "Free everyone?"

  Rasim's expression hardened. "I didn't come to Moran to rescue a handful of Ilyarans and leave everyone else in chains."

  Agnet laughed. "Did you not? What profit is our freedom to you?"

  Rasim stared at her. "It's the right thing to do, Agnet. People shouldn't be enslaved. It's wrong."

  Tolerant humor swept her face again. "And you, a child from blessed Ilyara, are going to change it?"

  "Blessed?"

  "Blessed Ilyara of the Golden Sands, where no one breaks their backs in menial labor. Don't you know how people talk about your homeland, boy? They won't appreciate you saving them. They'll think you're just putting yourself above the rest of us, deciding what's best for us because we lack the magic to make those decisions ourselves."

  "Well, maybe you need it, then! The witchery, I mean, not Ilyarans making decisions for you. We have enough to do in Ilyara without telling everyone else what to do. But I don't believe that they wouldn't appreciate it. Wouldn't you rather be out of here? Free? Isn't that why you haven't already killed me?"

  "Aye, but I'm making the decision myself."

  Rasim clenched his fists in exasperation. "Fine. If I manage to break everybody free, anybody who wants to keep their chains can. I don't know how I'd stop them anyway. But I still think you're wrong. I think most people want to be free, if they're given a chance. I think maybe they don't think about it with every change of the tide, because they'd go crazy at being enslaved, but given a chance? I think they'd take it. And I'm going to do everything I can to give them that chance. Not just for my people, but for everyone."

  "All by yourself, eh?"

  "With other Ilyarans, and with anyone else who will help me. You're right. Ilyarans do have a lot of power, and we should use it. We should do something. I don't know why we haven't!"

  "You must drive your elders mad," Agnet murmured. "Look, boy. Even in your blessed country, I'm sure that once people are used to doing something one way, it's hard to make them come around to another."

  Rasim startled, thinking of the Sunmasters, and how long they'd held sway in the Ilyaran palace. He hadn't even known until a few weeks ago that it had once been different. Agnet was right. Even in Ilyara, most people just shrugged and accepted that the world worked one day, and always had. "It is," he admitted grudgingly. "And I guess even if slaves want to be free, the people who own them won't want it, so that's going to make it harder still. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

  "You're an optimist, and you're going to start a war, Ilyaran. You're going to start a war and get everyone around you killed."

  A protest formed and fell away from Rasim's lips. Agnet was right. Again. Maybe not about getting everyone around him killed, but if he kept doing what he was doing now, it seemed likely that he would start a war. King Taishm wouldn't appreciate that at all. Even as he thought it, though, Rasim shook his head. "My crew, my best friends—they're out there. They've been taken slaves. Even if I just get them back, it's going to make a lot of people angry, maybe even angry enough to come after us and, yes, start a war. But what choice do I have? Just let them stay in chains? I can't do that either."

  "There's a funny thing about people," Agnet said after a moment. "They think having a choice means choosing between a good thing and a bad thing. Often it means choosing between a bad thing and another bad thing. You have no good choices here, Ilyaran. Stay in the arena and die. Free yourself. Free all of the arena slaves, sowing chaos for cover as you find your friends. Free everyone you can and start a war, sowing chaos over the whole continent."

  Rasim, under his breath, muttered, "The brightest dawns are after the storm." That was true. Dust and grit in the air were knocked away by storms, making the following day unusually clear and bright. But true as it might be, even if the analogy followed, war was worse than any storm. It might be worth it, but Agnet was right, too. It was the kind of decision that should be left up to the people, or at least their leaders.

  Then again, the leaders in Moran put people in chains, and the leaders of every other country weren't here. Rasim slumped against the stone wall, looking glumly onto the sands. "Maybe I'll think of something clever before we fight again."

  "Maybe," Agnet agreed. "Or maybe you'll get us all killed, like I said." She stretched to her full height and returned to hanging on the iron barred doors. "On the other hand, I never thought I'd make it this long, or see a spark of hope at the end of the day. You're going to get us killed, Ilyaran, but at least it'll be an interesting way to die."

  Three days of hard thinking offered Rasim no better ideas than the one he already had. They did offer more skill with a sword than he'd had, and even a smattering of the Shenryalan language. Having spoken once, the other boy—whose name was Bayar—had decided to continue doing so. Having Agnet's language in common made it easier for him to teach Rasim his own. He would say nothing of his own history, but Rasim couldn't blame him for that. He didn't much want to talk about his own circumstances.

  They drove him, though. The fear of the crew being sold, or things going as wrong for his friends as they'd gone for him, kept Rasim from sleep. When he couldn't sleep, he practiced with the mock swords, loosening muscles stiffened by Agnet's lessons and improving his sword work until he thought he might be able to fight and survive a round or two in the arena.

  Bayar improved too, but he retained the sense of emotional calm that Rasim had noticed before. He might falter, and kill to save his own life. He didn't think Bayar would. He wished he could ask the Shenryalan boy about it, but when he tried, Bayar only shrugged as if he magically didn't understand the Northern tongue anymore. If they survived the next few days, maybe Bayar would talk about it then. Rasim couldn't blame the other boy for not wanting to become friends, when they might be forced to turn on each other at any moment.

  When Agnet insisted he rest, Rasim hunched at the back of the cage, testing his returning witchery. His stonemastery couldn't get him more than forearm-deep into the walls. They were riddled with too much other material, sticks and straw and debris that, while hardened, blunted his witchery. He would not be escaping through the walls after all.

  His seawitchery was still weaker than it should be. He had gained some faint sense of the river, but he could no more dredge it up than he could fly. There was water deep beneath the arena, too, but it was no more accessible than the river. After Siliaria's kiss, Rasim had been able to command more witchery than he'd ever imagined. Then, he would have been able to draw the water from the hills, or from the river, without effort.

  Well. Not without effort, because he had slept for the better part of three days after flooding the Northern mines, but it would have been possible. But now the faint sense of distant water mocked him with what he could no longer do.

  One thought kept climbing up from the deepest parts of his mind where he tried to keep it buried: he wished he had more of Missio's drug. With it, he would be able to shatter the arena, free the slaves, and send Moran itself into the far-off sea, regardless of how weak his power was right now. It was so easy to believe that the post-drug collapse would be worth it.

  Every time the thought arose, he tried to remember Missio's ravaged, dying eyes, but even those memories couldn't quite convince him that the risk was too great. He guessed it was lucky that it didn't matter. The drug was gone.

  The sun wasn't long up on the third morning when the gates flew open. Rasim got to his feet, astonished, to watch hundreds of people pour in. "I thought we fought at night."

  "We will, or late afternoon, at best. There'll be smaller matches all day, though, to keep the appetite whetted. Slaves against animals, first, and then the survivors pitted against each other."

  Sickness swam through Rasim. "You mean we have to sit here and watch people die all day before we have a chance to—to do anything?"

  "Better if you don't watch," Agnet said wisely. "Nothing you can do, and it'll make you lose your nerve."

  "But I could do something."

  She gave him a hard look. "Could you? Use your magic now, Ilyaran, and you'll get us all killed. Not in a fair fight, either. They'll shoot us down with arrows and feed our bodies to the beasts. Once we're out of the cage you can bring the walls down for all I care, but until then you hold your water, boy. You're our one chance."

  "So you don't really think you can work your way into the hearts of the people and earn your freedom that way," Rasim murmured.

  "I think we'd all get killed before they loved me enough for keeping you alive to free us, or even me, aye. I think this is a bad wager and that it's the best I've got. So go to the back of the cage, Rasim. Plug your ears and try not to listen, and when they call for us, unleash witchery."

  The sand had been raked over time and again already, but it was stained red anyway, with the scent of blood and offal rising under the increasing afternoon heat. It still wasn't nearly as warm as Rasim expected it to be, but the amphitheater captured the sunlight and warmed itself. The crowd, which had grown quieter during the last few fights, suddenly rose up again, screaming their ecstasy.

 

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