“Take your company and sweep right, make for the harbour,” Frentis told him. “Draker, go left. Myself and Master Rensial will take the centre.”

It took only a short time to reach the harbour, passing by rows of vacant houses, the town’s only living occupants a few dogs busily feasting on the carcasses of slaughtered horses and goats left to rot in the streets. They found the wharf free of vessels save a single scuttled fishing boat, its mast jutting from the water at what Frentis felt to be an insulting angle.

“No bugger home, brother,” Draker reported, expression grim as he strode along the wharf. “Did find a pile of bodies in a warehouse though. All slaves, mostly older folk.”

“Culled the less valuable stock before they left.” Frentis cast a glance around the town, fighting a sense that the empty windows were all staring back in accusation. They would have lived if you had not come here. “Search every building,” he said. “Gather anything of value, especially weapons. We need anything with a sharp edge, even the smallest butcher’s knife. Lekran, your people will man the walls. You’ll be relieved at nightfall.”

• • •

He had their Chief Quartermaster oversee the disposal of the bodies, though he made a point of helping to carry them to the carts. There were about fifty in all, men and women of middling years, stripped naked as their clothes were deemed of greater value than their lives, old whip-strokes visible on most of the rapidly greying flesh. They were carted outside the walls where Tekrav had organised the construction of a huge pyre from the furniture left behind by the fleeing townsfolk. Once the bodies had all been laid upon the oil-soaked wood Frentis turned to address the gathered fighters.

“Amongst my people,” he said, “it is customary, regardless of belief, to say words over the dead. Many, if not most of these people lived knowing only a slave’s life, destined for a slave’s death. To be cast away like a lamed horse, unmarked, unnoticed, unworthy of thought or word. But now we are here to mark their passing, with words and with steel. Hard days lie ahead of us, days when our cause will seem hopeless and your heart tempted by despair. When those days come I ask that you remember what you saw here today, for if we fail, this will be our fate and no voice will be raised to bear witness that we were ever alive.”

He went to the walls to watch the pyre burn, the flames rising high in the gathering dark. “Quite the signal fire, Redbrother,” Lekran observed.

“They knew we were coming,” he replied. “And they know we’re here now. With any luck, they’ll send their forces against us.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll see what they’ll make of a march towards New Kethia itself. The time for stealth has gone, it’s time we brought our enemies to battle.”

• • •

She has always found it odd that the spectacles never held any attraction for her. If anything, she finds them repugnant, thousands of voices aroused to bloodlust by the sight of combat that few, if any, would have the stomach to experience firsthand. For her, the joy of the fight, and the kill, has only ever come from direct participation.

But they do love this so, beloved, she tells him, feeling his disapproval. We took away their gods, but kept the rituals, for the gods were always so fond of blood.

It is the Festival of Winter’s End, though once it had been named for a long-forgotten god who demanded the sacrifice of brave souls to bless the fields and bring forth a good harvest. The arena had originally been built in honour of the old gods but all divine trappings were long since stripped away, marble statues replaced with bronze effigies of generals and Council-men, divine motifs substituted for the Imperial crest. But, however much the stage changed, the spectacles remained the same.

Revealing herself to the multitudes is a necessary chore; she couldn’t remain hidden forever, and today there are many eyes to see the Empress Elverah in all her glory. She chose the name herself. Of the many titles she has earned over the centuries, only this one gives her any satisfaction, and not a little amusement. Let them bow before a witch.

There has been trouble, of course. The sudden switch from Council rule was bound to disrupt a society wedded to the notion of stability achieved through unchanging order. Her spies, a long-established network crafted over decades, unknown to the Council’s own intelligence machinery, bring word of discontent and rebellious conspiracy from all corners of the empire. Most are quickly crushed, the plotters subjected to a protracted method of public execution, immediate and secondary family condemned to slavery and all property seized by the Empress. But, though several thousand have now suffered this fate, each day brings reports of more plots and, were she susceptible to such things, the constant threat of assassination would provoke a lesser soul to paranoia. The previous week a slave girl had contrived to poison the Empress’s breakfast of gruel, revenge for a well-loved master subjected to the Three Deaths the week before. It was a brave but clumsy attempt, easily discerned even without the song’s warning. The poison had been mixed in too great a concentration, giving off a familiar odour, and the girl must have known she was earning herself a painful end.

“Were you One in his stable?” she had asked the girl, forced to her knees with an Arisai’s blade poised to strike the nape of her neck. “He must have fucked you very sweetly to arouse such loyalty.”

The girl wept, hard convulsive sobs, but still found enough voice to answer. “He . . . never . . . touched me.”

“Then why?”

“He . . . raised me . . . taught me to read . . . gave me a name.”

“Really? What is it?”

“L-Lieza.”

“Naming a slave is a capital offence in itself, and your former owner was guilty of much more besides.” She waved the Arisai away and gestured for the girl to remove the breakfast. “Bring me fresh gruel, Lieza. Then you can read me the morning’s correspondence.”

Lieza stands at her side now, ready to pour wine into the Imperial cup. She is pale of face but manages not to tremble. Every morning since her failed assassination she brings breakfast and reads the Imperial correspondence whilst the Empress eats. Afterwards she sits and writes as the Empress dictates a list of names for execution. Her calligraphy is quite excellent.

I don’t know why I spared her, she replies, feeling bafflement mixing amongst his disgust. I think she reminds me of someone, but can’t quite recall who. Perhaps I’ll kill her tomorrow. Give her to the spectacles, the dagger-teeth are always hungry.

But today there are no dagger-teeth. Today it is the Sword Races. She recalls her father once telling her the origins of this, the most popular event in any spectacle. In primitive times one of the more enlightened gods, or one of his more enlightened priests, decreed that there should be no more warfare between the tribes that paid him homage. Instead, every year they would send their best warriors to compete in the Sword Races where all disputes would be settled. The rules have been refined over the succeeding centuries but the essence of the contest remains the same: a single sword is thrust into the centre of the arena and the two contesting teams stand at opposite ends, an equal distance away. At a given signal they race for the sword, combat beginning when one team member takes hold of the hilt, the winner being the team with the most men standing at the turn of a ten-minute glass. Logic would suppose that the team to claim the sword would enjoy an advantage, but expert players are still capable of turning the tide, usually by sacrificing a less-skilled team member in order to seize the sword from their opponents.

Today it is the Greens and the Blues, two of the six teams representing the six provinces of the empire. The Blues tend to attract the most favourable odds but the Greens have the most experienced players, evidenced by their tactic of forming a tight defensive bunch around their sword-bearer, forcing the Blues to mount a series of costly assaults. Within minutes ten men, four Blues and six Greens, lie dead or crippled on the sands. Sword Racers rarely have long careers though the substantial rewards afforded those who survive to retirement ensure there is never a lack of willing recruits, for these are not slaves but free men. Poor and desperate enough to risk death in front of a baying mob, but still free.

You wonder at finding me here? she asks him, bored with the contest. Why am I not in New Kethia raising an army? She notices how Lieza flinches and realises she has spoken aloud. Judging by the rigidity of the slave girl’s posture this is not the first time she has heard her Empress address a question to thin air.

His answer is faint, though more controlled than before; he has grown accustomed to taking command of his dreams. There is still time. I will wait for you.

Touching, beloved, but unnecessary. That bitch you bow to was clever, sending you in advance of her mighty fleet. Not so mighty now, I’m afraid. Just driftwood and corpses.

His thoughts shift, from uncertainty to denial, though she knows he senses the truth in her thoughts.

How do you find Viratesk? she continues, taking satisfaction from the resultant surge of alarm. Your scouts were careful but we saw them. The townspeople didn’t want to leave so I let them stay. You did think to check the sewers didn’t you?

• • •