Now came a mighty blare of trumpets, echoed by the bellowings of the Ivory People. Through the corner between the two masses of soldiers came a procession of a dozen or more of the great beasts, each carrying half a dozen soldiers. Blade saw Horun mounted on the neck of the first one. At the end of the procession came a beast whose tusks had been gilded and tipped with gold balls, whose flanks were hung with silver cloth shimmering with rubies, whose claws had been painted a glossy black. On its back sat King Kleptor.
Like all the Rulami, he was a well-fleshed type. But even from this distance Blade could see that Kleptor had carried the tendency to extremes. A massive paunch swelled out his gold tunic, and his swollen thighs and calves strained at their hose. A square-cut black beard did not conceal the jowls, the double chin, or the sagging cheeks. Blade grimaced in disgust. Kleptor seemed an appropriate king for Rulam, proud, rich, and decadent as it was. He looked aside for a moment at Roxala. At least her decadence had some life in it. Kleptor looked like a thing dying, if not already dead.
The processions stopped in front of the stands, and four slaves ran out pushing a wheeled ladder to the side of Kleptor's mount. The king heaved himself off the saddle and lurched and staggered down the ladder, while the slaves struggled to hold it upright.
«Once the slaves let it fall, and Kleptor with it,» said Roxala. «He had all four of them burned alive over a slow fire.»
As Kleptor lumbered toward the far end of the stands, two servants from his train ran toward where Blade and the queen sat. Each was carrying a ruby-studded gold cup. As they approached, Blade could see that each cup was filled with translucent green wine. Standing on the hard earth in front of the stands, they could just reach up high enough to offer the wine cups to Blade and the queen. Roxala stared at the slaves, then over at Kleptor, then at Blade.
«Slaves!» she barked. «You will drink first from each cup, then offer it.» Blade started, then stared down at the two slaves. Did the one in front of him look a little startled?
He leaned over and stared closer, then said, «The queen commands you to drink.» The slave with the queen's cup lifted it to his lips and drank deep. The slave with Blade's cup hesitated, then his cup too rose. Blade watched the wine trickle down from the corners of the man's mouth. Then in one leap he was out of his seat, over the edge of the stands, and down on the ground. His sword rasped out and jabbed the slave in his wine-stained neck. His voice was a rasp as he spoke. «The queen said drink, you swine, not spit it out. Now drink! And I want to see your throat move.»
The wine cup rose again, and this time the wine did not trickle down. The slave's throat jerked in swallowing motions once, twice, three times. He stood in silence a moment, the wine cup still raised to his lips. Then his hands loosened. The wine cup thudded to the ground, spilling out a green puddle. He bent double, hands clasping at his stomach. Then he fell forward onto the ground, kicking wildly. As he hit the ground, he began to scream.
Blade turned to Roxala. Her face was pale, but she only shrugged. «Kleptor must be getting overbold, to try to poison my champion before all the nobles and the army,» She smiled grimly. «Or perhaps he thought it would be part of the day's entertainment. Perhaps I can make a few changes in the plans, too.» Blade did not like the expression on her face. If he had been Kleptor, he knew that he would have liked it even less.
Blade looked toward the king's end of the stands. Kleptor was sitting as still and silent as a temple image. But watching closely, Blade saw the king's eyes occasionally flicker toward the queen, then to Blade, and finally down to the slave dying in agony on the ground. There was no expression on his face during any of this. Kleptor, Blade suspected, would prove a shrewder plotter than the queen.
Then the trumpets blared again. Through the gap in the corner of the arena more armed men were marching. These were tough-looking, rangy men of all colors and sizes, in a variety of dress and fighting equipment. The arena men. They were marching in two columns of fifty-odd men apiece, one headed by the king's standard, one by the queen's. The players were here; the game was about to begin.
No, there was still something missing. The Zungan princess Roxala had snatched. Her death by torture was supposed to be the opening event. Blade was glad he had eaten only an early and light breakfast. Seeing helpless women die by inches was not something he could watch unmoved. But at least he hoped he could keep his face straight. Doing anything to arouse Roxala's hair-trigger jealousy would simply prolong the girl's torment.
There came another blast of trumpets, and after it the sound of a Zungan iron gong. Someone was beating it in a mocking parody of the Zungan processional.
Then three clusters of figures marched into the arena. Two Zungan slaves carrying a gong, with a Rulami walking behind them and beating it with a mallet. Four armed guards with drawn swords, escorting a large wooden stake carried by half a dozen more slaves. And finally four more armed guards, marching along in a square. In the middle of the square, a woman. Naked, her mahogany skin layered with dust, sagging under fatigue and the weight of the chains on her neck and limbs.
Princess Aumara.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blade knew within seconds after recognizing Aumara that he was not simply going to sit quietly in the stands and watch her die in agony. King Afuno might forgive him for that, considering the circumstances. But his own conscience never would. In fact, there was no point in even trying to sit still. He knew he could never control himself well enough to avoid rousing Roxala's suspicions. And her suspicions would lead to jealousy, and her jealousy to his death. He would simply be signing his own death warrant, without giving Aumara a quick and merciful death.
So he did not climb back into the stands and sit down beside the queen. He whirled, drew his sword again, and sprinted out into the arena toward the princess and her guards. As he ran, his mind was working furiously. Was there anything he could do for Aumara except give her that quick death?
His headlong charge across the arena took everybody totally by surprise. Before the gasps and yells rose into the air he was halfway to Aumara. The guards stared at him as though he were an apparition from another world.
He charged in among the guards around Aumara while they were still staring. His sword whistled through the air and through two necks before either of their owners could make a move in their own defense. One of the guards had the keys to Aumara's chains on his belt. Blade snatched them from the falling man and threw them to the princess, then spun about to meet the surviving guards.
All six of them were coming at him now. Then the shrill screams of Roxala rose above the crowd's roar as she yelled orders to her arena men. They swung about, and fifty of them began to move toward Blade. This is it, he thought grimly. He flicked a glance toward Aumara, who was almost free of her chains now. If he was going to kill her, it would have to be soon. He killed another guard, leaving five, then stepped back and raised his sword. Aumara looked up at it and then at him. She understood. He tensed-
And then pulled his downstroke to a stop in midair as the king's arena men also turned. Their swords and spears and maces rose. Then their commanders barked orders, and they moved at a quick jog toward the mass of the queen's arena men. The five guards drew away from Blade, and dashed away, around toward the queen's men.