“Show off,” the guard said.
“Who is he?” Stefan managed to ask.
“That’s Merchant Vencel. He loves to make a spectacle since he figured out a way to ride them things.” The guard shook his head. “I still wouldn’t risk it. Got these fool youngsters all over the place trying. Many of ‘em are dying too, behind that foolishness.”
Thoughts still swirling Stefan said nothing. He promised himself to have a talk with this merchant at some point.
“Well,” the guard said, “the way’s clear. You may go now, sir. Enjoy the games.”
With a nod, Stefan spurred his mount forward and crossed Humelen Avenue with its huge statues of giants carrying mountains on their shoulders-some builder’s representation of the god of Forms after whom the street got its name. He entered through the wide entrance meant for nobles only, nodding to the guards as he did so. Whether Cerny followed or not, he didn’t care. Now that he was within the amphitheater, his hunger pangs took on more urgency.
After leaving his mount with a young stable boy, Stefan entered the main hall. Dignitaries, merchants, and court members crowded the area, smoke from pipes floating lazily. The sweet scent from the giana pipes mingled with the perfumes of the women and created an almost sickly odor. As Stefan stepped into the room, the chatter paused as minor nobles acknowledged his entrance. Moments later the conversation buzzed on once more.
Several times Stefan swore there was a weird thrumming from the sword against his leg. However, when he attempted to focus, it disappeared. Soon, he dismissed the sensation as a residual effect from the stomping and yelling in the arena outside. A glance over his shoulder revealed Cerny had stopped to chat. Stefan took food from a platter a servant carried and continued to weave his way through the men and women to the door leading upstairs.
“Stefan,” a raspy voice said.
A smile on his face at his recognition of the voice, Stefan turned. Although bald, Knight General Senden still looked half his ninety years. His shoulders were straight and broad in his immaculate white jacket with green scrollwork down the sleeves. Next to him was Knight General Renaida. The twenty years of youth he had on Senden did not show. The man’s eyes were sunken sockets and pockmarks marred his face. His hair was as white as Senden’s jacket.
“Walk with us,” Senden said.
Renaida’s eyes shifted from side to side. Sweat beaded his forehead, running a trail through the bronze powder he used to give color to his skin.
Stefan frowned at the man’s apparent worry. “After the games.” He rubbed his stomach. “Right now, I could eat an entire dartan.”
“No,” Senden said with a hint of urgency, “before you visit the King.”
“Fine. Let me-”
“Ah, there are you are, Lord Dorn,” called Cerny from a few steps behind.
Renaida gave a slight twitch at the sound of Cerny’s voice but quickly covered the reaction.
“I have been told the King is in his chambers already, awaiting your presence.” Cerny stepped up beside them, a serene smile on his face. “If you Lieutenants will excuse us?”
“Sure.” Senden smiled, but from his eyes, the expression was forced. “We would not want to delay the General. After the games then, Stefan.” Senden bowed, motioned to Renaida and the two eased their way into the crowd.
A thumb stroking his chin, Stefan eyed the two men until they disappeared from view. He’d spent years on many a campaign with them. Never did they appear as fearful as they did now, not even when they faced shadelings.
“I’d be careful associating with them,” Cerny said. “They are the only ones on the High Council who openly criticize the King’s new campaign.”
“Now you’re going to suggest who I keep as friends?”
“Not at all, sir. Not at all.” Cerny wore the same smile on his face. “But as I said, the King awaits. Shall we?” He spun with a flourish and stepped through the door.
CHAPTER 12
Several flights up winding stairs that held one soldier at each landing brought Stefan and Cerny to the King’s chamber. Two red and blue clad Royal Guards at the door gave slight nods before they allowed them in. Stomach growling in earnest, Stefan strode through the foyer.
Members of the High Council and special dignitaries from prominent neighboring cities occupied the Royal chambers. Dressed in their finest, they milled about chatting quietly, not even giving a nod as Stefan passed. He recognized they were Council members by the insignias on their lapels and sleeves. Not one among them were people who held their positions before he left for the last war. The thought was so troubling, he found himself stroking his chin again.
Distant jeers drew his attention away from the nobles and to the four doorways ahead. Guards stood before each. The largest door led to the Royal Box from which Nerian oversaw the games. No action had started yet, of that, Stefan was sure, but the noise meant the crowd was growing impatient.
Not waiting for Cerny to lead the way, he headed toward the door. The King’s guards allowed him through and into the hall. More soldiers stood along the walls on either side making the spacious area feel uncomfortably small. Up ahead, sunlight shone through the entrance to the arena’s stands.
Stefan stepped out onto the stairs. Bright sunlight and a cool breeze greeted him. Shading his eyes, he waited a few moments for his vision to adjust. When it did, he took in the walls of people packed into the stands. In too many colors to count, they spread down the eastern and western sides of the arena, waving and yelling.
Set in the middle of the lower section of the stands, the King’s Box took up several seating levels. In silversteel armor, which glinted like a precious jewel, King Nerian sat on a cushioned throne. The giant man’s presence made everything else trivial.
“Finally,” shouted Nerian, a grin splitting his face. “I was beginning to wonder if Cerny and you ran off to some whorehouse.”
“Not at all, sire. The crowds … you know how they can be,” Stefan answered.
“Ah. To be expected with such a glorious event.” Nerian gestured out to the spectators. “Come, sit.” The King indicated one of the empty chairs next to his throne.
At least ten flights of seats above the King were clear of anyone but guards and two green liveried servants. After the space came the High Council then the other nobles in their personal chairs. Oddly, Kahar was absent. Servants weaved their way among the nobles, serving fruit, drinks, meats, and bread. Stefan’s gaze followed one particular platter heaped with what appeared to be venison. He licked his lips as his stomach protested mightily.
“Knowing your habits like I do, you have not eaten yet today.” King Nerian snapped his fingers as Stefan took the seat. Without looking at the servants, the King said, “Our guest of honor is here, and he is famished. Cerny,” the King’s gaze flickered to the reed thin man who’d approached as Stefan sat, “leave us.”
For a moment, Cerny’s eyes glittered, and then he bowed and headed up to the next level and the members of the High Council. Renaida and Senden were conspicuously missing from their number.
The King stood, his massive form casting a shadow that stretched up several seats. Almost immediately, the crowds silenced and rose to their feet.
“People of the Setian Empire.” Nerian’s voice boomed across the arena so clear and crisp Stefan knew he was Forging.
The crowd’s answering ovation rippled through the stadium.
Nerian raised a hand and the din simmered.
“People. Of. The. Setian. Empire.”
This time, the reply was defeaning.
Nerian’s grin and twinkling emerald eyes told how much he savored the words. Hand still in the air he turned as if basking in the glow of his people’s elation. He drew his hand across as if slicing the air and the cheers lessened. When all were silent once again, he continued, “It feels good to finally say that after all these years. Your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice has brought us the greatest reward possible. In appreciation for our General Dorn who has led the way in our campaign, I honor you, the people, with these games. Long live Seti.”