Page 57 of The Ragpicker King
Fuck, fuck, fuck.“Crocodile fights,” said Kel. “I think. Or it could be a poetry competition—”
“If it’s Ellsday, it’s the fights.” Conor sprang to his feet. “Excellent. I’ll go with you. We haven’t sat in the box at the Arena for ages.”
“I wouldn’t think you should bring Anjelica there,” said Kel. His hands, clammy now, slipped on his bootlaces. “I don’t think she’d like it—”
“She won’t mind. You heard her—she doesn’t expect me to take her everywhere with me. In fact, she doesn’t even want it. She’ll be perfectly happy here, decorating her quarters. Which means I have a free afternoon, thank the Gods—and Cazalet.” Conor grinned. “Besides, I’ve fifty crowns on Green Death already. I had Joss place the bet. Now I can collect my winnings in person.”
There was no way to warn Ji-An, Jerrod, or Merren. Kel would just have to improvise when he got there. He supposed it was true what they said about the Gods: They struck most suddenly the moment you made plans.
In the days of the Empire, the Arena had been the center of the city. The Emperors of Magna Callatis had been addicted to bloodsport, and the people had loved it, too, for they had been taught that there was no greater glory than to fight and die for the Emperor—whether it was on a battlefield far away, or on the dusty sand of the Arena, for the Emperor’s amusement.
There had been weekly shows of violence, where gladiators battled—sometimes each other, sometimes wild beasts. (Before the Sundering, it was claimed, a swordsman might be forced to fight a phoenix or a dragon; such battles never lasted long, nor did the human combatant often come out the winner.) Tigers from Hind, wolves from Detmarch, great apes and lions from the Sunlands to the south—the crowd would roar as they tore men and women apart and left the sands of the Arena soaked with blood.
The Empire had gone, but like the roads and aqueducts and sewers that kept the city running, the Arena remained. After theEmpire’s fall, gladiators, now free men instead of slaves, continued to volunteer to participate in Arena battles, for the rewards—gold and fame—remained tantalizing.
It was Conor’s great-grandfather who had passed Laws forbidding men to fight each other to the death for sport. There had been grumbling from all sides, but the animal fights remained, and King Marchal had brought in acrobats and dancers, musicians and acting troupes, from up and down the Gold Roads to perform in the Arena—free of charge for the citizens of Castellane. That had quelled the complaints.
The Arena had become a great leveler in the years since. Any citizen could come to be entertained, be they noble or merchant, guildmaster or street urchin. All of Castellane took a proprietary pride in the place, though it had grown grimy and worn down over the centuries. The outside of the circular arena was clad with marble, but inside the ancient stones were cracked and worn smooth, the bright paint that had once decorated the rows of seats faded to sun-worn pastels.
Kel and Conor entered through an archway, accompanied by Castelguards. There was a faint cheer from the crowd as they realized the Prince was among them. A few lewdly admiring remarks about Anjelica were called out, along with offers to buy the guards various alcoholic drinks. Conor, dressed in white linen like an Emperor of old, smiled as if deaf to their commentary, graciously inclining his head. He and Kel had been to the Arena many times before; Conor had once told him that it was good for the people of Castellane to see the royal family enjoying the same things they did.
A set of stone steps led up to the royal box—once the Emperor’s seat, from which he could dole out death or mercy at a whim, but now merely a privileged viewing position. Kel and Conor headed up between their escort of guards, Kel keeping his eyes on the crowd as they passed.
He saw them, a flash at the corner of his eye: Jerrod, Ji-An, and Merren seated in the fifth row. He caught Ji-An’s furious gaze, shook his head quickly.I couldn’t stop him from coming.
Ji-An turned back to Merren and Jerrod; they began to whisper together. Kel cursed quietly to himself as he entered the royal box, hung with a bunting of yellow flowers. The stone benches here were cushioned, and glasses rested on a low, inlaid table, ready for wine. He took a seat beside Conor, scanning the Arena below. The seats were half full—whole families had come, with small children, spreading out blankets over the stone benches.
And then, down by the first row, Kel saw her—Magali—her crown of braided gray hair familiar even at a distance. But as long as Kel was with Conor, he could not get away to question her. What, Kel wondered to himself, were they going to do?
It was a hot day, the sun gleaming like a yellow diamond. Lin was on her way back home from visiting her patients (several of whom needed to be placated with apologies, since she had missed visiting them the day Conor had brought her to the Palace). She kept to the cooler sides of the streets where flowering fig and almond trees offered shade. The sky was cloudless above the Sault walls, the color oftechelet—the ancient blue dye that even now was used to color holy tapestries and the garments of priests like the Maharam.
Once inside the Sault, Lin cut toward the Etse Kebeth, meaning to check in on Mariam, but she came to a halt at the edge of the Kathot, her eyes squinted against the sun. A dais had been set up, just as on the day of the Tevath, with the Maharam’s carved seat atop it. The seat was occupied not by the Maharam, however, but by Aron Benjudah.
The Exilarch did not look as he had when Lin had met him in the Shulamat, dusty and travel-stained. He looked like paintings she had seen of Judah Makabi, the Lion, the first head of the Sanhedrin, dressed in a tunic oftecheletblue, a sword slung at his side. Around his neck hung a heavy silver medallion, not unlike Mayesh’s, though this one was set with deep-blue stones that matched his tunic.
Two small groups were clustered in front of the dais, and Aronseemed to be listening to them intently. A line of more Ashkar trailed from the dais nearly to the steps of the Shulamat. Lin had seen this before with the Sanhedrin: Aron was hearing cases and giving judgment, just as the King of Castellane had once done in the Convocat.
Seeing Mariam standing at the edge of a cluster of onlookers, Lin crept up beside her and tapped her shoulder. Mariam grinned upon seeing her. There was color in her cheeks, which was good, but her eyes looked too big for her face. Lin made a note to brew some gentian tea tonight. It would stimulate Mariam’s appetite.
“I’ve never seen such a crowd on a Judging Day,” Lin whispered. “Is something fascinating happening?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” said Mariam, her eyes sparkling. “The Ohl family has a tree that’s been dropping its fruit into Kep Chaiken’s garden. The argument is over who owns the fruit.”
“What kind of fruit?”
“Who cares?” Mariam elbowed Lin playfully. “Everyone’s here to see the Exilarch. He’s gorgeous. I’d watch him adjudicate a catfight.”
Taken aback, Lin rose up on her toes to stare at Aron. The last time she’d met him, she’d been far too terrified to ponder if he was handsome or not. He was, she supposed, much younger than everyone had expected. He had tidied up his hair, which was now a neat halo of dark bronze. The planes of his face were strong, like the profile of a king on a coin. Square jaw, serious eyes. He seemed at ease dispensing judgment, gesturing fluidly as he talked. When the sleeves of his tunic fell back, Lin could see the Rhadanite markings on his arms.
Lin said, “What happens if the fruit falls into the public street? Or a squirrel steals it?”
“Legal chaos,” said Mariam solemnly. “Don’t you think he’s handsome, though?”
“He holds my future in his hands, Mari,” Lin said. “I haven’t time to wonder whether they’re attractive hands.”
At that moment, Aron glanced toward them. Lin forced herself to meet his gaze, even as she thought:Everyone here knows. They know the Exilarch must recognize the Goddess Returned, for the soul of the Exilarch is passed down through the blood, and the soul of the Goddess is eternal.They would be watching her and Aron, watching for some visible sign of connection between them.
She tore her eyes from his.
