Gene was thinking of things long past.
One was a memory from when he was eighteen. For the first time, he had stood in an arena surrounded by countless spectators. Of course, he had not been a gladiator. In their silence, he had held one man’s corpse in his arms.
The corpse was Garon.
Another was from when he was twenty-one. Serving in an army, Gene had fought the Chandana in the south. During the battle, a Chandana warrior proposed a duel. Fighting that man, Gene imagined himself a gladiator. And he tasted a strange sense of liberation.
He shook off the memories. Before his eyes lay a scene as though a dream had come true. The size of the packed stands could not be compared with the arena where he had once stood. More eyes watched him than had ever watched him anywhere before. He was accustomed to standing at the center of attention. Yet the majesty of the Grand Theater, its tens of thousands of stone seats cut into the hillside on three sides, all focused on this small stage, exerted a pressure beyond imagination. Only now did he think how extraordinary the actors who regularly stood here must be. Watching people lean out to see him even a little closer made him fear they might spill forward.
The stage was a broad oval, wide enough for several pairs to spar at once. To Gene’s right, the theater building rose three stories. Behind him, to his left, and before him stretched the seating. There were about four paces between the audience and the stage, and two steps led up to it. A safety fence had been erected between them, though since it had originally been made for a play, it did not look particularly sturdy. The stage floor was solid stone, unlike the yellow sand Gene remembered in the arena. He thought that difference might affect the duel.
A private duel could hardly have a referee. Instead, each side supplied two witnesses to make sure the contest proceeded fairly. They stood at intervals in the space between stage and audience, watching. For the general stood Binias, who had attacked Hawk House, and Antonia. For Gene stood Hal and Reddinus.
Jamalik, Hanbun, and Gayar would all have had sharper eyes, but Gene had decided not to reveal publicly that they were his subordinates. That was also why, when Hanbun came to the House of the Masons before, he had told him not to do so again. Hanbun would not have come at all if he had not felt compelled to stop Gene’s duel. Hanbun alone knew why Gene concealed his connections with them.
There was a door at either side of the stage, used for actors’ entrances and exits. Gene had just come through the one on the right. Nikephoros would soon appear on the left. Gene decided to look at that door rather than the spectators, for looking at the audience made his temples ache.
At the same time, he steadied his resolve. Until now, outside battlefields, he had generally avoided killing. His overwhelming skill had made it possible. But today was not a day to spare his opponent. The enemy too would come prepared for that.
Gene was not the heartless, cold-blooded man Delphinad’s citizens imagined. A substantial part of that image was inherited from Garon. Gene neither welcomed the mistake nor bothered to complain and dispel it. Yet he did feel that it corresponded in part to something inside him that was not wholly his. It was not yet distinct. For now, his unstable self lay over it.
The chief emotion Gene felt when looking at himself was shame. He had possessed something unworthy as though it were naturally his, had been powerless to do otherwise, and had needed to suppress unbearable rage to keep that filthy thing. The fetters of royal birth. Chains he had forgotten briefly, but had not yet wholly broken.
He did not overestimate himself. He probably still fell short of Garon in his prime. Nor would he be that cold-blooded. He could not let go of his thoughts enough to surrender himself wholly to anger. Very occasionally, in a fight, he had forgotten everything and become absorbed in the fighting itself. He knew very well that at such times he was stronger than at any other. But he could not make it happen consciously. That self had seemed as strange as another person. His younger brother had once said, “You think too much.”
He would not need to go that far this time. He hoped he would not.
Someone stirred at the opposite door, and one of the general’s men walked out carrying a small flag. On it was the red horse, the emblem of the Fifteenth Regiment. Though the regiment had long been disbanded, most of Nikephoros’s followers had served in it.
Then Nikephoros appeared.
A roar of cheers or jeers, impossible to distinguish, covered the audience. Excited people shouted and leaned farther forward. Nikephoros stopped about ten paces from Gene.
Then he spoke.
“I have waited.”
A cold smile rose at the corner of Gene’s mouth. What had Garon said twenty-eight years before? Probably nothing. Gene, however, did not remain silent.
“Do you want Garon’s answer?”
Nikephoros’s eyebrow twitched. Of course it interested him. After Garon vanished, he had searched eagerly, until he became obsessed with Gene, his pupil. In the end, Nikephoros took the bait like a fish.
“What did he say?”
One corner of Gene’s mouth curled upward.
“Nothing. Sadly, he seems to have forgotten you.”
Mockery was not Gene’s specialty, but at this moment he could not resist it. Until very recently, he had not understood any of it himself. Without meeting Sara Izram, he probably still would not have known. Thinking of what Nikephoros had done to him in that ignorance, he regretted only that he could not find something better to say.
Nikephoros’s mouth closed hard. He tried to hide his anger, but it was useless. That his opponent was a hateful man’s successor made him all the more miserable. His hair faded white, his eyes sunken and complexion dark, the middle-aged general looked like an old, tarnished sword before the very young Gene. Some people might have seen rich experience, but Nikephoros did not. His eyes fixed only on Gene’s clear face.
He wanted that youth. Gene too would someday age, but in the meantime Nikephoros would grow older still. Pushed along an irreversible current, he would be sucked into the pit called death. And his name would never have shed its disgrace…
After a little while, he lowered his head and murmured something beneath his breath, as though praying to a god. Then a shout rang out beside the stage.
“Now, prepare yourselves!”
In place of a referee, a man named Quissus had taken the role of presenter and commentator. He was an actor, with a booming voice despite being past sixty. His presence too was an uncertain factor. In the name of helping distant spectators understand, he would undoubtedly shout this and that throughout the match.
Nikephoros was lightly armored, with thin chain mail and elbow guards. The sword at his waist was a greatsword with a long hilt and blade, though the blade itself was unexpectedly narrow. Its weight had been reduced as much as possible. His boots were studded with hobnails around the soles.
At the patrolmen’s insistence, Gene wore leather armor and wrist guards, but saw little purpose in them. Given his opponent’s age, a swift finish was best. His sword was two spans shorter than Nikephoros’s, and lighter accordingly. That morning, he had sharpened it and calmed himself, as his old teacher once had. Now its edge was so keen it was almost frightening to touch.
The two faced each other. A hand rose, then fell. Quissus shouted, “Begin!”
Among the spectators were people who could not merely enjoy the duel. The Brothers of the Hawk clenched their fists. Luke twitched a cheek to release his tension. Rosa and Nana looked like pictures drawn on the stone. Jamalik and Hanbun sat apart like strangers, watching the stage. Gayar repeated his old words like an incantation: The adjutant is a devil in single combat. Put your worries aside.
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