“Any man can compete in the games, even slaves if their mistresses allow,” the first said. “It’s the Empress’s favorite kind of entertainment, other than making love.”
“Brawling and sex. Wonder if she’s related to my mother?” Lock muttered.
The slave continued, “The winners of the games earn prizes. A skilled gladiator can become very wealthy.”
“So Miska must be rich?”
“Miska is the Empress’s most revered fighter. No one has beaten him since he arrived a year ago.”
“So anyone can challenge him, then?”
“No. That would only waste his time. A fighter begins in the lower ranks and works his way up.”
Lock’s brow furrowed. “That could take a while.”
“Is your mistress interested in sending you to the games? Is that why you’re asking so many questions?”
“I don’t think that’s what she has in mind.”
“Pity.” The slave’s large, dark eyes raked Lock from head to foot, lingering over the crotch of his soft leather pants. “You look like you’d do well. Will you be staying at the palace? You could share my room in the slave quarters.”
The slightest smile touched Lock’s lips as he glanced away. “I’m too old and wise for you, boy.”
“Will you both be silent!” The second slave snapped. “The Empress will—”
“You be silent!” Lock’s admirer glared at his companion. “He was simply asking a question. It’s only common courtesy to answer.”
“Would you show him the same courtesy if he looked like a pantry rat instead of a breeding bull?”
“Quiet, both of you!” Lock raised his eyes to heaven.
“There’s the ring,” the slaves chimed.
Lock stared at the square stone building on the cliff at the edge of the city.
Outside, several horses stood fastened to posts, stable boys tending them. Men and women mingled and entered the building through two wide wooden doors held open by guards dressed in red silks and chain mail with swords at their hips.
The carriage stopped, and the two slender slaves hurried to assist their Empress down the steps. One of them—the annoying one who kept motioning for silence—offered Sparrow his hand, but Lock bumped him with his hip, sending him stumbling into the mud by the carriage wheel. Lock extended his own hand to Sparrow.
Her mouth opened in shock as she glanced at the little servant who pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his white tunic and firing an enraged look at Lock.
The Empress glanced over her shoulder at the slave. “Theodore, will you stop being so clumsy! Pay more attention to Namir. See how nicely he carries himself?”
The other slave looked down his nose at his companion and offered Lock an enticing smile. Lock curled his lip,
Can’t wait to get out of this crazy city and back in the ocean where there’s sanity. Typhoons and tidal waves, but sanity
.
The Empress strolled to the entrance, her slaves behind her.
“Lock, why did you do that?” Sparrow whispered as they followed Daryn.
“You should have tried walking with those two. They could make a monk turn murderer.”
Sparrow tilted her head. “I think they’re kind of cute. They look like little matching candlesticks.”
“One of them offered to share his bed with me if we stayed at the palace.”
“Why is it that everyone wants to bed you down?”
“It’s my masculine prowess. I’ve got virility flowing out of my arse…”
“Stop it!” She half giggled, half hissed. The man was incorrigible. “I still don’t know why you wanted to come here.”
“I’ll explain in good time.”
They stepped inside the building and found themselves in a narrow corridor with a stairway leading upward. Namir stood at the landing, beckoning them. At the top, they found themselves in a balcony running along the perimeter of the building, several feet above the vast room below. A single row of chairs lined the balcony, all filled with onlookers—lords and ladies judging by their dress. The room below had a dirt floor, one tiny section separated by iron bars that created a cage in front of an oak door. Two guards, heavily armored and carrying spears, stood inside.
Sparrow sat beside the Empress, Lock, Theodore, and Namir behind them.
“The gladiators enter through there,” Namir whispered, pointing to the guarded door.
Theodore raised a finger to his lips, pretended to stamp his foot, and cast a worried glance at the Empress.
Namir looked disgusted but fell silent.
At a cheer from the crowd, Lock focused his complete attention on the room below. A burly blond flung open the door and rushed to the center of the floor. A tall, muscular, dark-skinned man followed. Both wore leather trousers, metal chest plates, arm bands, and helmets. They attacked each other, the blond aiming his fist at the darker man’s face, the darker one dodging the blows and kicking his opponent in the stomach, knocking him onto his back. The blond leapt to his feet as the dark man kicked again, his heel smashing downward. For several moments, the men traded blows until the dark one wrestled his heavyset match to the dirt. The sound of snapping bone followed by the blond’s bellow of pain echoed through the arena. The lords and ladies cheered.
Sloppy fighting
, Lock thought,
very sloppy. If they’re all like this, no wonder Miska is the favorite
.
The next match was little better than the first, but with the third, the fighting became cleaner, more intricate. The later warriors performed unique moves with accuracy, strength, and speed. Lock took a step closer to the edge of the balcony as his interest rose. Namir touched his arm.
Lock glanced at the young slave who shook his head and whispered, “Stay here.”
Lock nodded, shrugging his hand off. The men fighting below were worthy entertainment. Their movements reminded Lock of the skills he’d learned from the clan when he’d been shipwrecked. Still, Lock knew by watching he’d have beaten every man in the Empress’s arena.
Below, two fighters, a redhead and a man with a black beard, grappled in the bloody dirt. Suddenly the redhead snapped the bearded man’s neck. He dropped the body and staggered to his feet, blood streaking his face so it looked as red as his hair. The crowd roared, and he stumbled from the arena while the guards cleared away the body. Several servant boys hurried to rake the bloody dirt in preparation for the next fight.
“This is the last of the day,” the Empress said to Sparrow. “Miska is my favorite warrior. He’s fighting a gladiator owned by one of my cousins. She thinks her man will win, but she’s been saying that for the past six months. Miska has killed more than a dozen of her slaves. You’d think she’d just give up and admit I’ve found the greatest warrior on the continent, perhaps the world.”
Lock felt his skin prickle.
We’ll see about that
…
A tall, thickly muscled warrior, his head shaved to reveal a tattooed scalp, strode into the arena. He wore a leather skirt and a metal breastplate. Knee-high leather boots covered his feet, and he carried a short, double-edged sword. Lock’s interest piqued. Thus far, none of the gladiators had carried weapons.
A shout of animal fury echoed throughout the building as Miska charged through the door directly at his opponent. The favored gladiator’s long red hair snapped behind him, his face a mask of fury as he skillfully swung his great sword. Blow upon blow struck his opponent, but the tattooed man blocked and countered with strength and agility. Miska whirled, the blade grazing his opponent’s face, drawing blood from his cheek.
Lock felt his fists clench at the speed and power of the blows. He glanced at Sparrow, noticed the tension on her face, and felt guilty for asking her to come. Still, he had to know the extent of Miska’s skill.
The fight lasted longer than the others, and even the crowd was uncharacteristically quiet as they stared in fascination at the men. Their muscled arms glistened with sweat and their grunts and battle cries filled the arena. The tattooed one showed the first signs of tiring while Miska appeared fresh as when he’d first stepped into the ring. He pressed his advantage, raining teeth-jarring blows until he knocked the sword from the tattooed man’s hand. A collective gasp sounded from the crowd as Miska spun, slashing his sword across his opponent’s throat. The gladiator collapsed, his head half severed from his shoulders, blood pooling beneath his body.
Sparrow dropped to her seat, her hand gripping the wooden edge of the balcony.
The Empress turned to her with a smile. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“I have to go,” Sparrow said.
“Wait! Will your man be entering my competition?”
Sparrow glanced at Lock, her face pale. He resisted the urge to hold her and said, “I can perform for her.”
“Yes. He’ll enter.” Sparrow bowed to Daryn and hurried down the steps, Lock behind her.
“Sparrow!”
Sparrow glanced at Lock, realizing for the first time he’d been speaking to her. She couldn’t keep her mind off Miska. How he’d looked in the arena—so savage and overpowering—just as she remembered him when he’d murdered Thea.
“I said do you have money? We have to stop by the market before we go. I need something to wear in the competition.”
“Lock, what exactly do you plan to do in the competition? The only songs I’ve ever heard you sing are those awful rhymes.”
“I’m going to dance.”
“Dance?” Sparrow wrinkled her nose. “Not like you did at the house for those women?”
“I was just playing then. Every Archipelago whore learns the Daggers of Desire from the time he can walk.”
“Lock, you’re not—”
“Do you want me to win this or not?”
“Do you really think you can?” Sparrow couldn’t disguise her hope. If he won his freedom, it would be like a dream.
“If I didn’t think I could win, I wouldn’t suggest entering. Now, I have to find some clothes.”
“What kind of clothes?”
He smiled, and as they entered the market, she was almost sorry she’d asked.
* * * * *
“But I want to watch this.” Sparrow placed her hands on her hips as she stared at Lock who stood in the center of the barn. Tools and animals had been pushed into corners or sent out to pasture while he practiced for the Empress’s competition.
A muslin cloak draped Lock’s tall frame, his face concealed by a veil-like hood that left only his pale eyes visible. The muslin was for practice, since during the dance Lock would slash his clothing with daggers. For the competition, they had bought yards of sheer black and blue silk. Sparrow had nearly choked on the price, but Lock insisted the costume must be right for the dance to be effective. To Sparrow’s curiosity, they’d also bought a tight-fitting black loincloth and several strips of leather.
“For the last time, no.”
“Why not?”
“Leave us alone!” Shea-Ann shooed Sparrow with a wave of her hand. “I’m dying to see a yak dance.”
Sparrow glared at Lock and pointed at her old nanny. “Why does
she
get to watch?”
“Because I might be rusty and I need someone to tell me how the movements look.”
“I could tell you.”
“He’s probably afraid you’ll change your mind about the competition if you watch,” Shea-Ann said. “I can only imagine what this slab of sea scum is going to do.”
“You’d better watch closely, hag, because what you’re about to see is probably better than any rutting you’ve ever had.”
Shea-Ann cast him a look that said she didn’t quite believe him.
“Lock!”
“Sparrow, will you just go sew the leather to the loincloth like I showed you? And that silk needs to be hemmed.”
“I am not a seamstress!”
“Do you want me to win or don’t you?”
“I want to watch you dance!”
“You’ll see me at the competition!”
“What are you trying to hide from me?”
Shea-Ann stood, grasped Sparrow’s arm, and tugged her to the door. “Will you let us get on with this? I have remedies to mix.”
Reluctantly, Sparrow left the barn, muttering all the way back to the house where she sat by the fire, hemming the silk.
“This would make such a beautiful dress.” She touched soft fabric, the same pale blue as Lock’s eyes.
Why wouldn’t he allow her to watch? How bad could it be, to watch a man dance with daggers?
The Daggers of Desire
…
A couple of hours passed, and Sparrow, her fingers aching from the needle, placed the material aside. They had several weeks before the competition, and she could work on the rest of the silk as well as the leather loincloth over the next few days. She stirred the stew in the pot over the fire and prepared the table for dinner.
Shea-Ann burst into the house, fanning her flushed face with her hand. “That boy has a certain charm, Sparrow, much as I hate to admit it.”
“So how did he look? What was the dance like?”
“It was…He is…Unless the Empress is dead, he’s sure to win.”
Sparrow’s belly churned with curiosity. “Then he performs well?”
“Dear, if he’s anything in bed like he is doing that dance, I’m surprised you can even get up in the morning.”