Jackah to Iota
Mesel to Sam
Third Set
Tom to Bult
Dommy to Cammit
Bendo to Dash
NOONS
Fourth Set
Double to Evah
Stooks to Hatcha
Pag to Quilly
Fifth Set
Bernd to Gully
Hilt to Ocka
Eris to Viz
Sixth Set
Cla to Charlie
I had seen similar seedings not just on TV, during the NCAA’s Selection Sunday, but in person, when the matchups for the Arcadia Babe Ruth tournament were announced each spring on posters at every participating field. That was strange enough, but the most surreal element was that single word in the middle: NOONS. Flight Killer and his retinue would watch nine prisoners killed in battle… then enjoy a spot of lunch.
“What would happen if we all refused?” Ammit asked in a ruminative tone of voice I wouldn’t have expected from a fellow who looked as if he had once earned his bread and cheese shoeing horses. And knocking them flat if they didn’t cooperate. “Just asking, mind you.”
Ocka, a big fellow with a nearsighted squint, laughed. “Do you mean a strike? Like the millers in my father’s time? And deprive the Flight Killer of his day’s entertainment? I think I’d rather live until tomorrow than spend this one screaming in agony, thank you very much.”
And I thought Ocka probably would live until tomorrow, considering he’d be fighting skinny little Hilt, who had a lame hip. Ocka might go down in the second round, but if he won today, he would still be alive to wash up afterward and eat dinner tonight. I looked around and saw the same simple calculation on many faces. Not, however, on Hamey’s. After one look at the board, he had gone to a bench and now sat there, head hanging. I hated to see him that way, but I hated the ones who had put us in this terrible position even more.
I looked at the board again. I had expected to see Fremmy against Stooks and the two women, Jaya and Eris, against each other—a girlfight, what could be more amusing? But no. There didn’t appear to have been any thought about the seedings. They might have been drawn out of a hat. Except for the last one, that was. Just the two of us on the field, the day’s finale.
Cla to Charlie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR First Round. The Last Set. My Prince. “What Do You Think?”
1
Jaya sat down next to Hamey on the bench and took his hand. It lay limply in hers. “I don’t want this.”
“I know,” Hamey said without looking at her. “It’s all right.”
“Maybe you’ll beat me. I’m not strong, you know—not like Eris.”
“Maybe.”
The door opened and two night soldiers came in. They looked as excited as living corpses can, their auras pulsing as if within them dead hearts were still beating.
“First set! Hump, hump! Don’t keep His Majesty waiting, kiddies! He’s taken his place!”
At first none of them moved, and for a wild moment I almost believed Ammit’s strike was going to happen… until I thought of the consequences for the strikers, that was. After looking at the board again to be sure some miracle hadn’t changed the listings, the first half-dozen got up: Fremmy and Murf, Ammit and a short, tubby fellow named Wale, Hamey and Jaya. She was holding his hand as they went out, shrinking to avoid the aura of the night soldier standing closest to her.
In the days of Gallien rule, the rest of us would have heard the anticipatory cheers of a packed stadium as the combatants emerged. I strained my ears and thought I heard a faint spatter of applause, but it could have been my imagination. Probably was. Because the stands of the Field of Elden （formerly the Field of the Monarchs） were almost entirely empty. The boy I’d met on my journey here had been right: Lilimar was a haunted city, a place where only the dead, the living dead, and a few ass-kissers still remained.
No butterflies here.
If not for the night soldiers, escape might be possible, I thought. Then I remembered there were also a couple of female giants to consider… and Flight Killer himself. I didn’t know what he was now, what transformation he might have undergone, but one thing seemed sure: he was no longer Leah’s clubfooted little brother, with a hump on his back or a lump on his neck.
Time passed. Hard to tell how long. Several of us visited the pissing-gutter, me included. Nothing brings on the need to piss like the fear of dying. At last the door opened and Ammit entered. He had a small cut across the back of his hairy left hand. Otherwise he was unmarked.
Mesel hurried to him as soon as Ammit’s undead escort stepped back. “What was it like? Is Wale really—”