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away.”
    “It still comes from the caves?
Then I see no choice but to seal them up.”
    “But, Davril—”
    “I know. Many homeless live in
then. But it can’t be helped. See to it in your quarter. I’ll spread word among
the other senators for similar actions to be taken.”
    “It will be done.” Qasan looked
sideways at Davril, and there were questions in his eyes that could not be
asked. Gingerly, he said, “People are saying this is a plague visited upon us
by the gods.”
    “Oh? Which gods?"
    “I don’t know, but it hasn’t gone
unremarked that it started ten months ago, just after the Journey. Some say . .
.”
    “Yes? What do they say?”
    Qasan let out a breath. “They say
the gods do not favor you.”
    “Good. The people aren’t fools.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Never mind.” Half to himself,
Davril said, “Is there no cure?”
    “It’s of no human cause, my lord,
whatever cause that is. There can be no human cure.”
    “What of the priests? There are a
thousand cults that promise the intervention of divinity. Can not one of them
help us?” Still the horrid warbling of the fish-priests washed over the city,
and Davril would be glad when they finished their ceremony. “Even them,” he
added.
    “We’re working on that, my lord.”
    “I’ve asked the General to look
into it, too.” General Hastus was of the River Families, and the Families were
ancient allies of the Lerumites. Davril did not want to deal with the fish-priests,
but any fish is salmon when you’re hungry.
    The crowd roared, and Davril saw
that the bout between the gladiators had come to an end. The victor stood with
his foot on the chest of his foe, who lay face-up, breathing heavily. Blood
from a blade-cut seeped from his arm. The winner had his sword to the loser’s
throat, and had turned to Davril for further instructions. This was largely
ceremonial, of course, for no Emperor in living memory had ordered a fallen
gladiator slain. The gladiators were free men, after all. This was their
profession, and they were veritable gods of the city, adored by all the
citizens, man and woman alike. To order one of their deaths would have only
incited the anger of the people.
    Davril rose and called out,
“Mercy!” When the sword had been sheathed, he added, “Well fought, men! Go in
peace.”
    The gladiators bowed to each other,
retrieved their weapons, and departed. Horns blew, and a gaggle of prisoners
were herded out into the sun-lit Arena, blinking their eyes at the brightness. The
crowd booed and threw refuse at them. They were mainly convicted rapists and everyday
murderers who had elected to “take the sword” in return for a reduced sentence
if they lived. In the case of the murderers, the reduction usually meant a life
sentence instead of death. In the case of the multiple rapists, it meant a
rescinding of the order of castration.
    Mixed in among the normal criminals
were several Avestines, Davril saw, and was not surprised. A group of them—the
race of people that originally founded Sedremere—had attacked and killed a high
Qazradan official last week, butchering not just him but his entire family on
their way to the market. Though normally confined to their Quarter, the
Avestines—who as a race tended toward extremism—had somehow slipped out ( Their tunnels , Davril thought—his father
had often talked about them— They must
have slipped out through their secret tunnels ) and carried out what they
considered a retaliation against the treatment of their people. Justified or
not, the murders had been brutal, the head of the official’s smallest boy—well.
Davril would should no tears for these men.
    The Last Gate was swung open to
much trumpeting and horn- blowing, and out of it marched a great, black, wooly
elephant, his tusks adorned with gold, diamond-studded earrings in his large,
flapping ears, even glittering rings about his immense trunk. From a litter on
its back, one driver and one gladiator stood. The