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say him nay.
    There was time to see Ortyg ham Hundral, Pallan of Buildings, and to join with him in gleeful contemplation of the plans of the Temple of Havil in Splendor. I had only one fleeting thought at the oddness of this. Not so long ago I’d have been straining every nerve to destroy every damned temple erected to Havil the Green.
    Times change, by Zair!
    When Hamdi the Yenakker reported back the location chosen for the meeting with Pancresta, I own to an odd feeling of the rightness of the choice.
    The bloodiness of the Arena in Ruathytu was notorious throughout the length and breadth of the continent of Havilfar. I had not fought there at that time, although the ways of the Star Lords are passing strange and beyond the full comprehension of mortal men; but I had fought in the Arena of Huringa in Hyrklana. Along with many others, I had set my face against the idea of the Jikhorkdun, the Arena, the killing machinery of deadly games on the silver sand.
    In the Great Arena, here in Ruathytu, the arch devil Phu-Si-Yantong, that infamous Wizard of Loh, had made his last stand, his final resistance, until blown away in the Quern of Gramarye fashioned by our comrade Wizards of Loh.
    Since that awful occurrence, the place had not been popular, we had done all we could to discourage attendance, and the other smaller Jikhorkduns had reopened to patronage we deplored. So the Great Arena lay deserted under the Suns, and the silver sand sparkled unmarked by the tramp of booted feet, the rush of talons, the sprinkle of shed blood.
    Here, out on the silver sand, Pancresta chose to meet us and tell us the secrets of Spikatur Hunting Sword.

Chapter four
    What Chanced in the Arena
    The Emperor of Hamal said in his sternest voice, “Remember, Dray Prescot, you are the Emperor of Vallia. And King of Djanduin. And many other notable titles and ranks. It is not fitting that you should not go attired as an emperor.”
    “As to that,” I said, adjusting the plain lesten-hide belt with the silver buckle, “I never feel comfortable in all that popinjay finery.”
    Seg let loose a cross between a grunt and a chuckle.
    So, quickly, very quickly, I said, “I speak only for myself, Nedfar. You, I am sure, understand that.”
    Nedfar took it in good part.
    He was dressed magnificently, a shimmering statuesque emperor, a lordly one of Kregen, dominating and superb.
    Seg and I wore the brave old scarlet, with a cunning coat of mesh-linked mail, and over that we wore a breast and back apiece, since that pleased Seg on my behalf. Our harness was plain, workmanlike, without any of your frills. The smell of rich leather-oil pervaded the chamber not unpleasantly. I say rich — any fighting man will use the best equipment he can lay his hands on, and taking care of weapons and harness is a number-one priority. That oil was expensive.
    Seg found himself in something of a quandary.
    His strong face looked puzzled. I laughed and said, “Luckily enough I am not in that predicament.”
    He hefted two bows, one in each hand, and he looked at and weighed one and then he looked at and weighed the other.
    Finally, he said, “Were it not thought excessive, what our old comrade Fran the Zappim would call Vulgar Ostentation, I would take them both.”
    “Even a Djang finds difficulty in shooting two bows at once. They do not recommend the practice, and—”
    “And they have four arms! I know...”
    “We are only going to speak to a poor woman, alone, out on the silver sand.”
    “I don’t trust her.”
    “No more do I. Take them both, then. They will snug up over your shoulder well enough, seeing they are so alike.”
    He made that little grunting chuckle of his, and shook his head, and shoved both bowstaves up over his shoulder.
    “I may look a ninny, but that does not bother me.”
    Nedfar shared the general amusement over Seg and his precious bows.
    We strapped up our usual arsenal of weaponry — a rapier and main gauche, a drexer, a shoulder pack