Below him, in the ring, the Baemae girl's lips moved in a soundless agony of panic.
A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Packed bodies shifted and pressed tighter. Hungrily, mercilessly, a thousand eyes appraised the evening's victim.
Zenaor said, "Wench, tonight you meet the Lady Vydys' roller. If you survive, I'll make a place for you in my own harem. If not...." He shrugged: turned back to Vydys. "My dear—"
Vydys' high, proud breasts rose on a quick-drawn breath. Lithely, she twisted in her seat. "My helm, serf!"
The rawboned Baemae youth who wore her livery lifted the ornate metal headdress from its case; stepped forward. His face was pale, sweat-beaded. His hands trembled.
Vydys' eyes distended. "Why do you shake so, carrion?"
The youth's voice quavered. "She—that girl...." He floundered, groped. "She—she is my sister, Lady Vydys."
"Your sister!" The mask of anger fell away from Vydys' face. "You mean she is of your blood? You love her?"
Mutely, the serfman nodded.
"And you would suffer were she to meet my roller?"