"I'm going to win if I can," Jonathan said slowly. "I just don't cotton to that guy."
Her long fingernails bit into the flesh of his wrists. Her voice was hoarse, desperate, "By Lallista's brood, Jonathan! Do not anger him. Your one chance is in Morka Kar's willingness to spare you that he may spare his own self. If he loses that temper of his—Jonathan, I want you alive."
He patted her bare shoulder, smiling.
"I'll still see that villa on the sea, honey. Don't fret your lovely head about it. But it's time to go, now. I don't want this affair called off on a forfeit."
They walked slowly, hand in hand, along the pebbled path to the great white Amphitheatre. It rose tall and grim, brooding over the lovely square that fronted its entrance. The square was deserted. Their footfalls sounded loud in their ears.
They went up the steps and through the oval doorway. Alone, they went down the black corridor toward the arena.
The seats were filled, inside the arena room. The batteries of ten thousand eyes gloomed at Jonathan as he walked toward the great ivory chair set on the sanded field. He knew Morka Kar watched him from the ebony throne opposite the ivory chair, but he'd be damned before he'd glance his way!
Jonathan settled himself in the seat before he looked at his opponent. Morka Kar sat facing him, both arms resting on the ebony arms. His thin mouth was twisted in a sardonic grin. His red-shot eyes glistened with hate.
Adatha Za came forward with an oblong coffer, ornate with jewels. Dropping to her knees, she unlocked the cover, and threw it open. Inside, row on row, glittered vials and retorts of liquids and powders, and long metal bars and needles.
Above Adatha Za's naked shoulders, Jonathan watched a three-legged Paravian dance-walk its way to Morka Kar. The Paravian also carried a monomachy casket.