Rotark wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "How many of us will see the end of this day?" he asked in doleful tones. "Take Gorlat, here—so careful not to soil his tunic. It may soak in his own blood before darkness comes again!"
The blond young man kept his mechanical smile. He said: "Not if they give me a knife...."
Something in the soft words brought a momentary silence to the group. What had Vulcar said yesterday about this handsome, graceful youth? "Few men equal him in handling a knife...."
Katon said, "It will be an hour before the Games actually get under way. First they must finish the rites honoring the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken—a lengthy ritual. Then the guards will come, select a few of us, give them arms and send them into the arena."
"Somehow," Tharn said thoughtfully, "I wonder if it is wise to wait until the third day before putting our plan into action. After three days many of our men will have died in the arena. We shall need every man we can get."
Katon rubbed his chin, frowning. "True," he admitted. "But to hurry this thing would be fatal. The guards must be satisfied that everything is going smoothly before they relax their watchfulness.
"Although we shall lose men," he continued, "I believe many of the soldiers and citizens of Sephar will join us when the revolt gets under way. Few, I imagine, regard Pryak with favor; they should welcome a chance to end his power and make one of their own men king."
Then and there the germ of an idea was implanted in Tharn's mind—an idea destined to bear fruit in the days ahead.
For the better part of an hour the seven ring-leaders moved about the chamber, talking with groups of prisoners, discussing various phases of the plan Tharn had concocted. So confident did the seven seem, that many a despondent captive was caught up by their infectious spirit and began to grow impatient for the Games to start that the two days might pass the sooner.