The Volarians seemed highly fond of statuary, bronze warriors for the most part, standing amidst the cascading fountains and neatly kept parks that greeted them once they cleared the cramped outskirts. However, the most salient feature of the city’s inner region was the towers, great marble structures of hard-edged symmetry rising on all sides. Strangely this district seemed mostly empty but for the huddled forms of slaves tending the parks or scrubbing bird droppings from the statues. Reva supposed the absence of citizenry might be explained by the sight of the bodies that hung from the towers by the dozen. Some had clearly been strung up whilst still alive judging by the red-brown streaks that adorned the high walls.
“Their Empress seems keen to make an impression,” the Shield observed.
The wagon train drew up to the largest structure they had yet seen, a tall oval-shaped wonder of red and gold marble. It stood fully seventy feet high, constructed in five tiers, and differed markedly from the other architecture she had seen. There was little evidence of the Volarian liking for straight edges here, the tiers constructed from elegant arches and gently curved columns resembling the stem of a wineglass.
“The great arena of Volar, my lady,” Ell-Nestra said. “Enjoy the view, it’s unlikely either of us will see another.”
A tight circle of red-armoured men surrounded the wagon whilst the driver unlocked the cage, standing well back and ordering them out with near-frantic impatience. From his guarded expression and the sweat sheening his face Reva surmised he was keen to be away from their guards. She climbed out with difficulty, legs and back aching with every movement. She had tried to flex her muscles during the journey but such prolonged constraint was bound to weaken even the strongest body. The Shield groaned as he stepped down, sinking to his knees with teeth clenched.
“Stand up.” The voice was uncoloured by any anger or threat, the words spoken in unaccented Realm Tongue. Reva looked up at a man perhaps forty years in age, dressed in a plain black robe, his dark hair, greying at the temples, drawn back from a smooth forehead and lean, inexpressive features.
The Shield glanced up at the black-clad, squinting in the sun. “Can’t see a whip on you,” he said.
“I do not require a whip,” the man replied. “You obey me or you die.”
Ell-Nestra jerked his head at the arena behind them. “Here or there, what difference does it make?”
“In there you have a chance of life, at least for a time.” The black-clad’s eyes went to Reva, narrowing in careful appraisal. His gaze was intense but she saw no lust in it, also, she noted with surprise, no hint of cruelty. “My name is Varulek Tovrin,” he told her. “Master of the Great Volarian Arena and Overseer of Garisai, by the gracious consent of the Empress Elverah.”
He turned and beckoned to a pair of red-armoured guards, Reva noting the mass of tattoos that covered his hands from fingertip to wrist. They were unfamiliar in design, much more dense and intricate than those worn by the queen’s Lonak woman, and she could only wonder at the hours, and pain, endured to craft such a complex web into his flesh. He caught her scrutiny and his expression transformed into something shockingly unexpected: sympathy. “She wishes to see you.”
• • •
The chilled stiffness of the wind grew with every rhythmic heave on the gondola’s ropes, the hundred slaves below moving with well-drilled uniformity as they hauled her towards the tower’s summit. She was flanked by two of the red-armoured men but they seemed content to allow her to turn about and take in the view, the majesty of the city revealed in full, a true wonder that made Alltor and Varinshold seem like no more than a mean clutch of stunted hovels.
Viewing the pristine orderliness of the vast conurbation laid out before her, she was forced to concede it was the most impressive example of human creativity she would ever witness, every street, park, avenue, and tower arranged according to precise rules of form and function, with hardly a curve to be seen. But the small, dark specks that covered the smooth flanks of every tower in sight told a different story. Volar was a lie, a facade of precision and beauty covering a vile truth.
The gondola halted at a balcony perhaps twenty feet short of the tower’s pinnacle. A female slave of distracting beauty greeted Reva with a formal bow, turning to lead her inside, the guards following close behind. The interior was dimly lit with a scattering of oil lamps, silk drapes of various hues covering the windows and painting the decor a colourful melange that swayed as the wind swirled around the tower. Despite the gloom and the confusion of colour, it took Reva only a second to find the Empress, her eyes long attuned to seeking out the greatest threat in any room.
