Argeh was sweating as well. Good. Let him sweat.

Behind Argeh, Sevace was outfitted for anything, heavy gloves on his hands, his curved stone blade sharp and ready at his side. When he felt My Lord’s gaze he glanced over with unmistakable fear and looked quickly away. My Lord smiled again. Sevace was thinking, perhaps, that he was sure he’d felt the knife go in, that he’d seen the blood…

“What is it? Why are there so many guards?” Aharon asked anxiously.

Down in the grisly arena, where the bodies of those who had been mounted on the hechkih earlier in the week still hung, Argeh had supplemented the decorative festival troops. Whole companies were arranged near the ground-floor entrances and spread along the walls. They were heavily armed.

“It’s the execution of the heretic. Argeh expects trouble,” My Lord said quietly. “If things get ugly, you must go immediately. My carriage is in back—take it and leave the city.”

“What are you talking? What will happen?”

My Lord held up his hand to stave off the questions. He wiped his face. He turned and pretended to look at the crowd behind them, but instead he looked at Tevach. The little mouse was on hyperalert, his nostrils wide, his eyes darting around the arena. He nodded at someone.

My Lord put his elbow on the arm of his chair, and rested his head in his hand. He was deeply frightened. I have no power, said a voice in his head. Another answered, But I do; I have the power of any man. Even a man who is bound and gagged has this power: to choose who he is. And that is the only power that really exists. Any other is illusionary.

The blare of the opening fanfare.

Kobinski prayed, Lord, Wallick had no mercy on me, on Isaac, and You did not stop him. I had no mercy on Wallick, and You did not stay my hand. If I have mercy now, will You have mercy on me?

But he knew the answer: His mercy on others was God’s mercy on him; by being merciful he became mercy. Like to like, like to like, like to like.

In the arena, the opening prayers of the priests were rumbling upward. My Lord forced himself to stand, telling his joints to bear his weight whether they would or no. He slowly made his way across the aisle, down a step. Sevace watched his approach with growing discomfort. He tugged on Argeh’s sleeve.

The pushed-in face that turned to him had haunted him for a long time. My Lord whispered in Argeh’s ear, “I have been informed of a rebellion.”

The priest grunted, unimpressed.

“The heretic’s followers are planning to make a march on the House of Cleansing during the execution. They’ve given up rescuing Ahtdeh—they know the arena will be well guarded. So they’re going to storm the House instead—kill the attendants, empty its prisoners in protest.”

Now Argeh was interested. His nostrils flared as he sniffed, trying to smell the truth inside the mask. “Where did you hear this?”

My Lord turned to look at Tevach. “My servant. Something frightened him last night. He confessed everything to me this morning.”

Argeh growled angrily and whispered orders in Sevace’s ear. My Lord made his way painfully back to his seat. He lowered himself into his chair and felt the Jew’s hand grip his arm. He put his own hand over Aharon’s to feel its warmth. Within minutes, the troops in the arena had filed out to go protect the House of Cleansing, leaving fewer than three dozen guards. My Lord watched for the crowd’s reaction. He saw several Fiore stand and stare after the guards, saw others whisper menacingly. Could Argeh really not see it?

But Argeh wasn’t watching. Sevace had returned to the box and the two of them were whispering together.

The mind-numbing rituals of the previous days of Festival were thankfully missing on this day. There was only another long exhortation from Argeh. Like any evangelist, he could not resist the opportunity to drum his own obsessions into a packed house. My Lord prayed it would end quickly. He eyed the entrances on the arena floor with trepidation. If the guards returned too soon and said they’d found no attack on the House of Cleansing… Argeh droned on.

Finally, just when My Lord was considering acting before the speech ended, it did end. Argeh raised his arms. There was a mild round of staff thumping in the arena. As he dropped his paws, Argeh gave the order: “Bring in the heretics!”

Down below, the ragged, bloody group emerged from the prisoners’ arch, herded by guards. They had spent days in the House of Cleansing, and they were a pitiable sight. Even Ahtdeh himself—his head was bowed and stiff with gore. Argeh’s priests had lavished much loving care on him.

The crowd collectively held its breath, growing far too quiet for a group of Fiore of this size. Around the arena, several Fiore rose to their feet, then several more. It was so still you could hear the armor of the guards clinking as they moved the shuffling prisoners forward.

Argeh looked nervous. He picked up the scroll of the condemned self-consciously and scanned it. My Lord could see his mind working, recalculating his strategy.

“First prisoner! Ahtdeh, son of Hehchah, charged with heresy against Mahava and blasphemy toward our beloved My Lord.”

Beloved My Lord. Argeh was frightened. And he had changed the order of execution. Normally, he would have saved the big fish for last.

Aharon tightened his grip on My Lord’s arm. “Can we do something?” he whispered.

“Shhhh,” My Lord said.

The guards untied Ahtdeh from the other prisoners and began to lead him—half dragging the weakened body—across the arena to the hechkih. My Lord’s eyes flickered to Sevace. He stood just behind the high priest, hand poised on the handle of his curved blade, eyes intently scanning the arena. But he was looking for trouble in the wrong direction. Argeh, hands stiff on the lip of the box, was leaning forward, watching the ritual.

My Lord was sweating. It was always freezing on Fiori, but the smooth interior of the mask was misted with perspiration. His head was spinning, yet at the same time he had a remarkable clarity. He felt as if all time and all meaning in his life had swirled together and condensed in this one black hole of a moment. He forced his palms against the arms of his chair and rose again, oblivious to the pain in his knees. He turned, one last time, to gaze upon that human face, upon the beard, the eyes, of a Jew. Aharon felt the gaze, returned it wordlessly but with a profound acceptance that touched My Lord’s soul. Still all was silent.

As he had done earlier, My Lord took the few steps across the aisle toward Argeh, his feet pressing hard against the smooth, polished stone. As then, his left foot descended the single stair between them and his left hand went to the back of Argeh’s chair to steady himself, to support his knees. Argeh was still cupped toward the arena, his head at the level of My Lord’s waist. Four feet from My Lord, Sevace turned, recoiling for a fraction of a moment at My Lord’s presence.

My Lord removed from the pocket of his robe the dagger Sevace had dropped at Tevach’s side that morning. His hand, cold and numb, did not feel like his own. He pulled the dagger from his robe and plunged it into the center of Argeh’s back with a mighty thrust. My Lord’s arms were strong from bearing the weight of this world. The dagger went in to the hilt.

The arena was amazingly silent. My Lord felt suspended in time and space until Argeh, expelling his dying breath, arched his back around the knife. Then he fell forward, tipping over the edge of the box and tumbling down to the arena floor. His body landed with a heavy thud and lay still.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

Kobinski, standing straddled between two steps, raised his bloody hand in the air, palm open.