2 - Hall of Judgment

The Hall of Judgment in the Mezem was where the judges speculated on whether the slaves brought in would make good gladiators and whether they should be acquired. I watched from the gallery door while the testers and the slaver tried to make the man chained to the post do something other than throw the sword on the floor, saying, in Enchian, “I won’t fight for a crowd.”

The slaver got more and more angry and upset watching his investment slide away from him with each refusal, until he couldn’t bear it any longer and stomped up the to chained man, into his reach, completely forgetting how dangerous it would be, trying to thrust the wooden blade back into the chained hand. The slave, dark curly hair, dark-eyed Yeoli, let the deadly smile spread across his face, waited only long enough for the slaver to realize his mistake and killed him with a single blow of his hand, an all but impossible strike to the middle of his face. That, of course, convinced the judges, but since the slaver was dead they were quite free to cheat his widow.

I knew at that moment that he could make fifty fights and be freed, so I climbed up onto one of the desks built tall enough to turn the center of the room into a pit, so I could see better, hung my legs over the edge and said “I declare you to be MY gladiator.” Or some such nonsense, and turned to the nearest judge.

Kriadas Liren was an old geezer who’d grown up with my father, and had suffered recent brainstorms so his right hand was palsied, the left not working. This position was his sinecure from his old friend and he had what I mentally called ‘The look” on his face. It was a look that people got around me as though they were being forced to breath nothing but anus gas and couldn’t mention it.

“Introduce me.” I demanded.

“Splinter of Ineffable Light, he refuses to give his name.”

I looked down at him, chained up, with the dead slaver at his feet. “He does? How intriguing.” The slave was a Yeoli and I had never seen one before. He didn’t look dangerous, like half the pit-bull gladiators already in the arena -- the Mezem – who cultivated that ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll kill you’ air. This one looked more thoughtful. But I had seen his fighting face, his fighting eyes, and the fact it was so hidden made him mysterious just standing there, in chains.

He stared up at me with that look, and said in Enchian, “I’m not afraid of you either.”

“That’s hardly relevant.” I had been in the law courts for more than a bead, so mimicked some of the wording and phrasing. “Since you refuse to answer, I’ll have to give you a name.” I said pompously, trying to give my words the weight of Father's. “I shall name you…” I thought a moment. “Karas Raikas! For you move like lightning and you stand tall, alone.” Even though I heard the Judges murmuring their approval, ass-kissing, shen suckers that they were, I ignored them, focusing on the man below me. Karas Raikas. If every Yeoli is like him there will be a lot more in the Mezem. 
Father had talked about a war to take that country. And that all went through my head in the time I heaved myself up onto my feet, with all my jewels clashing and said to him, “I declare myself your first fan.” And flung him one of my rings.

To get the start of this scene from Chevenga's [Karas Raikas] point of view:
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