They ascended a steep incline and were dazzled by an eruption of light and music as they reached the crest. A casual observer, with no knowledge of Freehold customs or laws, might have concluded there was a party taking place here; in a sense there was, albeit with a deadly conclusion.

Wagers would be made, small fortunes won and lost. None of it was strictly legal, of course, but old habits died hard, and everyone knew what refusing a challenge entailed.

Huge portable heating units, scattered here and there, pumped out heat, while a speaker system filled the air with crunching martial pop; tales of the Freehold’s legendary warriors and their excesses bellowed over a monotonous beat.

The audience for this challenge was sixty to seventy strong. The few women present were either wives and mistresses, or more likely whores flown in for the pleasure of the senators, military officers and hard-faced bureaucrats standing around in anticipation swilling hot beer.

The combat ring itself was a circle of open ground marked by a perimeter of hissing flares pushed deep into the soil. It extended a little over eight metres in diameter, more than enough room for two men to try their damnedest to kill each other.

A muffled cheer went up from dozens of breather-equipped throats when they saw Corso and Kenley approaching. Jarret’s entourage considerably outnumbered his own, which comprised a dozen or so of his advisers and various Senate staff gathered together over to one side, a few looking distinctly uneasy. They knew what they would face if Corso died today and there was no one left to protect them in the Senate.

Corso scanned the rest of the crowd until he saw Jarret himself, standing with the bearing of a king returned from a victorious campaign, his arrogance barely masked by the tan-and-silver breather he wore over his lower face.

Corso’s own senior Senate staff approached him and he was glad to see Nastazi, Velardo and Griffith all present. These three were the men Corso trusted. The rest were good enough at their jobs, but one or two of them were probably spies.

‘McDade’s your marshal for the challenge,’ declared Nastazi. ‘There’s even a rumour he pulled strings in order to get the job.’

Corso nodded. ‘Well, the man hates my guts, so that’s hardly surprising. Anything else I should know before I murder his nephew?’

‘There was a move within the Senate to block us from flying out here to witness the fight,’ said Griffith, behind whom the flares hissed and spat sparks into the night. ‘They cited security measures: a report that the Uchidans had got wind of the fight, and might try a strike against the Aaron peninsula while it’s taking place. Be warned, they mean to fight dirty, Senator.’