After I left Mare Dorna, Brother Qown, and Ninavis, I found the nobles’ box at the head of the stands. A thin crowd filled the seats, a few tired pennants waving from wooden poles. All belonged to Joratese merchant associations, who had arrived with the opening of the morning Gatestone—travelers from other parts of Jorat arrived for trade. All the knights who had milled about in the fortress courtyard the night before were gathered on the sides. Their demoralized, tense postures spoke of people with no real interest in the contests to come; they’d shown up because their wages depended on it. The sullen atmosphere felt more appropriate to a funeral than a tourney.

If the tournament’s antipathy troubled me, the twin wooden posts sunk deep into the lawn—facing the nobles’ box—made my laevos stand on end. Kindling and branches were piled high at each post’s base. Chains pierced holes drilled through the thick timbers, which had glyphs carved along their lengths. The scorched earth underneath those woodpiles testified to previous bonfires.

Next to each would-be pyre rested a large cage, covered with oilcloth. I didn’t have to check under them to realize who I would find, to know why the guards had said an even number would be better.

I’d found Ninavis’s companions.

“Did I miss anything exciting?” I said, masking my anger as I entered the baron’s box. I’d missed the opening invocation, the ceremony that dedicated each tournament to the Eight. I’d likely also missed at least a few of the earliest contests. Hopefully, none of that was important.

Tamin paused mid-drink. “Janel! I worried you had taken ill.” He grinned as he crossed to me, setting his hand behind my neck and resting his forehead against mine.

Or at least, he tried.

“Are you well?” He drew back.

I touched his hand, a compromise for the greeting I’d denied him. “It was a trying journey.”

He swallowed and, for the first time since I arrived, looked uncertain. He motioned to his side. “Count Janel, may I present Warden Lorat, one of my banners.” He introduced an elderly man in his dotage, too weak to stand on his own. Too weak to still be warden, but I held my tongue.

Warden Lorat paused from feeding meat scraps to a small dhole puppy on his lap, which occupied his attention far more than the tournament itself.

“Warden.” I inclined my head.

The elderly warden said something unintelligible, and the serving woman standing near his chair rushed to his side. She pressed her ear to his lips, listening while the old man continued mumbling. The puppy licked his fingers.