Slaves of the Mastery by William Nicholson

crowd.
    ‘Here he comes,’ said the guard to Pinto. ‘That’s Arno. Now you’ll see what the manaxa’s all about.’
    The one he called Arno was very big and very heavy. It seemed unlikely that such a mass of flesh could escape the blades of his lither opponent. But once the fight began, it was clear that Arno
was a master. Turning on the tips of the toes of one foot, bowing low and curling high, he became weightless, his moves so fast and graceful that they seemed to require no effort. Almost with
unconcern, he flicked at his opponent’s body, striping his skin with thin bloody lines. He himself had many scars on his great barrel chest, but this time his opponent was given no chance to
add to them. Disdainfully, as it seemed to the spectators, he drove his opponent to the edge of the mound, and there flicked him, almost gently, with one fist-blade: his signal to the loser that he
should now jump. Assuming that he would do so, Arno permitted his concentration to slip for one brief moment. The loser, seizing his chance, dropped and jabbed, driving his knee-blade deep into
Arno’s thigh.
    Pinto cried out loud. Arno bellowed with wounded pride. His left fist flew. His right armoured forearm parried. His left forearm swept aside a return strike. His head went down and in. With a
crunching sound, his head-blade drove deep into his opponent’s chest. For a moment, the two fighters were still, locked in a strange embrace. Then Arno pulled back. Dark blood came bubbling
out of the wound. The stricken manac sank to his knees. Then he fell forward onto the ground, and his heart-blood spread in a deep red stain over the sand.
    Arno stood still, his own blood flowing unnoticed down his thigh. Then, slowly, he raised his right arm, to claim his victory and do homage to the Master. The cheer that greeted him shook the
arena, as thousands of voices bayed for the joy of a kill.
    ‘He should have taken the jump,’ said the guard, shaking his head, as arena servants carried the dead man away.
    ‘It’s horrible,’ said Pinto trembling, looking round at the shouting stamping crowd.
    ‘Yes,’ said Mumpo. ‘But it’s beautiful.’
    There were no more kills that afternoon. As the manaxa came to an end, the shocked and excited captives were congratulated by their guards.
    ‘First day in the Mastery, and you see a manaxa and a kill! Someone’s watching over you.’
    Ira Hath spoke low to her husband.
    ‘What sort of people are they? To make a show out of killing?’
    ‘People like us,’ said Hanno sadly. ‘People like us.’
    Marius Semeon Ortiz now gave the command, and the soldiers moved down the lines ordering the slaves onto their feet. After their hour’s rest on the soft grass, it was a weary business
returning to the march.
    ‘How much longer, pa?’ asked Pinto.
    ‘I don’t know, my darling. Shall I carry you?’
    ‘No, I’m all right.’
    Pinto had never once asked to be carried. In the early days of the march she had come very close. When her legs were so tired that the muscles shook even when she stood still, she had said to
herself, soon now I’ll ask to be carried. But just knowing she could ask had been enough, and she had struggled on by herself. Now she knew she would never ask.
    The lines of slaves were marched down the sloping road, and into a cutting between high banks, and through a tunnel. They heard the sound of the great crowd, and saw evening light on sand ahead:
and so discovered they were to be marched into the arena itself.
    The spectators had remained on the terraces, because the Master had not yet left the pavilion. Marius Semeon Ortiz rode into the sandy arena floor at the head of his column, and spurred his
horse up onto the mound. Here he faced the Master, still as a statue, as the Manth people marched through the arena, flowing round him on the mound in two streams.
    As they passed, the great crowd of spectators applauded. The lines went on and on, and the crowd applauded more