“No. Look.” Maeva points. Several spectators are fighting with the wardens at the edge of the track. More jump into the fray, until the city wardens are forced to sprint from nearby sections toward the scuffle.
Two men take advantage, leaping over the gate.
I shake my head. “They’re insane. They can’t possibly think they’ll get away with it.”
“They’re drunk. And desperate,” Maeva snaps. “You can’t put bread in front of a starving man and expect him not to take a bite.”
The chariots in the lead are already rounding the corner once more, whips cracking, horses galloping. The blue chariot is in the lead, the driver hunched in his chariot, focused intently on the track in front of him.
The men hesitate.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter.
The men charge across the track, eyes on the jewels.
The first man almost makes it. He sprints, arms pumping, eyes glazed, focused on the rubies scattered in front of them—each the size of a baby’s fist.
But the blue chariot has nowhere to go. The driver attempts to steer to the right, but it’s too late. Four sets of front hooves hit the man with the force of a charging bull, riding over his limp body. The chariot bounces and flips, throwing the blue driver free. He must have chosen not to wrap the leads around his waist, and the decision saves his life as he gets to his feet, sprinting toward the safety of the central barrier.
The second man makes it across the track, hands grasping for the jewels.
A bolt hits the man in the throat. His body slumps to the ground as chariots stream past. At the edge of the track, a warden slings his crossbow over his shoulder.
The crowd breaks into angry shouts.
To our right, chants break out, a group of spectators waving their fists. The sound grows in volume until the words become clear.
“No more taxes!”
“Uh-oh,” Maeva whispers.
Even from here I can see the emperor’s displeasure as he gestures for a gold-crowned man to step closer. The man is thin and wiry, with dark gray hair thinning on top. Sigilkeeper Drugov Nistor.
The color has drained from Maeva’s face, and the look in her eyes makes my stomach spiral.
Nistor gives the emperor a sharp nod, before bowing low. When he turns to murmur something to a city warden, my skin begins to itch.
Maeva sucks in a breath. “Arvelle … maybe we should leave.”
“Leave?”
To our left, a handful of novices are attempting to do just that, and I spot Brenin among them. But the wardens stop them, fingers pointed as they gesture for them to return to their seats.
A wave of dread pours through me, drowning everything else.
A few rows below us, a group of bronze sigilmarked and a handful of mundanes have taken up the chant. A woman with long red hairholds her daughter on her hip, waving her fist as she screams her rage at the emperor.
“No more taxes!”
The little girl’s bright red hair matches her mother’s, and she lets out a belly laugh, waving her tiny hand in the air. She can’t be more than one or two years old. Next to her, a boy with hair a slightly darker shade stands next to his father, who frowns, scanning the crowd.
Maeva clutches at my arm. I follow her gaze to the left, far above our heads. Several wardens are barking at a group of mundanes who continue their chants. One of them throws an empty cup at a warden. The warden opens his hands, and fire roars toward the group.
They don’t even have a chance to beg for mercy before they’re engulfed in flames.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wardens storm across the Circus, targeting groups of mundanes and sigilmarked. For a long moment, all I can do is stare.
