"Why would there even be ants here?" groused Sterling. He was in a foul mood.

  It wasn’t his fault. They were all tired—so very tired. The climb up the mountain would have seen to that even if they weren’t all aching from recent healing. There had been no wagon riding this time, just the long march up, and up, and up—four miles along the spine of the Imperial shard.

  Harder, with one shoe.

  The air was different here, thin and tacky with moisture. The incessant wind of the higher elevation was cold, but not as cold as it had been down below; warm enough for hoarfrost to melt, though snow still dusted the ground. The result was the swampy morass through which they now trudged.

  Ahead, a lighted hexagon bloomed in the gloom, complete with wooden stands and tiered seats. Dalliance refused to believe skills were not involved in setting that up this quickly. It was a proper arena—outdoors, perhaps, but undeniable once you saw it.

  In the center was a cone of dirt fifty feet tall. Their objective: to kill the queen.

  Ants milled around in their thousands, dull red-black carapaces and bristling stingers.

  Something in Dalliance's heart told him it might be easier to prevent anyone from scoring well than to score better than they did, and then retreat. He tried to ignore it.

  The wrappings on his foot were soaked, and the juxtaposition between the sword on his hip and the squelching when he stepped was like a missing tooth. Constantly nagging, even if it didn’t hurt anything. He was sure it looked stupid, too.

  The light was bright, and loud. A constant arc of lightning played across no less than twelve pairs of metal forks, the voltaic energy branching from fork to fork across the top of the impromptu stadium, lighting it as bright as day. Dalliance saw Parsimony Pleasant standing on a platform next to one of the forks, two fingers touching the metal.

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  Well, at least Dalliance now knew the Imperial Auditor could cast voltaic magic.

  "I apologize for the showmanship," said Mister Best.

  He was standing on one of the raised platforms, his hands resting on a glowing orb which amplified his voice, else they’d have had trouble hearing him.

  "Let it be known," he announced, his amplified voice booming across the arena, "that any interference with any participant will be met with my immediate and most extreme displeasure."

  Not that anyone would. Interference with the Hunts was serious business. Hands or your head, type business: else nobody would let their children take part, there'd be no higher tiers on the wall, and they'd all die to a beast-kin blade.

  Dalliance scanned the faces of the gathered parents in the stands.

  He didn’t see any of them smile or laugh, even his own Da, who had wedged his massive frame into one of the folding wooden chairs Dalliance recognized from the chapel, which were sometimes brought out for celebrations on the green. His Da could have used two comfortably.

  "The objective is to secure the queen," Mister Best's amplified voice announced. "However, no one on this battlefield is capable of entering the mound to do so. Neither would the students as a whole be, even acting in concert. Thus, time spent on the battlefield will be the determinant for the actual grade."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping over the silent parents in the stands.

  "If the Auditor has questions for me, I will answer them personally."

  Across the arena, Parsimony Pleasant maintained his focus on the lightning fork, his expression unreadable; Cadence, however, laughed uproariously.

  “As you go, children—” said Mister Best, “—do remember that your ability to contribute to the community begins with your success, but ends with your death. With that in mind, I have no option but to bid you: begin.”