Free Ecko Burning by Danie Ware

they raced across the sand and up into the stands, shrieking and having mock battles, imitating certain of the combatants with exaggerated gestures that had their audience roaring. Their performance was embellished and humorous - the sounds rose into the evening and the seats of the theatre slowly filled.
    The combat-tourney was a regular sideshow at holidays such as these, something rarely taken seriously. The winner usually received a ribbon and a pat on the back.
    But not this time.
    This time, Merchant Master Phylos had made a big noise about the tourney. He’d donated a little something from the Terhnwood Harvesters’ Cartel - a craftmaster’s blade, marked with his sigil, a weapon of such finely created beauty that it was worth almost more than metal.
    And Saravin had already implied that there was more at stake here than simply the victory itself.
    Was that why the event was so popular, this return? Why the seats were filling with soldiers, carrying ale and laughing, calling for their friends?
    Mael leaned back, squinting at the closest seats, peering at the furthest ones. The theatre was fuller then he had ever seen it.
    He made an effort to master his thoughts.
    The Angel. Ask for Fletcher Wyll.
    He still didn’t know if he would go.
    The sun sank lower, the light long and warm and fading. At any moment, it would meet its death upon the peaks of the far distant Kartiah, pouring its light down the sides of the mountains and into the plainland. It suited the mood of the holiday, the wordless unease that had tainted the crowd throughout the day. The odd restlessness had crept in here too. Somehow, in the dying of the light, Mael could see Rhan’s fall from the clifftop, the darkness that had flooded to fill his absence...
    ...that shadow was under everything.
    Mael watched the jesters, watched knots of young warriors slide between the seats, seeking an empty place.
    The comedy seemed ludicrous, playful and painful, a game of touch and ego. A prank.
    But the soldiers below him were roaring with laughter - the seating was almost solid with them now. Phylos’s offer had been a good one, it had piqued their interest and they were calling aloud, a scatter of combatants’ names, wanting one of their own to do well. Shouts of rivalry between the differing tan were few - the occasional scuffle was inevitable and good-humoured.
    But how could they not understand... How did they not see...?
    The people’s fear was being managed, Mael realised - that was where the unease had come from, the feeling that the holiday was hollow. And that fear made them easier to lead.
    Still watching the jesters, Mael understood that Rhan himself had not been forgotten - the new regime was too smart for that. No, Rhan had been blamed. The city’s guardian had been uncaring, oblivious - he was a scapegoat.
    But wasn’t it also true?
    Under the new rule, Selana’s rule, the people would have to work harder. There were rumours of disease in the harvest, now being controlled with strategic crop-burning. If the people were willing to tighten their belts, do without luxuries, ration everyday items, then they would all win through together.
    Mael sipped his ale.
    All of that, though, still didn’t explain why this tourney was so populous - why the entire soldiery had mustered to watch the outcome - or why Phylos had thrown his hefty weight, and the weight of the Cartel, behind it. Mael tilted the tankard again, and realised that he had found the bottom.
    He blinked, rummaged for his pince-nez.
    The herald was chasing out the jesters, returning to his place. Mael found his glasses, blinked again, and looked around him.
    Double took.
    At the back edge of the arena, the opposite corner to Saravin, stood Mostak himself, tan commander, a shorter, sharper, tighter version of his dead brother - and ruler of the city should anything happen to his niece. He was cloaked, his hood up against the sun, but Mael knew the way he moved, the lines of his body and