The sand was raked fresh for the ninth bell. Somebody had dragged a harrow over it in the night, and the lines went out from the middle of the Arena like the spokes of a wheel.
Nell walked out onto them at the first call. She did not run. She had the candle stub in her left hand, unlit, and her right hand hung loose at her side.
Her boots left marks in the new sand, and she looked at them once, and then she did not look down again.
Calen stood at the rope on the north side, where the Ministry card had put him at dawn.
Before the bout the judges had checked Nell’s candle at the gate. It was unlit, and the clerk had sealed the wick with a paper band, and Nell had let him do it without a word.
He had taken three steps toward the rope when the judge’s clerk raised his hand. The clerk was a narrow man in black with a board on a cord around his neck.
He did not shout. He pointed at Calen with his pen.
“Instructor Orrin,” said the clerk. “Stand back from the rope.”
